Chapter Text
The path to paradise begins in Hell.
- Dante Alighieri
Hess moves in on a Friday.
Dan is working nights, and he doesn't particularly want to be woken up at ten o'clock in the morning. But the moving van's brakes sound like the creak of crypt doors; the movers apparently can't decide if they're in the middle of a boxing match or a drunk office party, and his fucking window is open.
Which will teach him to be so bloody optimistic about leaving it open in the middle of sodding January.
He groans and buries his face in his pillow for a long moment. Idly he wonders if he could just suffocate himself. At least then he'd have peace and quiet.
But he has to be up in six hours, and he has to be on duty by seven, which means there is no chance in hell of him getting back to sleep now. Not with the sun shining, the birds screeching at one another, and his new neighbour's entourage apparently re-staging the Battle of Hastings in the middle of the street.
“Fuck,” he says, muffled, and then rolls over and out of bed.
He stomps to the window, twitches the curtain aside, and glares at the group of people gathered below. There's a woman standing in the middle of a hoard of people. She's apparently directing traffic, blonde hair gleaming in the winter sunlight as she stabs a finger in the direction of the house. The minions she's ordering about scurry in all directions, scattering like a flock of startled hens, and Dan snorts to himself.
“Gonna be fun,” he mumbles, and wanders downstairs to put the kettle on.
He feels more human after some tea and toast. He spends half an hour sitting at his kitchen table, bare toes curled on the linoleum as he starts to gather himself together for the day.
Last night had been brutal, because it may have been a Thursday, but it was also apparently payday for half the idiots in central London. Rather than doing the decent thing and going shopping, people had taken to the clubs and pubs. Busy had been an understatement and, lucky him, Soho was in his neck of the woods.
Absently he rubs a bruise on his arm from an overenthusiastic city boy, who'd been far too eager to fight the establishment. He digs a thumb into the bruise for a moment, hums at the burn of it and settles back with a sigh. An interesting arrest, but not the best one of the night. That had gone to Sela, who'd collared three demons, a drug dealer and a lawyer. All in the same room. All as high as fucking kites.
(And hadn't that been a time and a half, having to wrangle three demons into a cell circled with holy silver, because damn they had been having too much fun.)
Dan scrubs a hand across his face and gets up from the table with a groan. Outside the noise hasn't abated; he can hear it through the front door. He briefly considers trying to go back to bed, but honestly at this point it's a lost cause.
Which means if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
He pulls on some jeans and shuffles through his collection of clean cups, until he thinks he has one for everybody outside. There's enough teabags and coffee to keep everyone happy, and he throws in the packet of Hobnobs he'd been saving for a special occasion as well. Kettle boiled, he shoves it all on a tray, pulls a t-shirt over his head and makes his way carefully outside.
The first thing that happens is he realises he forgot to put any bloody shoes on.
The second thing that happens is Mrs Palgrave from next-door-but-one grabs his arm.
“Dan,” she hisses excitedly, “have you seen who's moving in?”
Dan shrugs, trying not to drop the tray and upend scalding water all over Mrs Palgrave, himself and the sad looking shrub he's got surviving by the front door. “Looks like Mr West's niece finally sold the house then, huh?”
Mrs Palgrave shuffles closer, oblivious to the mortal danger of cups of tea and bare feet. “It's some of Them,” she says, and even Dan can hear the emphasis. “They've bought Mr West's house and they're turning into some kind of – of – ”
She is, Dan realises, thoroughly enjoying being scandalised. Miranda Palgrave isn't an unkind person; she's not particularly prejudiced or malicious, but she loves a good bit of gossip. Something like a pack of demons moving in next door is likely to keep her going for years. Dan quietly resigns himself to spending the next couple of months running interference between both groups.
He shuffles his feet, which are slowly going numb. “I'm sure it'll be fine,” he says as diplomatically as possible.
“It's a very different sort to the usual people we have living here,” Mrs Palgrave says. Her voice must not be quiet enough, because Dan spots a blonde head turning to look in their direction.
He tightens his grip on the tray. “Mrs P, it'll be – ”
“We're not planning to sacrifice all the neighbours in demonic rituals, you know,” an icy voice says, cutting right over the top of him. “Astonishingly, we have standards.”
Mrs Palgrave's hands flutter for a moment, distressed. “Oh, I never meant – that is, I – ”
The blonde is standing in front of them. Dan always forgets how fast demons can move, and God, she must have been over here at lightning speed. He watches the way she raises an eyebrow at Mrs Palgrave's stuttering, and wonders why, of all things, she is taking exception to a nosy neighbour.
“But you are making a lot of noise first thing on a Thursday morning,” he says, and smiles to show he doesn't mean it. He raises the tray a little. “Welcome to the neighbourhood. Tea?”
“No,” she says scornfully, then hesitates. “Are those...Hobnobs?”
Dan shrugs. “Fresh out of the cupboard.”
Her eyes are white, blank and lifeless, but Dan gets the impression as she turns her gaze on him, that he's being examined from head to foot.
“What do you want?” she asks suspiciously.
He blinks. “Sorry, I – what?”
“For the Hobnobs. What do you want in return?”
It is only when Mrs Palgrave makes a soft sound of disapproval, that he realises his jaw has dropped. “For some Hobnobs?”
She snaps her fingers impatiently. “People don't offer something for nothing. Especially not to creatures like us. So. Why are you doing this? What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Dan says. “Absolutely nothing.”
She narrows her eyes. “Liar.”
Dan is reasonable; he's patient because he has to be. But he's also not at work right now, and he's not being paid to stand around and take this nonsense. “Listen,” he says politely. “I don't know what you think you're implying, or what the big deal is, but lady I've got to tell you, these are Hobnobs. Not my first born, not my soul, they're bloody biscuits. With tea. Which I brought out here to welcome you all to the neighbourhood. So if you want them, have at it. If you don't, I'll be offering them to everyone else anyway.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs Palgrave says, wringing her hands. “Oh dear. Daniel, I don't think – ”
The demon throws back her head and roars with laughter. “This is perfect!” she says, as Dan frowns at the change. “This is too, too perfect. Hess! Get your arse over here and have a biscuit!”
There is a flurry of movement, and a man lopes across the lawn towards them. He's tall, broad-shouldered and casual in a way Dan's not used to seeing. Not any more. He's wearing a t-shirt with a faded logo on it, jeans that are frayed enough to be well-loved, and a wide, cheerful smile that is enough to make Dan forget his frozen feet.
“Abi!” Apparently-Hess says. “What's going on?”
“Tea,” the demon says gleefully, and clearly there's some kind of joke Dan's not getting here. “Tea and biscuits.”
Next to Dan, Mrs Palgrave makes a soft little “Oh!” that probably has everything to do with the way the newcomer is smiling at her, and nothing, Dan thinks sternly to himself, to do with the gorgeous length of his fingers as he shakes her hand.
“Hi,” he says cheerfully. “I'm Hess. I'm going to be moving into number thirteen.”
“Miranda,” Mrs Palgrave says faintly, which is really not fair, because it took Dan nearly ten months to get a first name out of her, and even now he rarely uses it. “I'm at number twelve.”
“And this,” the demon says gleefully, pointing at Dan, “is your next door neighbour.”
“Oh,” Hess says, looking at Daniel. “Oh! Hi! I...” he blinks. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Dan says. He gives the tray an awkward little jiggle in lieu of a handshake, then promptly feels like an idiot. “I'm Daniel. Dan.” He clears his throat.
“Hess,” Hess says again. He startles and gives himself a shake, as though dismissing some unwanted thought. Next to him the demon coughs pointedly. “Um, this is Abi.”
“Hello,” Abi says, amused. “We have already spoken, but it's nice when introductions are made properly, don't you think?” She turns to Hess, and Dan could swear she widens her eyes meaningfully. “Dan was just offering us all a cup of tea, and some biscuits.”
“He was?” Hess says, then, “You were?”
Dan hefts the tray again. His feet are completely numb now, and he feels like he's missed something really bloody important. What, he has no idea. “To say hi. Welcome you all to the road. You know.”
“He's giving them out freely,” Abi says, as though imparting some great secret. “He doesn't want anything.”
“Well that's nice,” Hess says. He rubs a hand awkwardly across the back of his neck and ducks his head, smiling at Dan through his fringe. It looks a little like he's trying to make himself appear smaller. Given his size, it doesn't work. “Not many people would do that.” He and Abi exchange looks.
Hess has brown eyes, Dan realises, and an absolutely human smile. He's also a little taller than Dan, which is surprising, and looks like he'd probably hold his own if it came to a pub fight.
It's not entirely unheard of for a demon and a human to shack up together. Certainly it's more common than it was a year ago, when everything happened. As Dan watches the way Hess and Abi communicate without saying a word, he gets the uncomfortable feeling he's wandered into the middle of an old, well worn argument. The kind married couples have.
“So,” he says, and they both look at him. “what made you both decide to move to Telmsford?”
“Good transport links,” Hess says immediately. “Not that far from London, only half hour from Heathrow. It's useful for, er, work.”
“I'm not moving,” Abi says, and wrinkles her nose. “This isn't my kind of thing.”
“Oh, too much grass?”
She grins, shark-like. For a moment her features flicker, and something much more vulpine peers out from behind the mask of humanity. “Not enough sin.”
“But don't you want to – I mean, won't you miss Hess?”
She stares at him blankly. Hess takes one of the mugs of tea and buries his nose in it. Dan's starting to suspect he's hiding a smile. “No, why would I?”
“Because he's – ”
“A pain in the arse,” she says, and steps heavily onto Hess's feet, apparently by accident. Hess chokes on the tea. “And a very poor boss.”
“You work for him?” Dan asks, and tries not to look at the way Hess is wiping spilt tea off of his chin. “What do you both do?”
For a long moment she stares at him. “What do we – ” She frowns. “Acquisitions,” she says at last. “We work in acquisitions and...”
“Liquidating assets,” Hess says smoothly. He smiles when Dan looks at him. “It's a pretty profitable business right now.”
“Right,” Dan says. “Assets.” They're obviously lying, and now is really not the time to get into it, but he spares a brief moment to hope that the mob haven't moved in next door to him. It could make neighbourhood relations pretty unbearable, if he has to arrest his new neighbour.
“What about you?” Abi asks. “What do you do?” Absently, without commenting, she takes the tray from his hands. He lets her, because he was bringing it out for everyone. He hopes he gets his cups back.
“I work in the Met,” he says, and watches as she stiffens.
“'The Met' as in 'the Metropolitan Police'?” she asks, and yeah, given her reaction Dan's really starting to worry there's something shady going on. “You're a Police Officer?” The way she says it, the audible capitalisation, has Mrs Palgrave stiffening next to Dan.
“He's a very good officer,” she says sternly, and Dan is surprised at the steel in her voice
Abi shrugs. “I never said otherwise.” The look on her face slips sideways again, edging towards sly. “A good man and a good Officer of the Law. My word. A righteous man indeed.”
“Abi,” Hess says softly, “that's enough.”
He is watching her intently, and for a moment she holds his gaze. Then she drops her head to look at the tray in her hand and sighs. “I'll take this over to the boys,” she says almost reluctantly.
Hess nods, more a jerk of the head than a real agreement. “Good.”
All three of them watch her go, striding across the front lawn in her heels. She never, Dan notices, gets stuck once in spite of the January mud.
“She listens to you?” Mrs Palgrave asks tentatively, as they watch Abi shove the tray into the nearest pair of spare hands and begin barking orders again.
“I'm her boss,” Hess says, and he doesn't quite sound like he's joking. “She has to.”
*
Trafalgar Square on a Friday night is hell on earth.
Well, not literally hell on earth. Dan's lived through that, and he doesn't really want to repeat that experience, thank you very much.
But still.
There are days when he questions if he chose the right career path. If he did the sane thing in going back to this, after the apocalypse was cancelled. But there's always going to be a need for the law, and humans are always going to be arseholes, and honestly he enjoys his job.
Well, most of the time.
“Fuck you!” the man he and Gil have just fished out of the fountain is screaming. “Fuck you! You're on their side? After all the fucking shit they've done?” He's dripping wet, furious and drunk.
“You need to calm down,” Dan says. “Are you injured?”
“No I'm not fucking injured!” the bloke bellows. “You should have let me finish the fucking job!” Next to Dan, the demon who was also pulled out of the fountain flinches. He spits blood on the floor, black and sulphuric, and stuffs a sleeve under his nose to stem the flow.
Dan takes a deep breath, because there's only one way this is going to go. “I'm arresting you under Section Forty Seven of the Offences Against the Person Act. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The words are rote by now, almost meaningless. He's said them so many times recently he's probably been dreaming of them.
“Why aren't you arresting that?” The man jabs a vicious finger in the direction of the demon, who flinches again. “That thing's killed hundreds of fucking people. It's the criminal, not me.”
“You don't know that,” Dan says sternly, “and previous convictions are not up for debate. You were witnessed assaulting a being designated a sentient person under the act, and will now be taken in for questioning.”
The man spits at his feet. “You're a fucking disgrace,” he sneers. “Call yourself a – ”
“Alright sunshine,” Dan says, “that's enough.” He jerks his head at Gil, who slaps the cuffs on the drunk with perhaps a little more force than is necessary. “My colleague is going to take you down the nick and get a statement from you. We'll sort paperwork out from there and decide if we're going to charge you, alright?”
“Alright?” the man says. “Alright? You're scum. You're fucking – ”
Dan watches as Gil carts the bloke, who is still kicking and screaming, off towards the van. Stifling a sigh, he turns to the demon. “You alright?”
The demon sniffs, and dabs ineffectually at his nose. Silently, Dan offers him a tissue. The demon hesitates, then takes it.
“Thank you.”
Dan shrugs. “You're welcome,” he says. “I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to accompany me back to the station to take a statement, Mr – ?”
“Raum,” the demon says. “Just Raum.”
“Ok Raum, well when you're ready the station's just around the corner.” Dan smiles, trying to make himself look non-threatening.
“Why did you do it?” Raum asks, instead of starting to move. He frowns, as though trying to work something out. “Why did you stop him? Most huma – people, most people wouldn't.”
“Because it's the law,” Dan says gently. “We're all in this brave new world together, whether we like it or not. We have to get along, and part of that is recognising that nobody has the right to hurt anybody else any more.”
“Yeah,” Raum says thoughtfully. “I think the Beast would have a thing or two to say, if any of us cause problems again.”
The title is said in the hushed, respectful tones of a worshipper. Dan wishes he didn't understand the sentiment, but he sort of does.
Even now, no one can quite work out what caused the start of the War. Honestly, at this point Dan doubts anyone cares. One day, everyone had been going about their ordinary lives, and the next demons had been pouring from the earth, killing indiscriminately. The apocalypse, when it came, had been fast and terrible. There had been fire and blood and nobody had been safe.
And then there had been the Beast. Red-eyed and savage. There hadn't been an angel in sight to save anyone, but there had been the Antichrist.
Four months into hell on earth, Dan remembers the way the Beast had turned the tide. Rather than demons against humans, it had been demons against demons. The blood had been knee-high in places, and most people – most sensible people – had gotten the hell away from ground zero.
It had been –
Raum gives a polite little cough. “Sorry,” he says, a bit apologetically. “But I, uh, have to ask...”
Dan blinks at him. “Ask?”
“Are you – that is, are you...”
With a sinking feeling, Dan realises what he's about to be asked. There is a hollow pit in his stomach as he keeps his face as neutral as he can. “Am I?”
“Are you Daniel Waters?” Raum says, in the same hushed tones that he'd said the Beast.
“No,” Dan says abruptly. “Never heard of him.”
God, he fucking hates Friday nights.
*
The thing is, when the world is ending in fire and blood there is only so much you can do.
You can run, of course. You can hide. You can pretend it's not happening, or pray to saints that don't listen to you. You can beg, borrow and steal. Barter with demons and hope to all that's holy that they don't want your soul.
Or, you can fight.
Dan is – was – is good at fighting. Something instinctive and angry in him that occasionally needs that release. He tries his best to be a good man, but he's not always a nice one.
In the early days of the War – before the Beast; before people had got their acts together – Dan had tried to help. He hadn't always got it right, and he sure as shit wasn't perfect, but he'd tried.
There'd been a group of kids, trapped in a supermarket. Silly little teenagers, who'd thought they could sneak out to try and grab supplies. They hadn't been hurting anyone, but they were daft enough to get caught by a pack of demons that had swept through the High Street. He'd helped them, because he had dug up a couple of crappy old blades, got them blessed by as many different holy men as he could find, and was looking to do some damage.
Then, he'd helped the next set of civilians.
And the next.
And the next.
And he hadn't stopped to wonder if there was a point to it, or what was going to happen to him when his luck eventually ran out.
One of the last images of the war, one of the worst, published in every fucking newspaper in the country, is of Dan half blind with blood and his blades buried in Abaddon's guts. It's a gruesome image, an unbelievable one. Even now he doesn't recognise himself in that feral, snarling creature.
After, the Beast had asked to see him. All Dan remembers is that he'd put down his blades and run a fucking mile.
Since then, he's never really stopped.
*
“I don't get it,” Hess says, sometime into his third week in the neighbourhood. He is sitting on Dan's sofa with his feet propped up, drinking a beer. “Why go back to the Met after all that happened?”
Dan shrugs. “Why not?” he asks. “Someone's got to help sort things out. Might as well be me.”
Hess grins. “Might as well get paid for it, too.”
“Amen to that.”
“Ooh, don't say that around Abi; she'll pitch a fit.”
“Your secretary is far too sensitive.”
“Don't call her a secretary either,” Hess advises. “Not if you want your liver to stay where it is.”
“I feel you should be a bit more concerned that Abi knows how to remove a man's liver,” Dan points out. He slumps back into the sofa and raises an eyebrow at Hess. “I'm pretty sure that speaks of past experience.”
“She's a demon, mate; what did you expect?”
“Maybe a little less pride in organ removal?”
Hess pulls a face that has Dan grinning. “Hey, it's not her job now.”
“You worry me, you know that?”
“I worry everyone,” Hess says. His smiles slips a little, and he can't quite look Dan in the eye. “Is it a problem?”
And it could be, if Dan's honest, but the thing is...
The thing is...
Dan has known Hess three weeks. Two days after Hess moved in, he'd come ambling up Dan's front garden, managed to get himself invited in for a cup of tea, and then sort of... stayed.
Oh, he goes home, but he always comes back, and Dan's kind of used to it already. Kind of likes it, if he's honest with himself. The sight of Hess sprawled out on his sofa, long limbs every which way, hair falling in his eyes – it makes something lurch in Dan's chest.
And Abi is a part of that deal. She's someone Hess has to work with, and someone Dan has to see. She's a demon, but he doesn't know her, and he's trying really hard these days not to make assumptions about what people are like when he's not having to beat the shit out of them. Brave new world, he has to remind himself, and only sometimes has to push away the burn that comes with it.
So he swallows, and shrugs. “Nah it's not a problem,” he says, just as Hess is starting to look really worried. “I mean, if she was gunning for my liver...”
There is a sudden shift in Hess's expression, there and gone so fast Dan is almost certain he imagined it. “She wouldn't dare,” he says. “If she touched one hair on your head, it would be her liver up for the crows.”
Dan takes a sip of his own beer. “Right, except I somehow doubt that would stop a demon.”
“Trust me,” Hess says, “it would.”
Dan looks at him. Looks at the slip-slide hint of darkness flickering in the lines of Hess's mouth; the slow uncurling of his fingers from around his bottle of beer. For a moment, he wonders what kind of man hires a demon he doesn't trust, to help him run a business. It takes a special kind of madness, sure, but Hess is sunshine-sweet and polite as all get-out. He's stupid early morning conversations as Dan is leaving for work, and late night stop overs, just to check everything is ok.
“You don't have to keep her if you don't want,” Dan says abruptly, and Hess jumps a little. “I mean, there must be other people you can employ.”
“There's no one quite as competent,” Hess says grimly. “Besides, she's not all bad.” He tilts his head in Dan's direction. “But I must admit, I thought you'd be more on the 'kill her if she annoys you' side of things.”
“That,” Dan says mock-stern, as Hess laughs at him, “is against the law. Are you asking an officer of the law to commit murder, Hess? Am I going to have to turn you in for incitement?”
“Isn't that prostitutes?” Hess asks, and pulls a face when Dan rolls his eyes. “Come on, you can't tell me you've never wanted to kill a demon.”
Dan can't help it. He knows Hess is only joking. He knows. But the jab hurts in the too-tender places in his soul that still dream about the things he did. “I've only ever wanted to kill anyone if they wanted to kill me first,” he says, too soft and too serious.
“Sorry, I didn't mean – ”
“It's fine.” Dan puts his beer down carefully, clasps his hands together and looks at the floor. “I killed people,” he says at last. “Demons, mostly. I'm not proud of it. It's something I have to live with.”
“Hey,” Hess says. His hand lands on Dan's shoulder, warm and careful. “We all did what we had to.”
Dan tries to smile, feels his lips twist into something closer to a grimace and gives up. “Some of us more than others,” he says. “Here you are, trying to build the world back up by showing that working with demons is ok. And here I am, doing the same old thing I always did, just with more blood on my hands.”
“I'm not a saint,” Hess says carefully. “Dan, I – I really didn't –” He swears softly, and tries again. “You're not the only one who's not proud of what they did. You know that, right? I did a hell of a lot I don't want to own up to.”
Dan scrubs a hand across his face, shakes out of Hess's grip and tries to smile again. “I'm sure you did, pretty boy. What was it, stealing Pick 'n Mix from Asda?”
“Dan,” Hess says, and there is a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Dan holds up his hands. “It's ok,” he says, backing down. “I'm not trying to turn this into some kind of fucked up competition. Let's just forget it, alright?” He jerks his head at the telly. “Come on, find something decent on there.”
Hess frowns but ultimately relents. He starts hopping through the channels, until they land on something old and tired with explosions and fast cars.
Dan sinks back into the sofa again, pastes on a smile, and spends the rest of the night ignoring the way Hess is watching him.
*
Dan is standing in the kitchen one morning not too long after, when there is a sharp rap on the back door.
“You in?” Hess asks, sticking his head around the door.
“No.”
“Oh, good. I can steal your coffee.” He doesn't bother waiting for a protest – not that Dan was going to – just wanders on in and makes himself at home at the kitchen table.
It's one of the rare days where sunlight is breaking through the clouds, and Dan hasn't got to be at work until lunchtime. He leans back against the kitchen counter and takes a sip of too-hot tea, watching as Hess helps himself to the pot of coffee that he's already got brewing.
In this light, winter-sunshine soft, Hess is a miracle. He's sleep-rumpled and still only half awake; sweet smile and petal-pink lips. The tips of his hair are ruffled out, chestnut threaded with gold, the soft licks of it going every which way and a halo of light around his head. Something rolling and warm burns in the pit of Dan's stomach as he studies this, and he can't quite flick his gaze away fast enough when Hess looks back.
Dan's breath hitches. For a moment he wants to put his tea on the table; wants to slide onto Hess's lap, awkward and heavy, and feel the sleepy warmth of his skin. He wants to bury his fingers in the length of Hess's hair – too long and in need of a trim – and press their lips together because he can. He wants to –
Blood and bone and completely mine, something says at the back of his mind. Soul deep, sweet thing. Look at the way you glow.
He can't quite –
He –
Hess sips his coffee, smiles around the curve of the mug. He blinks slow and not quite there, as he stares at Dan.
“I don't – ” Dan says, around the strange tightness in his throat. “I don't know – ”
“You will,” Hess says softly. “Just not yet.”
And Dan's mind slips sideways, not quite grasping –
Hess looks touchable like this; accessible in a way he isn't normally when he's in jeans and shirts; all done up in the trappings of every day life. There is something soft and delicious about him here, now. It makes Dan want to crawl between the easy sprawl of his legs and just worship. It's a painfully familiar feeling that comes from nowhere, and Dan bites his lip against it.
“It looks like it might rain later,” Hess says. The dip of his lashes as he looks away from Dan is like a slap. The curve of his mouth seems suddenly sly; a challenge.
Dan licks his lips. Swallows. “Sunshine,” he says hoarsely. “It's going to be sunny.” His fingers are shaking where he is clutching his mug, and there is something telling him –
There is –
Hess drops his own mug on the table and stands. In the small space of the kitchen, he takes all the room out of Dan's head. “I've got to go,” he says. “Meetings, you know?” There is something in the way he is looking, though; some dark, ancient thing peering through the cracks of his smile, as he studies Dan.
The hairs on the back of Dan's neck are standing up. Danger, his hindbrain is screaming, and he doesn't know why.
Except he must be stupid. He must be really, really naïve, because he's leaning forward, setting his own mug down, and it's bringing him closer to Hess, not further away. “Work?”
Hess watches, tracing the line of Dan's throat with his eyes. “Work,” he agrees absent-mindedly. He's not even bothering to keep up with the conversation. There is a moment's hesitation, some strange internal struggle. Then something in him seems to splinter.
“Can I just – I want – ” he stretches out; traces the tips of his fingers down Dan's neck and presses hard into the vulnerable dip of his collarbone.
Dan shivers, can't help himself. Dumb, animal fear, and he wants to bare his throat to it. “What are – ”
“I promised,” Hess whispers. “I promised. But just this, alright? It'll be like it never happened.” He slides a step nearer, the pressure of his fingers hard and greedy. “It won't matter.”
Dan flails a hand out, catches on the warm cotton of Hess's t-shirt and fists his fingers in it. His head is swimming. Everything is too slow, syrup-sweet and numbing. “What won't matter?” he manages. “I don't understand.”
Hess soothes him, gentle and close. “Just this,” he says. “Just this. Some days it's worse, you know? It's been months. But if I can just – ” He tilts in slowly, as though he thinks Dan's going to run away.
The kiss shouldn't be a surprise, and it is. Hess's lips are warm, his mouth soft. He pushes close, one hand still curled around Dan's neck. His thumb is pressed up against Dan's pulse – can probably feel the way his heart is hammering – but it doesn't matter.
This is something Dan has half been expecting from the start, and hadn't realised until now. It's like some part of himself has been waiting for this: the inevitable fall. From the moment he saw Hess loping across the front garden, he's been counting down with no awareness of it. He's dizzy, light-headed and willing and terrified.
He must make some small sound, some indication he wants this, because Hess sighs into his mouth, steals the breath from his lungs and bites, painfully tender on his lower lip. “Please,” he says, between one press of lips and the next. “Please, sweet thing. Just give me this.”
And Dan's never going to be able to say no to that, is he? That desperate plea in the bare space between them is irrefutable. He hadn't even thought to want this, and now he does.
Hess groans as Dan starts to kiss back. It's drugging, addictive. The movement of their mouths together is a strange kind of ritual. Dan's kissed before, he's not some shy virginal thing, but it's not been like this.
Never like this.
The slow slide of Hess's tongue has him pressing forwards in return. He laps at the line of Hess's mouth and feels those gorgeous lips part to let him in. The bite of Hess's fingers at his throat, against his side, are a beautiful burn.
“Dan,” Hess breathes out. “Sweet thing, I – ” his words trail off; get lost in the way Dan licks into him.
You're ready, something is saying in Dan's head. You want this, finally. You're going to –
Dan tears himself away, breath rasping in his throat. “I'm going to what?” he asks. “What is this? What – ”
The weight of Hess's body slams into him, pushing them both up against the kitchen counter. The long lines of his body are solid, heavy. He wedges himself between Dan's sprawled legs, bends his head down and kisses him again.
Dan can't help it. He widens his legs a little more, gets his hands on Hess's waist and pulls. The hot weight of Hess against him, hip to hip, has him shivering. He tilts his head back, can't breathe for the way Hess is kissing him, and his lungs are burning. Doesn't care.
This is what he wants. This is what he's always wanted. If he wasn't too stubborn to see it, he could have had this long ago. He could have had Hess, here, between his thighs, pressing close like he can claw them together into one being. He can feel Hess hard against his hip; wants to shift just slightly, angle them together because he can. To press even closer and just move.
No, more than that.
He wants Hess to pull him down, to get them on the floor. He wants to be pinned; wants them to rut together, until there's nothing left but skin and slick between them. Some hollow part of him aches with the thought. He wants teeth sinking into the nape of his neck; wants some animalistic, brutal claiming that will fill the void in him. He wants the weight of Hess's cock filling him up, hard and unrelenting and undeniable.
He –
You have no idea what I want, the Beast had said to him, tall and faintly amused as he watched Dan. Did you think I only asked you here to say thank you? I didn't.
Except he's never met the Beast.
He's never -
“No,” Dan says. “No.” He tries to shove Hess away, tries to put space between them, and this time Hess doesn't move.
“Ssh,” he says into Dan's mouth. “Ssh. I told you, nothing else. Not yet.” The fingers on Dan's neck squeeze once, in warning.
“I don't want this,” Dan says, rearing back. “You promised I – ”
Hess grins, and this time there really is danger. Dan's mind, still sticky-slow, gibbers at the threat written in the tilt of Hess's head, the way his hips roll just once, pushing them closer together again. That darkness is there in the gleam of his eyes, the slow seep of red as he studies Dan's expression.
“I promised,” Hess says. “I keep my promises.” He dips his head, lips catching on the faint stubble at the curve of Dan's jaw. “But baby, for a moment there you wanted this.” He bites down, hard, and Dan shoves against the stingingly sweet pressure of teeth.
“Get off,” he says, then again when Hess doesn't move. “Off.” He finds the vulnerable tendon in Hess's arm and presses down. “Off,” he repeats again, “or I'll make you.”
Hess licks over the bruise he's no doubt made, slow and rasping and enough to have Dan almost rethinking. “Do you promise?” he murmurs, achingly amused and not at all threatened. “I know you're fierce, but I don't think you'll win.”
“But I'll do some damage,” Dan snarls, teeth bared, and Hess sighs.
“Alright,” he says. “Not yet.” Slowly, reluctantly, he lets go, fingers sliding away as he takes two steps back.
After the heat of Hess's body, the cool air of the kitchen is a shock. Dan blinks once, straightens and squares his shoulders. “How the hell did I miss this?” he demands, to stop himself from pulling Hess back in. “How did I not know – ”
“You don't need to know,” Hess says, the pretty line of his mouth set and stubborn. “Not yet.”
“Don't need to – ” Dan takes an involuntary step forward, realisation dawning. “No. Don't do this again. Don't you fucking dare – ”
*
He's got an hour left before he needs to leave for work, and honestly he doesn't know where the morning's gone.
Stepping out of the shower, Dan wraps a towel around his waist and scrubs a quick hand through his hair, brushing away water. His shoulders ache more than they should, as though he's been carrying tension around in them, and there's a vaguely dissatisfied hollow in the pit of his stomach. He feels like he's craving something, and he has no idea what.
Absently he picks up his razor, leaning across the sink to wipe away the steam that has fogged the mirror.
Hess had been in an odd mood when he left – slightly bemused and a little snappy. The strangeness of Hess's irritation prickles under Dan's skin. He wonders what the hell he's missing. He'll need to ask later. Maybe things aren't going so well with the business at the moment. Maybe he's just as tired as Dan feels.
Maybe –
The razor slips from Dan's fingers, clattering into the sink. He ignores it, doesn't even bother to see if it's damaged as he leans close to the mirror again, fingers wiping frantically to clear it. He tilts his head, examining the familiar lines of his own face.
His eyes are there, wide and surprised in his reflection. The slightly crooked line of his nose and the shape of his mouth are all familiar to him. But there is a bruise at the hinge of his jaw. It's dark and purple and claiming, and the shape of someone's mouth.
And he has no idea how it got there.