Touchdown (not a football metaphor)

by randomalia (spilinski)

Summary:

And really, man, nothing about this situation is gay. This is business: a temporary merger in the interests of both entities.

Notes:

This one's for tinted_glass. Set sometime after Night Out in s4.

This is what it takes to get you to fuck him: three cocktails, which he keeps buying because he thinks all women like the same kind of drink, and by extension, you. To be precise, it takes three cocktails and fifteen minutes in the bathroom with an Amex and a hundred dollar bill, after which you come back out feeling all brand new.

This is important because it's a Dunder-Mifflin party and you have long, painful experience with those.

But the alcohol's making you feel loose, the room's heating up, you feel sharp, hot, and it occurs to you then that you want to be fucking, not standing here in your suit and your shoes and your best behaviour. You want sex. You want -

"Wanna fuck?" you say. It just happens that the person standing in front of you is Michael.

He stares at you and you stare back; when you see he's about to laugh you put your follow-up on the table.

"This is how we do things in New York, man. Two guys helping each other out. You know how it is."

Michael's eyes are wide. "Wow. Really?" he asks quietly. Too quietly, you don't hear it but you can read it on his mouth. He might add, "I wonder if Oscar knows about this."

"Come on. You in or out?"

That's your clincher, the final offer which isn't really an offer at all. It's the sound of sealed deal, because Michael will never, ever want to be out.

There's a slow, disbelieving smile wavering its way onto his face which means you're right. You've gotten used to that.

You slap a hand on his shoulder, firm, solid shoulder under your fingers, and turn him away to the door; you're outta here.

On your way you pass one of the corporate assistants and she looks at you like you're a saint, which you totally are, even if she doesn't know you're thinking about putting your cock up another guy's ass. Details, man. Need to know.

And yeah, that part's new; you haven't tried it before, because you're not gay, but it can't be that hard. You're Ryan fucking Howard, man. You're the guy that came in as a temp and then leapfrogged the entire branch to corporate promotion. So yeah, you're pretty sure you're a quick study, and in any case, you already have lube in your top drawer. You weren't lying to Michael: the women in New York are great, but it turns out the feeling isn't always mutual, and you're just as familiar with your right hand as you've always been.

You stand out on the street and sling an easy arm around Michael's shoulders while you wait for a cab to come by, just testing it out and you can see by his expression that finally he's catching up to where you are, because you're already stratospheric, looking down on the world and watching it all make sense, too distant from all the little people to care.

You think about singing Rocket Man but then you remember that it's an Elton John song and there's getting off with a guy and then there's gay. And really, man, nothing about this situation is gay. This is business: a temporary merger in the interests of both entities. You're mobilising your capital, with the expectation of a good return. Or maybe you're a corporate raider. You spend the ride home trying to figure it out and, man, that is one amazing conversation. You'd forgotten that Michael does impressions.

"This is a great apartment," Michael says once you're inside. "Really great. And wow, what was that conversation in the cab all about," he laughs, "That was crazy. Oh no, Ryan's gone crazy, everyone. Look out!"

"High as a kite by then," you reply, tugging your shoes off.

"Oh. Oh, hey, Rocket Man! Right? Man, I love that song."

"Yeah," you say. "Take your tie off."

He's still looking kind of like he's waiting for the camera to jump out from behind the curtain, so you grab his face and kiss him. You go in for it hard so he can't talk and it's good, it's fine, then he pushes his tongue in your mouth and your heartbeat skyrockets; you tilt his head and bite his lip, get a mouthful of kisses. When you pull back Michael's hair is a mess and he's on his way to looking debauched and happy, which for him manifests as some kind of gravity.

He watches your fingers as you undo your shirt.

By the time you push him down on the bed you're feeling bright and taut and hot and you can't stop to figure out the ass thing. Pressure zings down your spine, down your fingers, it scratches against the soles of your feet and Michael is warm and strong all over and it feels pretty great to just rut against him and have him hold you still when all your seams are failing.

In the morning you wake up and feel like the desert. You rub at your eyes and then look to your left to see Michael lying next to you, kind of spaced out, holding on to the blankets. Last night comes all the way back.

You slept with Michael. And also, a man. But firstly, Michael.

"Fuck," you say, and watch as a resolute look comes over Michael's face.

"That's what he said."