Work Text:
2003
Ryan swills his glass, focussing on the amber whirlpool the movement creates and the lilting cadence of Joe’s voice. The room is warm although the light is dimming as the fireplace dies down.
Joe trails off. It takes Ryan a second to react to the silence. He looks up and Joe smiles at him sympathetically. “Here I am blathering on about the finer minutiae of Poe’s work – the kind of thing I can’t even get fellow academics to show an interest in – and you can’t get a word in edgewise.” He grimaces self-deprecatingly. “I apologise.”
“No, please,” Ryan insists. He takes a drag of the whiskey, draining his glass. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He’s tired constantly these days. “It’s all important,” he assures Joe. “It’s helpful.”
Joe eyes him shrewdly. “Is it?”
“Yes,” he says, too quickly.
The truth is that it’s not.
Joe’s been extremely forthcoming. He’s so eager to share his knowledge of Poe’s work and offer his opinion on how it could have shaped the killer’s psyche that Ryan had all he needed from him within their first few meetings. There’s no reason for Ryan to keep coming back when there’s nothing new to learn. He should be out pursuing other leads, not straining the good will of one of those rare civilians happy and willing to aid an active investigation.
Except there aren’t any other leads and they’re still no closer to bringing anyone in.
So Ryan sits in Joe’s home, a regular fixture now in his office, comfortably slouched on his couch with a drink in hand. Joe holds the floor and Ryan is an audience of one to his most compelling, most thought-provoking lectures. His book might not be doing well but it’s easy to see why his students speak so highly of him. It’s almost impossible to look away from him, let alone walk away.
Ryan should know. He hasn’t managed to do it yet.
“Knowledge is power,” he says weakly.
“Mm,” Joe agrees amiably, sitting down on the couch beside him. “But it’s all very esoteric, what I have to offer. I imagine the FBI is after something a bit more actionable?”
“The who, the where, the how, and the why?” Ryan scrubs his hand through his hair and laughs humourlessly. “With a confession and some ironclad DNA evidence to back it up? Yeah, that would be nice.”
Joe chuckles softly. “None of which has been forthcoming?”
“Nope.”
Joe leans back against the couch and sighs. He rests a comforting hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Now I’ll grant this man of yours is a wily one, but it can’t be as hopeless as all that, can it?”
It’s not something the public likes to hear – they look to guys like Ryan expecting them to be able to do something before things get worse – but Joe’s been honest with him and it seems like the least he can do in return. “Sometimes all we can do is wait.”
Joe studies him with an inscrutable expression. “Wait for another body to turn up, you mean?”
His voice is carefully neutral, as non-judgemental as his face but Ryan flinches anyway. He’s never been good at waiting.
“Well, then.” Joe squeezes his shoulder one more time and leans forward, pulling the whisky decanter towards them. He tops them both up a healthy amount. “If all you can do is wait, then we’ll wait together.”
A couple of drinks later and Ryan is feeling loose and relaxed. The case is always there, weighing heavily on his mind, but Joe’s managed to push it to the back of his consciousness, regaling him with tales of the surprisingly scandalous underbelly of academia. Someone should make a reality show. The corners of Ryan’s mouth hurt. It’s been a while since he laughed quite so much in such quick succession.
Joe’s starting in another story when his voice fades out. He looks up, past Ryan and straightens up a little.
“Hi.” Claire leans against the doorway. Her hair tumbles loosely over her shoulders.
Joe gives her a sheepish grin. “I’ve gotten carried away again, haven’t I?”
She smiles at them softly. It’s late. Ryan puts down his glass and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“It’s my fault,” he says quickly. “I’ve been monopolising your husband. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how late it is.”
“Nonsense,” Joe replies. “I’m the one who’s been hoarding you all to myself, keeping you cooped up in this office with me.”
Ryan stands but between the late hour, the alcohol, and all the stress-filled nights he hasn’t slept, it’s hard for him to keep his balance. He teeters and Joe closes the gap between them. Claire watches them with a concerned expression.
“I came to say the guest room is made up and yours if you’d like it.”
Joe beams at her. “That’s excellent. Come on, a full night’s rest will do you a world of good.”
“No, really, I appreciate the offer but I’ll sleep better at my place.”
Joe shakes his head.
“You can’t drive home like this. Besides,” he says steering Ryan towards the staircase. “I’ve seen my share of police shows on the television; I’m sure you’ve got crime scene photos and mug shots and a disturbing spider web of clues pinned all over the walls of your bedroom. No one could possibly get any sleep surrounded by all that.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV,” Ryan says with a hollow laugh: not sleeping, heavy drinking, taking his work home with him – when did he become such an obvious stereotype?
“Nevertheless,” Joe insists, “you should stay.”
“Yes,” Claire adds, looking over her shoulder and meeting Joe’s eyes as she starts on the stairs. “Please stay.”
Once again, Ryan can’t find it in himself to walk away.
“Okay.”
The momentary light-headedness has passed. Ryan doesn’t need Joe’s help to walk but Joe’s arm is still slung protectively around his shoulders and he doesn’t try to shrug him off. Ryan’s rarely honest with himself but at this moment, he can admit it’s nice to have someone watching out for him for a change.
Ahead of them, Claire leads the way. Ryan isn’t trying to stare but a few steps behind her, he’s eye-level with her shapely ass and the graceful way she walks. He cuts his eyes to the side guiltily but Joe only raises a mischievous eyebrow in reply. His wife is a knockout and thankfully he doesn’t seem to resent Ryan looking.
All the same, Ryan lowers his gaze and keeps his attention on putting one foot in front of the other.
Upstairs, Joe sits him gently on the edge of their guest bed. He and Claire draw back to the doorway. Ryan waits patiently, trying not to overhear as they hold a whispered conversation. He wonders if Joe is ratting him out, if he should pre-emptively apologise - maybe Joe’s not as cool with Ryan leering as he’d seemed.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Mmhmm,” Claire hums as walks towards him. She touches him briefly on the shoulder. “But you’ll never fall asleep like this.”
She leans over and switches off the bedside lamp, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim overflow of light from the hall. Ryan’s breath catches in his throat as she drops to her knees in front of him.
His heart races. He grabs at the covers to steady himself. Claire reaches for his shoes, deftly untying his laces.
Ryan gives a small laugh that sounds a thousand times more strangled than he intended and his cheeks heat.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says gruffly, embarrassed at what she must think of him. “I’m not that drunk, I swear. I can put myself to bed.”
She looks up at him from under a tousled veil of hair and licks her lips. “I know,” she says, steadying herself with a hand cupped warmly around his knee. “But what if I want to?”
Ryan has no idea how to reply to that. He looks to Joe, leaning against the doorjamb watching them with heavy-lidded eyes. For once he has nothing to say, offering Ryan no guidance at all.
Claire pulls off his shoes and peels off his socks. She wraps one hand loosely around his ankle and runs the other up the inside of his calf.
“Is this okay?” she asks winding her body into the space she’s created between his knees.
Ryan looks from her to the enigmatic Joe and back again.
“Yes.”
“Oh thank god,” Joe says, his voice low and gravelly. He pushes away from the wall and crosses the room, sliding onto the bed beside Ryan and cozying up into his personal space.
He expects Joe to kiss him but he doesn’t. He leans his forehead against Ryan’s temple instead, brushing his lips across his cheek. In his ear he breathes, “Let us take care of you.”
Claire rubs her hands up Ryan’s inner thighs. She tugs the front of his shirt from his pants and starts on the buttons at the bottom. Joe’s fingers go to his throat, opening his collar and working their way down. They meet at the middle. Joe pushes his shirt off his shoulders as Claire’s hands stroke up beneath his undershirt.
Claire works lower, unbuckling his pants. She dips her head and takes Ryan into her mouth. Joe brushes her hair back from her face, hissing a low murmur of approval into Ryan’s ear. He does kiss Ryan, then, deep and dirty, and caught between their mouths, Ryan lets himself be overwhelmed.
***
Ryan wakes up alone.
His clothes are neatly folded on the dresser. In the bathroom, he finds fresh towels and a new toothbrush laid out for him to use. Under the warm water of the shower he stretches his aching muscles, feeling more energised than he has in weeks.
Downstairs, Claire is alone in the kitchen fixing breakfast.
She looks up at Ryan as he walks in and with a smirk flips a pancake impressively high in the air. “Good morning.”
“You can say that again.”
She laughs and puts the skillet back on the stove. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
Ryan leans his elbows on the marble countertop and watches her cook, letting the caffeine work its way through his veins. “Joe still sleeping?”
“I’d be surprised if he got any sleep at all. He left a few hours ago.”
Ryan raises his eyebrows questioningly. “Everything okay?”
“More than okay,” she reassures him. She turns the stove off and takes the stack of pancakes to the table. They sit. “It’s just his way. He never sleeps after...”
She tucks her hair behind her ear and gives him a sultry, sidelong look that reminds of him of everywhere her mouth had been the night before. An echo of heat throbs dully through his groin.
“Sex, creativity, life, death: it’s all connected.”
“Death?”
“Poe’s work – and by extension, Joe’s – is all about the balance of life and death. I don’t want you to think he’s morbid but your visits reinvigorate him. The case gets him looking at old literary theories with new eyes. He’s trying to help,” she adds sincerely, “but I’d be lying if I said you weren’t helping him too.”
“His book’s still not doing so hot?” Ryan surmises.
Claire shakes her head. “Academic publishing can be brutal.”
“I bet a few reviews saying the author helped catch a serial killer would up its circulation.”
She frowns at him over her coffee. “Don’t be so cynical. That’s not why he’s doing this. You came to us for help, remember?”
“I know. I remember.” He relaxes back in his seat. It’s second nature for him to push too hard and pry, but he’s not looking to start a fight today. “So where is he?” he asks lightly. “The pancakes are getting cold.”
Claire waves her hand vaguely. “Out for a run. Looking at the stars. Watching the sunrise. He probably spent half the night in a coffee shop scribbling out lecture ideas on the back of a napkin.”
She has a wistful, faraway look in her eyes. A small smile plays at the corner of her lips. It’s clear that after years of marriage she’s still smitten with Joe.
“He’s always been like this, since before we started dating even. He’s more of an artist than a true academic. Don’t get me wrong, he loves to teach and the students love him, but he’s a slave to his muse. When inspiration hits, he can’t back down from that. He doesn’t know any other way to be.”
“You think inspiration hit last night?”
She looks at him from under her lashes and softly bites her lip. “Don’t you?”
Joe comes bounding through the backdoor before Ryan has a chance to answer. His face is red and there’s a sheen of sweat over his skin. It looks like wherever he was, he jogged all the way home. Ryan can feel the restless energy radiating off him.
“Morning,” he bellows cheerfully, collapsing at the table between them. “This looks delicious!”
As Claire starts dishing out tall stacks of pancakes, Joe leans over and kisses her sweetly. His gaze slides to Ryan and he gives him a meaningful look. “Did you get some sleep?”
Ryan huffs a laugh. “You know it.”
Joe grins back. “That I certainly do.”
Their conversation is forestalled by the buzzing of Ryan’s phone. He checks the message and frowns. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“The case?” Joe asks eagerly as they all stand. “Did you get your body?”
Ryan flinches, remembering their conversation the night before. Claire looks stricken when he nods.
Joe’s expression sobers. “I’m sorry. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than getting exactly what you ask for.”
He wraps his arm protectively around Claire’s shoulders and they walk Ryan to the door.
“I hope you find something,” Claire says.
“I do too,” Ryan agrees hurrying into his coat. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon to pick your brains again.”
Joe holds the door open for him. “You’re always welcome in our home.”