Archive of Our Own

  It's been hours without a trace of the guy to be seen, and he's worried.

  That's putting it lightly, actually, he's more than just worried. That's one hell of a sore understatement.

  It just ain't like him.

  Sure, Max had always been fairly independent, and it's no shock to him that he'd slipped out during the night. Probably just for some fresh air, the reasonable side of Sam's mind insists.

  But this early in the morning?

  Sam had woken up just before dawn, and hardly a second had passed before he realized that his little buddy was nowhere to be seen.

  He'd called him, of course, but didn't get a response. Not that he was too surprised, Max never had been too keen on electronics. Just carried the cheap cellphone around for emergencies, he supposes, maybe because Sam's own insistence, but god only knows where he keeps the thing.

  It'd been a few hours of calling just about every person he knew, every single contact in his phone before he'd resolved to search the streets himself.

  Ultimately, with his hand just barely gripping onto his coat hanging limply from the wrack, he decides not to.

  Because what if he comes back? What if Sam's not there? He can't leave, he'd be no better than him in doing so. It'd be counterproductive, frankly.

  But luckily, he doesn't have to.

  When 7 a.m. rolled around, he'd been watching the news on their rickety old rabbit-eared TV keeping an eye out for any sort of goings on that would have drawn the guy out of bed, or kept him out longer than he maybe expected.

  Being without him for so long, longer than he had been in years...

  Well, it started to weigh on him a bit.

  I mean, who's to say the guy wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere? Pissed off the wrong guy, ending up in some back alley and disappearing without a trace.

  And who's to say why he'd left in the first place?

  Maybe he was bored of the whole thing they had going, maybe he wanted something more. Something better, someone better.

  Maybe he left on his own volition, and maybe he'd stay that way.

  And he had every right, didn't he?

  But the reasonable part of Sam's mind kicks in, assuring him that no, Max wouldn't just abandon him like this. He'd have told him, would've packed up his stuff and left, but not without a few parting words.

  He ain't ashamed to admit he may have teared up a bit at the thought, worked up over nothing at all. Hours without a single trace of his little buddy has him running through every single bad thing that could've happened to him, and with each passing minute it grows harder and harder not to start panicking.

  Then, just a little after 7, he hears footsteps outside of their door. At first, he thinks he's gone insane from presumptive grief, shutting off the drone of early-morning news as his ears perk at the quiet steps.

  One could have heard a pin drop when the door creaks open.

  His immediate relief is palpable, but his heart drops straight to his stomach when he gets a good look at him.

  Jesus Christ.

  When Max steps through the door, his eyes go wide when he sees Sam waiting for him, hand hovering on the doorknob like he's considering bolting. He's unsteady on his feet, leaning his slight weight against the doorframe.

  "Ah, fuck."

  He's certainly seen better days, but he's goddamn alive, and that's more than Sam's panic-stricken mind had accounted for.

  The lagomorph looks like he'd been through Hell in the most literal way. Sure, he'd seen him beat-up before, but he really looks like he'd stumbled onto the wrong side of town. His usual white, downright pristine fur is ruffled and littered with bruises, blood stained in more places than one. His eye is swollen, dark bruise encompassing the worst of it and right ear folded downwards like he'd had it bent just at the tip.

  It doesn't take a minute to realize he's shaking, too. Like he's just barely staying on his feet, swaying and looking up at him with tired eyes.

  "Max!" He exclaims, kneeling down on his knees to wrap his arms around him tight. He's too excited to mind the bruises, too focused on the guy in his arms that's undoubtedly alive. "Where the hell have you been? And good lord, what happened to ya?" He pulls away, holding him by the shoulders and scanning his face, watching as the lagomorph blinks wide eyes at him in surprise. "Jesus, I..." The words fall empty when he notices the distinct and fervent smell of alcohol on his breath. God, smells like a bar or something, and his nose twitches at the sharp scent clinging to his disheveled fur. "Are you drunk?"

   His little buddy grins up at him, paw reaching up to pat at Sam's cheek. "Gee, Sam. Anyone ever tell ya that ya have the most pretty eyes?"

   He falls into a stunned silence.

   Lord, he must be gone.

  "That where ya been so late? At a bar?" He tries to keep his voice steady, through hours of wondering if the guy was dead, running through every possibility and coming to the same conclusion. Didn't account for the guy being drunk, that's for sure.

  "Welllll," He draws out the word, accent slurring thick as he lets his hand fall from Sam's face. "Not, 'sactly. I was... out, doin' things. But I may have stopped by on my way home."

  "You couldn't have called? Left a note?"

  Out of seemingly thin air, Max pulls out what looks to be the remains of a thoroughly busted cellphone. "I dropped it."

  He can't help but be puzzled by the state of the thing. Looks like it'd been more than just dropped, but that ain't what he's worried about.

  "Fall on your way home, too?" He mutters, bitterness edging his tone.

  Max doesn't seem to have an answer for that, just giggling and wobbling in place, like he's keen on falling face-first onto the floor. "Lil' bit. Maybe, I dunno."

  His pal's never been a heavy drinker. Sure, he'd indulge every now and again, but never like this. He was always one hell of a lightweight either way, and it usually only took a shot or two until he got all... ditzy, for lack of a better word. He hadn't seen it many times before, maybe once or twice after a particular gruesome case when the both of them just needed something to take the edge off. Or maybe like that time in Brooklyn, but that didn't count.

  He's flushed, and one would probably surmise that he'd been running a fever if not for the look on his face and the smell of alcohol wafting off of him. "How much have you had?" He asks before he realizes he's said it outloud. It doesn't matter, not really, but he still wants to know.

  "I dunno... a couple. Kinda lost count. Think th' barkeep was flirtin' with me though, said he thought I was cute, ain't that funny? Even gave me a few for free!" He trails off into another giggling laughing fit.

  Just like Max to use his marketable adorableness to his advantage. Frankly, the thought of some stranger calling his pal 'cute' makes him want to hit something. But jealousy has never been a good look on him, and he swallows the bitterness down.

  "Did he hurt you?"

  His pal stops laughing in an almost uncanny switch of emotions. "What? No, couldn't have laid a hand on me even if he wanted to. I woulda bitten it off."

  He lets out a little sigh in relief. Things could definitely have gone a lot worse if the guy had tried anything funny when Max was far past the point of sober. Wouldn't put it past the grime of the city past midnight, though.

  "So, what... you tripped or somethin'? I'm not buying it, pal."

  Max clumsily brushes his hand off of his shoulder, stumbling past him and further into the office. "Y'know, Sam, frankly I don't get why you care so much," His pal drawls, supporting his weight on Sam's desk.

  At first, he almost thinks it's some cruel kind of joke, born from too much liquor and a sick sense of humor; but catching that look on his face, it ain't hard to tell the guy's serious.

  "What in th' hell are you talking about, Max?" The lagomorph just glares back at him, clinging onto the side of the desk for dear life. He doesn't say a word and he's damn surprised the guy ain't started to growl at him yet. He sighs, pawing at his face with a hand and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. Arguing ain't gonna do anyone any good, not when he's like this. "Look, c'mere," He takes a step towards him, praying that he doesn't get his hand bit off when he reaches out towards him. Almost feels like petting at a scared animal, and he guesses the comparison ain't too far off. "Whatever happened to ya, ya look like hell. Just lemme fix you up."

  His little buddy narrows his eyes at him, looking him up-and-down like he's trying to gauge whether or not to let him. He almost sneers at him, and Sam can't quite recall a time where he'd been an angry drunk.

  He knows him, knows him well enough to know that something happened while he was out. That was obvious, but the reason why he refused to tell him? That was less so.

  "What're you tryin' to do here?" He sneers, though it's real hard to take the dull venom in his tone seriously when he's slurring so bad.

  "Help you. Now, c'mon, we've got a kit in the bathroom." He holds out a hand, but Max doesn't take it.

  Trying not to take that too personally, he watches as his pal steadies himself on the desk, legs wobbly when he takes a step or two towards him.

  It certainly ain't the first time the detective's dealt with someone thoroughly drunk off of their ass, and watching the smaller of the two stumble, he ain't very surprised at what happens next.

  He falls, face-first onto the floor.

  "Oh my god." Pawing at his face again and willing away the growing headache, he watches Max as he lays on the floor, groaning and seemingly given up on the notion of moving entirely.

  "'M okay here." He mutters into the wood boards, and suddenly Sam has to try real hard not to snicker at the way his voice is muffled against it.

  He can't help but feel bad in the guy. Definitely drunker than he's ever seen him before.

  "I've gotcha, pal." Sam carefully reaches underneath his arms, easing him off the ground and back on his feet. "Here, take my hand. Do ya think you can walk?"

  The lagomorph looks at the outreached paw for a second or two before taking it. "Yeah, 'm good, Sammy." He smiles up at him, like he hadn't just faceplanted into the ground. "Don't ya worry yer pretty little head about it, babe."

  'Babe'? He's not sure if the guy's being cynically sarcastic, or if he's just absolutely wasted, so he ignores the comment and holds his hand tight. It's not the first time he's held his hand, but something about it almost makes him feel nervous. Like he's never done it before. Guess it's a bit different when your best friend's sloshed past the point of cognition, gripping your hand so hard that it's losing circulation.

  His hand's soft, so much smaller in his own that it'd probably be pretty funny under different circumstances. He notices these tiny claws, just barely drawn and poking into his palm. He's real glad the guy grabbed his hand willingly; he's seen the damage they can do, more than they seem capable of, and he'd rather not be on the receiving end.

 Max doesn't protest as he drags him to the bathroom, keeping a slow pace so the guy doesn't trip over his own feet again. "You really don't gotta worry about me, Sam." He huffs, stopping in his tracks when they reach the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest in defiance. "It'll heal."

  He can't help but roll his eyes. "Not before it gets infected, bonehead. Look, I know ya hate getting patched up, but if you play nice I'll uh," He thinks it over for a second or two, and Max seems interested. "I'll quite askin' ya what happened. Deal?" As long as he's safe now, he supposes it doesn't matter, and if that's the sacrifice he has to make, he's willing to do so if it means he'll sit still for a little while and let him keep the wounds from getting too bad.

  It wouldn't be the first time he's patched him up, not by a long shot, but the guy never did like sitting still for too long. Said he hated the smell of it; too sterile and clinical for his tastes.

  His partner considers it, arms falling from their place across his chest. "You promise?"

  He does, and with a nod, Max relents.

  His pal hops on top of the toilet lid as the canine rifles through the nearby cabinet to yank out their comically oversized first aid kit. God knows with all they got up to they needed it, though Sam can't recall a time in recent memory that they've actually used the damn thing. Usually, Max didn't have problem roughing a guy up with little hassle.

  Max sits somewhat quietly, hands folded in his lap as he swings his legs above the floor. He'd be maimed silly for saying so, but it's damn near cute the way he can't even reach the ground. He can't help but see the guy as helpless in a state like this one, staring down at the floor like he'd rather be anywhere else and really not blaming him for it.

  It's tense, quiet between them as he searches in the kit for what he needs, but he can't help but glance at him from time to time, like that'll have any way of helping him figure this whole mess out.

  It just doesn't make sense, he hasn't seen the guy so beat-up in years, it just ain't like him.

  He notices his pink nose is twitching as he fidgets slightly in his spot, staring blankly at the tile. The guy has one of the highest pain tolerances he knows, but seeing him hurting still makes his stomach ache.

  With a sigh, he rolls up the sleeves of his loose button-up to his elbows, giving his hands a quick scrub. "Okay, give me your hand."

  The lagomorph does, hesitating, but holding out his paw for Sam to take. He still won't look at him, opting to leer at the cracked tile instead as Sam carefully holds his hand and reaches for the gauze. "You really don't gotta do this, Sam."

  It definitely ain't the worst of the damage, certainly not anything he hasn't seen before. There's no way it hadn't been a fair fight, at least, judging by the bruises on each hand. "Sure I do, unless ya want a mess of infections. It ain't a big deal, Max, it'll be done with before ya know it." Looks like he'd gotten more than a few good hits on the guy, unless he'd punched in a brick wall or something. Did a number on his knuckles, though, they're bruised and bleeding just as bad as the rest of him.

  He dabs some of the fresh cotton across the cuts, keeping his hand held firmly so he can't yank it away when he feels the sting of the alcohol. Gratefully, he doesn't put up much of a fight this time around. "Almost done." He murmurs, wrapping the gauze around his hand and making sure it stays in place before he lets his hand go.

  It only takes a second or so to patch up his other paw, all the while he silently gauges the wounds and what kind of scrap must've taken place to cause them. Maybe it's the years of cases, but he can't help trying to figure the whole thing out, and something nagging at him says that it just doesn't add up. He must've done a number on the other guy, that's for sure, but he still can't fathom how in the hell Max ended up in such bad of shape.

  "Alright," He settles on his knees infront of the antsy lagomorph. "Stay still, 'kay? This might sting a bit."

  He pours a generous amount of the alcohol onto a fresh pad of cotton, dampening it enough so that it's saturated when he goes to touch him.

  The canine carefully cradles his face in one hand to keep him still, watching as the other swallows almost nervously, eyes darting straight to his paw. He's so close to him that he can smell the rum on his breath, tinged with the metallic smell of blood. "I know," He mutters. "Just bare with me, here. Won't take long." He attempts to reassure him, applying the damp cotton to the cut underneath his eye, taking care not to irritate the shiner more than he has to. His heart drops when the guy winces, flinching back and against his other hand, leaning into the touch like he's trying not to jerk away entirely. He knows that's gotta hurt; the cut's deep, and briefly he wonders if whoever the hell got a hit on him was wearing a ring. Had to have been, to make a cut like that one.

  Maybe it's his instincts, but seeing him flinch away from him and the stinging cotton makes him queasy. He hopes that maybe the liquor will dull the pain a bit, if it's not wore off already.

  His partner seems to relax a bit, or he tries to, but keeps his eyes shut as he grabs at Sam's arm. He can feel those slight claws digging in to his skin, but not nearly enough to actually hurt. It's just enough to be noticeable, to feel the way he's trying to keep still.

  "I know, I'm sorry," He eases, dabbing at the cut and moving on to the splattering of dried blood underneath his nose. "You're doin' great, just hang in there."

  He earns a happy, drunken little giggle, and an eye peaks open to watch him. "I'm doin' good?"

  So much for the guy sobering up.

  Still, he smiles at him, soft as he focuses on the dark crimson staining his fur. "Doin' so good, just relax."

  Max shivers, and Sam pauses, alcohol soaked cotton hovering above his skin. "Too cold?"

  His partner just slightly shakes his head. "Nah, 's fine." The claws sinking into his skin say different, but the sooner they can get this over with the better, and he's not inclined to argue with him.

  He gently tips his chin upwards, looking for more crimson cuts, but what he sees has his heart dropping straight to his stomach. There's bruises, just like the rest of him, but that ain't unusual in itself.

  His curiosity gets the best of him, fingertips tracing over the dark, indented blemishes across his skin. There's a pattern there, right at the sides of his neck. Like someone's hand had grasped there just a bit too tightly, leaving bruises in their wake. It ain't the first time he's seen an injury like this one, countless clients and cases exposing him to the worst of what the city has to offer. "Jesus," He mutters under his breath.

  He'd just never thought he'd see them up close and personal.

  He opens his mouth to say something, dread cold in his gut. But he promised the guy he wouldn't ask, and he ain't one to go back on his word.

  So he was right; someone had to have hurt him to cause bruises like these. The only question is: who in their right mind would even have half a chance against Max?

  "Sam?" He hears a quiet voice say, and Max peaks open his eyes. "'S th' matter?"

  The detective can't quite will away the bitter taste in his mouth, or the way his heart sinks as he stares at his throat. Now ain't the time for him to be soft, unnerving injuries or not. But he can't quite speak, mouth dry and words lost to him entirely.

  He's seen worse, he's seen much worse, but nothing he's ever been exposed to on a case has hurt as bad as this does.

  Maybe if he'd woken up sooner, been there to protect him like he was supposed to be, this wouldn't have happened. He wouldn't have gotten hurt in the first place.

  "Sam?" The voice is gentle and soft, and when he comes to his senses again, soft and bandaged paws are holding his face, tilting his chin up to look at him. Worried features look over his own, and somehow that only makes it worse, because the guy's wasted but he ain't dense.

  His vision goes bleary, the face before him growing soft and blurred.

  "Shit, no, no, no," His partner murmurs. "Sammy, please don't. Don't look at me like that. Ya know I can't stand t' see ya cry..." Clumsy paws pull Sam towards his chest, holding him close against him when Sam lets out a small sigh. "C'mon, big guy, it ain't a big deal. Doesn't hurt at all, just a few scrapes, really." That doesn't do much to persuade him.

  "Guess I just don't like seein' ya hurt, pal. Makes me feel all squeamish." He admits, but Max doesn't let him go so easily.

  "I know, 'm sorry. I thought if I came home quietly ya wouldn't know..." He confesses, in his own soft admission, nuzzling his face against Sam's fur like it's an instinct. "Didn't want ya t' worry so much."

  Sam gently eases out of his arms. "That why you won't tell me what happened?"

  He expects him to retort back with the promise he'd made, but he doesn't. He just falls oddly silent again, paws still holding his face like he'd forgotten he was doing so, ears twitching, obvious something's on his mind. "You'd hate me."

  "Max," He stresses. "I thought you were dead."

  He stalls at that, looking back up at him like he's never heard something so crazy in his life, like he honestly caught him off-guard. Or maybe it's so jarring because of it's stark familiarity. That he has heard that before, face blanching at the few words. "What?"

  "When you didn't come home, I thought something terrible must've happened to you. Well, uh, somethin' worse than this, anyways. But once an hour or so passed without a word from ya? The only thought on my mind was that you were a goner." His partner doesn't say a word, just stares down at his twitching paws like he's afraid to move. "So no, no matter how bad it is, I ain't gonna hate you. Ya really think I could?"

  Then Max laughs, a small giggle he hides behind his paws when he rests his face in them, ears drooping. It's nothing malicious, and when he hides his flushing face in his hands, he blames it on the guy being far drunker than what he should be. "That's awful sweet of ya, Sammy," He giggles. "But, frankly, I don't deserve th' benefit of th' doubt, here."

  He stands up from the floor, leaning his back on the bathroom sink and not being able to take his eyes off of him. Guy's acting like he killed a man or something, and only after the thought pops into his head does he realize how possible that could be. Wouldn't be the worst thing, at least he'd know how to go about solving that. "What're you talkin' about?"

  'Guilty' just ain't a word that suits the guy, and each second he's not saying something, Sam's starting to think he may very well have murdered a man. What worse could he have done to warrant him being so secretive?

  "Sam, I dunno how t' explain it." He mumbles into his hands, drawing his knees together and tucked up towards his chest, thoroughly curling in on himself. He still hides behind his paws, and Sam can't help but feel bad for the guy. Whatever he's not telling him, it's obviously something he ain't proud of.

  "It can't be that bad, Max. I promise ya I've probably heard worse."

  He tries to keep calm, enough so that he confesses whatever the hell he's done, but he's holding his breath.

  "Y'know," He laughs, but it doesn't sound too convincing. "It's sick, th' things I think about ya."

  He finds himself staring at him, and now he's the one speechless. "What?"

  The lagomorph shifts, wrapping his arms around his knees and peaking out just enough to look at the ground. He lays a hand on his bruised cheek, flushed under the discoloration. "'S hard t' think about anything else, sometimes. You make me stupid, and y'know uh," He laughs again, hoarse under his breath. He still won't look at him, pawing at the bruise under his eye, fingertips brushing against it. He thinks to ask him if that hurts, but it seems like a stupid question to ask. "It's silly, but I wish you'd been the one t' hurt me."

  He's drunk, absolutely gone past the point of coherence. But somehow, he seems sober in the moment, asides from the persistent pink in his face.

  "D'ya uh, get what I mean?" He looks up at him, paws twitching and clasping together. "Tell me it's sick."

  He opens his mouth to say something, but can't find the words to say.

  That's why he did this? There's no way in hell he's saying what Sam thinks he is. It's just got to be the booze talking, but looking at him, he seems serious.

  "No," He finally breathes out. "No, no it ain't sick."

  He thinks maybe that look on his face will leave, but it doesn't. Max looks to his paws again, and only then does he see the way he's shaking.

  "Shit, Max." He sighs, finally getting the gall to wrap his arms around him and feeling first-hand the way he's trembling. He hears this broken little sound, like nothing he's ever heard before from him, and a damp face buries itself in his shoulder. "Shh, 's okay." He murmurs, only hearing a little sob in return and feeling his chest ache at the sound.

  It's strange, because after so many years, he's never really seen the guy cry. Not genuinely, not anything more than faux tears, put on for his own benefit. Even drunk, as rare as it is, he's never been this broken up about anything that Sam can recall.

  "I'm sorry," His partner sobs, words slurred. He can't quite make out what he says after that, something with the word 'stupid', but he just keeps him close.

  "Hush, pal. It's okay, you're not 'stupid'. You're not 'sick', you're..." He carefully pulls back from him, resting a paw on his cheek and swiping away a few of the tears that dampen his fur. Poor guy looks so hurt, like he's somehow managed to make the biggest mistake of his life in just a few drunken seconds. "Doll, hey, look at me." He holds at his face, more or less forcing the guy to look him in the eye. "It's okay, I promise ya that."

  And then he does it, something he's definitely thought about doing more than a few times. He's as gentle as can be, soft, when he kisses him, tasting of salt, liquor, and blood, and finding he doesn't mind the taste.

  Max is nothing if not yielding, soft under his hands, lips moving in subsequent time with his own. He tries to be gentle, darting a tongue across his lips and tasting blood, but his little buddy only presses up harder against him. His shaky paws grip at Sam's shirt, pulling him in closer.

  It's almost like the guy doesn't have to breathe, looking at him with something of a pout when Sam pulls away to gasp in some much-needed air. "Christ," He mumbles, tongue darting over his own lips and savoring the metallic taste. "How'd ya manage t' look so pretty and so sad at the same time?"

  Maybe it's the liquor on the other's tongue that has him confident, enough so to make him smile again. Enough so that he's got the other giggling behind his paws like a timid school girl.

  He's awfully cute when he's drunk-- awfully cute all the time, really, but especially so when he's all pink in the face, looking up at him like he doesn't think he's real. "Gimme a minute," His partner mutters, hiding his face in his hands. This time he ain't crying, though, just grinning and ditzy behind his paws. "I wasn't expecting that."

  "'S okay, I get it," He laughs, patting his shoulder, though it feels awfully lacking in comparison to the former affection. "Still drunk, doll?"

  The former looks up at him, groaning into his paws. "Lil' bit."

  "D'ya wanna go somewhere more comfortable?"

  He looks up at him from behind his hands, wide grin familiar and mirthful across his face. "With you? 'Course I do, Sam."

  He resists the urge to roll his eyes, patting him on the head and rubbing that place in-between his ears that he likes. "I meant somethin' like the couch, bonehead. Now, c'mon,"

  He holds out a hand, and Max takes it, mercifully allowing him to drag him out of the bathroom and towards the worn old couch. Doesn't take much, really, he's awfully light when it comes down to it.

  The guy takes a seat on the couch, though he looks nervous. It's a rare sight, seeing his long ears hang limply towards his hips, hands folded in his lap and face redder than he's ever seen. Poor guy's fidgeting something awful, too, tense in every sense of the word. "Max?" He drawls, because the guy's nothing if not easy to read. "You okay?"

  He looks up at him. "Hmm?"

  The detective takes a seat next to him, and he's as gentle as he can be when he takes his face in his hand, cradling his cheek and feeling the warmth. Poor guy's practically radiating heat, he'd probably think the guy had some sort of fever if he didn't know any better. "You alright?"

  His partner smiles easily at him, hand finding it's place over his. "Just think I'm soberin' up a lil', is all."

  "Yeah? The pain setting in?" He runs a thumb across his cheek, and watches as the other shivers.

  "You uh," His partner swallows hard. "Really know how t' tease a guy, don'tcha, Sam?"

  The detective just laughs. "I'm not tryin' to tease ya. Just uh, well, y'know I've never been great with words but," He stumbles over his half-witted attempt at a poor seduction, drawing the pad of his thumb over the deep bruise beneath his eye. "I wanna understand it, y'know? What about the pain gets t' you so bad. That make sense?"

  He receives a terse, quiet nod. "Yeah, yeah I get that." His pal's never looked so ruffled, for lack of a better word, but then a familiar grin over takes his face and he looks almost confident. It ain't hard to tell it's a farce, but the guy looks real cute pulling it. "Am I gonna be your first time, Sammy?"

  He kisses him again, if not just to shut him up a little. He's one hell of a sweet-talker, sure, but he's even better speechless. It's brief, this time, as he parts so he can adjust himself, climbing on top of the bunny and watching him fluster. "Hush, you."

  He doesn't seem to mind, leaning back onto the couch like he's done it a thousand times over, looking at him with such pretty lidded eyes that it's a wonder he hasn't seen him like this sooner.

  But he's not wrong, not at all, this definitely ain't something he's done before, but god knows he's going to try his best to prove otherwise.

  He leans down to kiss him again, feeling the way Max heats up at the touch and tugs him closer, arms wrapped around his neck when he lets out a low sound against his lips. Sounds almost like a purr, humming against him when the smaller presses his tongue against his. He's so soft, pink tongue just the same as he presses it into his mouth, tasting of sugar and the lasting bitterness of fresh blood. Though Sam doubts the guy doesn't just always taste like that, sickly sweet and bitter.

  He just barely settles his weight ontop of him, damn near afraid of crushing the guy underneath him. He's awfully small, though saying so would probably get his tongue bitten clean off. The detective strokes at his purplish cheek, dark with the remains of some stranger's hands on him. It makes him sick to think about, moreso angry at the thought of anyone else touching his little buddy. So he doesn't think about it, choosing to focus on the feeling of a silk tongue against his own and soft hands stroking at the back of his neck.

  He pulls away to catch his breath, only to see his partner grinning underneath him again. "Sam?" He pants out between small gasps for air.

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't be gentle."

  Who's he to deny him that?

  He smiles back at him, taking in the sight of something he wholeheartedly never expected to see. Not that he hasn't thought about it before, though, guiltily as it may have been. The thought of taking him in his hands and keeping that smart mouth of his busy... it's definitely a thought that's crossed his mind once or twice. Gosh, even beaten silly, the guy's a hell of a looker if there ever was one, always has been. "Can't think of a good reason not to, pal."

  Lips against his again, he tastes so nice, a lot better than a guy like him ought to. He can't think of a time Max really cared too much about his own self-image or anything like that, though he supposes the guy must just be a natural beauty.

  His own clumsy paws rest on velvet-soft hips, feeling at the downy fur there and quietly wondering how the guy keeps himself so pretty.

  When he runs out of air, he brings his attention to the worst of the bruises littering the smaller's neck, practically melting on the inside when the guy eagerly cranes his head to give him better access.

  Poor thing's awful sensitive, ain't he?

  It ain't hard to tell as the guy starts to squirm beneath him, breaths deep and heady when he starts to kiss and lick along the marks. He's heard the guy be loud before, but he's downright shameless when he starts to whimper his name, covered up by his own breathy moans. He can feel Max's small claws pricking at his back, and he's got half a mind to let the guy tear his shirt to pieces.

  Unfortunately, he only has the few, so his paws clumsily unclasp the few buttons still done, shrugging the thin cotton from his shoulders and feeling his partner sinking the needle-points into the flesh of his back. Honestly, the sting of them have him more flustered than he'd care to admit, enough to distract him from the near overwhelming vulnerability that being so downright naked brings.

  He kisses near his jaw again, trailing down along his neck with lingering pecks. The bruises along his neck are warm, heated flesh just beneath his fur cooled by Sam's tongue. His partner's skin leaves the lingering taste of smoke and ash in his mouth, like the heady taste of smoked tobacco, oddly familiar for something he's never tasted before now. He's just barely settled ontop of him, but he can feel him poking at him, warm and desperate against his stomach. He's never heard the guy sound so needy, clinging to his back and whimpering his name in a single-syllable plea. He's so good at it, too, voice all soft and breathy like he's a damn professional. Better than any lounge singer he's ever heard, whispering in his ear like he's had years of practice. Looking pretty's seemingly just as effortless to him as breathing. He'd watch him like this forever if he didn't think Max would bite him for going so slow.

  "I don't wanna hurt you," He breathes out, breathless already, and eliciting a little laugh as his partner lays back down flat against the couch.

  "Aw, c'mon, Sam. Couldn't hurt me if you tried. Just be a lil' rough with it okay?" He must notice his worried expression, and he adds in a soft afterthought; "I'll let ya know if ya go too far."

  Sam's never been violent, even out on cases. He's never been one for hands-on interrogation, so to speak. That was always Max's forte.

  But right now? Looking at him, busted and blue beneath his hands? It definitely sparks something his lower gut.

  It's hard to think right now, with the feeling of warm skin under him and needy little moans in his ear. Almost like the guy's doing it on purpose, and he wouldn't put it past him to render him so utterly helpless.

  He's not sure why, maybe to hold him still, but he holds onto the guy's hips. He watches his expression closely, because the slightest look would make him stop, but when he looks at him, there's anything but the thought of stopping on that face.

  That's enough for him, as he leans down to kiss him, because it's more addicting than any drug could ever be. He hears another quiet purr, vibrating against his lips as the smaller relaxes under him and grabs onto his face, small paws stroking at his cheeks so sweetly he's half wondering if it's the same guy he's known all these years. Definitely something he's going to tease him for later, when he gets the chance. He doesn't doubt Max will do the same.

  The lagomorph shifts his weight, pushing up against him in a silent plea. It's cute, the sound he makes when Sam strokes a paw down his stomach. As he cries out, Sam can't help but think he's got a keen to rival even the sleaziest of broads, but there's nothing about them that could even begin to compare.

  What a guy...

  His hand drifts down the thick fur of his stomach, thoughts jumbled and fuzzy, all while his little buddy whimpers his name and begs him to keep going. He takes him in his hand, watching him whine in impatience. His lidded eyes watch him close, and quiet puffs of breaths escape from parted lips when he shifts his hips to press himself closer.

  He ain't rough, not yet, not when he takes him in his hand and watches him squirm at the touch. "Someone's sensitive, huh?"

  His partner practically sneers at him, though his droopy ears and pinkish face make him the furthest thing from intimidating. "Haven't done this in awhile." He huffs out, and with an easy grin, Sam's kissing him again, for the comfort if nothing else, trying to keep him from getting too flustered. Although, it's a hell of a sight to see him squirm, but it wouldn't be gentlemanly to keep him that way.

  "That feel good?" He murmurs, thumbing at the head, softening his touch with the thickness already dripping from it. Telling by the little sound he lets out, the guy ain't kidding about his sensitivity.

  "Mhm, yeah, doin' great." His partner mutters, slinging his arm across his face, like he's trying to keep himself composed underneath.

  Sam's steady hand strokes him, half scared he's going to be too rough and hurt him with his own strength. After all, guy's always been kinda small. Not like it matters, not like he'd say so, because once the word 'small' leaves his lips right now, he's as good as dead. "Good, okay, just lemme know if I'm doin' it wrong."

  "What, never done this to yourself before?" He snickers, peeking up at him as he continues the soft stroking of his hand.

  "Well, look-- okay no, 's not like that, I uh..." He clams up, and his little buddy lets out a nearly maniacal laugh.

  "I'm just kiddin', Sam. You're doin' great."

  That's enough to keep him from overthinking it; that and the little groans his little buddy's making. Hard to think he's doing a bad job with sounds like those.

  Once he's satisfied the guy's good to go, and worried he's going to end up overdoing it and ending things too soon, he lets him go, watching the way the lagomorph fidgets after he takes away his hand.

  He doesn't leave him waiting for long, though-- wouldn't be polite.

  "Ah, hang on, doll." He murmurs. "I uh, dunno if I have--"

  He trails off, interrupted by his partner placing a small, plastic bottle with fancy lettering into his empty hand. "Here."

  "Is this-- where the hell did this come from?"

  "Don't worry about it, Sam, just keep goin'."

  He gives up on questioning him, shrugging off the unsettling implications as he screws open the small thing and pours some of the viscous stuff onto his hand.

  "I'll try not to, little buddy."

  He pauses, the sight below him near overwhelming.

  Gosh, this is certainly a first. He's never done a thing like this before.

  Hell, he doesn't even know where to start...

  "Sam? You okay?"

  He nods. "Yeah, yeah 'm fine. I've just never uh..."

  Another little giggle, and his partner grabs his hand. "You ever fingered a gal?"

  He almost chokes on his own spit. "What?"

  "That's a no?"

  The detective, after catching his breath, shakes his head. "Yes! Wait-- no, no, I've never..." He trails off. "Done that."

  "'S fine, Sam. It's kinda like that. Ya seen it before in the magazines right?" He doesn't wait for his response. "Yeah, yeah I've seen 'em. We live together, Sam. What did ya expect? 'Kay, anyhow," He shifts in his spot, sitting up a little straighter and easing his legs apart. "Just uh, follow my lead, alright?"

  Max stills, waiting until Sam nods his head in response.

  He trusts him, because if anyone here knows what they're doing, it's Max.

  The smaller doesn't look at him while he does it, opting to close his eyes while he guides his hand in-between his legs. "Gah," He lets out a gasp, easing the soaked digit into him, slow and steady.

  "Shit," Sam mutters, watching carefully and following his lead, easing it in and out. "That's, wow,"

  Another little giggle, and Max peaks his eyes open to look up at him. "'S okay?"

  "Yeah, you're uh... you're perfect."

  He swears the guy turns pinker, if that's even possible. "Heh, you're not so bad yourself." He keeps his hand ontop of Sam's as he carefully eases the digit in and out of him, quiet asides from the hushed gasps he makes under his breath.

  "I'm not hurtin' you, am I?" He practically whispers, almost scared to break the silence.

  "N-no, ah, it's..." The lagomorph whimpers, shuffling his hips against his hand. "It's good."

  "That's good to hear, doll. D'ya want me to keep goin'?"

  The lagomorph squeezes his hand, and he stops. "I don't want this t' end so soon." He peaks his eyes open again. "I think I'm ready."

  Poor guy's practically shaking, and somehow he doubts it's from the nerves. He can't help from cupping his cheek again with his free hand, thumbing at the fur and watching him tense and purr. "You're just adorable, ain't ya doll? Even doin' somethin' as unholy as that."

  His partner just giggles, but it ain't hard to tell he just ain't good with compliments. Hell, he knows him better than anyone else, and the guy never has been. Doesn't mean he ain't gonna stop sweet-talking him, though; the guy does look awfully good in pink. "Sam, c'mon, stop bein' so sappy and--"

  He takes him by his hips, tugging him closer to kiss him for the hundredth time that night. Swears he'd do it forever if he could.

  Almost like it's an instinct, Max lays back down again, holding onto Sam's face to keep him close.

  He fumbles with his belt while Max breaks away to catch his breath. "Here, lemme help." Somehow, the guy and his impatience manages to easily unbuckle them, unzipping his fly and yanking them down like he'd done so hundreds of times before. "Wow," He drawls, gaze drawn southwards. "Well ain't you just a sight for sore eyes."

  He can't help but fluster under his gaze. "Well, that's sweet of ya." He chuckles. "Sure ya ain't still drunk?"

  His partner doesn't falter, paw reaching out to take him in his hand, eliciting a shrill yelp.

  "Ah, Jesus," He feels his knees go weak at the touch, and the self-satisfied lagomorph beneath strokes him again.

  "Just makin' sure you're ready, Sam. You're just such a sight I can't help but feel for myself."

  "Such a vixen, ain't ya?." He laughs, suppressing the urge to buck against his soft hand. "Now ya gonna tease me or let me keep going?"

  Begrudgingly, his partner lets him go, drawing his legs up on either side of himself like he's beckoning him closer, practically dripping, already. "I'd do anythin' to keep ya goin', Sam." He purrs, the natural he is.

  Gosh, the guy really knows how to get what he wants, don't he?

  His pal's soft, sweet and yielding when he presses into him. It's nothing like anything he's felt before, heated in this all-encompassing way, and warmer than anything he's ever felt. It's so much, and with a muttered curse, he's gripping onto the plush hips he finds beneath his paws. He pushes in, as far as he can manage, but stills when he hears a little whimper.

  His partner sinks his claws into the couch. "Fuck, you're," He whimpers. "You're big."

  "Oh, shoot, 'm so sorry, uh," His paws wander to his partner's face again, seeing his eyes water and feeling his stomach sink. Did he hurt him? He should've thought about that, about how small the guy really is in comparison to him. The thought alone of doing that kinda damage makes him feel sick. "Want me to stop?"

  "Hell no, ain't a bad thing. Feels uh," He pushes his hips closer, like he's trying to ease him in deeper. "So fuckin' good, Sam. You're doin' great."

  He wipes away the tears pricking at the corners of Max's eyes before they even have a chance to fall. He doesn't think he could stand seeing the guy cry for a second time tonight. "You sure?"

  "Yes, Sam! Positive, please."

  He trusts him, more than anything or anyone else, so he pulls out, before quickly pushing in again, so hard that he can hear the old couch creak. He can hear him cry out, some unholy amalgamation of curses when Sam does the same again.

  He looks so pretty like that, practically drooling underneath him and begging for more. Impulsively, he thinks to grab onto his floppy ears, tugging on them a couple of times and watching him whine. His legs fold around Sam to keep him close and flush against him in a quiet embrace. "Love, you're so good." He grunts out, half incomprehensible among the littering of moans. "My sweet lil' bunny, you're a natural."

  He tugs on the bundling of softness in his hands, pulling tight when he slams in again.

  "Sam, fuck, I-I dunno how long I--"

  He ain't sure what drives him to do it, but he flips him over, hearing a little yelp but no sign of discouragement. Feels even better like this, somehow, when he grabs onto his ears and pushes in deep and fast into him again. Max's tail twitches against his stomach as he pushes back against him, wiggling his hips and willing him in deeper. And god, the guy manages to look just as pretty from behind.

  "Saaam, I'm--"

  He whines, and with a final push to the hilt, he's tightening around him.

  As he does, he turns him over again, pulling out quick only to push in deep again and watch that pretty face of his go red.

  He kisses him again, the grip on his ears loosening and hands wandering to hold at his face. He brushes the pads of his thumbs against the stark bruises and mess of cuts, feeling the guy whimper against his lips when he cums. He tastes sweeter than anything else, and he wishes he could kiss him forever, if it didn't mean ultimately dying of oxygen depravation.

  He hopes he gets the wordless message, because he ain't too far off himself, and he doesn't last long when the smaller continues to tighten around him, pulling away from the kiss to cry out. He's such a pretty sight, prettier than any guy oughta be when he's cumming up onto his stomach and moaning Sam's name like it's the only thing he can say.

  "D-don't pull out yet."

  So pretty, even when Sam's coming undone himself and cumming deep inside of him.

  "You," The detective breaths, taking in the sight. Gosh, he leaves him speechless every time he does. "You're so good at this, doll."

  He watches the smaller flush at the praise, shuddering when he pulls out. He scoops him up, holding him close to his chest in a sickeningly cheesy display.

  The spent lagomorph hides his face in Sam's neck, nuzzling and kissing at the spot. "Say it again?"

  He chuckles, finger tracing sleepy patterns against his spine. "So good, darlin'." He kisses sweetly at his shoulder, earning a quiet little giggle.

  "So are you, Sam." Max pulls away, kissing his cheek. "Wanna go again?"

  How could he say no to a face like that?

  "Can't think of a good reason not to, little buddy."