Chapter Text
Ishmael’s always thought of herself as a ladder-climber. And sure, this is the highest rung she’s made it into one of the Wings. Give it another year of good progress and she might even get a residency visa for her and Heathcliff. She might even end up in the big desk, because tonight she plans on making a good impression to the head of her department.
The problem, of course, is Heathcliff, lounged across the couch with one arm hanging off and the other wrapped around a bowl of chips. He’s not the sort of boyfriend that screams “girlboss executive’s significant other,” and she knows it. His hair’s a mess. He’s still wearing his pajamas. He’s drooling in his sleep. She knows damn well his job works him to the bone, even if he’s lucky enough to have a higher-wage Nest security job instead of a Backstreets Fixer position, but would it kill him to be ready the minute she makes it back to the apartment?
He doesn’t stir as she hangs up her coat and keys. She kicks off her shoes, then crosses the room to tug on his ear. “Up,” she says, tapping her fingernails against his jaw.
Heathcliff snorts, his eyes squeezing shut tighter and his nose wrinkling. “Mmph. Ten more minutes.” She goes for the nuclear option, tickling along the side of his neck and watching him immediately fold in on himself. His hand swats at hers. “Okay, alright, okay!”
She turns towards the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower.”
A grunt of exhaustion.
“If you move your ass, you might get to join me.”
Her final bargain works like a charm. He rolls off the couch and stumbles from getting up too quickly. She stops in the doorway, letting him come to her and wrap an arm around her waist. “Fast enough?” he says.
“You are so predictable.” She runs a hand over his bicep and remembers why she’s never cared much for the sort of clean-cut office types. Even though her Fixer days are far behind her, she likes the reminder of a time where they were less stable, where they bunked in Backstreet houses and had to be quiet so their coworkers couldn’t hear.
She’d miss it more if he were gone, and then she might actually go back to the Fixer office and remember why she left in the first place.
“C’mon, I feel like I barely get to see you anymore.” He squeezes her tighter. “Name the last time we’ve had a go.”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Three weeks now, love.” He practically drags her into the bathroom, pressing her up against the wall. “You work too much.”
“It’ll be worth it once I get the raise,” she says. “But don’t…” Ishmael doesn’t finish that sentence, because his mouth is on hers. Gentle, for once, and she almost hates him for it. He only kisses her like this when he’s being sappy.
Before she can deepen it, Heathcliff pulls away. “How much time do we got?”
“About four hours before the party,” she says, running her hand along his cheek. “Don’t worry. I planned this.”
“Planned sex. Bloody fantastic.” His hands slide down her waist, pressing over her hips. “I get to have you maybe twice a month and it’s on a schedule.”
“You’ve gone longer without,” she chides him. She traces her hands over the expanse of his chest, noting how soft he is when he’s not tensed up. Layers of fat and muscle, separated only by the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
“Mm, yeah, but that was after surgery, and I at least got to see you.” Heathcliff leans forward and seizes her mouth again, this time rougher as he slides his hands beneath her shirt.
Ishmael can’t deny that. And that had been almost two years ago now. They’d put everything aside for her reassignment surgery, and she’d still spent it paranoid that Heathcliff would leave her at any minute. And yet, when he’d curled up next to her in bed every night and ran his fingers through her hair and nuzzled into her shoulder, she knew then, horrified as she held him, that she wasn’t going to let him go.
And that’s why she lets him undress her, because he’s been the second-best thing that’s ever happened to her. A reminder that maybe even if dreams die miserably, she can still find something to be happy about. She pulls his shirt off and spends a few moments looking him over. It’s their ritual; she always checks him for new scars. Her fingers trace over a bruise on his ribs.
“That was me eating shit on the ice,” he says. “Not even in a cool way.”
She traces the healing line of the knife wound left three weeks ago. Yeah. Three weeks, the last time they’d indulged, because she heard he was in the hospital and left work early. And she spent that entire night babying him, despite it not being that serious of a cut, and he didn’t wave her off like he used to.
Fuck, he really does miss her, doesn’t he?
He follows the ritual as well, though with her desk job, she doesn’t really have new scars or injuries to care about. Still, his hands trace the outline of her body carefully, tenderly, as if he’s trying to remember the grooves and dips where his fingers go. It ends the same way every time. He takes her in his arms and she nuzzles into his throat. He’s soft. Warm. She hooks her arms around his waist and sinks her teeth into his neck.
She doesn’t realize how much she misses hearing him moan until he does. She runs her nails along his back. And with so much of him taking up her senses, she remembers that she’s doing this for her, but she’s also doing this for him. Because being a Fixer was going to kill them both, and she’s not letting another lover die before her. And Heathcliff is an idiot, but he’s her idiot, dammit.
Ishmael doesn’t know how long it takes to get into the shower, but at some point she does nudge him towards it. They might have time to fool around, but she has hair that needs to be dried in the process. He kisses a line down the back of her neck as she fiddles with the water temperature.
“Can you at least complain that the water’s cold?” she says. “Not a fan of this guilt trip.”
His hand tightens on her breast. “Gotta blast me with more’n cold water to get me off of you.”
“I’m going to break your heart, you know.” She runs her fingers along his upper arms, spidery taps leaving gooseflesh in her wake.
“Aye?”
“You have to wash your hair before you fuck me.”
Heathcliff’s groan of disappointment is music to her ears.
“Wash my back, will you?” She rolls her shoulders and pulls his hands off her breasts. Glancing behind her to see the look of mock betrayal on his face, she smirks as she hands him a washcloth and her favorite body wash. “I told you this was a shower. I meant it.”
“Little minx that you are,” he says with a sigh, lathering up the washcloth, “doing this to me. Making me run my hands all over you…”
“I only said my back.”
“All over you, I said!” He starts with her shoulders and armpits, despite her telling him to only get her back. “Tortuous. Do you know how bad I want to slam you against the wall?”
She decides to let him wash her body while she shampoos and conditions her hair. “Poor baby,” she teases.
“Baby. Baby!” He bites her now-clean thigh. “You’re getting too comfortable tormenting me, you know?”
“Gonna threaten me like you used to?”
“Psh, like it’d be hard. You’re a desk jockey now, Ish. I could have you on the ground in three seconds flat.”
“I’d like to see you try,” she says, then notices his hand sliding dangerously high up her thigh. “Mm-mm. Your hair. It needs to be washed first.”
“I’m just cleaning you,” he says, glancing up at her, trying and failing to look innocent.
“Suuuure you are.” She inches back, savoring the sulking. “Stay there. I’ll help you.”
“I can wash my own hair.” Okay, at least he’s giving the obligatory resistance now. The days of having to fight him to give him any sort of affection have long-since passed, but he’ll still pretend he doesn’t like her fingers on his scalp. He gives her an indignant scowl as she begins her work. And then his eyes flutter closed and his head bows forward.
She wishes he wasn’t crouched. She might have played with his cock and really got him going. As it stands, she draws the process out as long as possible, a torment she doesn’t think Heathcliff really minds. “See? It’s not that bad. Good boy.”
She’s not sure if his response is a laugh or a moan.
“There.” The last of the shampoo falls from his hair. “Now, you’ve got to get the rest of you clean, and…”
He surges up, pushing her against the wall of their shower. “Nope. You said hair.”
“I said—”
He cuts her off by shoving his tongue into her mouth. She melts into his touch, reaching for his tits without hesitation. She used to tease him about his body, joking that she didn’t even get that nice of a rack from estrogen. Since then, she’s grabbed him at any opportunity.
She moans into his mouth as he lifts her by her thighs and presses her against the shower wall. She locks her legs around his hips and lets him grind against her, not entering her yet. That, he waits until he draws back for air, locking eyes with her.
As always, he’s determined not to moan first as he presses into her. As always, he fails, losing his composure and crumbling in to bite her neck and shoulder. And she smiles through her own gasps for air, rocking against him as his rhythm starts.
“Still mad I planned this?” she laughs, hooking one arm around his shoulders to stabilize herself.
“Nnnnngh, wasn’t mad.” For being a loud lay, Heathcliff doesn’t do words particularly well when his dick’s being touched. Oh, he’ll make plenty of noise, and continues to do so even as she talks to him, but nothing he says makes sense.
“Oh, come on, pretty boy, you were sulking.” She pinches his nipple. His teeth sink deeper into her shoulder, though it does little to stifle his moans. “Do you know how nice I’m being to you, letting you mark me up right before a big office party? You can’t even thank me.”
“Iiiish.” That’s probably as good as she’s getting from him. She runs her hand over the back of his neck, letting the rhythm overtake her. He’s wild, rough, and needy, and she wouldn’t have him any other way.
When she comes, she whines his name and whispers praise in his ear. Soft noises, gentle kisses, her nails digging into his skin. It’s always too much for him, and he follows not long after, thrusting into her so hard that she thinks the wall’s going to crack. His arms tremble. She has to put both arms around his neck out of fear of falling.
He never drops her. He breathes deep and gently lets her down, though his arms stay around her and his face stays buried in the bend of her shoulder.
“You’re needy today,” she murmurs. “You usually let me tease you more before you get tired of it.”
“Don’t know when I’ll get you like this again.”
“Tonight. If you’re good.” The water’s starting to get cold. She pushes from his grasp as far as she can, until only the tips of his fingers are around her waist and the look on his face is pure betrayal. “Which means wash your body.”
Ishmael cleans herself quickly, feeling the water get colder and colder by the second. She does glance over to make sure Heathcliff is getting his armpits— a neglect that she broke, but she always makes sure. He doesn’t disappoint her much anymore when it comes to personal hygiene, and she’s grateful for that.
She’s shivering by the time they’re able to dry off. Fortunately, her bathrobe’s not far from the shower. Who knows where Heathcliff’s is, given his adamant refusal to put things back where they belong. Wrapping her hair in a towel, she clicks her tongue as he reaches for his dirty sleep pants.
“I’m not freezing my arse off,” he complains.
“Fine. But only because I like your ass.”
She wraps her hair in a clean bath towel, then attacks Heathcliff with one. He tries to wave her off, protesting that he can handle himself, but his swats are half-hearted. Even after all these years, he’s not that good at styling his own hair, and she knows it’s not incompetence. Little shit that he is, he’s not about to outright admit that he likes the attention. As she blow-dries and brushes his hair, she watches him relax.
With his hair slicked, he looks… Strange. Not ugly, but not like her Heathcliff. She’s always liked how he looks fresh out of battle, soaked with sweat, his shirt stained with blood. But that’s not the look for a party like this. She waves him off, trusting him to get dressed properly. They picked out that nice suit together, and it should still be hanging up.
Blow-drying her hair is an Undertaking, and part of the reason she gave them so much time. She can’t blast the heat and the air or her hair will turn into a frizzy mess. It seems to come to life every time she styles it, and pinning it up on her head takes so much time that she catches Heathcliff out of the corner of her eye, already mostly dressed.
“You’re missing your suit jacket,” she says.
“I’ll put it on before we leave.” He steps into the bathroom. “Need help?”
“I’ve got this.” She weaves out of the way of his hand. “Actually, if you could get my make-up bag? That would be a big help.”
“Aye.” He draws back, and for a minute she can tell he’s occupied. Then, from the other room, “Ishmael, where’s the bloody thing?”
“Where it always is, Heathcliff.”
“Which is?!”
“The dresser, Heathcliff.”
She hears him swear from the next room. Undoubtedly her make-up bag has been under his nose the entire time, and she rolls her eyes as he brings it into the bathroom, trying to look triumphant. “This it?”
“Thank you, pretty boy.” She leans over to peck him on the cheek, taking that moment to look over him. Perhaps back when they first started dating, he might have been a slob. But he looks sharp, and maybe that has to do with how she told him to get his shirt ironed and pressed. She has half a mind to ask him where the suit jacket is, but decides better of it. She will trust him with this one thing.
One. Fucking. Thing.
Heathcliff applies cologne while Ishmael does her make-up. She can see him watching her in the mirror. “Still wild how much you’ll put on to make it look like you’re not wearing any,” he says idly.
“That is the wonderful double-standard,” she sighs as she adjusts the wing of her eyeliner. “I’d ask if you wanted some for your scars, but my concealer isn’t your shade.”
“Just a little too light, I think.”
She expects him to leave, but instead he puts the toilet lid down and sits, watching her and occasionally fiddling with his phone
“Speaking of eating shit on the ice,” Ishmael starts, “we’re taking a cab to the office.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’ve seen the heels I bought, right?”
“Uh.”
“Of course you haven’t.” She shakes her head.
“I— I prefer to see your new kicks on your feet.” His save attempt is pathetic and he knows it. He ducks his head. “Clothes’re fuckin’ boring, Ish, I’m sorry.”
“So every time you tell me I look good…”
“Come off it, Ish, it’s because they’re on you. You’re the part of your outfit I like. Don’t think I’d give a toss if it were on any other bird.”
She presses her lips together, finalizing her lipstick. Her lips make one single wet pop. “Sounds like you’d prefer me naked.”
“I mean, I fancy that, too! But…” Heathcliff reaches up to mess with his hair, but stops and balls his fist so he doesn’t ruin her work. “Augh, can you just let me call you pretty?”
“Only pretty?” She glances sidelong at him.
“You’re— Ishmael—” He exhales sharply and grits his teeth.
She laughs as she leaves the bathroom, leaving him even more annoyed. And as she gathers her undergarments, she notices that his suit jacket is still hanging. Good. She was going to have to kill him if he left it on the bed to wrinkle.
Heathcliff joins her as she’s adjusting the laces of her new dress. It’s a slinky black number with black lattice sides going up to her waist. Sexy, but hopefully not too sexy. Heathcliff whistles, and she glances up at him, noticing the way he recoils.
“What? I’m just appreciating you.”
“I didn’t say I minded.” She swings her hips, noticing the way his eyes linger on her. Sure, she’s not going to say it, but she likes being the thing he likes best about whatever she wears. “But you can see why I don’t want to be on the subway in this.”
“Nah. It’s cold as tits out there.”
She looks at him in the mirror, his eyes locked on her, and gives him a soft smile. Sheepishly, he returns it. It’s gone by the time she turns around and walks over to the couch. She sits next to him and tries to find the best way to press against him without ruining his shirt. “Exactly. And I’ve got three inch stilettos.”
His arm slips over her shoulder. “Ah, love, I’d carry you if you really needed it.”
“I do not want to be carried across the entire subway.” Reaching for the remote, she turns the TV on. “Anyway, we have time before I have to call the cab. You been watching anything good?”
“Mostly just football.”
“You and your soccer…” She grins as she notices the scowl he gets every time she says that word. “Guess we’ll let the streaming service decide.”
“Guess so.”