Poolside - a story based on 'Mad Dogs' starring John Simm, Philip Glenister, Marc Warren, Max Beesley and Ben Chaplin.
NB: Contains scenes of an adult nature.
Title: Poolside (8/?)
Author: Edzel2 (with heartfelt thanks to my Beta, Jinxed)
Genre: ‘Mad Dogs’
Previously: Woody is about to say something else but thinks better of it, as he realises that Baxter is asleep now, rather than unconscious. He looks around the room and ponders what to do next. Shower and sleep, he thinks, in that order. He’s exhausted, as are they all. He wonders if it’s safe to leave Baxter – he might have another attack. He decides to check on him again after his shower, review the situation...
The house is finally quiet when Woody emerges from the shower. He pulls on clean underpants and another sleeveless t-shirt and pads down the stairs to check that all the doors are locked. They are, and he grabs two bottles of chilled water and heads back up to Baxter’s room. He’d left the door ajar, just in case, and slips back in without a sound.
A small lamp is still on in the far corner of the room as he’d left it so he’s able to move easily and quietly across the room to put one of the bottles on the nightstand. He looks down at the sleeping Baxter. With his features smoothed out and relaxed in sleep, even with the goatee (which puts a few years on him – Woody thinks he’d look better without it but what does he know?) Baxter looks younger than his age. He wonders why the female cop had chosen Bax first and why she’d held out her hand, as if to a child. Mind you, Bax had taken it hadn’t he? Somehow it had seemed wrong to see a grown man behave in such a way but then everything about this trip so far has been wrong, why not this too? Some women seem to go for vulnerability, don’t they – and Baxter’s rabbit-in-headlights demeanour had obviously singled him out for the feminine touch. Perhaps she thought Baxter the most likely to crack...
‘No, no... s’ not like... no-don’t-don’t-don’t....!’ Baxter’s increasingly frightened tones pull Woody out of his reverie and he looks down to see him moving restlessly, his features no longer relaxed but displaying anguish as he mutters and groans in his sleep.
‘Hey, hey, calm down mate, it’s only a dream,’ Woody puts a hand on Baxter’s wrist and reassures him as his eyes fly open in alarm.
‘What – what... oh God...’ Baxter seems confused at first, staring uncomprehendingly at Woody before memory slowly returns with consciousness. He shudders. ‘I thought, I hoped... oh fuck, it’s all real, isn’t it?’
‘fraid so, mate,’ Woody says quietly. Then, ‘Are you all right? Your chest, I mean..?’
Baxter nods uncertainly. ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s... not perfect but its okay. How long’ve you been here? You don’t need to babysit me, y’ know,’ he says, gratitude fighting embarrassment.
‘I wasn’t. Just had a shower, thought I’d bring you some more water on my way to bed,’ Woody tells him, and tries not to stare as Baxter sits up and pulls the sweat-drenched t-shirt over his head.
‘Oh. Ta. Well... I’m gonna have a shower; I stink...’ he pushes himself onto his feet and Woody can see that it’s an effort.
‘Okay... uh-oh..’ Woody drops his bottle of water on the bed and steps forward as Baxter stumbles drunkenly against the door frame of the en-suite.
‘’m’ okay ...just got up too quick...’ Baxter mumbles as Woody helps him back to the bed.
‘Bax, you’re dehydrated and bloody exhausted, mate. You need fluid and rest more than a flippin’ shower.’
Baxter shakes his head. ‘No – I can’t sleep like this. Let go of me...’ Woody can only do as he’s bid and watch with a worried frown as Baxter heaves himself off the bed again and stumbles towards the bathroom. He seems almost drunk and Woody worries about heatstroke on top of everything else.
‘Okay, but I’m gonna stick around in case you collapse again.’
‘Please yourself,’ Baxter mumbles and closes the door. To Woody’s relief he doesn’t lock it – maybe there isn’t a lock on the inside, same as his room – he doesn’t much fancy the idea of having to break it down because that would wake the others and involve all kinds of explanations that he really doesn’t want to get into... he’s well aware that his concern for Baxter is perhaps a little too... well, personal.
As he prowls the room restlessly - torn between staying and heading off to his bed - Woody’s thoughts wander and he finds himself thinking about his motives for staying where he’s clearly not wanted. He tells himself that (a) he’s not gay and (b) he doesn’t fancy Baxter. He loves Amy and her son and doesn’t want to do anything to damage the still new relationship; but right at this minute he can’t imagine going back to her and carrying on life as before. This disaster of a holiday is a life-changing experience and not in a good way - How can he possibly go back home and just pick up where he’d left off? His thoughts shy away from the unimaginable and he finds himself remembering the feel of Baxter’s body against his as the other man had broken down and wept. He’d felt frail, but warm and sweaty and masculine – Woody had been at first surprised and then bemused to register his own partial arousal at the other man’s proximity and had been relieved when Alvo’s return had ended the contact. Baxter’s confusion and embarrassment had been obvious, but had he too felt aroused? Woody doubts it – the man had been far too distressed to be thinking with his loins, surely?
Woody isn’t an innocent – he knows that sexuality is not always as black and white or clear cut as many might wish. He’s never been drawn sexually to another man, even though he can appreciate (in an aesthetic way) the beauty of another bloke’s body – during his (admittedly short) modelling career he’d had ample opportunity to experiment; but although he’d had no shortage of offers, it just hadn’t interested him. Hadn’t repulsed him either – he just hadn’t been fussed one way or another and would just as soon not bother. Now though, just remembering the feel of Baxter’s body against his is own making him hard. How can he even be thinking about his cock in the circumstances? They could all be in bloody prison this time tomorrow. Perhaps it’s some kind of weird primal thing – there aren’t any women around (unless you count the Spanish detective and Woody doesn’t consider her an option, although he’s aware that there is something there between her and Baxter – how reciprocal on Baxter’s part it might be he can’t be sure, but the fact that he whips his glasses off the minute she appears is telling) so perhaps his body is simply going for the next best option. Hmm. Quinn would probably know all about that but Woody doesn’t plan on broaching the subject with him.
He suddenly realises that the sound of running water had stopped some while back but that Baxter hasn’t reappeared. ‘Oh bloody hell...’ he pushes the door open to see Baxter crouched in the shower cubicle – he’s naked and shivering, his arms covering his head. He’s weeping quietly and Woody wonders how long he’s been like this while he’s been contemplating his navel...
‘Bax, come on mate, you’ll catch your ruddy death...’ probably not the best choice of words he thinks, but they do the trick because Baxter flinches and lowers his arms to peer at Woody through tear-soaked lashes. He really is heading for a breakdown Woody realises, and feels pity grip his stomach. He’s been through it himself – after Jenny ... well, for a time he hadn’t known which way was up and if it hadn’t been for Rick blabbing to the right people, he might have gone the same way as Jenny. Strangely it hasn’t made the two of them any closer – Rick seems to want only to forget the whole thing, he never refers to it. Which on the whole is a good thing as far as Woody is concerned, given that Rick has a tendency to blurt out confidences without thought for the consequences. The concept of embarrassment (or tact) is not one which Rick embraces.
He pulls open the shower door and leans in to extend his hand. ‘Come on.’
Baxter looks at the hand for a moment as if he can’t focus, and Woody realises that this is probably exactly what it is. He leans in and grips Baxter’s forearms, pulling him to his feet. He doesn’t resist, but allows Woody to lead him through into the bedroom. Woody grabs a towel from the hook behind the door on his way out and throws it around the slighter man’s shoulders, steering him firmly towards the bed.
Baxter does as he’s bid and just waits with his hands lose in his lap, staring at nothing – it’s as if he’s not really there and Woody knows with a chill what that’s like. He needs to bring him back to himself or he’ll be a real liability.
‘Bax – come on mate, snap out of it... we need you firing on all cylinders.’ Baxter blinks but doesn’t look up. At least his breathing is okay... at least one thing to be grateful for.
Baxter starts to shiver again and Woody realises that he’s going to have to play nursemaid for a little while longer. He grabs the towel and starts to rub at the other man’s skin, to restore some circulation and warmth. The ambient temperature is still warm but exhaustion, dehydration and shock are taking their toll.
‘Here, drink this.’ He grabs the bottle of water which he’d dropped on the bed earlier and breaks the seal; lifts Baxter’s right hand and places the bottle in it, curling his fingers around it. ‘Drink.’
Baxter obeys, and gulps down the whole bottle. He doesn’t look at Woody once. On some level he’s probably humiliated by his vulnerability but as far as Woody’s concerned if it comes to a choice between heatstroke/exhaustion and a little embarrassment, well he’ll take embarrassment every time.
‘Right – that should do it.’ Woody finishes off by quickly rubbing the now damp towel over Baxter’s hair and drops it on the floor.
‘Do you want to sleep upright, in case you have another attack?’ he asks, and Baxter blinks up at him. Slowly he shakes his head.
‘Don’t want to sleep. Dreams. Nightmares. Fucking nightmares....’ he starts to shiver again –shock is setting in and Woody realises with a sinking feeling that he can’t leave him alone like this.
‘Oh bloody hell...’ He sighs and moves around the bed to the other side. Luckily it’s a generously sized double – they won’t need to get too close, which is fine by him. He lies down and waits for Baxter to do the same. ‘I’m staying, Bax – you can go to sleep. Relax, it’ll be fine. Not long now until we can go home.’
Baxter shakes his head. ‘No, I can’t.’
And now Woody realises that a big part of the reason for Baxter’s exhaustion and subsequent breakdown is that he can’t have been sleeping since ... well certainly since the shit first hit the fan, and maybe before that even. He’s been on edge the whole time, hasn’t he? Even at the airport he’d sensed a reserve, a holding back. The only time he’d really said much (apart from that brief moment of shared hilarity over the Madonna song on the ride over) is to talk about how well he’s doing with his business. Now Woody realises that it’s probably all a lie – Baxter’s business is probably failing (well Rick had hinted at much when he’d spoken of the loan he’d given him) but he’s not admitting to it or dealing with it, is he?
‘Yes, you can.’ You silly sod, he thinks and reaches up to pull the other man down. Surprisingly he doesn’t resist, only turning his back on Woody to curl into a semi-foetal position. Woody pulls the sheet over them –even though he himself is too warm- and lies down, closes his eyes. He’s dead tired but he can feel Baxter next to him, the tension in his body almost palpable. Oh shit. The guy needs tactile contact, doesn’t he? Tentatively he reaches forward to touch Baxter’s arm. There’s the tiniest of flinches but Baxter doesn’t pull away – neither does he lean into the touch.
With a sigh, Woody scoots forward until he’s lying snug against Baxter’s bare back and pulls the smaller man back against him. He doesn’t resist, but just lies within the circle of Woody’s arms. Slowly he relaxes against Woody and his breathing slows, evening out until Woody realises that Baxter is asleep. Thank Christ for that.
He’s pondering the question of how long he’s going to have to stay spooned up against his old college pal when he falls asleep.
Baxter surfaces from sleep gradually, at first not at all sure where he is. Slowly memory returns and the sensation of well-being is replaced by a nagging worry. Someone is lying behind him in the still dark room; an arm is thrown across him, a torso pressed up against the bare skin of his back and the long, hard heat of an erection is pressed against his buttocks. His stomach clenches and he realises two things at the same time: it’s Woody who is rubbing a fucking stiffy against his arse; and that Woody isn’t the only one with a raging hard-on. Oh shit.... he swallows, praying that it might all be some kind of weird sun-stroke induced nightmare.
But as the minutes tick on and his own arousal becomes more and more insistent, the urge to touch himself to relieve the ache grows until almost without volition his hand reaches downwards to his belly. The head of his cock is almost flat against his stomach, and as he slides his fingers around it he can feel slick fluid on the head and on the sheet below. This is what woke him up; he feels relieved that at least he’s not facing the other way or –even worse- had come in his sleep. Waking up with a stiffy and relieving himself alone is something he’s become accustomed to since his divorce (and for some time before that). He never imagined he’d be waking up in a villa in Spain with Woody lying next to him, the both of them harder than wash-boards. What the fuck is he going to do about it?
The question becomes academic as his fingers tighten almost of their own accord around his swollen cock and he starts a slow, firm slide up and down the shaft. There’s only one way to relieve the pressure, the dull ache in his balls, and that’s to bring himself off as quietly as he can. What he’ll do with the results isn’t clear – nor has he any idea what will happen if Woody wakes before he’s finished. The thought sends a shudder through him and his cock twitches. Yeah, well...
It had been hard enough to admit that he still felt something for Quinn; he’d told himself that maybe it was some kind of urge to return to his youth following the failure of his marriage, but he doesn’t know if he really believes it. He’d ask Quinn if it wasn’t so damn personal... Sure, he’d had a minor crush on the bloke at college but he doesn’t think anyone else ever knew about it and he’d gone on to date and screw around with women just like the rest of them, putting the whole thing down to ‘just one of those things’. Now he discovers that Quinn (whose marriage has also failed by all accounts) is not only apparently queer (or at least bi) but has the hots for him; and that his teenage crush, far from being over and done with, is still very much alive and kicking him savagely in the bollocks. Some holiday this is turning out to be! It’s almost all too much to take in; Alvo’s frankly bizarre behaviour, his even more bizarre and horrific murder, and now they’re stuck in this villa (which apparently may actually belong to the four of them) until Tuesday, when they can fly back home – provided they aren’t all banged up in a Spanish jail, that is. Fear crawls up his spine and he takes a deep breath, wondering should he use his inhaler, just in case.
‘Shit,’ Baxter groans under his breath as he feels Woody stir behind him; he stretches and Baxter feels the other man’s arousal press even more firmly against his arse. And then Woody freezes for a second as presumably he realises who he’s sharing a bed with.
‘Ah... this isn’t what it... oh bugger, maybe it is... ‘morning Bax,’ Woody says quietly.
‘It isn’t exactly fucking morning, Woody – and what the hell are you doin’ in my bed?’ Baxter rolls over onto his back, momentarily forgetting that he’s got one hand wrapped around his weeping cock and that he’s naked.
‘Sorry, Bax... but you were havin’ a bad time of it last night. Don’t you remember? I didn’t like to leave you, like – you were cracking up, Bax.’
‘No I wasn’t... was I?’ To tell the truth, Baxter can’t remember much past standing up at the table and passing out. Was there more than that?
‘Yeah, you were. You had an asthma attack, remember? Me and Quinn brought you up here after you collapsed and we had to find your inhaler. Then you went and had a shower and I found you in there, freaking out. I stayed to keep an eye on you and fell asleep.’ He looks down at his tented shorts. ‘Sorry about that – I was asleep, musta thought you were Amy.’ He grins sheepishly.
‘Bloody hell,’ Baxter says. ‘Sorry... and thanks. And don’t read anything into this,’ he nods down at his crotch, too relieved to feel embarrassed.
‘Okay, I won’t...’ but there’s something in Woody’s tone which makes Baxter wonder if Woody is being entirely honest. ‘I’d better go....’ but he doesn’t move and Baxter realises that the other man doesn’t want to go. His stomach clenches and his cock twitches again. Oh shit. He squeezes himself without meaning to and see’s Woody’s eyes widen. He looks down at his own groin, where a small damp patch on the fabric reveals his excitement.
‘Maybe I should stay...’ he says uncertainly. ‘I mean... not sure how far I’d get before...’ he swallows.
Baxter looks up from Woody’s groin, where he’d followed the other man’s gaze, and he swallows. ‘Yeah... maybe you should. I mean... you know; you can sort yourself out, and I... I can do the same...’ he finishes uncertainly. He desperately wants to start the slow pull up and down again but he feels embarrassed. Sure, he’d done the usual with his mates as a lad, competing to see who could shoot the farthest and all that... but this; this is way, way different. Now sober, he wonders if the whole thing is just the effects of loneliness and too much sun and trauma....
‘Okay – I’m cool with it if you are,’ Woody murmurs, and before Baxter can frame a suitable reply the other man has slipped a hand inside his shorts to rub himself.
Baxter takes another deep breath, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest and his stomach tightening with excitement. ‘Fucking hell...’ he whispers, sliding his thumb over the head of his cock, suddenly desperate for sensation.
‘Yeah....’ Woody breathes softly and for a moment there’s nothing but the sound of their laboured breathing and the soft moist sounds of flesh on flesh as they each seek relief. They don’t look at each other, both caught up in their own sensations.
‘I can’t – I have to take ‘em off, Bax, sorry....’ Woody lifts his arse up and pulls his shorts halfway down his thighs – his cock springs free and the musky scent of him drifts across to Baxter, who inhales and groans softly. ‘Fuck...’ he swallows and looks across at Woody to find Woody’s eyes firmly fixated on Baxter’s groin. As if sensing Baxter’s gaze he looks up and grins.
‘Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’ He licks his lips.
‘Dunno – depends what you’re thinkin’...’ Baxter murmurs, his breaths coming faster as he works his cock.
‘I’m thinkin’ you should slow down a bit...’ Woody lets go of his cock, reaching across to wrap his pre-slicked fingers around Baxter’s’, halting the movement of the other man’s fist over his cock.
‘Wh- what the ‘ell are you doin’?’ Baxter yelps and Woody puts a finger to his lips.
‘Shut up, you’ll wake the others!’ He grins, and grabs Baxter’s wrist. ‘C’mon – you do me and I’ll do you. No one need ever know and I’m not gonna last much longer...’
‘Oh shit...’ Baxter groans quietly and relaxes his fingers. Woody quickly pulls Baxter’s hand over and places it over his own cock.
‘C’mon Bax, please – I’m gonna explode...’ as if to confirm his words, Woody’s cock twitches, fluid seeping out over Baxter’s hand as he finally gives in and wraps short fingers around Woody’s swollen cock. He bites his lip as Woody’s fingers encircle him and they fist each other; slowly at first and then gaining speed as their excitement builds.
Baxter closes his eyes, lost in the feel of another man’s hand on his penis, feeling his balls tighten as climax approaches. He can hear Woody’s panting breaths and his own as it grows faster and more urgent as he squeezes and pumps Woody’s prick – he can feel the other man’s legs tremble and his cock seems to swell in Baxter’s hand as it suddenly leaps and Woody comes with a soft moan. His own climax comes as the first warm drops of Woody’s ejaculate seep out over his fingers – his cock jerks in Woody’s hand and for a moment everything recedes as he loses himself in the moment.
When their breathing has evened out and both can speak again, it’s Woody who breaks the silence of pleasured exhaustion.
‘I should go,’ he says quietly, wiping his hand absent-mindedly on the sheet. ‘Not that what we just did was bad or anything, but can you imagine...’
‘Oh yes – only too well,’ Baxter intones darkly. ‘Listen, thanks for what you did – with the passing out and everything. You didn’t have to do all that.’ He’s suddenly awkward, embarrassed.
‘Course I did – you’re my mate, Bax. Whatever else happens from here on in, don’t forget that, okay?’ He pauses. ‘Whatever you and Quinn have got going on...even if it’s nothing,’ he adds, seeing Baxter’s frown, ‘I won’t muscle in. What just happened then... don’t worry about it. OK?’ he slips his shorts back on and stands up.
‘Okay,’ Baxter nods emphatically. ‘Thanks again.’
‘You’re all right,’ Woody murmurs, and slips from the room.
Baxter stares at the door for a moment or two before going to the bathroom to wash his hands. He pulls the sheet over the damp sweat-and-come-sticky sheets and pulls on a t-shirt and boxers before falling back onto the bed. Within two minutes he’s fast asleep.
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