[Kavinsky laughs, tight and tense in the back of his throat. Sam's hands take liberties, resting on his hip before slipping their fingertips beneath the beltline of his jeans. Nearly any other man, and Kavinsky would take the hint--run all the way to the bank with it, if they were his type. But the line in the sand that Sam drew has withstood the flow and ebb of time. There are long hours K forgets who he is and borrows Sam's memories, yet he can't trust he's reading him right now.]
( You know I can't get in the guerrilla warfare mood if I'm not going commando. )
[Not the truth in the strictest sense; things started off hectic that morning and Kavinsky also neglected to put on socks.]
( You're not going to let it wait, are you?)
[He loses the uncertainty quickly; it never fits him well. Sam's in the way, but Kavinsky wriggles his fingers between the older man's and his fly. He'd rather be the one to take any chances with the zipper opening against his bare flesh.]
no subject
( You know I can't get in the guerrilla warfare mood if I'm not going commando. )
[Not the truth in the strictest sense; things started off hectic that morning and Kavinsky also neglected to put on socks.]
( You're not going to let it wait, are you?)
[He loses the uncertainty quickly; it never fits him well. Sam's in the way, but Kavinsky wriggles his fingers between the older man's and his fly. He'd rather be the one to take any chances with the zipper opening against his bare flesh.]