Recovery

’There is always a place here for you. One day you’ll take my place, as I did my mother’s, here you can learn.’

Only she hadn’t wanted to. She could stay in Lima, there was nothing to stop that, but Katja knew she never would’ve been happy there. Rattling around like the wrong block in a hole on one of those children’s toys. Fitting but not quiet, knowing it wasn’t what was right for her. Copacati had swallowed her frustration, sending Bernardo scurrying with her like somehow he could eventually knock down the wall he was banging his head against – her being the foot thick concrete barrier he was losing brain cells on. She needed to be out there, doing something instead of playing future goddess.

This certainly didn’t involve much worship, not right now at least. Sweat dampened the back of her neck as she straightened up from the deep sideways lunge she’d taken them down into, not the lake of it that had Frank’s t-shirt stuck to his back. ”Deeper,” she snapped, her fingers finding the juncture of Kit’s neck and shoulder, pushing down as far as she knew he was capable of going. Frank had been trembling through the last five minutes, his muscles fighting the cool down in a way that reminded her of a horse – what was it they said here? Ridden hard and put away wet? – flanks quivering, sweat marbling skin. In his case it was like a road map to the damage on his back, lines left dry across the wet cotton. Her fingers were gentler as she adjusted his shoulders, giving him a little more balance before she tapped lightly.

If it had been just her and Kit the cool down would’ve been shorter, mostly accomplished in other ways, but there was something about the way El Presidente had asked for this that had left her taking it easy on the two of them. Katja grinned, watching a droplet of sweat disappear down Kit’s collar before she clapped his back and tugged lightly at the hair bundled up against the rigours of the workout. ”OK, sinchi. Up. Let’s call it a day.” Before Frank collapsed. This wasn’t about rushing into it, reconditioning was a slow process, one your body would fight every inch of the way.

Curled beside Kit on those nights he wanted to talk, when those low words about Hazel and the strange ways time seemed to flow in this town would slip out in the dark, she’d lay still, except for the rise and fall of her breathing in counterpoint to his, feeling the burn in her throat. That line of fire defiantly continuing to burn, no matter the damage carved into her skin by those phoenix blades. A constant reminder of what she had escaped to end up here … in the place where she fit. No rattling, especially not when Kit’s hands were on her, guiding, branding, soothing.

Fingers curled into his now as she stepped back into the house through the open sliding doors, leaving Frank to find his own way in – he wouldn’t have appreciated her offering her arm like he was an invalid. El Presidente might have been crabbing now, heading for the fridge instead of the stairs and a shower to wash away the slick of sweat and the twitch in those muscles. ”Only if it’s on purpose,” Katja shot back. She hadn’t asked for what she had inherited from Copacati, although none of them had asked to be what they were. Fate had gotten its claws into all of them, leaving scars – some seen, some buried deep enough that you could only find them by touch and intuition.

Trailing hands over unmarked skin in the shower moments later, feeling the tension that lingered within, even after a workout meant to leave them all boneless. Words crooned in Quechua, Spanish, a rumble of sound in her throat cut off as Kit’s hand found her hip, his tongue, hot and wet as the shower, dragging over the skin of her throat before his teeth sank in and she bowed against him, the sound breaking off in a keening moan.

The shower had gone on in Frank’s en suite, a cover for the sound in here. Hands travelling, her mouth following until the fires stoked and would have turned the shower to a sauna if they hadn’t broken off. The first log tossed onto the hearth of their night, the second prodded over, stirred. Katja trailed fingertips down the dip of Kit’s spine as she pressed in behind him, the towel pulled tight, at least until the beast she teased into life tossed her onto the bed. Then it was gone, left on the bedroom floor to retrieve later, like the sweaty clothes in the bathroom. Grumbling under her breath about half finished jobs, she watched, sprawled, as Kit pulled on nothing but underwear, scant cover for that half finished job. Happy that she wouldn’t be the only one with that itch she rolled lightly to her feet, taking one of Kit’s t-shirts, big enough to hit mid-thigh, thin enough to cling to still damp skin. Nothing else. It wasn’t like El Presidente was interested in that. But …

Aqua eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement as Kit opened the door and framed Frank across the hall. The towel hitched around his hips, the long faded damage on show as he held a t-shirt in his hands. Hazel eyes on them, dropping to where she’d pressed close to Kit, her fingers finding that groove just about his waistband. Hungry, lonely, envious? Alone seemed to have been Frank’s default, even with the feral one around. ”Tomorrow,” Katja almost promised as Kit snorted. ”Then I’ll have him dropping too.” A promise or a threat, either way she punctuated it by pressing that smirk against Kit’s shoulder blade. One dark brow rose, the tumble of still wet hair tossed back over her shoulder. ”It’s a good thing one of us is good with our hands, hmm? Cuchi.” The last was shot out after Kit, the asshole slipped past her, grinning wide as the sting had rippled faintly across her ass.

She stepped out, hips rolling, her hand on the stair rail to look down at him as he retreated. Chicken. ”Wimp.” Pig had been closer, although, not even that would’ve stuck for long. He could an asshole but Kit had done more for Frank than she imagined the shorter man would’ve been able to describe. Seeing Frank look down at the t-shirt in his hand, Katja padded towards him. ”He’s right, not needed. Come on.” She took the t-shirt from him, tossed it on his bed. In the end it didn’t need her to carry him but with her arm around his waist, Katja felt him tense from time to time, muscles not so used to the work protesting now they were cooling.

Kit had already gone to work. Bottles – beer frosted from the fridge, and the moisturiser – sat on the coffee table, Kit’s lazy ass on the couch. Katja patted the small of Frank’s waist, right above the towel, lifting her chin towards Kit. ”Stretch out. If it gets to be too much bite him, alright? He can take it.” The shit eating grin was hers now, aimed at Kit as Frank did as she told him, inching down on the couch like he’d shatter at any moment. She’d give him his due, he didn’t whimper until he was down and she was straddling his thighs. The bottle of moisturiser clicked open, a small pool of lotion warmed for a moment in the palm of her hands before she glided them up the tense lines of Frank’s back, trying to work the stiffness out.

Tagged: FRANK & KIT CLARKE * Word Count: 1296

Don’t ask, don’t tell had been repealed, but it didn’t mean everybody in uniform felt comfortable serving around someone who was outwardly gay. There wasn’t anybody on the team who’d ever mouthed off that way, guys who’d wheel around on you at one glance, unleashing all that homophobia in one snarled ‘were you checking me out?’. You’d have to have been dead not to look, the same as in every other moment of your life. It was a human instinct, to do that double take on what sent those sparks through your brain. Had he actually checked out any guy he’d served with? Not seriously, although Frank would’ve said now he would’ve had to be blind not to see.

When Kit had first moved in and those parameters had shifted, there’d been some reluctance there, the same way there was in his muscles now as he eased down into that suddenly tiny feeling space between the solidity of Kit’s thigh and Katja’s body on the couch now. Jokes tossed around without that same heat, the two of them adjusting to that shifted reality between the two of them. More unsaid than was actually spoken, the acceptance he could feel in his bones, in his throat. Frank knew he didn’t have to say thanks for that, or for anything else that Kit had done for him – what could you say or do to make up for saving your life? – but he tried to let that gratitude bleed into every action. Maybe there’d been something reciprocal there, saving each other’s lives in one way or another.

Heat that wasn’t from the feel of Katja’s bare thighs against his own rolled up through him, a scorching line of it trailing like a lightning bolt up the line of his spine. Hot and just as jagged. His eyes ticked up from Kit’s thigh to his friend’s grin, stretched around that chuckle as he set his glass down. Yeah, he’d keep his teeth to himself, thought he could anyway. They buried into the flesh of his upper lip, those lines working their way back between his brows as Katja reminded him of his fragility. Like he’d break from the weight of her and the brush of her fingertips. Maybe if he’d started the way he had when Roxxi had kissed him after that night at the bar he might’ve snapped his spine in two.

Head braced on his forearms, Frank tried to concentrate on whatever crap Kit had turned up on TV, but the first real press of Katja’s hands on his spine had him twitching. ”Cold,” he countered as his apology was brushed off with another of those soft edged ‘insults’. ”Some of us aren’t that quick off the trigger.” There was a smug edge to Frank’s grin, even if he had to clutch at the cushion’s and grit his teeth against the magic of those hands.

It was probably sexist to say Katja was manhandling him, but she didn’t hesitating in working her hands wherever she wanted to. The roll and press of her thumbs over his traps, lighting up nerves as she loosened muscles. Radiating more heat, into his chest and lower when Kit reared up in front of them both. Maybe it was some sort of freaky feedback loop from what she was, but Frank felt the wave of it like a tsunami, dipping under the towel shield he still wore, leaving him shifting in the confines of it, trying to find some way to breath and settle when he should’ve been able to.

Not blind. Not stupid enough to throw away his friendship right there either, no matter what needs Katja was waking up with that massage. It hadn’t been intentional, not with Kit, whose attractions had always been so obvious. This wasn’t the yard, it wasn’t Dom staring at him like there was something to pick apart and savour in that scarred flesh. ”You trying to get me drunk enough that I don’t use my teeth?” he shot back. ”Baby.” There was no heat to his words, despite the wave of it in his throat. Frank lifted as much as he could at Katja’s urging, almost choking as he realised how long she’d squirmed the towel. Long swallows had the bottle half emptied before he set it aside. His fingers were brushing the couch, leaving damp spots on the fabric before Katja shifted. Thin cotton did nothing to hide the press of her body against him, alien, wrong in a way, but still he didn’t pull away, not when that heat just grew, feeling like it’d erupted out of his cheeks. Cold fingers snagged his own, tugging them away from the couch to fix them around Kit’s thigh, like an anchor.

Easier seemed like the alien concept then. Her hands wrung a groan out of him, the muscle in his back feeling like a super nova – swelling and exploding under her touch. How long Katja worked at him after that, he couldn’t have said. She took him apart one knot at a time, wringing him out until he was slumped on the couch, his head braced against Kit’s thigh, Katja caught beneath his with the towel an afterthought, clinging to his skin, mapping the edge of where her fingers worked over his skin, a slow circuit he could see echoed in the way her knuckles grazed lightly over Kit’s hip, just inches from his eyes. Frank hummed lightly, rolling his head back to squint at the bottles on the table, then up at Kit, lifting his chin. ”There any left? Think there’s still some part of me capable of standing.” He’d practically been promised boneless, between those magic dragon hands and the alcohol, maybe he was all the way there, just random nerves firing under his skin now.

Tagged: KIT CLARKE & KATJA * Word Count: 969

Trying to push away the chill in her shaking muscles, fingers jammed up against the heavy metal grill overhead, she’d tried time and time again to send the heat rushing through her. Just a little of the fire that had always been so easily at hand before, enough to melt the lock, enough to fight the chill back at least, but it hadn’t come. Sparks filled her throat with agony, the only burn behind eyes that had already cried too many tears. The cracked lips that had whispered time and time again for Copacati, for her mother trembled, splitting again with the frustrated snarl that broke out of her. It had been gone, all that she had known, just the pain and the fear and the cold left behind.

The story of Frank’s scars had never spilled out whole. He’d never told it, the same way she’d never described in all that agonising detail what it had felt like to lose all that she had been for those years they had held her. Little parts carved away, left behind. Kit had prevented Frank from being entirely lost, the way Copacati had her, but the scars, the reminders, remained.

Frank had stiffened as she’d run her hands over him at first, startling, apologising for it. The warmth had bled in though, easily, as it came now, burning out from the core of her, into him until the man who lay between her and Kit began to soften. The rigidity of the muscles she’d tortured into rigour earlier giving way with quiet grunts as she dug her thumbs in. Katja rode out the shifts of his body, reading them the way she did the rest of him, the both of them. They might not have seen the mirror between them, the way they’d drifted closer to it while she’d watched, and pointing it out, she knew, would only leave Kit bolting away from him. He’d had his teammate’s – his friend’s – back, literally, but this was a sort of healing he hadn’t seen coming.

She purred, pouring a little more heat in as she shot Kit one of those sleepy looks. He hadn’t complained when she’d taken a nip, her mouth hot as the rest of her skin, scoring, scorching, trying to sear away whatever sank poisonous claws into the parts of him that were scarred – all that had been destroyed internally with the death of his brother. ”Mine too?” she asked innocently. Rolling her eyes up to Kit’s, she leaned in, cooling the heat in her with the gulp of beer, leaving the lips that skimmed Kit’s bare shoulder tasting of it before she nipped at his skin.

Little lines had sprung up between his brows, the tension in him not melted the same way yet, but it would be. There would be no more of this awkward between them by the time she was done. Lines erased, pushed away, no more stories held back, just new ones written.

The beer helped as she worked, although the slide of it down her throat was nothing more than a counterpoint to the heat. Lubrication for what was to come, seeping into everything. Frank went down in the end, melting under her touch until he was sprawled across the couch, her fingers working the long line of his thigh the same as the other hand worked Kit’s. Bottle by bottle, knocked down like in that kid’s song.

Katja smiled back at Kit, her nails scratching lightly at Frank’s thigh, drawing that small noise from him again, as Kit fingers traced their own lines on her. Heat rose up in their wake, burning in her throat as his mouth took hers. The hand on his thigh slid higher, tightening until the kiss snapped and she eased back. ”You’re neglectin’ him,” she called after Kit. The laugh that rumbled out of her as she watched him go was full of contentment. She glanced down as they were left alone, watching Frank watch. She hadn’t been wrong, there was still a need there, something stretched tight with what the liquor was slowing revealing. Something she doubted Frank would have done under any other circumstances – she was willing to lay money on Dominic having seen it though.

Kit returned, the beers in hand, taking care of Frank that way as he twisted the cap off to hand it over. One dark brow rose as she tapped her bare toes against Kit’s thigh. ”Master Wayne? Who?” Obviously something that hadn’t made its way to the Order, or the dozen camps she’d been in afterwards. Things had slid by her then, leaving her making doubtful little sounds now. ”Because you’re a good man. chatashka.” The hand that had been warming Kit moments before twisted in the air, beckoning him down over her until she could get a grip on his hair and nip at his jaw. ”You want to end up like this too?” she crooned, dragging her hand up through the seam of Frank’s towel to pat at the hip she bared. Oh, it twitched this time. Twitching again as she pulled Kit into a kiss that filled her with a heat that wasn’t entirely her own.

She dropped her head when she pulled back, although her hand was still on Frank, the backs of her fingers grazing their way up his chest to his jaw. Katja tipped his head back, stared down into the hazel eyes that fixed on both of them. ”You should taste him,” she murmured, unsure which one she was offering up. ”Taste how much he needs…” She did as she said then, settling her mouth over Frank’s for a moment. He was still pliant under her, but something shifted against her again, muscles bunching before Frank was craning up, hesitating only a moment before his mouth was on Kit’s. Heat hummed under skin again then, pooling in her stomach, flaring in the eyes that found Kit’s as she gave that small nod.

Tagged: FRANK & KIT CLARKE * Word Count: 998