Parisian Regrets

by Pic

Rated: A, Slash

Pairing: Tom McLaren/Ryan Simms

Spoilers: Significant for Vertical Limit

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters aren't mine.

Summary: Tom and Ryan have just returned to civilization from spending some time in the Congo in lieu of climbing K2 with Elliott Vaughn.

Series: This is a sequel to No Regrets, but you don't really have to have read that one to delve into this story.

Beta: Thanks, as always, to Missy for making me think about the whys and wherefores of the whole thing. The result is more well-rounded characters and a story with greater depth than originally written. Oh, and she also demanded greater length in scene 3.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"This is it?"

Ryan Simms smiled at the appreciation in his tired lover's tone. "This is it," he confirmed, paying the cab driver. "I told you. Some quality time in Paris will make you forget all the little inconveniences of our trek along the Congo."

His generous tip earned a grudging, "Merci," from their driver. He had pretended not to understand Ryan's perfectly passable French all the way from Charles DeGaulle and now tossed their bags onto the sidewalk with no apparent care for the contents.

Tom McLaren regarded the old, stately hotel with a strange smile on his face, absently nodding assent to the uniformed bellman's request to transport the luggage to their room. When Ryan stepped to his side, Tom led the way into the hotel, whistling softly at the amount of marble in the lobby. "Your definition of inconvenience differs from mine."

"I promised that I'd make it up to you," Ryan whispered, frowning slightly as he thought back on how poorly Caroline's people had planned the expedition. Dismissing the negativity as needless dwelling on the past, he brightened and barely suppressed the urge to press his lips to that spot below the ear that got to Tom in a big way. "And I will."

"You better, Simms," Tom muttered around a yawn as they approached the opulent front desk. "I missed a major climb for that ration of bullshit."

Ryan knew McLaren meant the oppressive heat, the stomach virus that had rendered Tom unable to keep anything down for well over a week, and the fiasco that had led to the masterpiece of intimidation that was their party's six-day detention by machine gun-toting government troops. But he chose to misinterpret his lover's meaning and take the opportunity to bring up his personal pet peeve-McLaren's need for privacy, particularly how it prevented Ryan from staking his rightful claim to the older man.

Do you have to be so damn guarded, Tommy?

Ryan did his best to keep his voice from being spiteful, surprised by the effort it took. "Well, if you hadn't led Cynthia on, she wouldn't have done her imitation of a bitch in heat for you."

Ryan ignored Tom's outraged response in favor of smiling at the young French woman with the melodious voice who was checking them in. It was always fun to torment Tom when he was too tired to fight back effectively.

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

Tom McLaren slowly opened his eyes, afraid he was still dreaming. He really wanted to believe that he was in a bed - a bed with a firm mattress and clean sheets in some non-tropical part of the world. The evidence his eyes presented him with was encouraging. A small sigh of relief slipped through his lips as his memory caught up with his thoughts.

This was Paris. Paris, France. A suite in a lavish hotel to be more precise. Tom couldn't remember the name of the hotel. In fact, he couldn't remember much of anything except for peeling off his clothes and falling into bed. Sleep had overtaken him so quickly he couldn't recall Ryan joining him, much less snuggling and nuzzling as the younger man was wont to do, particularly if Tom was pissed at him.

The combination of annoyance and adrenaline crash wasn't healthy. Fortunately, travel fatigue had prevented the fight that had seemed inevitable. Man versus nature, Tom understood and respected. Man versus men with automatic weapons and an ideological excuse to use them was a struggle in which Tom had no interest. Almost a week in the latter setting had rattled him. McLaren didn't do rattled. Not well. Not willingly. And not with any kind of good humor. The survival of Ryan's sense of fun, even in that environment, had set Tom's teeth on edge. He'd silently vowed that if they got out of that mess that he would teach Ryan a lesson he would never forget.

Suddenly, McLaren became aware of Ryan's eyes on him, and for once, the mischief he saw there didn't earn the younger man any indulgences. "Save it, Ryan."

Stretching languorously, Ryan playfully asked, "Save what?"

"Your bad little boy crap. I don't need it."

Before Tom could move, Ryan rolled on top of him, immobilizing him with his body. "So, what do you need this morning, Tommy?"

The husky, near purr sent a shiver down McLaren's spine, but he had no intention of being drawn into one of Ryan's games. The memories of heat, humidity, bugs, reptiles, overzealous women and gun-toting military troops were too vivid. And underneath the more current baggage lurked the 'What does someone as freewheeling as Ryan see in me anyway?' insecurities. Pushing them aside like he always did and refusing to wonder for the umpteenth time why Ryan had sought him out that night in the Everest base camp, Tom replied, "A shower. A long, hot shower."

To his surprise, a flicker of pain passed over Ryan's face. Even more telling to McLaren was how difficult it was for him not to respond to it in any way. He didn't want to hurt Ryan, but they needed some boundaries, some ground rules. There were too many issues floating around. Continuing to ignore them all would be a mistake, but Tom couldn't determine where or how to begin.

Finally, Ryan leaned up on his elbows and sighed soulfully. Lowering his eyes, the younger man mumbled, "Alone?"

Ryan was a picture of vulnerability that Tom couldn't resist. "I didn't say that."

A tentative smile later, Ryan moved off of Tom. Not meeting the older man's eyes, he whispered, "You won't regret this, Tommy."

The in-joke demanded a particular response. Tom could no more deny Ryan that than he could throw the impetuous young man out of his life. "I better not, Simms."

The act of showering was efficient, utilitarian. The bathroom design lent itself to that, each man having his own showerhead under which to contemplate his own thoughts.

McLaren was all too aware of the wounded looks that Ryan sent his way but studiously ignored the younger man. The need to be clean aided him in his effort. Smiling slightly, he acknowledged that he needed all the help he could get. Ignoring Ryan Simms was virtually hopeless even under extreme duress-wandering around aimlessly with an attentive audience in the hot, humid jungle. Pretending he didn't exist when he was within three feet, naked and wet was an exercise in restraint that McLaren hadn't been confident in his ability to perform. The kid had a sixth sense when it came to sex; he always seemed to know exactly what he needed, even when Tom himself didn't.

Damn it, McLaren. Don't go there.

Too late. Tom's mind was already gleefully replaying some of Ryan's more inspired moments.

Who else would've even considered "celebrating" a rock climb of the Canyon Lands' famous Zeus with an enthusiastic blow job? There simply wasn't enough room for two in any kind of a sprawl at the top, making the proposition dicey at best. With the way sound carried in the desert, Tom had been forced to draw blood by biting his forearm to keep the matter as private as possible. There were climbers on the companion edifice, Moses, who would no doubt have enjoyed living Ryan's efforts vicariously through him.

That went double for the lady authors on the Congo adventure. It had been Ryan's self-proclaimed goal to make Tom scream his name at some point during that trip. Tom's innate reticence demanded that he resist those efforts and he had. Technically. He'd screamed non-words and a few "pleases" and some clever combinations of off color language but not Ryan. Not once. Thank God. A man had his pride after all.

Nothing could have kept him from shouting his lover's name in their Salt Lake City hotel room, however. Hours of build up had left Tom in desperate need of release. He'd demanded, ordered, cajoled, negotiated, begged and pleaded. Nothing had moved Ryan. Whenever Tom thought he was going to go insane from wanting just a little more stimulation, Ryan had stopped whatever he'd been doing and gently stroked him until Tom calmed. Then, wearing an expression anywhere between a knowing smile and an impudent grin, Ryan proceeded to shatter his control once more. Tom had lost track of how many iterations of the tease/stall cycle he'd endured. But he thought he'd seen God when Ryan finally let him come.

A ragged sigh brought Tom back to the present. Ryan was staring at him, breathing rapidly, eyes shining with desire, cock impressively erect. Warning Ryan with his best effort at a glare brought a grin to the younger man's face. Tom raised an eyebrow; Ryan lowered his eyes meaningfully.

Only then did Tom become aware of his own erection. His little trip down memory lane had had a telling effect. Shrugging nonchalantly, Tom turned away and let the warm water flow over his chest, determinedly ignoring his arousal.

The feel of Ryan's fingertips tracing his spine sent a wave of desire and something even stronger through Tom. Without thought, he spun around, catching Ryan's wrist, twisting it to throw Ryan off balance. Bending the younger man's arm behind him, Tom shoved Ryan up against the wall, chest first, and feasted his eyes on the sight before him. Ryan's shoulders tapered nicely into a slim waist situated just above the only ass Tom had ever wanted the pleasure of breaching.

His response to Ryan was nearly Pavlovian and magnified by his own aggressiveness, but the water cascading down on them removed the evidence from the head of his cock. Leaning into the other man, Tom positioned a thigh between Ryan's and forced him to spread his legs.

Laughing, Ryan wiggled his ass and reached behind him.

No, Ryan. This morning, we're gonna do this my way.

Tom slapped the hand, growling, "Against the wall. Both hands."

Ryan complied while moving to slide his ass against Tom's cock.

My way or no way, Simms.

Ryan jumped when McLaren slapped him on the butt, first one side and then the other, hard enough to bruise, ordering, "Keep still."

Looking over his shoulder, Ryan opened his mouth, but his protest died on his lips. Tom nodded in satisfaction at the impact of his "Don't fuck with me" stare. He'd surprised Ryan. That wasn't something Tom managed all that often and it felt good to turn the tables. McLaren had followed Ryan's lead for months and hadn't been disappointed, but the time had come to assert himself.

Can't let things get stale, Tommy.

McLaren laughed, acknowledging silently that there was little danger of that. Ryan was too creative by far. And, today, for now, the younger man was satisfyingly obedient. Inspired, Tom acknowledged Ryan's compliance, whispering, "That's good, Ryan. That's very, very good."

With one cheek pressed against the tiles, Ryan regarded Tom with one eye. McLaren was pleased to see that the younger man's excitement held a modicum of wariness. Ryan had been getting a bit too sure of himself lately. There was no more pleasant way to take a lover down a peg than what Tom had in mind for Ryan.

Tom slid a hand between hard thighs and teased Ryan's opening, slowly, surely and relentlessly, basking in the reactions. Ryan whimpered softly, the pupil that Tom could see dilated and the younger man's mouth dropped open to allow him to pant. Muscles trembling with the effort, Ryan kept his ass immobile for the most part.

Grinning, Tom confided, "Obedience turns me on, Ryan." Judging by the shiver that followed his words, submission did the same for Ryan.

"Good," Ryan managed to moan. "Great. Perfect. Fuck me, Tommy. Fuck me now."

Red faced and strung out was a gorgeous look for Ryan and Tom allowed himself to silently appreciate it even as he withdrew his finger and mustered a snarl. "I'll fuck you when I'm damn good and ready."

Ryan shuddered, turning widened eyes on McLaren. "Please."

Please? Tom couldn't recall ever hearing that word from Ryan in a sexual context.

"What the fuck's that, Simms? You got heat stroke or something?"

Leaning back against Tom, Ryan moaned, "Or something. C'mon, Tommy. Do it!"

Shoving Ryan forward once more, Tom noted that Ryan seemed to like his drill sergeant impersonation as much as what he called Tom's 'phone sex' voice. McLaren switched to the latter and murmured, "Be careful what you wish for."

Ryan rubbed his ass against Tom's hip before stoppinged suddenly. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't let it happen again, Simms."

"Or or what?"

Tom slapped Ryan's ass again, lighter this time but still hard enough to sting. "I'll leave you to your right hand."

Ryan whimpered, "I'll be good. I promise." Keeping still while Tom ran his hands over his ass looked to be difficult. McLaren didn't hurry and Ryan took a few deep breaths and relaxed into submission. His voice was lazy, dreamy, when he murmured, "Just just do me."

Having gotten the surrender he wanted from Ryan, Tom saw no need to deny himself further and roughly forced his erection inside his lover's body. Ryan's eyes widened and then closed, his groan partly of pain and partly of desire.

"Better?" Tom demanded, voice silky smooth.

"Yeh yeah. Fuck, yes." When nothing further transpired, Ryan controlled his panting enough to mutter, "What're you waiting for - the goddamn planets to align? Fuck me."

Eyes alive with energy, Tom slowly began to thrust, each forward motion brushing Ryan's prostate and heralding a murmured word. "If. You. Insist."

After he finished his thought, Tom stopped, savoring the disappointed wail that maneuver earned him. The subsequent whimpers, first pleading then annoyed, resounded in the enclosed space as Tom remained motionless.

Grunting discontentedly, Ryan moved, taking Tom's cock inside and bringing himself closer to the edge. When McLaren didn't reprimand him, he shifted to position Tom for another pseudo-thrust. Moaning, Ryan thrust his ass in reverse and shuddered at the contact with his prostate. Encouraged and seeking more sensation, Ryan continued the motions and grabbed for his cock to hurry the process along.

Tom intercepted Ryan's hand, fingers digging into the tendons in the younger man's wrist painfully, and forced it back to the tiles. "I said against the wall, Simms."

"Fuck you, McLaren," Ryan gasped.

Laughing as his cock pulsed in response to Ryan's annoyance, Tom leaned back, pulling away from Ryan's butt. "Not this time."

"Christ, Tommy, don't tease."

"Why not?"

In response, Ryan lunged backwards. Anticipating the move, Tom surged forward to meet him and Ryan shouted his pleasure. "Yeahyeahyesfuckyes."

Tom pulled out completely, moving beyond the reach of Ryan's ass. With a sigh of regret, he noted, "And you were doing so well, too."

"Wha ? Tommy? Hey."

Straightening and doing his best to sound nonchalant, Tom whispered, "At least you had a taste of what you'll be missing. Enjoy yourself."

"No, wait. Damn it, Tommy. Wait!"

"You knew the rules."

"I I know." Standing perfectly still against the wall of the shower, Ryan pleaded, "I won't break them again, Tommy. Please." Not moving an inch, Ryan continued, "I'm dying here. Don't leave me."

Tom savored the sight of his brash, go-for-broke lover fighting to stand quietly under his scrutiny-legs spread wide, ass reddened from Tom's hand, muscles trembling.

"Last chance, Ryan. You got that?" Tom was pleased at the steely determination in his voice and by the convulsive swallow it provoked in Ryan.

"Yeah. Got it, yeah."

Spurred on by Ryan's lust and well aware of his own growing need, Tom repositioned himself and began thrusting in earnest.

Nearly sobbing in relief, Ryan croaked, "Touch me, Tommy. I need you to touch me."

That would be too easy. "No, you don't."

Ryan moaned, struggling against the hands that Tom placed over his own.

"Stop it, Ryan." When the younger man ignored him, Tom gave a fleeting thought to his earlier threat. Given how hard he was himself, he decided to be magnanimous. Leaning forward, Tom trapped Ryan between his body and the wall. "I can't get enough leverage to bring you off if I have to keep your hands where I want them."

Ryan insisted, "You have to touch me to bring me off, you asshole."

"Them's fightin' words, Mr. Simms." Mocking Cynthia's accent was bound to get a reaction.

"Not funny," Ryan panted even as he stopped trying to move.

Tom's laughter expressed his disagreement. Hands on Ryan's hips, Tom resumed his rhythm, whispering, "Relax and let go, Ryan. Feel me inside you. Feel how much I want you to come. Feel how fucking close I am."

Tempted by the tilt of Ryan's head, Tom bent forward and gave in to the urge to mark the younger man's throat. Smiling at Ryan's groans of pleasure/pain, Tom rasped, "C'mon, Ryan. Let it happen. Give it up."

Ryan whimpered, "Trying, Tommy."

Appreciating his effort, Tom continued his sensual whispers, combining his very, very best phone sex voice with slow, deliberate hip movements. "This is what I want you to do. Give it up to me. Show me that I'm not wasting my time. Prove it."

Helplessly, Ryan melted at the sound of Tom's low-pitched tones and rocked a counterpoint to other man's movements, feeling all the things Tom demanded and sensing that he was approaching the precipice. He doubted that he'd be able to tumble off without a helping hand but Tom gave him no choice but to try.

Lying, McLaren threatened, "I can do this for an hour, Ryan. Can you take it?"

"I I don't shitsofuckinggoodTommyplease"

Ryan's breathless whimpers threatened to break Tom's control but he ruthlessly clamped down on his desire to fuck the younger man through the tile wall. "If I tell you to take it," he whispered in Ryan's ear, "you'll take it." Tom punctuated his order with a harder thrust. "Won't you?"

"Yes," Ryan choked out.

"You're mine," Tom growled, pulling out very slowly. "Mine," he repeated, shoving forward, hard and fast.

"Fuck!" Ryan shouted. "More. Christ, more, Tommy. Like that. Just just like that."

"This is all you need. Isn't it?" Tom picked up the pace and Ryan cried out helplessly. Voice growing ragged and harsh, McLaren growled, "This is all you've ever needed from me. Your body's doing your talking for you. All you have to do is come. Just come for me, Ryan."

McLaren continued in the same punishing rhythm and Ryan flew over the edge with Tom's name on his lips. McLaren followed immediately, biting Ryan's shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

Tom held Ryan close until they both stopped shaking. The moment he was released, Ryan turned to face Tom. "Jesus."

The stunned expression on Ryan's face made McLaren laugh so hard that it brought tears to his eyes. He didn't speak for several moments, enjoying the upper hand. "Nope, just me."

"Huh?"

"Forget it, Ryan."

"Not bloody likely." Ryan's deep green eyes asked a question that Tom felt that he had already answered.

McLaren shrugged, smiled shyly and turned off the water on his side of the shower.

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

I guess I knew Tommy had it in him but Christ! He did me without touching me. I didn't think hell, I would've sworn that wasn't going to happen.

Dry and clothed, Ryan summoned the courage to peer beyond the sex. "Did that mean what I think it means?"

Not looking up from contemplating his razor, Tom muttered, "Hmm?"

Don't act like it was nothing, Tommy. This is bizarre enough without you being so damn cavalier.

Ryan gestured toward the shower. "That. What happened in there. What did it mean?"

Tom didn't let him off the hook on which Ryan had impetuously impaled himself. "What do you think it meant?"

Tossing the towel over the shower curtain rod, Ryan thought hard about his response. Tom was the talker in this relationship. The "adult." Ryan was the "brat." The exhibitionist. There was no way he'd voluntarily go out on a limb and say anything that couldn't be taken back. But here he was. Here they both were.

Seeing no alternative, Ryan muttered, "You said I was yours."

"I did."

Ok. This is taking the reserved thing too far, Tommy.

Sighing and tired of wondering why an intensely private, deeply thoughtful, and extraordinarily careful guy was giving him so much more than the time of day, Ryan retrieved the towel and threw it at McLaren. "I want to know what you meant by that."

Tom regarded him as though he were unusually dense but said nothing.

Pulling teeth has to be easier than this.

"C'mon, Tommy. You know I'm not good at this stuff."

"What stuff is that?"

Sometimes McLaren was a royal pain in the ass, not taking a hint when he damn well should. "Talking and shit."

Staring into Ryan's eyes, Tom said, "Try."

Finally finding humor in the fact that they were having this discussion in the bathroom, Ryan laughed and felt some of his tension dissipate. "I think that I might like ah really like being um the property of Thomas Andrew McLaren." Uncertain he should've gone so far, Ryan mumbled, "Sometimes."

"There's an exclusivity clause in the contract."

Surprised by the hesitance in Tom's voice, Ryan assured, "I've got no problem with that." Grinning, he leered. "Your ass is fine enough to keep me entertained."

Ignoring the wisecrack, Tom took Ryan's measure, speaking just before the younger man's nervousness returned full force. "You want to be my partner?"

Well, there's a loaded question.

Taking a deep breath and stepping in front of the cannon like all good fodder should, Ryan asked, "In what sense, Tommy?"

"Every sense."

Ryan was stunned. He knew Tom cared at some level, but he also worried about the impact of their relationship on his mountain guide peers and his reputation as a guy's guy. Looking McLaren over closely, Ryan detected nothing but earnestness.

Ryan smiled broadly. Christmas had come early this year and he'd gotten the only thing worth mentioning on his list. Santa had been most kind. "So I survived your rigorous screening process?"

A frown flickered across McLaren's face. "Don't make me regret this, Ryan."

Foregoing flippant and facing Tom with serious eyes, Ryan promised, "Never that, Tommy. Never that."

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

Ryan Simms bounded energetically down the hall of the old, established Parisian hotel. Opening the door to their suite was a feat, balancing the caf au lait and pastry he'd brought for their very late breakfast. Triumphantly, Ryan entered, spotted McLaren sitting at the small wood table and announced, "Breakfast is served, Tommy."

No response.

Undaunted, Ryan approached and placed his offering of sustenance in front of McLaren. It was then that he noticed the hefty scotch near Tom's right hand. After freezing momentarily, Ryan reached for it, softly suggesting, "Eat a little something first. Ok?"

McLaren was quicker to the glass, lifting it to his lips and draining it.

Watching the older man, Ryan realized that Tom hadn't shaved as he'd proclaimed a necessity when the subject of procuring sugar and caffeine had been broached. Carefully placing the empty glass on the table, Tom wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced toward the mini-bar.

Focusing more precisely, Ryan gasped. Tom's eyes looked as though they belonged to an old man, and a haunted one at that. Dragging a chair closer to the other man and sinking down into it, Ryan gently placed a hand on McLaren's shoulder. "What's going on, Tommy?"

Ryan felt sick to his stomach when Tom only shook his head weakly and lowered his eyes. He couldn't fathom what was wrong. Nor could he convince himself that his nausea was due to a failure to eat breakfast in a timely manner. All Ryan knew was that he'd gotten a gift a half an hour ago and now he feared that it had already been rescinded.

"Tommy?" Discomfort growing, Ryan tentatively persisted, "What happened while I was gone? Jesus, it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes. C'mon, Tommy. You're scaring me."

Several ragged breaths later, McLaren whispered, "Should've been me."

Counting those few words as progress and profoundly relieved that whatever was wrong didn't appear to involve he and Tom, Ryan waited, barely daring to trail the back of his forefinger along Tom's cheek, catching the single tear that had fallen.

Jesus, forget the big boys bullshit. Tougher-than-nails mountain climbers don't cry.

Swallowing with an effort around the huge lump that had formed in his throat, Ryan softly urged, "Go on."

A bit louder, Tom muttered, "Should've been me."

Seeking to understand McLaren's pain, Ryan scanned the room for clues. Finding none, he prompted, "What? What should've been you?"

"K2."

Something in Ryan's chest tightened painfully.

Ok, so he did call Skip like he said he was going to. But what did that sorry son of a bitch tell him?

Ryan guessed at the issue, venturing, "There's always next season, Tommy."

"Not for her."

The sheer misery in Tom's voice drove into Ryan's gut. His first instinct was to run and wait at a safe distance for McLaren to snap out of his funk. The sad, resigned expression in Tom's eyes held Ryan in place. Tommy knew him too well. And Ryan understood that if he bailed now, McLaren wouldn't be patiently waiting to welcome him back and accept yet another in a series of sheepish apologies.

Once he dampened the retreat impulse, Simms' instincts insisted that Tommy needed help of a kind that he was ill equipped to provide - the talking it out kind.

To try or head for the hills - that is the question.

Butchering Hamlet was sacrilege, perhaps, but it helped him make his decision. "I'm here for the duration," Ryan softly asserted, sending mental messages asking Tom to meet his eyes, to assure him somehow that not running was the right decision.

Spinning the empty glass on the table appeared to demand all of Tom's attention. The single-minded focus that McLaren was giving the simple act stoked Ryan's anxiety to new heights.

Simms sighed audibly, but McLaren didn't rise to the bait or the plea that it masked.

Damn.

Ryan didn't deal well with complex emotions; he liked his relationships simple. Or he had until McLaren had appeared in his life. Tommy and he had something between them that wasn't straightforward, complicated far beyond those problems that their very similar features caused. And that didn't bother Ryan -- most of the time, anyway. At this particular moment, however, Ryan would have given everything he possessed for a simple solution. For the ability to turn back time and erase the damage that Skip Taylor had done. And while they were at it, they could replay the shower domination game.

If you're going to hit life's reset button, why not have some fun?

Ryan smiled slightly at the frivolous mental gymnastics that the rising panic inspired but sobered quickly as Tom's tension increased noticeably. He held his breath as the older man's grip on the empty glass tightened. The last thing they needed was a trip to a Paris hospital emergency room for stitches.

Pay attention, Simms. Look at him, for Christ's sake. He's got some serious demons that he wants to drown. Here be dragons! Fucking big ass ones from the look of it.

Faced with complexities of an unknown nature and unable to run, Ryan needed a backup plan. He had one - sex to cure what ails.

Typical. And just as useless as the first idea, Simms. If not more.

Sex solved most things for Ryan, but Tom wasn't like that. Ryan had learned that in Utah, the same memorable, if miserable, day that he'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that if McLaren walked out, he wouldn't be back. That would be the end. Period. Melodrama wasn't Tom's thing. Nor was fucking his cares away.

Damn shame, that latter stance.

Ryan inwardly cringed, shying away from beginning the conversation that seemed unavoidable. Squeezing Tom's shoulder in a pseudo-massaging motion, Ryan nervously swigged his milk-laced espresso, cursing as he burned his tongue. Recognizing that he was stalling, Ryan steeled himself and asked, "Who are you talking about, Tommy?"

"Elaine. Elaine guided Vaughn's K2 expedition." Slumping as though the words took an enormous amount of energy to utter, Tom grunted, "I need another drink."

She's the problem, not you. Whew.

Ryan's hand tightened, holding Tom in place. "No, you don't. You need to tell me what's wrong."

When Tom remained silent, Ryan's impulse for flight reengaged and he found himself standing without a conscious thought. His mouth was also acting on its own agenda. "What the fuck, Tommy?"

McLaren looked furtively in the direction of the in room bar.

Non-verbal Tom sent Ryan spiraling back in the direction of panic. "Talk to me!"

Voice flat, brimming with suppressed emotion, Tom murmured, "She's dead, Ryan."

Oh, my God.

Guilt came crashing down around Ryan.

You stupid, self-centered bastard! You're fixated on getting him to fuck you into submission again and she's she's fuck.

"They ran into some weather, Ryan. Turn back, trudge down and have a drink to the mountain winning that one sort of weather."

Seeing the icy, professional woman clearly in his mind and not wanting to lose the tiny bit of momentum that the bare bones explanation represented, Ryan prompted, "And?"

"They went for the summit." Face set in a grimace, Tom threw his glass against the wall and the sound of it shattering raised Ryan's heart rate and the pounding almost drowned out McLaren's next words. "Elaine was careful, Ryan. Even more than I am. That rich bastard got to her somehow."

Speculation wasn't going to help Tom deal with the loss of someone he knew so intimately, so Ryan tried to shift the emphasis back to the facts. "They didn't summit?"

"No," Tom spat. "An avalanche trapped a few of them in a crevasse and buried the rest. Elaine was injured, stuck up there with Vaughn and Annie Garrett. She didn't make it down, Ryan."

No one deserves to go out like that. Shit.

Tears were flowing freely down Tom's cheeks now. Ryan could only stare at the strong, competent man that he'd recently had the good fortune to call his lover. Even as he tried to figure out what to do next, more words tumbled out of Simms' mouth. "The others?"

"Annie's brother got her down." Voice lowering still further, Tom added almost inaudibly, "Lost four of six doing it."

Ryan found the omission of any reference to Elliott Vaughn telling. The son of a bitch had died on the mountain and that didn't bother Tom overly much. Unsure how he felt about that attitude, Ryan decided to let it go. For now.

"If we hadn't gone on traipsing through that sweat-soaked hell on earth ..." McLaren's voice trailed off weakly, eyes staring at something only he could see.

Recalling the unrelenting and nearly unbearable pressure that Vaughn had exerted while he and Tom were training in Utah, Ryan felt his erratically beating heart leap into his throat. If Vaughn had been successful "I'd have lost you," he concluded, feeling tears well up in his own eyes.

Something in his voice finally broke through and captured Tom's attention. "Ryan "

He knew that tone. McLaren had just slipped back into adult-mode, despite the pain etched on every inch of his face. Ryan couldn't resume his accustomed role; the brat persona wasn't capable of seeing this through.

Ryan slammed his free hand down on Tom's other shoulder and shook McLaren hard. Several times. When startled eyes searched his, Ryan said, "No bullshit, Tommy. Not now."

"What are you-?"

Ryan interrupted, frightened by his own vehemence. "It was worth it. The whole totally fucked up trip, including constantly biting my tongue to keep from telling Cynthia to keep her fucking hands to herself."

"Ryan, I-"

"All the stuff we both hated about navigating that stupid fucking river. It was worth every bullshit minute, McLaren. Every single one. Do you hear me?"

For several long moments, Tom looked at Ryan as though he were from another planet. Frowning in puzzlement, McLaren asked, "What's up with all the words?"

"What? Too many for you? How's this for concise?" Ryan growled, fighting to get his too rapid breathing under control. "I love you, you moron."

The declaration hung in the air. Tom's mouth dropped open and they stared at each other.

Oh shit! Where did that come from, Ryan? Not your brain, that's for sure. I don't give a good goddamn if brevity is the soul of wit.

Despite his automatic panic, his commitment phobia took a backseat to a relief so profound that it hurt.

He's alive. With me. That's all that matters.

Even though Ryan didn't quite believe that he'd uttered the fateful words aloud, he wasn't about to let Tom twist them to feed his guilt. Jutting out his lower lip, he defied McLaren to respond.

To Ryan's surprise, Tom looked away, muttering, "You don't understand."

"Oh, I do, Tommy. I understand completely."

The challenge in Tom's frown and narrowed eyes couldn't go unmet. Ryan knew that instinctively in the same way that he recognized that the necessity was part of the healing process. Normally, such revelations would send Ryan backpedaling at best possible speed, but he wasn't in control today.

"You feel guilty because your friend, your lover, someone who was a part of your life had an accident. That's what it was, Tommy. An accident." Ryan glared at Tom to forestall interruption. "You feel guilty because she got the job that you turned down. Because you think she was manipulated into ignoring her better judgment." Not waiting for McLaren to confirm or deny his assertions, Ryan continued, "We'll deal with that. All of that. Ok?"

Warmth flowed through him when Tom mouthed the word, "We," with a guardedly hopeful expression on his face, but Ryan didn't allow himself to relax. It wasn't going to be easy for McLaren to deal with this.

"As for me, I know in here," Ryan tapped his stomach, "and in my in my heart how I'd feel if it had been you. I'm sorry about Elaine, Tommy. I truly am. But I'm not sorry that she was with Vaughn and you were with me. Not sorry at all."

"But I could've-"

This was the insidious demon that Ryan was determined to exorcise. "Maybe. Maybe not. You can't know for sure."

"But --"

Slowly, carefully, Ryan asserted, "Everybody has buttons, Tommy. Even you."

"It would take a better person than Vaughn to push them," Tom snarled.

Fearlessly, Ryan accepted Tom's anger. "Maybe it did." He paused for a second to process the idea that had suddenly come to him. "Annie Garrett isn't exactly a shrinking violet, Tommy. She could've said 'go' too. Then what? Huh?"

Tom sighed, defeated and tired. "I don't know, Ryan."

"That's the only point I'm trying to make. You don't know. You won't ever know." Breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving that that was indeed the case, Ryan added, "Believe me, I'm not belittling your grief. I know that you care very deeply." Risking a small smile, he added, "It's plain even to an insensitive brat like me."

Ryan watched Tom closely as they fell silent once again. Sensing that the dangerous emotions were no longer threatening to overwhelm McLaren, he layered a heap of humor over a niggling insecurity and asked, "So how's it feel to be the love interest of an insensitive brat?"

The corners of Tom's mouth curled up slightly as McLaren shook his head and reached for his caffeine. From where Ryan sat, things were definitely looking up.

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

Tom McLaren sighed and relaxed into the knowing hands that were moving over the muscles of his back. It felt good to lie down and close his eyes after the day he'd had. "Thanks," he murmured.

"Welcome," Ryan countered, never missing a stroke of the massage. A chuckle from Tom prompted, "What?"

"I expected you to ask what for, that's all."

Ryan sighed and poked Tom just beneath his right shoulder blade. "Sometimes I manage to marshal my brain cells and achieve understanding all by myself, Tommy."

Propping himself up on an elbow, McLaren looked over his shoulder. "Yeah? You?"

"Me."

Resisting Ryan's playfulness, Tom said, "Don't tell me that you planned that ten mile 'sightseeing' hike with frequent refreshment breaks just to tire me out."

"I thought they might distract you some, too." Shrugging, Ryan ran his fingertips lightly along Tom's spine. "The Eiffel Tower, a nice Bordeaux, throw in the occasional psycho taxi driver for variety "

"Was I supposed to forget what you said earlier?"

"Hmmm?"

Tom smiled. There was no mistaking the "Oh, shit," facial expression when Ryan recalled the three little words.

"Ok," McLaren allowed, noting that the younger man's rapidly darting eyes refused to focus on him. Retreat was one of Ryan's best moves. "Never happened. But you have to take back the moron part, too."

"I meant what I said, Tommy."

What? No run for the door, claiming tardiness for an elective surgical procedure or some such nonsense? No sheepish 'It was all in fun' bullshit?

Hesitantly, McLaren clarified, "Before? When you were shaking me?"

Ryan's lower lip trembled. He bit it before saying, "Every word."

Knowing how difficult that quiet admission was for Ryan, Tom borrowed a page out of the younger man's keep things light and fun book and asked, "Even the moron part?"

"Yep."

Ryan's grin was infectious and Tom returned it, but he couldn't quite process all that had happened in the last fourteen hours. Skipping to something he could grasp, he mused, "I guess we should have a contract."

"What?"

"For the partnership." Growling at Ryan's raised eyebrow, he clarified, "The business, Ryan. You know, get everything nice and tidy just in case in case"

Fuck. I thought I was handling this.

"In case a mountain wins?"

Ryan's softly spoken words dragged a nod from McLaren. Determined not to waste all of the younger man's efforts to improve his disposition, Tom forced a smile and added, "Or some God-forsaken tropical insect gets one of us first."

They shared a tentative laugh and Ryan leaned forward to press his lips against Tom's, purring, "Maybe now's the time to tell you that my goal in life is to give you the orgasm that your heart can't handle. Many, many years from now, Tommy, so keep up the moderate red wine consumption and cut out the bacon."

Sexual-based arrogance was sexy. Tom couldn't help it; he'd always felt that way. He pushed away thoughts of how that weakness had played into his relationship with Elaine in order to pay careful attention to the present. He didn't want to let Ryan in on that little secret. The kid didn't need any encouragement. "You my nutritionist now?"

"Among other things," Ryan drawled, nipping the back of Tom's neck and wrapping his arms around the older man.

McLaren couldn't resist the safe territory of verbally fencing with Ryan. "Awfully sure of yourself, aren't you, Mr. Simms?"

"Nah," Ryan murmured into Tom's shoulder. "I'm sure of you, though. Of what you mean to me."

"I'm not just a future murder victim?"

Ryan giggled.

Tom couldn't believe his ears. "Where's a video camera when you need one? Ryan Simms giggles. Do the lady writers we just escaped from know?"

"You think any jury would call what I have in mind murder, Tommy?"

Tabling the giggle topic for another day, Tom muttered, "Who knows what twelve of our peers might decide?"

Giggling again, Ryan declared, "I think they'd decide that it would be a crime against society to imprison someone who can give that kind of head."

Helplessly, McLaren laughed, but sobered quickly, half turning his back to Ryan. The ghosts were still too close. "I ah how to put this?" He struggled to find a polite way to explain what he needed-more precisely, what he didn't need-but Ryan surprised him one more time.

"C'mere," he said, settling in behind and spooning around Tom. "Tonight, I just want to hold you. Is that ok?"

Keeping the sigh of relief inside, Tom answered, "I wouldn't regret that, Ryan."

"Me neither."

"Good night uh partner."

There was that giggling again. Tom decided that he liked the sound of it as he waited for Ryan's reply. Simms liked to have the last word.

"Night, sweet cheeks."

Elbowing the younger man, Tom growled, "Fuck you, Ryan."

"Tomorrow, Tommy," Ryan promised. "Go to sleep and dream of that final blow job."

That sounded like a good idea to Tom McLaren. If that didn't keep the nightmares away, nothing would.

End

~~~~~~~oo(O)oo~~~~~~~

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