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riptide_asylumTitle: Life After Wartime
Rating: PG
Summary: After the events of "Code Blue", some things have changed, but some things will always stay the same. And Nick's job is more important than ever.
Under the Hightide's wide galley window, Nick has just started cooking breakfast--whole wheat toast, the pale, strange Egg Beaters he doesn't quite trust yet, the soy bacon he knows he'll never trust but is learning to cope with, and two pots of coffee, one regular, one decaf--when Cody pads up the stairs from their stateroom, frowsy and disheveled in his ancient green tshirt and Nick's sweats. He rubs one eye with a closed fist, yawning.
Nick barely has time to look up before Cody's behind him, long arms wrapped all the way around his torso, head resting heavily on his shoulder, breath soft and warm against the side of Nick's neck. Nick turns in Cody's arms, reaching for him gladly. He takes on as much of Cody's weight as he can, hanging on and breathing deep, just enjoying the moment. Them. Still.
When Nick got out of bed this morning, he made sure to turn the electric blanket on low and leave the door to the stateroom open. It's roughly nine feet from the stove to the stateroom door, especially if the stairs are skipped entirely, and that's about as much distance as Nick's willing to let come between them.
Eventually, Cody lifts his head and blinks into Nick's eyes, sleepy still, but needing to be kissed good morning again. Which Nick does with focus and gratitude, until Cody breaks the kiss to rub his forehead against Nick's temple like some overgrown sun-gold cat.
Nick chuckles. That's exactly what he is.
More of a cat sometimes than Quinn even. Cody opens his blue ocean-swell eyes almost shyly, still quiet. Nick tilts his head back to kiss Cody on the nose. "Hungry, babe?"
Cody shakes his head sheepishly and hesitates; Nick thinks no one else would have heard the pull, felt the gentle tug, the unspoken request to return to bed. But Nick's no one else. He snakes one hand behind him to kill the heat under the fry pan, he drops the other to Cody's cotton-clad butt and gives it a good squeeze before following Cody back downstairs.
Their cabin is cool still, in the morning, curtains drawn against the prying daylight, and Nick sinks happily down into the mattress, Cody crawling in from the other side, crawling on top and around him, winding the two of them together so thoroughly it's impossible to imagine them ever separated again. Cody's eyes are heavy but content, and guided by the familiar rhythm of Nick's hands--on his back, his shoulders, his butt, his thighs--he's soon asleep again.
Nick lies awake and watches. That's his job. Watching Cody sleep, watching to make sure he lets go entirely and just floats in this ridiculously big bed, safely tethered by Nick's wariness.
There's an agile thump, then a noise like a far-off chopper--a Huey, maybe--and Nick's eyes fly open just in time to see Quinn standing over the cooling fry pan, cleaning up their breakfast, purring loudly.
Nick settles back in with a disgruntled snort, enjoying Cody's drowsing weight on him. He's learned to pick his battles with that cat, Cody's cat, and right now he has more important things to do than chase a scrappy, bad-tempered old tom out of the kitchen.
Above him, Cody frowns and one hand twitches, scrabbling at Nick's back. Nick grins and shifts a little, so Cody's questing hand can dive under his old grey shirt, seeking the contact of skin, palm flat and satisfied along Nick's spine. Nick tugs his shirt up in front and reaches for Cody's until they each have a sliver of belly to press against each other, skin on skin, completing the connection. Cody smiles, eyes opening briefly, before Nick kisses them closed again.
Then he stretches contentedly on the pillow, trusting the boat to cocoon them, keep them safe at this quiet anchorage that is not King Harbor, not Mexico, not Moro Bay, not anyplace that needs a name. Nick holds Cody, and just watches him sleep.
Rating: PG
Summary: After the events of "Code Blue", some things have changed, but some things will always stay the same. And Nick's job is more important than ever.
Under the Hightide's wide galley window, Nick has just started cooking breakfast--whole wheat toast, the pale, strange Egg Beaters he doesn't quite trust yet, the soy bacon he knows he'll never trust but is learning to cope with, and two pots of coffee, one regular, one decaf--when Cody pads up the stairs from their stateroom, frowsy and disheveled in his ancient green tshirt and Nick's sweats. He rubs one eye with a closed fist, yawning.
Nick barely has time to look up before Cody's behind him, long arms wrapped all the way around his torso, head resting heavily on his shoulder, breath soft and warm against the side of Nick's neck. Nick turns in Cody's arms, reaching for him gladly. He takes on as much of Cody's weight as he can, hanging on and breathing deep, just enjoying the moment. Them. Still.
When Nick got out of bed this morning, he made sure to turn the electric blanket on low and leave the door to the stateroom open. It's roughly nine feet from the stove to the stateroom door, especially if the stairs are skipped entirely, and that's about as much distance as Nick's willing to let come between them.
Eventually, Cody lifts his head and blinks into Nick's eyes, sleepy still, but needing to be kissed good morning again. Which Nick does with focus and gratitude, until Cody breaks the kiss to rub his forehead against Nick's temple like some overgrown sun-gold cat.
Nick chuckles. That's exactly what he is.
More of a cat sometimes than Quinn even. Cody opens his blue ocean-swell eyes almost shyly, still quiet. Nick tilts his head back to kiss Cody on the nose. "Hungry, babe?"
Cody shakes his head sheepishly and hesitates; Nick thinks no one else would have heard the pull, felt the gentle tug, the unspoken request to return to bed. But Nick's no one else. He snakes one hand behind him to kill the heat under the fry pan, he drops the other to Cody's cotton-clad butt and gives it a good squeeze before following Cody back downstairs.
Their cabin is cool still, in the morning, curtains drawn against the prying daylight, and Nick sinks happily down into the mattress, Cody crawling in from the other side, crawling on top and around him, winding the two of them together so thoroughly it's impossible to imagine them ever separated again. Cody's eyes are heavy but content, and guided by the familiar rhythm of Nick's hands--on his back, his shoulders, his butt, his thighs--he's soon asleep again.
Nick lies awake and watches. That's his job. Watching Cody sleep, watching to make sure he lets go entirely and just floats in this ridiculously big bed, safely tethered by Nick's wariness.
There's an agile thump, then a noise like a far-off chopper--a Huey, maybe--and Nick's eyes fly open just in time to see Quinn standing over the cooling fry pan, cleaning up their breakfast, purring loudly.
Nick settles back in with a disgruntled snort, enjoying Cody's drowsing weight on him. He's learned to pick his battles with that cat, Cody's cat, and right now he has more important things to do than chase a scrappy, bad-tempered old tom out of the kitchen.
Above him, Cody frowns and one hand twitches, scrabbling at Nick's back. Nick grins and shifts a little, so Cody's questing hand can dive under his old grey shirt, seeking the contact of skin, palm flat and satisfied along Nick's spine. Nick tugs his shirt up in front and reaches for Cody's until they each have a sliver of belly to press against each other, skin on skin, completing the connection. Cody smiles, eyes opening briefly, before Nick kisses them closed again.
Then he stretches contentedly on the pillow, trusting the boat to cocoon them, keep them safe at this quiet anchorage that is not King Harbor, not Mexico, not Moro Bay, not anyplace that needs a name. Nick holds Cody, and just watches him sleep.
