"Ticklish" (Beach Boys, 1984)

[riptide_asylum]

Title: Ticklish
Rating: R
Summary: Nick knows what makes Cody happy.



"Aw c'mon, Nick!" Cody, wearing only swimming trunks, looked up from the sizzling grill and spread his arms wide. "The guy had a gun on the Boz! You heard him, he was gonna shoot Murray just to get his hands on the Roboz! What d'you expect me to do?"

It was Thursday and the middle of the day, blazing hot sunshine beaming down over King Harbor. Pleasure crafts floated gently out past the breakwater, sending gentle wakes against the Riptide's hull. The successful conclusion of a case had left the Riptide Detective Agency flush with enough money for cold beers and hot steaks, rubbed with Cody's grandfather's secret blend of spices--Cody grinned. Granddad swore he'd been given the recipe by a Navy buddy on the transport to Normandy, but when Granddad was up in the wheelhouse, Grandma had told Cody not to believe everything he was told.

Nick uncapped a beer and handed it to Cody, then grabbed a second off the railing. "I'm not complaining, big guy. Murray's safe, you're safe and even the Roboz sustained only minimal damage. Hey, what're you grinning at, anyway?"

"I just think you should admit, Nick, that under the circumstances, what I did was pretty smart."

Nick took a swig of his beer. "Cody, you shot the Roboz! What were you thinking back there? You planning on making the little orange guy worthless? He's a big part of this agency, you know."

Cody gestured with his spatula. "So I panicked. It was still better than Murray getting shot."

"Can't argue with that, man."

Murray had predictably come unglued after the cops had taken his kidnapper away, and was sequestered in his stateroom, after having sent the guys out to Radio Shack for a long list of parts.

Cody poked the steaks, gratified by the hiss of fat dripping onto the coals below. The smell of grilled beef, cooking outdoors, was deeply satisfying, as if he could just turn and see his Granddad leaning against the rail at the stern, looking out over the warm blue waves. "He'll be fine, Nick. Just give him a little time."

"Who? Murray or the Roboz?" Nick stepped in close, one hand brushing the small of Cody's back. "Hey, watch it, you're gonna burn those. Flip 'em before they char."

Cody grinned. "Who? Murray or the Roboz?"

Nick gestured with his beer. "Don't be a smartass." Nick reached a hand toward the grill.

"Hey. Hey. Not yet. Stop it." Cody batted Nick's hand away with the spatula, smacking him gently.

"They're burning, look!" He gestured.

"No they're not!" Smack smack. "Stop it. I know what I'm doing!" Smack smack.

"Look at that. Burn! Flip 'em, man. Flip 'em!"

"Nick! They're fine! Trust me, I can do this. Hey--"

"Okay okay." Nick took a step back.

"I can. I know what I'm doing. Nick--"

"I heard you the first time. I'm just saying, man. They look done to me."

"Nick!" The spatula quivered menacingly.

"All right, all right. I'll just be over here."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Nick took another sip of beer and nudged Cody urgently in the ribs, then a second time.

"What?" Cody looked up from the grill, just as the Contessa left its slip and slowly floated into the channel. Her crew waved energetically, straining the confines of their bikinis. Cody waved back, feeling the throb of the big ship's engines through the water, giving the Riptide a little extra rock.

The two of them watched the Contessa leave the confines of the harbor and navigate past the breakwater. Mama Jo, sitting staunchly upright in a deck chair at the stern, glared as she passed.

Nick raised his beer in toast. Cody snickered.

But when he looked down at the grill, the laughter died in his throat. He frantically pried the charring meat off the red-hot grill, flipping them as quickly as he dared. Shreds of blackened meat stuck to the gleaming steel and hissed at each poke of the spatula.

Nick rubbed his back. "I think they might be done, man."

Cody straightened up and glared.

Nick giggled over the mouth of his beer bottle. "They're perfect, guy, just perfect." His hand lingered over Cody's tailbone, rubbing firmly now, but still gentle. The tips of Nick's fingers brushed Cody's pelt through his swim trunks and he shivered despite the blazing sunshine.

Nick grinned, then took a long swallow of beer, eyes still on Cody. The beer was nearly half-finished, but Nick set the bottle down on the deck, near the bench seat, then returned his attention to Cody. "That tickle, baby?" he asked in a low voice.

Cody didn't answer. He pretended to poke the steaks some more, digging the spatula in, examining the glistening juices. They were nearly done. He could smell it.

Nick continued to toy with Cody, teasing, promising.

Cody fought down another shiver and settled for squirming. He still held his own beer in one hand, untouched. He handed it to Nick and with a shaking hand, flipped the steaks onto a waiting plate. Nicely charred on the outside. Just the way Granddad made them.

"Good job," Nick murmured in his ear. His breath tickled and Cody couldn't remember the last time he'd been this hard.

All at once everything fell away--the sun, the sea, the bustle of the piers, the flapping of a nearby sail in the wind--and all Cody could think about was Nick's fingers brushing his tailbone, light and gentle. "Nick," he murmured.

"S'gonna take Murray at least another hour or so to get that new screen in the Roboz," Nick murmured back. "You got plans?"

Cody looked at the plate of steaks, then up at Nick's smile. "Yeah, Nick. I think I do."