It’s nighttime and raining. Dark already, and the clouds make it like pitch, the sky a bruised sort of purple that the streetlights reflect off of, glinting wherever they catch the rain. Some thunder rumbles, a flash of lightning, the rain falling harder and he knows it has to be like ice, like someone scooped it up right from the middle of the lake and tossed it down. The windshield wipers whip and whir, sending water flying, and it’s still like trying to see through the center of an ice cube. He’s driving slowly; it’s late enough that there’s not much traffic on the side streets, and the Caddy’s wheels are still whizzing and splashing in the puddles, sending up sheets of water whenever he takes a corner.
There, a few feet ahead-- someone he recognizes, even from behind and in the dark, hunched over against the rain and the cold. Hard not to recognize him. Not that many near seven-foot scarecrows walking around, and only this one, looking like he borrowed his clothes from a bad Spaghetti Western set and then swam here in them, would be stupid enough to be out in this weather. (Mm, cowboy-- have to remember that one)
He slows down, trying not to drench the guy as he passes-- not that it would matter, he’s already soaked through-- and pulls to a stop a foot ahead of him, reaches over and rolls down the passenger window. “Dresden,” he says. “Get in.”
Harry blinks at him, squints through the rain, and his face blooms in that open, unguarded smile just like it does every time and he never seems to notice. "John Undertruck," he says, and even though it has to feel like being drenched in ice water he just keeps standing there, grinning like a loon.
“Get in the car,” John says, and pops open the door. And then “What-- fuck-- Christ, what are you, a dog?”
Harry stops shaking and grins at him, wet hair sticking this way and that, and reaches over to wipe the water off John’s face, his hand approximately the size of a manhole cover.
John sputters, flips his hand up and bats at Harry’s, smears the water across his forehead and up into his hair. The gel there’s almost gone as it is and it gives to the pressure and the wet-- it was a long day, became a long night. He’s only just getting off work, more than twelve hours after he started. “I didn’t pick you up for that kind of ride, Dresden,” he says. (His stomach gives a tingle and a pulse, warming up.)
Harry laughs out loud, that big endearing uncontrolled way he does, higher pitched than he’d probably like pointed out and all gaspy like he’s choking on it. “And after I flashed some ankle and everything? Some of us have bills to pay, pal. Lemme back out.” He pouts dramatically and settles in the passenger seat, pulls his seat-belt across, clipping it in.
John taps on the gas, guides the car smoothly through the rain and the puddles and down the empty street. “What are you doing out here? And what did you do to your car?”
Harry grimaces. “Flat tire.” He chews a little, like he’s going to say something else, then squints out the window, points. “Kedzie’s close. Could you drop me off?”
John follows where he’s pointing, more out of habit than because he doesn’t know where the L stop is, a few intersections over. “You headed home?”
“Yeah,” he nods, digs in the pocket of his ridiculous canvas duster and pulls out a crumpled CTA card. “Case closed. And there was much rejoicing.”
“I’ll drive you,” John says, and purposefully takes a road that will take them around Kedzie and not by it.
“Kind of out of your way, isn’t it?” Harry asks. “Wait. How do you know where I live?”
“The whole shop knows where you live, Dresden. Liz only has to come tow your death trap out of the parking lot once a month.”
“...Point,” he concedes, and turns that dopey easy grin on him again, gives a look that’s as casually considering as he can manage. Not very. “You just getting off work? You’re all greasy.” He reaches out, rubs a long finger down John’s hand where it rests on the gear stick, between two of his fingers where the oil and lubricant and plain old dirt tends to settle, just brushes the sensitive underside of his wrist. “Don’t they have water where you work? Soap?” (Here we go.)
John grunts, eyes Harry back, that stupid smile, the way his hair is plastered to his head, so dark when it’s wet it’s as good as black. “Something blue, yellow, and pink took up all my time yesterday. Had some catching up to do.”
“Aww. Poor guy. You work too hard,” he says, completely innocent of any admission that it’s his own fault. He pats John’s thigh, then grips it and gives it a rub. (He can’t help the smile, smug. That’s right, make a move.)
Harry’s hand stays there as they whisk through the dark, rubbing absently. He waits until they’re idling at a red light before he gives up the ghost, strolls right across the last few inches that would provide any deniability. From a pat that could be mistaken for buddies if you squinted, to that massive hand warm squeezing John’s inner thigh.
John looks over at him.
“Are you sure about that ride?” Harry’s eyes, usually beer-bottle brown, are just dark and deep in the shadows. His hair flops around his face, starting to dry, making him look like a Wookie who had an accident with a live wire.
John smiles, and Harry unbuckles with a grin, silhouetted by the sudden glow of the green light.
It’s an old car, not as ancient as Harry’s Beetle, but old enough that there’s no flashing light, no ding ding ding ordering Harry’s seat-belt done up again, just cold fingers popping the buttons of his fly, pushing aside the folds of his briefs. Then hot breath against his groin and his dick in Harry’s oversized hand. They hover there for a while, John’s foot on the brake, the green getting stale.
He hits the accelerator just as the light goes yellow, tires sputtering in the puddles. A beat up old Pinto comes around a corner and pulls out in front of him and he changes lanes in an instant, gets back in front of it a few car lengths later and pushes Harry’s head down just in case he decides he wants to get up. Harry snorts and gives his shaft a wet, messy lick, and John laughs, just a little, his whole body revving like an engine, catching the next set of lights at the yellow too.
Harry’s humming between his legs as John drives, just playing the head, wrapping his lips around and sucking, dragging them off with a pop and a smack. It’s a nasty little tease that has John’s foot tensing on the gas pedal. He draws it out until John floors it, full weight on the gas and jamming his hips up.
The acceleration flattens him back in his seat and his dick pops deep into Harry’s mouth. He doesn’t even slow as they run up towards a late-running semi, trundling slowly through the street, rear lights getting brighter and brighter until John whips them into the oncoming lane, charges past the truck, and slides back across the double-yellow line just before they can plow into a compact. Harry’s bobbing his head, just wet hot pressure up and down, up and down.
The blue lights start behind them and Harry snickers around his cock, a conspiratorial little vibration right-fucking-there as John grins and swings them wide onto the freeway. There’s traffic here, just enough not to get out of the way fast enough so he’s darting between them, the lights getting farther behind. The cruiser speeds up, narrowly misses clipping the front of a delivery van-- and shoots right past the exit John’s jerked them onto. He flips on the air conditioner, the window fogging up between his panting and the way his skin’s getting all hot and sweaty, and watches the lights disappear. (Heh. Can’t catch me, coppers. What road is-- doesn’t matter.)
The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, splattered against the windows, making little shadows that pepper the wheel, the dash, Harry’s back and the top of his head when John looks down. Harry rolls back enough to smirk at him, mouth pulling up in one long slow drag, popping off his dick and leaving it wet and red. It bobs against his face, jaw just stubbly enough to make John’s hip roll and jerk, leaving a wet smear across his cheeks.
“Thanks for the ride, John,” he says, and John pushes the gas pedal to the floor again, hitting every green light for the rest of the trip, Harry swallowing all the way down his dick and sending stars off behind his eyes until he swears and curls in on himself, abs contracting in a crunch, reaching one-handed for the off-brand tissue box beside the mattress, bringing a handful down and trying to catch the come dripping to his balls. His ability to fantasize giant large-handed men blowing him has left the building; his brain is all dazed and slow.
He kicks the blankets away, flings one arm over his eyes and pumps a few more times, just the right pressure with his thumb at the head, the base, to make the fresh sensitivity burning and pleasant, pants until the sweat pooling at his lower back begins to go cold, the click click click of the fan he has instead of air conditioning finally louder than his heart.
Not a bad way to start off a weekend.
The phone rings, discordant, the cheap base ratting against the top of the little bar fridge where it lives. He drops his arm and rolls his head to squint at it. Not many people have his number. Of course, if anyone he didn’t give it to really wanted it, it wouldn’t be hard to get, but the Business has mostly forgotten about him. If Marco ever stopped to play ‘where are they now’ when not busy filling his new role as Madeline Raith’s personal pussy-licker, John’s damn sure he wouldn’t get the warning of a phone call first.
He forces himself up onto one elbow so he can grab the handset, pulls himself around to sit sideways on the mattress and swipes at his crotch, trying to sop up as much of the spunk cooling in his pubes with the tissue as he can. “Hello?”
“John. You busy?”
He feels the crow’s feet around his eyes tighten, just a little, and makes sure to keep the smile out of his voice. “Whadda you want, Dresden?”
“A ride?” It’s resigned, hangdog, tired. Everything that Harry always is. His voice on the phone, friendly and familiar, brings home just how much he isn’t the suave, pat guy who could give road head during a police chase-- and just how okay John is with that.
They’ve known each other a few months and Harry’s bulled into his life, leaving handprints all over his routine like the dings and scrapes he leaves on his poor piece-of-shit car.
So yes, John will run a washcloth over his balls and get the spunk out and then he will go pick up this poor asshole who has done something to his car again, and that works for him.
Still, he’s laughing a little as he says: “Sure thing, Dresden. I can give you a ride.”