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The thing about Doctor is that he’s really good at making Cesare feel really good.
Winding up in his former employee’s bed is quickly becoming a recurring event, but Cesare can’t exactly bring himself to complain about it, because, well…see above. The bed smells like him, sheets rumpled and blanket kicked to the floor. Cesare’s not going to be cheesy, not going to say it’s like something out of a cheap romance paperback, but it’s - nice. That’s all. It’s familiar.
Doctor’s lying on top of him, pressed close enough that Cesare can feel his heartbeat in his own hollow chest, making up for his lack of one. He can also feel the way it picks up speed when he touches him, sliding a hand under Doctor’s shirt and resting it on the small of his back, trying to pull him closer. The other thing about Doctor is that he’s warm. When you’re dead, you’re fucking freezing all the time, okay? He’s not above leeching some body heat off him.
“You’re going to snap my spine.” Doctor says it right in his ear, voice low. Cesare can’t quite tell if he’s joking or not. He’s never been good at reading him. Never been good at reading people, period.
“Am not,” he mutters back, just to be contrary. He loosens his grip anyway, pulling his hand back and dropping it on the bed beside him, fingers plucking idly at the sheets. “It’s not my fault you guys are so fragile. Feels like I’m working in a Pottery Barn half the time.”
“Right. My apologies for having breakable bones.” He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, breath hot against his skin, before pressing a kiss to the corner of Cesare’s jaw, working his way along the sharp angle of it. Cesare tries to think of a snappy comeback, but Doctor’s lips are stupidly soft and it’s distracting. He’ll come up with one later, something - Jesus. Doctor hits a sweet spot on the underside of his jaw, a starburst of pleasure blooming, and Cesare bites his lip hard, fighting the urge to close his eyes.
Yeah. Definitely later.
Doctor hooks a finger over the top of his sweater and tugs it down, kissing the side of his neck. Cesare tilts his head back to give him better access, barring his throat. Physically, anyway. He’s not quite there in the metaphorical sense. Not yet. It’s already hard enough, opening up to Doctor like this. Trusting him. He knows, knows, that it’s a stupid decision, that it’s bound to go up in flames eventually, but - Christ, doesn’t he deserve to have something nice for once?
Old instinct makes him tense up when Doctor kisses the scar on his throat. Cesare’s annoyed at himself, pissed that it still makes him want to panic even after all these years. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s not like Doctor hasn’t touched it before. Hell, Cesare’s even put the man’s hand on his throat himself.
Fucking stupid.
Doctor stills, clearly noticing the way he’d stiffened. Sometimes Cesare wishes he wasn’t so goddamn perceptive. “Everything okay?”
“Fantastic.” He exhales sharply, makes himself relax, makes himself concentrate on how warm Doctor is instead. At least that part’s easy enough. “Can we get this show on the road already? We’re wasting prime time air.”
He draws back so Cesare can see his face. He swears there’s a vaguely amused quirk to his mouth. “I don’t think that phrase is applicable to this particular situation, boss.”
“You know what I mean.” He glowers back up at him. “You’re killing me here, Doc.”
“You’re already dead.”
“Smartass.”
Doctor laughs again, short and quiet, barely there. Cesare likes the sound of it more than he’s willing to admit. “You could try saying please.”
“I don’t say please.” He curls his lip, bares his teeth. “Or sorry or thank you or any of those other social niceties. Flunked out of finishing school.”
“I’ve noticed.” His tone is dry. Doctor sits up, repositioning himself so he’s straddling Cesare, hands resting lightly on his waist. He can feel the heat of them even through his sweater. “What do you want?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not a mind reader, Cesare.”
He scoffs, derisive. “Yeah, be glad you’re not. They’re fucking annoying.”
“Boss.” He moves one thumb in a slow arc, back and forth, and Cesare shivers, fixating on the motion. “We’ve talked about this.”
Yeah. This. The whole bit about Cesare not being able to spit it out until it’s dragged from him. He’s used to just taking whatever he wants, but this whole…everything…with Doctor is still new to him. It’s not exactly a shock that he’s floundering.
He could just leave. He can teleport. And if even if he couldn’t, he’s still twice as strong as Doctor. There’s nothing keeping him here. But the thought of going back to the Underworld alone is still less appealing than having an awkward conversation, so he stays.
“Just…” He’s struggling to put words together, trying to make it coherent. “Just keep doing this, but - but more.”
Doctor nods, expression serious. “Definitely not the vaguest instructions I’ve ever been given.”
“You’re - shut up.” He turns his head away, avoiding eye contact. He’s never been entirely comfortable with it. “I said last time that I like you touching me, okay?” More than likes, but he’s not going to admit that either. “So do that.”
“Do you want just touching, or do you want to get off?”
Cesare swallows, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Can we do both?”
Doctor’s mouth twitches into a smile for a brief moment. “I feel like the second option also implies that the first is included.”
“Shut up,” Cesare says again, but there’s no bite to it. “I didn’t realize there was an ‘all of the above’ answer on this quiz.”
He snorts quietly but doesn’t respond to that comment. “Are hands okay?”
“Yeah.” He likes Doctor’s hands. Likes the warmth of his palms, the way his fingertips are slightly calloused. Likes how they feel running up and down his body-
Doctor slips them under the edge of his sweater and pushes it up, exposing his stomach. He slides them around to hold his waist, nestled in the space between the top of his hip and the bottom of his ribcage. Another shiver snakes its way down Cesare’s spine, making him tremble. It’s just because it’s cold in here. Not because Doctor’s hands on him have him briefly forgetting what century it is.
He leaves one of them where it is, rubbing a small circle with his thumb, and trails the other one across Cesare’s torso, tracing the scars littering his skin. Cesare swallows again, clenching his fists around the sheets. This always has him feeling twitchy. It’s not that he dislikes Doctor interacting with his scars, because he wouldn’t let him if he didn’t. It’s more that it’s a level of vulnerability that he’s not used to. It’s…uncomfortable, being reminded of his murder like this. He doesn’t remember much about it. Just that it probably hurt like a bitch.
Cesare can’t feel pain anymore, but having Doctor touch him like this - warm and careful and so goddamn fucking gentle - hurts in a different way.
A tiny noise, something akin to a whimper, escapes him when Doctor slides his hand upwards. Under his sweater, roaming over his chest. He pauses, palm resting over his dead heart. The heat from it is almost searing. Enough to make him think, for one dizzy, delirious moment, that it’ll leave behind a brand.
“Everything still good?”
“Fine. Keep going.”
Doctor draws his hand back down, nails scraping lightly against his skin. He changes position suddenly, getting off of him and squeezing in between his legs instead. He lowers his head, kissing Cesare’s stomach. He lingers over the spot, mouth hot. Cesare makes another noise, louder this time. Fuck. He tips his head back against the pillow, half-closing his eyes. This part he’s more used to.
His hand goes to Doctor’s head, fingers pushing into his hair. It’s coarser than it looks, fried to hell and back from all the times he’s bleached it. Cesare likes that too. There’s something deeply human about the imperfection of it.
He does his best to hold still while Doctor trails a slow line of kisses along the ridge of his hipbone, because it’s fucking embarrasing how reactive his body is to the slightest of touches. It’s not like he has a ton of experience in the hook-up department, but still, come on.
Then he licks a long, lazy line across his stomach and holding still goes out the window. The trail of heat sinks deep inside of him, coiling up tight in his core. Cesare feels his hips move of their own accord, one of his legs jerking. His hand clenches automatically, tugging at Doctor’s hair. “Jesus - fucking Christ.” He’s not proud of how high-pitched he is, but God, that was a new experience. A really, really fucking nice one.
“Should I take that as a good sign?” Doctor’s voice is deeper than usual, rough around the edges. Cesare’s breath probably would’ve hitched in his throat at the sound of it if he still needed oxygen.
“Yeah,” he manages, his own voice thready. It’s hard to concentrate right now. “Yeah. Fuck. Do that again.”
He does, even slower this time, and Cesare squirms. It’s undignified and mortifying, but he can’t help it. This man just does things to him. Things he hadn’t particularly thought about prior to the last few months. “Fuck,” he repeats, expletive barely audible. “Would you - ugh. Quit teasing me already.”
He kisses him again before replying. “You’re the one who gave the order in the first place, boss.”
Cesare huffs loudly, annoyed. He can feel the heat in his stomach trickling downwards, into his thighs. He might be dead, but he can still get revved up. Something’s going to snap soon. Cesare grits his teeth, clenching his jaw tight enough that he half-expects to hear bone to crack, and grinds out a single word. “Please.”
Doctor glances up at him, clearly surprised. Cesare just scowls. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.” He shifts underneath him, eager to move on. “So how’s about-”
He breaks off when Doctor curls his fingers over the waistband of his pants - he’d lost his belt somewhere in the living room earlier along with his boots - and tugs at it. He lifts his hips off the mattress so Doctor can pull everything off completely, discarding them on the floor and leaving him naked from the waist down.
Cesare shivers again, the air in the bedroom brisk against his exposed everything. Doctor’s body is hot between his legs, the fabric of his shirt soft and ticklish where it brushes against his bare skin. He trails a finger down the inside of one of Cesare’s thighs, feather-light. Cesare twitches in response, leg jerking away. Doctor catches it, hooking his hand under his knee and tugging it back gently.
“Doc, seriously.” He lifts his head off the pillow just so he can slam it back down dramatically. “Come on.”
“Sorry.” He leaves the hand under Cesare’s knee where it is and wraps the other one around him with a slow stroke, rubbing the tip with a thumb. “Better?”
He can’t help the way his body moves in response to that either, back arching, hips rising so he can push into Doctor’s hand. “Shit,” he mumbles, closing his eyes and raking his fingers against the sheets. “Allen.”
Doctor’s thumb stops moving. Cesare opens his eyes and glares at him. “What?” he snaps, going on the defensive. “I just wanted to say your name, okay? Didn’t realize that was a crime. You gonna call the cops on me?”
“No.” He shakes head, smiling. The last thing about Doctor - the one that drives Cesare crazy the most - is that he has dimples. Cesare can’t stand them. Can’t stand how fucking adorable they make Doctor look. Can’t stand how much he likes them, how much he wants him to smile more often so he can see them. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, boss.”
“I’m - I am not!”
“Cute?”
“Flustered!” He raises his voice, which probably isn’t helping him beat the allegations. “And I’m not cute either! I’m a-” he scrabbles for a meaningful analogy. “I’m a fucking persistance predator.”
“You can be both.”
Cesare just growls, low in his throat. “Get down here,” he demands, thrusting an arm out. “I’m cold.”
Doctor leans over him and Cesare puts a hand on the back of his neck, pulls him in close and shoves his face against his shoulder. He starts stroking him again, still slow, still warm. Fuck, how is it even possible for anyone to be this warm? Cesare lets himself give into it, relaxes into the pleasure sparking through his long-dead nerves like electricity, into the heat flooding every single part of him.
He tries to remind himself, struggling through the cloudy haze obscuring his thoughts, that this is casual. Doctor doesn’t kick him out whenever he shows up uninvited because it’s better hanging out here than in a cave, and sometimes they hook up, and that’s it. It doesn’t matter that he likes how Doctor smells, skin and sweat and paint and coffee. That he likes his hair, likes playing with it, likes the contrast of it against his own. That he likes his laugh and his smile and his stupid fucking dimples. None of it matters, because whatever they have isn’t going anywhere. It can’t. He’s not going to let it.
A part of him keeps repeating that he’ll be Doctor’s toy, he’ll be his watchdog, he’ll be whatever he wants, as long as he’ll keep touching him. Cesare doesn’t get to choose things very often. He didn’t in his life. He still doesn’t in his afterlife. When his bosses say jump, he doesn’t get to say no, just gets to ask how high. But this - he’s choosing this. Choosing Doctor. Choosing Allen. Even if it is just casual.
It’s not a big dramatic thing when he tips over the edge, gripping Doctor tighter and letting out a strangled gasp. The heat inside of him ebbs away rather than exploding, but it still leaves him dizzy and shaking and feeling too many emotions, chaotic and swirling.
He lets his hand drop from Doctor’s neck, sliding it around to his chest so he can feel his heartbeat. It’s racing. “Damn.” His voice sounds thick even to himself. His ears are ringing. “You’re pretty good at that. You get a lot of practice in?”
Doctor pulls back slightly, looking down at him and opening his mouth like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t get to, because a phone chooses that moment to go off. Cesare just barely, barely resists the urge to scream. It’s his. He recognizes the ringtone.
“Are you for fucking real right now?” He sits up, dislodging Doctor. Figures that he doesn’t even get to enjoy the afterglow.
“What?” Doctor blinks at him, confused.
“I gotta go.” He reaches around him, leaning off the bed and snatching his pants from the ground. At least they don’t have to do any cleanup. One of the very few benefits of being dead. “Work stuff.”
“Oh.” He watches him get dressed with bemusement. “Are you coming back afterwards?”
“Depends on whether they send me to some fuck-off place or not.” He lets the resentment seep into his words. “Might get stuck in Antarctica for five months. Who even fucking knows!” He pulls the phone out of his pocket and checks it. There’s no voicemail. Of course not. Upper management never bothers to leave one. They just expect him to come running and get his orders in person.
Cesare adjusts his sweater before stalking out of the room to retrieve the rest of his clothes, Doctor scrambling off the bed and trailing after him. He shoves his boots back on, eyeing one of the living room windows while buckling his belt and briefly fantasizing about putting his head through one of them. This fucking sucks.
“Sorry.” Doctor sounds awkward, uncertain.
“It’s whatever.” He makes a dismissive gesture, letting the anger simmer down. It cools but doesn’t go out completely. No point getting all worked up, not when there’s nothing he can do to change it.
Doctor’s standing very close to him and Cesare thinks about his warm hands and his dimples and the way his hair is always falling into his eyes. He reaches out impulsively, grabbing his face and kissing him. It’s clumsy and he misses half of his mouth, but it’s still good in its own way. He lets go before Doctor can kiss him back. “Catch you later.”
He snaps his fingers and lets the ground open up beneath him, portal pulling him down to the Underworld.