Rating: NC-17
Pairing: ReGenesis — David Sandstrom/Danny Dexter
Spoilers: set pre-canon, no plot spoilers
Thanks: Many thanks to Mal for beta
Notes: For mergatrude


by china_shop

Danny ran up the old wooden stairs. It'd been too long since he'd been in Toronto, and the last time he'd seen David — in Chicago in spring — they'd both been in a rush, spinning off in different directions, each of them trapped in orbit around their respective careers, trying to time it so their paths crossed.

But now Danny had two whole days, and he was going to make the most of it. A smart guy would have called ahead — with David there was every chance of interrupting — but Danny needed the element of surprise tonight. His team had lost four out of six games this season so far, and six games was a lifetime in hockey. So when it came to seeing his rockstar scientist — well, Danny needed something, even if it was just surprise and welcome in David's eyes.

He banged on the door with his fist, and listened for signs of life. Nothing. "Fuck." Danny went down the hall, snagged the spare key off the top of the window frame and let himself in.

He switched on a lamp, dispelling darkness. "David?"

The place was tidy — that usually meant a woman. Maybe even a steady girlfriend. It was a familiar sting.

He helped himself to a beer and collapsed onto the couch, then fumbled in his jacket pocket for his phone.

"Danny!" David's voice was warm in his ear. "Where the hell are you?"

"On your couch. Where you're not, fucker." Danny took a swig of beer.

"Oregon," said David. "There's an outbreak of toxic airborne fungal spores. The kicker is it's in the airport. I'm not getting out of here tonight. How long have you got?"

It wasn't David's fault, but still. "Gotta be on a plane lunchtime tomorrow," Danny lied. "Can you get here?"

"I'll figure something out." That was David. If you were an appointment, chances were even he that wouldn't show. But if you were a logistical problem to solve, nothing would stop him.

Danny smiled around the mouth of his beer bottle. "So I'll see you."

"Yeah. Somehow. Oh hey, if Twyla shows up, I'm not back till the weekend, okay?"

"Still the same old David," said Danny, and hung up. So that was that. David's loft was tidy for Twyla.

Danny toed off his boots and kicked back, making himself comfortable. For a couple of years before he got married, he'd spent more time here than David had. And now— well, this was as close as Danny had to a home these days, even if he didn't have his own key, and David was the closest thing he had to family.

Family could get away with a hell of a lot of shit.



Danny couldn't remember a time before he knew David. Danny had all but moved into the Sandstroms' basement at 16, and fuck but that had been a culture shock and a half. His second night there, he overheard Toumas mocking David's teenage modesty. "It's the human body," said Toumas. "Nature's masterpiece, and you cheapen it with that ugly robe. Where's your soul?"

The Dexters were poor — always plenty of booze, but never enough heat. When they imploded it was like shards of glass. But over the years at the Sandstroms', in the comfort of their air conditioning, Danny saw a lot of skin mixed in with the alcohol and dope. Some of the skin belonged to Toumas' models who prowled around showing off their tits and tight round asses. Some was Toumas' and Lydia's. A lot of it was David's.


They'd been tight at twelve. At sixteen and a half, after he walked in on Carol Haskins giving David head, their friendship developed an underlying itch Danny didn't understand and couldn't scratch, which turned into an inarticulate confession at seventeen, admissible only because David was the one guy in the world Danny didn't have to compete with.

A string of girlfriends and hockey groupies came and went, and Danny tried to treat them right, but by twenty-two he and David were a habit — irregular, casual, addictive. It was hard for anyone else to measure up.

Danny got stuck in the penalty box while David's marriage played out, but that was only half a dozen years, and afterwards it was less than a month before they resumed play.




Danny was dragged out of a deep sleep by a clunk. He struggled to get an eye open long enough to identify David's heavy watch on the nightstand, and then David slid between the sheets, naked and slightly rank, skin cool, hands pushy and familiar.

It wasn't morning yet. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"Chopper," said David. "Doesn't matter. You want to sleep or fuck?"

Danny groaned and rolled away from him, onto his front. Buried his face in the pillow. As he sank back into sleep, he was dimly aware of David settling close behind him, skin warming fast, arm sliding around Danny's waist, cock half-hard against Danny's ass.

Danny's lips curved against the pillow and he let darkness swallow him.




The Sandstoms' place was like a decadent paintbox — messy, colourful and entirely without rules. Mostly Danny tried to stay out of the way. Lydia was kind to him, when she noticed he was there, but with Toumas you could never tell. Sometimes he'd beckon Danny into his studio and start rambling about brushstrokes and texture, or colour and composition. Other times, he was sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued and cruel.

"You're in love with my son," he said once, the words ripe with scorn and accusation. "Too young to know any better. You're barely a sapling."

"Fuck you," said Danny, and didn't stick around for more. He grabbed his jacket and his scarf and fled into the flurries of snow that were circling under the streetlights. He didn't need to be told how stupid it was, how David would never go there.

He went to the local rink and bargained his way in, sure, I'll clean skates, tomorrow, tomorrow okay? and speed-skated lap after lap, fierce and humiliated.

Then he holed up at James Bead's place, mumbling to James' parents, feeling awkward and skipping school. He didn't go home for a week, not till David found him. "What happened?"

"He didn't tell you?" Danny stared at the linoleum on the Beads' kitchen floor, wishing he could self-combust.

"Who? Tell me what?" That held enough genuine frustration that Danny believed him. "Jesus, Danny, come home."

Relief made him dizzy. Toumas hadn't told. "Nothing," he said. "It was nothing."

"Danny—" David ran his hands through his shoulder length hair. "What're you talking about?"

So much for his super-smart science brain.

Danny forced a smile. "It's nothing." But even as he said it, his body was betraying him, moving in a couple of steps, settling a hand on David's waist under his open parka. And David wasn't sneering like his old man. His face was open and trusting like this was Life Lesson #523: Recreational Drug Use and How Not to Get Caught.

The Beads were in the next room, watching TV.

"I—" Danny licked his lips, saw David's focus sharpen, and threw caution to the wind. "You— You ever wanted to—?" And without waiting for an answer, Danny kissed him.

David stiffened, his eyes open and startled, and Danny's heart thumped sickeningly, he started to pull back. But then David clenched his hands in the front of Danny's worn out old sweater and held him there, followed him into the kiss and fucking took over. His eyelids fell shut.

He tasted of triumph and cigarettes.




Eighteen years later, it was cigars instead of cheap cigarettes, experience instead of exploration. They were men, not boys, both had been married, both had kids.

It was waking with David draped across him, and the sun lighting but not entering the north-facing room. Eighteen years hadn't changed anything that mattered.

Danny rolled over and leaned up on his elbow, watching David until his eyes opened. And then they started to move, rocking against each other slowly, bodies still half-asleep, taking their time. David's forehead was wrinkled like he was concentrating too hard, like he was trying to solve a science conundrum or an equation, and Danny smacked him on the shoulder. "Hey, pay attention!"

David squinted at him, smirking, then reached for the lube. "You could've just asked, you know. If you wanted it."

"Asshole," said Danny, trying not to return the smile. He didn't back down, never had. David was the only guy he let fuck him, the only guy he wanted to fuck him. Had dreams about it sometimes, fantasised about it, needed it.

Anticipation was an opiate. Danny relaxed into it, let David choose the angle, set the pace. He accepted the pain — weirdly reassuring — let it wash through him, and then the heat of pleasure that followed on its heels. "Ah, Jesus!"

David's answering groan sounded heartfelt enough. His hand tightened on Danny's thigh, and his hips kept driving them on, chasing them into overtime, making Danny swear until he ran out of obscenities and was reduced to inarticulate growling.

The room was almost spinning — fuck, but David was good at this — and Danny reached for his own dick, desperate for attention there. Christ knew David was caught up in doing his own thing, probably wouldn't even notice.

Except he did. His hand came around and covered Danny's own, holding it there, helping jerk him off while David buried his face in the hair behind Danny's ear, his breath coming fast and hot against Danny's scalp. Danny pushed back onto David's dick, back and back, driven crazy by the dual sensations. His body was flushed and overheated, sweat tickled tracks down his spine, and then David rolled forward, pinning him down, and thrust in hard, again and again and again until he came.

The pulse in his ass was proof of something — something Danny couldn't name. Whatever it was, it was enough to set him off, thick waves of dark, exquisite heat rolling through him, shutting out everything but David's skin against his own.

David slid out, peeled away. The mattress shifted. "Too bad you're flying out so soon."

It took Danny a minute to collect himself. "Yeah. Too bad." He turned to face him.

David was flat on his back, staring up like there were equations written on the ceiling. He shoved the hair out of his eyes, then tugged Danny close and kissed him. "Maybe next time, eh?"




Couple months later, Danny was in another American airport, another town, heading to Calgary this time. He called David. "Hey, I'm gonna be in Toronto next week. Will you be there?"

"Yeah, sure," said David promptly. "It'd be good to see you." There was a flicker of static or hesitation, and then he added, "Oh, hey, you know what? Don't come by my place."

Danny dug his heels into the ugly airport carpet. "What, did Twyla move in?"

"Worse," said David. "Listen, I can't talk now. I'll meet you at McGill's. When?"

"Thursday. Twelve-thirty." That would give him time to find a place to stay, shower.

"Wouldn't miss it," said David, and hung up before Danny could respond.

Fucker. But he was making time for them, and Danny knew enough about David's schedule to know that meant something, Twyla or no Twyla. And hell, it wasn't David's fault Danny kept coming back for more. That was just Danny, the luck of the draw. David was the smooth rasp of a puck on ice, the glide of a clean steel blade, the perfect slapshot. Yeah, Danny kept coming back. Always had, always would.

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