Bishop took to the training like a duck to water. He was fascinated, immersed, obsessed, and he was swimming along on the surface. He was a boy scout earning a new merit badge, a kid playing a new game. He followed Nathan like a lovesick puppy, and a few days into it Nathan had decided to tug on the leash: bring him in closer, and keep him just a little off- balance.
He'd already moved Bishop into a little spare room upstairs in the house, a reasonable distance from where Nathan and Sandy slept. It was small and bare, but it wasn't military quarters; Bishop was allowed at least the pretense of privacy there, and he seemed happy to have it. On New Year's Eve, they hosted another big bash. He took Bishop out for a little work in the morning, gave him a few simple tasks that left the kid in a celebratory mood. He also had Sandy pass the word among the female guests that Bishop was a hot-shot American who'd been bragging about his ability to manipulate German women into his bed; gossip took care of the rest.
Most of the women were merely dismissive, but the most gorgeous ones--in Nathan's experience, frequently the most cruel--seemed to take delight in teasing the kid. At midnight, Bishop was kissing a lovely brunette in the semi-seclusion of the stairwell where Nathan had recruited him the week before; thirty seconds later she'd delivered a slap that rocked Bishop's head back. Nathan was so busy watching that he forgot to give Sandy the requisite New Year's kiss until fully two minutes past.
The party remained in full swing, but Nathan didn't see Bishop again after that. He gave the boy fifteen minutes, then made his own way upstairs, the sounds of the party growing faint as he walked down the hall to Bishop's room. He rapped a knuckle against the door as he swung it in, and caught Bishop still leaning half out the window, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
Civilian clothes still looked like a costume on Bishop, and probably still felt like one, given he'd already yanked his sweater off and had his shirt undone halfway down his chest and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Nathan glanced briefly lower as the boy turned away again; pants still on and buttoned up, though by the look of things that would have changed soon enough if he'd left Bishop to his own devices. "So you smoke," he said, and crossed the room to lean against the window frame, looking down at Bishop leaning out. He hadn't turned on any lights in the room, and his face was lit up by the streetlights shining outside. "That's a bad habit, you know. You don't want to have any hooks people can catch you by. Addictions are hooks."
"I know," Bishop said, exhaling a gusty breath of smoke and steam in the chilly night air before ducking back inside, leaving only the hand that held the cigarette outside the sill, "That's why I only smoke once in a while."
Nathan reached out and plucked the cigarette from his fingers, brushing the heel of his hand across the inside of Bishop's wrist as he did. He took a drag and flicked ash neatly outside the windowsill, blowing smoke after it. "On the other hand, you always want to be able to smoke if there's a reason, and look natural doing it." He raised the cigarette to his mouth again. It was a cheap local brand; he'd have to track down a package of honest-to-God American smokes for the kid, as a treat. Marlboros, maybe. Looking Bishop thoughtfully up and down--the boy did a convincing slouch, but his pants were still giving him away--he said, "You drink well. Ever done any drugs?"
Bishop barked a startled laugh, and reached out to take what remained of his cigarette back; Nathan let it go, as a reward for initiative. "Grass, a few times," Bishop said, blowing smoke outside and flicking his thumbnail against the cigarette, the ash floating down like snowflakes. "Nothing heavy. Wouldn't like to try to work that way."
"Smart boy," Nathan allowed. "Know your limitations. Of course you can find yourself needing other things, too, and that's the oldest hook in the book."
Bishop met his eyes briefly then looked away, leaning his forehead against the glass of the raised window and tossing the butt of his cigarette out. Nathan watched the muscles work in his jaw, and waited to see which way he'd jump. When he spoke, his voice was half-broken, heading toward desperate. "So, what, I'm supposed to--be a machine, never--"
"No," Nathan said, stepping closer, "No." He set his hand on the kid's shoulder, and he could feel a tremor run through him, body responding to touch like a dog to a bell. Bishop was starved for this, Nathan knew; he'd arranged it, after all. "I'm just telling you to be sure you're only getting fucked the way you want to get fucked."
Bishop's eyes fluttered shut as Nathan's hand shifted down to his hip; he could feel the kid's skin, hot through his thin dress pants, a welcome contrast to the cold from the open window. "And if I don't wanna get fucked?" Bishop asked.
Admirable presence of mind, really. Nathan was pleased. The kid was good. "Then don't," he said, and took his hand away, shifting a half step back. "That's your concern. But it's another thing that you'll want to be able to do, and do well, when you need to--even with people you wouldn't, ordinarily."
He looked toward the door, watching Bishop in his peripheral vision. The leash was tugged; time for the puppy to come stumbling in. Right on cue, Bishop turned, leaning toward him, and said, "Ordinarily--I might, though. So it wouldn't be a problem."
Nathan raised his eyebrows, giving the kid a glimpse of his surprise at that answer. "That so?" he said, turning toward Bishop again, hooking two fingers into his pants. "You learn that in the boy scouts, too?"
A flash of a smile from Bishop, bright in the dim room, picking up the shine from outside, his blue eyes almost sparkling. "Not formally," he said, leaning closer to Nathan.
It was the touch the kid needed, as much as anything. The closeness. Nathan gathered him in with an arm around Bishop's back, unfastening his pants one-handed, slipping into the close heat of Bishop's boxers. The kid gasped, head tipping back, at the first touch of Nathan's hand on his dick. His throat was exposed, pale skin golden by streetlight, and this was trust, this was adoration, this was the kid giving him everything he could ask for and more. Nathan closed his teeth lightly on Bishop's throat, just where the pulse beat, tightening his hand at the same time, another pulse beating under his fingers.
He didn't do this often--no more often than Bishop smoked, he'd bet--and his technique had never advanced much beyond the utilitarian. Still, Bishop's tastes weren't exactly jaded; the kid folded forward on the second firm stroke, leaning his head against the wall a breath away from Nathan's. That close, he could feel the kid's panting against his own mouth, and it took an effort of will not to breathe as rapidly himself. As it was, he could feel himself smiling, and his eyes strained to focus on the up and down flicker of Bishop's eyelids. He could feel sweat breaking through the cotton of the kid's thin shirt, under his palm, and Bishop's dick was hot and hard in his grip, pulsing with eagerness though the kid otherwise held himself quite still.
Bishop bit his lip when he came, clenching his eyes shut tight like it hurt, a small whine escaping him. His left hand caught at Nathan's sweater, and Nathan tilted his head as he eased the kid through it, their foreheads touching. "Easy," he whispered, his breath battering at Bishop's lips now, "easy, Tom."
He felt some control slip, Bishop sagging against him as his orgasm passed, and Nathan tugged him away from the wall, turning to deposit Bishop on the bed. The boy dropped to sit in a boneless slump, and Nathan continued over to the sink, rinsing his sticky hand clean. He dried it and turned back toward the bed, only to find Bishop on his feet, his dress shirt slipped off and his pants still open.
"Hey," Bishop said, before Nathan could wish him a good night and a happy new year and make his escape, "unreturned favors are hooks too, aren't they?"
Nathan smiled. Christ, the boy was doing him proud. "I suppose they are," he said, and leaned back against the sink, hands on the porcelain, waiting to see what Bishop would make of that.
Bishop just gave him a smile--cocky, Nathan thought, and smiled to himself--and before Nathan could offer to instruct, the kid was kneeling between his feet, unzipping his pants. If he hadn't been hard before, well, there was nothing like a blond head bent over his fly to get him there. Nathan tightened his grip on the sink and reminded himself to breathe evenly.
The kid slid down Nathan's pants and shorts just far enough to free his dick, using one hand and his tongue while the other hand rested lightly on Nathan's side, holding his shirt up out of the way of harm. Bishop's mouth was hot and slick, his hand just on the edge of rough, and Nathan had to bite his tongue and close his eyes, pleasure gathering and intensifying, the kid speeding on, his mouth sliding lower--he hummed, and Nathan felt it more than heard it, his eyes flashing open to see Bishop watching him, blue eyes crinkling in a smile. Orgasm startled a laugh from his throat, and Bishop swallowed at first but then pulled away, coughing, his hand still sliding on Nathan's dick.
Nathan pulled the kid to his feet, twisting to turn on the tap and wet a cloth. Bishop took it from his hand and mopped his own face, still smiling, and Nathan found himself smiling back. The impulse to kiss the kid struck him like an aftershock; he quashed it, but it still shook him like nothing else could. He sent Bishop to bed, sorted himself out and left, pausing in the hallway to steady himself before he returned to the party.
Stupid of him to forget that old dogs could be as sick with love as puppies. He'd have to be more careful of that in the future.
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