Tempus
by Michalyn
Fandom: The Real Adventures of Johnny Quest
Pairing: Benton Quest x Race Bannon
Rating: MA
1AM: or 01:00 hours as Race would say, precisely.
Except Race has not yet returned.
Benton sips his cognac and listens to the crackle of the fire in the brazier. It never occurs to him to go to bed; it is an unspoken rule between them that they have never broken. Whoever arrives first must wait. Whether for half an hour or till the first fingers of dawn are streaking the sky with dingy color, it does not matter. As a young man, expecting Race back from an assignment, he would have paced, perhaps busied himself in the lab to burn off his nervous energy, but at fifty, Benton has found that the greatest paradox of aging is the slowness of his days, the utter companionableness of the ticking hours that lends the sense that one has all the time in the world. No, he is neither impatient nor perturbed. Race’s return is as certain as the clock’s measured circle.
Benton is on his second glass of cognac when he hears the other man’s footsteps on the stairs. Race stops, blinking in the darkness for a moment before moving to the bar and downing a shot of his own. Whiskey. No ice.
It must have been a hard night.
Wordless, he comes to stands before Benton. His boots are powdered with dust and there are dark sweat rings under the arms of his t-shirt. In the dark, Benton can barely make out Race’s features; rather, he perceives Race’s living heat and the dark odor of perspiration heavy in the space between them.
His cock stirs.
The ice clinks against the glass as Benton stands. When he leans forward, condensation runs a slow trail down Race’s neck and the indentation of his own wrist. Cool. Wet. Glistening. Race’s pulse jumps and Benton leans forward to lick the the salt from his skin. He can hear the heaviness of their breathing, but not once do they speak as they move toward the bedroom. They have never put a name to this thing between them, preferring to leave it as it is: nameless and undefinable, not continuous, but constant, sidestepping marriage, wives and children, to fuse together now again in these mellowing years.
Their knees bump against the mattress and Benton gently pushes Race backward. Naked, he goes down in a ripple of muscle. Benton leans carefully over him, himself still vigorous but with a softening pouch of stomach and — as he runs his hands over the tickle of hair on Race’s calves — hands starting to show the first faint signs of arthritis.
Race’s hair gleams in the moonlight spilling onto the bed — pure and unchanging as hammered metal. Even in his youth it was that startling glimmer, as though the man before Benton is a being neither young nor old. The sleekness of the body beneath Benton’s fingers seems to confirm this. Years of activity have honed Race’s body to efficient hardness, yet, Benton also knows there is a deep vulnerability to him, as he fondles Race’s soft penis. As always, it is shy to emerge from its hood of foreskin, but Benton is patient, calling forth a single milky drop from the opening at its tip. When he touches it to his lips, Race makes a sound as fierce and unintelligible as the bond between them.
In the morning they will put on the old familiar faces — bodyguard and scientist, husband and father — but for now, Race’s body is welcoming, his arms a hot vise around Benton’s abdomen as they move together. Race’s hair glints against the pillow and all Benton can think of is constancy: the inexorable progression of age, the soft ticking of the clock downstairs in the foyer….
And the slow companionship of time.
End
Tags: benton x race, johnny quest, non-gw, romance