This won't make sense unless you've read Watching and Waiting, and possibly not even then. NC-17 Casey/Zeke (The Faculty).

by Laura Mason

Zeke couldn't see him; the car was speeding through the night on unlit back roads. But he still kept glancing toward the passenger seat, reassuring himself.

He'd thought Casey would be the needy one, clinging to him. But no, Case was calm, completely unsurprised to see Zeke -- and he'd easily fallen asleep, curled up leaning against the door.

He looked exactly the same. Six years of searching, six fucking years and Casey was unchanged, immediately recognizable. What did those bastards to do him?

And how did he instantly recognize Zeke? Zeke wasn't unchanged. He'd aged, and not just from the cigarettes and working odd jobs to earn enough to get by. Living on the run changed him. Never being able to relax, kick back, drink too much or trust someone was just a one-night stand and not after you -- those things put lines on a face and grey in hair. So did everything about searching for someone whose existence had been wiped out of other people's memories, school computers, even the damn yearbook and newspaper -- filled with the photographs Casey created -- had somehow excised his name.

The Connors were gone, strangers living in their house overnight. Zeke tracked them down in their new house, new jobs, new state -- but Casey wasn't there. Not even a photo in a drawer -- Zeke knew because he methodically ransacked the house one carefully-chosen afternoon. No information about Casey's whereabouts, though he hadn't really hoped for that. What was disturbing was that there was no sign these people had ever loved an intelligent, courageous son.

Zeke took the last turn carefully and saw the silhouette of the farmhouse ahead, though no lights were on. The sky was lightening with that pre-dawn glow. He pulled to a halt, and the lack of motion woke Casey, who cautiously stirred, probably a little confused.

"We're here," Zeke said softly. "Home, for the time being."

"Home," Case repeated without any conviction in his voice. Had he ever known a real home, a place of love and safety? Zeke could barely remember such a time in his own life -- it ended when he was thirteen. Half a life feeling secure and cared for, half a life knowing that it hadn't been true. But Casey might not have even had the illusion. Zeke reached over and put a hand on his arm.

"We're safe here, I promise. No one followed us, and I have security. We'll know if anyone finds this place." His savings had gone into buying the equipment that secured this land; stored in his trunk for years while he lived in the cheapest of dives in dozens of cities.

Zeke climbed out and moved around to help Casey out of the car and inside the house. Casey was so damn weak... fucking bastards. Zeke settled him on the sofa with a blanket, power bar and glass of milk -- part of the supplies bought just for Casey. Then he set the alarms, checked the monitors, and secured the house for the night.

When he came back into the living room to stand over the sofa, Casey had finished the food and was lying back, pale and still so incredibly beautiful Zeke couldn't speak until he looked away. Staring out the window, he said "We can stay here a few months, at least. Then Canada, I think."

No reply; Casey merely looked up at him, trusting eyes wide in a too-thin face.

"Is that okay? You can say no, Case, if you don't like it here, or if it's too close--"

"I knew you would come for me," Casey replied, and Zeke felt like he'd been punched. "I knew you were out there -- that you were still... you."

Was there any way to answer that faith with words? If so, Zeke didn't have them. He bent and kissed Casey, six years of yearning poured into the meeting of their mouths, and wasn't surprised when Casey suddenly had the strength to hold him there until blankets were tossed aside. Somehow, together they had the energy for an eternity of kisses, with time out only for heaving deep breaths and ripping off clothing.

The sofa wasn't very large, but they managed to fit together, side by side, where Zeke could touch every inch of the soft white skin he'd missed, hoping his hands and mouth would wipe it clean from the polluting touch of the hospital. Casey's butterfly-soft touches to his face, his ears, his neck all made Zeke wild with passion -- but not so wild that he didn't notice it took longer for Casey to join him in arousal.

He concentrated all his efforts on the slender body, determined to give Casey a time without thought or memory. He kissed, sucked, licked and rubbed until finally there were moans and returned thrusts, and an answering hardness nestled beside his own.

Then nothing mattered but heat and friction, his hands holding their cocks together and stroking them to mutual bliss. The years apart and the uncertain future were forgotten, meaningless compared to the thrumming demand of their bodies. Casey cried out at the end, a sound of pure joy, and Zeke fought emotions he didn't know himself capable of feeling.

Casey was relaxed, Zeke thought -- but he was actually melting. He felt too weak to sit upright. Instead he settled into the sofa, pulling Casey down atop him while he reached for the blanket with his toes.

When he dropped a kiss into the closest ear and Casey giggled, Zeke knew he was home at last.


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