adventureic | (no subject)

WHO: Broderick & Bracken
WHEN: Friday, March 29. Evening.
WHERE: Some bar in Austin, TX.
WHAT: The date-date date. (Broderick takes Bracken line dancing, or at least he tries to.)
WARNINGS: Just language & fluff.

It’s going well, Broderick thinks, a half finished bourbon in hand and the man he just can’t seem to stop staring at perched next to him at the bar top.

BBQ had been delicious, messier than anything the Welshman had ever eaten, and so fucking good. That research had paid off in spades too, because Bracken had seemed to like it, demolished rack after rack like his stomach was its own pocket dimension and made him smile that way the werewolf does when he’s satisfied and sure: happy. And hell if that didn’t make this whole thing worth it.

Briar had said that a proper date wouldn’t be much different that what they’d been doing the past few months and at the time Broderick had agreed. He’s not sure of that anymore.

“Just how many tequilas am I going to need out there,” he nods towards the dance floor before flicking his eyes pointedly to the second round of shots the werewolf just ordered. “I know these do nothing to you, but are you trying to tell me something?”

Bracken spreads out his hands in the universal sign of I'd never but its effectiveness is probably compromised when he reclaims them to down his shot and replies: "Can't have you overthinkin' your grapevines and toe fans."

Austin was a good idea: it's a dose of something familiar and restorative that he's wanted—yet still managed to deny himself—for longer than he cares to recall, and sharing it with Broderick alleviates the guilt that would have loomed over his night if he'd decided to visit solo. He knocks his knees against the wizard's, his smile easy, his wink cheeky. "But I promise you won't need nobody to carry you back unless it's what you want."

Broderick can’t smother the smile that slips free, big and easy, and he dutifully finishes the last of his bourbon so that he can take the shot.

“I’m afraid of what’ll be unleashed out there if I’m full on wankered enough that I need to be carried home,” he shares, wiping at his mouth. “For instance, what the fuck is a toe fan?”

Bracken could just get Broderick to look at his feet for the easiest demonstration anyone's ever given, but why would he when the option for frivolous physical contact is right there?

So he places his palms on the other man's thighs—"Feet."—then turns one hand outward and back in—"Toe fan."—followed the other—"Toe fan."—before he rests his hands just high enough to still be halfway decently behaved, and taps his fingers along the denim of Broderick's jeans with a grin. "Now you know."

Broderick clears his throat, staring back at that pleased smile with a knowing, narrowed eyed look.

“Really taking the whole ‘hands on’ part of teaching seriously huh? C’mere,” he leans in, pad of his thumb brushing at a smear of BBQ sauce that somehow got missed just under the sharp line of Bracken’s jaw. It still tastes sharp and smoky when he sucks it off of his thumb, an absent motion because he’s too focused on pressing a quick kiss to the spot there. And maybe he lingers a little, but Bracken has his hands on his thighs okay?

“Did you end up wearing those ribs more than you ate them?” He tisks, voice nice and low. “Can’t take you anywhere.”

It takes Bracken a second to respond because his mental faculties are tied up in still trying to act like a polite, if infatuated, member of society — which is hard with all the thumb-licking and jaw-kissing going on. He clenches his fingertips in one (1) desperate (futile) attempt to compose himself. "I had a couple ideas about a second date but if that means it's off the table, then..." A little, ineffectual shrug. "We had a good run. A whole half day."

That rips a surprised huff of laughter out of the wizard who can’t do anything but lean forward. Their heads duck close together. “Shame,” he says, affectionately, settling a hand on top of Bracken’s, fingers lacing together. “I really dressed the part. Didn’t even get a chance to take the hat out for a spin.”

He knocks their knees together. “You want to tell me what I’ll be missing out on?”

They're in a crowded country bar on a Friday night, its din a deluge on every one of Bracken's keen senses, and he's too distracted studying their intertwined fingers to notice. It's nothing new — but this time they're not curled up in a bed, nor's either man trying for enough of a grip to push the other against a wall. It's intimacy for intimacy's sake and, honestly, it's kind of weird.

But a good weird.

A fulfilling kind of weird. A new dimension of weird he'd been craving and dreading, all at the same time, and now that he has it he's afraid that one misstep means he'll lose it in an instant.

Given how close they are, his temple brushes against Broderick's when he shakes his head. "Nah. I'd rather you yearn about what could've been, get worked up about a whole fantasy. More fun for me that way."

Broderick rolls his eyes and opts to squeeze the wolf’s hand in punishment instead of disentangling his fingers just to pinch him.

“Brunch with bottomless coffee. A half day at a rare book store,” he makes a show of closing his eyes and fantasizing, his chin bumping Bracken’s jaw. “Hike in the woods to a picnic with food you wouldn't let me so much as look at. You’re in merino wool. Bruce Springsteen is there too, of course.”

Bracken pulls away to grab his abandoned bottle of beer, muttering "Asshole" through a smile. "Dunno why I was worried about fuckin' up the monogamy thing when you're the one always drooling over another guy."

(Broderick's guesses weren't actually far off. He doesn't need to know that.)

Broderick’s expression (and smile) flickers, and he turns to grab his forgotten glass of water, flexing his now freed fingers. “I didn’t realize that was something you’ve been worried about.” The music is pounding a steady rhythm, loud and wild and new to the wizard.

"Not... worried-worried," Bracken corrects with a wince right before he washes down his embarrassment with not-at-all soothing lukewarm beer. "That was stupid. I just meant I don't wanna fuck everything up, like say the wrong thing or–" He waves his free hand for emphasis, which explains literally nothing else and only makes him wish he'd left it on Broderick.

Broderick hums, unsure how to pick up the thread again when old, discarded questions and uncertainties seem to be getting loud and sharp again. He turns to watch the dancers, the synchronicity and the smiles. It was a joke. Probably. But if Bracken decided down the line that it just didn’t work for him, that Broderick wasn’t….then that was okay. At least they gave it a real shot.

“I guess you haven’t seen me dance yet,” he moves past the comment, smile wry as he gestures to the server behind Bracken for another bourbon. “Should wait for that before deciding about a second date.”

Watching that smooth recovery, Bracken wonders if he even needed that 'or' since saying the wrong thing's such a specialty of his — and one the wizard's apparently already plenty used to.

He lets his gaze follow Broderick's for a moment but he'd prefer to look at the man himself instead of the happy folks on the dance floor. (It was the right move; even hundreds of miles from his comfort zone he still looks so damn good.) "Shit, baby, I knew that weeks ago. Only thing on the line's if it involves footwork or not."

“I’ve done my research,” the wizard retorts archly, finger tracing the brim of the cowboy hat resting on the bar top that Bracken had picked out for him. “Toe fans may have been an oversight but, I memorized the top 3 line dances according to Grant and Shalee - King and Queen of country swing. So,” he nods his thanks to the bartender as a fresh bourbon slaps into his waiting open palm. “Yee haw.”

Bracken quietly mimics Broderick's Welsh-lilted "Yee haw" and it's even worse than the original; thankfully, mocking him's an easy route back to feeling normal(: confident and hot), and his smile tugs back at the corner of his lips. "I only got asked out a few hours ago. You do all that this afternoon?"

“I work fast and I’m very thorough,” Broderick challenges, holding Bracken’s gaze as he takes his sip.

The werewolf nods: this one's easy. "You two-step like you fuck."

“As long as that’s all you’re thinking about when you’re boot scooting and staring at my ass in these jeans,” Broderick volleys back.

Bracken, eager student that he is (at least once in a while), slides his hand back onto those very jeans. They're good jeans. It's a good ass. It's a good plan. "What else would I be thinkin' about?"

“The post-date survey.”

He takes back the 'It's a good plan' thing. "Can't I just answer every question '69'?"

“I thought you had more imagination than that,” Broderick’s smile slips crooked. “But no, you can’t. What are the judges saying about the date-date date at the half?”

Aware Broderick's expecting a response—and a timely one!—Bracken flags down the bartender for another beer and doesn't say anything until it's in his grasp. "Outlook's decent. They reckon you'll do just fine on the floor, 'n that you look fuckin' good in Texas, and that I want more of–" he grabs at Broderick's fingers with his free hand, clumsily weaving his own in between (because he's an asshole who wants to make the wizard work for it even though he's the one asking) "–that. Please."

Broderick lets him fumble with their hands, feeling a fierce, wild kind of affection for this man who was so god damn difficult, who had him second guessing things every step of the way. And yet there was never anything easier than this: slotting their fingers together properly so that Broderick can hold this asshole’s hand.

He tugs, settles their joined hands on his thigh while he reaches for his bourbon. He’s losing the sweet smokiness of the stolen BBQ sauce, but this’ll do for now.

“I’m glad I’m here,” he says, confident the werewolf can pick it up just fine despite the loudness of the bar. “With you.”

And Bracken doesn't know what to do. Responding 'Samesies' seems like it'd kill the mood and shoving his tongue down the other man's throat would be beyond rude to the crush of people around them. He's full of fun worries about the countless ways he could fuck any moment up and that's at odds with how goddamn comfortable Broderick makes him feel, like it's okay to maybe fuck up once in a while if it's for a good reason because at least he's trying.

That is, usually comfortable. The close proximity of a couple hundred other people when he's supposed to use his words like this? Maybe less so.

He clears his throat, which comes out as more of a growl, and nods, slowly, mustering something kind of like a sentence: "Good." As in: "That's good." In the end it's probably no better than 'Samesies' would have been.

Because it’s what his mind (and a ghost or two) is urging him to do, Broderick doesn’t let Bracken’s answer make him second guess himself. Instead, he tightens his grip on Bracken’s hand, possessive and proprietary enough on his upper thigh that the cowgirl co-ed who’d just started making her approach for Bracken, abruptly swerves right on by.

“I can uh,” he clears his throat as he finally drags his eyes from the stare he’d had fixed on the girl. “I can pull back on saying that kind of stuff you know. If it makes you uncomfortable.”

After a quick check over his shoulder to find out why Broderick's suddenly shooting daggers at some poor local (and a little thrill from the answer), Bracken responds with a quiet "Fuck that," which does at least sound more assured than his last couple lines, and he punctuates it with a squeeze of Broderick's hand. "I like it. Makes me feel nice. I just ain't..." If he says 'ain't good with words' one more time Broderick's legally permitted to kick his ass out of this date and straight into next week, so he shrugs. "I got the feelings, all of 'em, about you. But I ain't got the reflex to talk about 'em and I'm still learning the vocab so it's gonna take me time to figure out how to say the right shit back when I oughta."

Some girl is hollering loudly about something just behind them, and the din seems to be getting louder as the music switches to Luke Bryan (part of Broderick’s country education), but the wizard only has eyes for the man in front of him. Bracken was plenty good with words when it counted.

“All of the feelings huh,” he wrinkles his nose even as he takes Bracken’s chin with the thumb and forefinger of his freehand, pulling him closer. “How embarrassing for you.”

Bracken's huff might as well be his calling bullshit—it is—but he lets himself be steered nonetheless. (Still, he can't help a muttered "Nah." because it's important to let the huge nerds in one's life know when they're wrong.)

Broderick barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead commits his considerable focus to keeping the werewolf in place while he kisses him nice and slow. He chases the last remnants of the BBQ sauce, a chaste peck deepening with the slide of his tongue. It’s not exactly the type of kiss people are unfamiliar with in a country bar mainlining tequila, but probably a little too thorough for politeness and public decency. Yee-fucking-haw.

“I got the feelings, all of them, for you too.”

When Broderick pulls away, Bracken becomes keenly aware of how his fingers had managed to spread across the wizard's thigh in a bid to explore further. It hadn't been his intention, but then again, he wasn't expecting to get kissed like that and Broderick has a way of making him forget himself. (And his surroundings.) (And his manners.)

"We should start those lessons before all your feelins for me get us thrown out," he suggests even though he's a breath away from suggesting that instead they find some dark corner to– He clears his throat; it's pointed.

The laughter that spills out of Broderick is barely smothered by another quick smear of a kiss, but he buys the clue and leans away. In an obnoxiously dramatic move, he wraps his fingers around the wolf’s wrist and detaches him from his upper thigh by firmly pressing the offending hand back against its owner's chest.

“Best keep your hands off me then, cowboy,” he grasps the hat on the bartop, the obscene confidence he was born with the only thing convincing anyone who watches him struggle to palm it correctly, that he belongs there. “How much do you want to bet I outdance the boots off of you?”

"Ice cream," Bracken replies immediately, as though either of them would even be capable of thinking about another course within the next twelve hours. He gives Broderick's hat a little tip as he stands, his shirt a little tug around the belt as he grabs his own hat — helping the man become as picture-perfect a (Welsh, academic, magical, nerd-ass) cowboy as he seems determined to act. And fuck if the effort isn't endearing.

He pulls Broderick in by the waist for one last kiss that's a bit of retribution by way of there being nothing chaste about it, but he cuts it off just as quickly. Which is also retribution. "Now get that ass 'n those jeans up there." A beat. "Please."

Broderick narrows his eyes. There’s a lot of retribution going around these parts, but he supposes that’s pretty on theme for a western (he’s seen 3:10 to Yuma). He lets it slide; this is now about commitment, and there’s nothing Broderick does better.

“Well since y’all – ” (he doesn’t cringe, he doesn’t, but Bracken snorts) “-- are so polite. Just remember my favourite is rocky road,” he tosses over his shoulder as he steps past, squaring up. If such a post-date survey did exist, Broderick is determined to get that perfect god damn score.

Bracken hangs back just long enough to get an eyeful of the aforementioned ass-and-jeans combo and it's got nothing to do with how Broderick's baseless confidence and commitment to the bit are joining forces to make something feral beat in his chest.

With a sigh and a hint of a smile, he slides his hat on and follows suit — determined to help the other man get that perfect god damn score.

But he's not afraid to lie on the form, either. If he has to.