He doesn't particularly like to be touched. And he tends to like being warm rather than being cold.
Of course, as he's standing on a darkened street, watching the whole apartment building go up in flames, he's soberly thankful for the cool hand on the back of his neck.
Gas leak, the authorities say. Which means that the building needs to be inspected thoroughly, by a government agency. He plans on rechecking everything himself. That is, as soon as they start letting people back into the building. The upper floors are untouched, they say. Lucky them. Well, it's a good thing he had his laptop with him.
He's pragmatic about it. He usually spent his time in the workshops. All of his projects are untouched and that's all that matters. He doesn't even need to pay the rent anymore. After all, it wasn't much of a flat anyway. Not like this one, definitely not. Rich wood floors speak modern extravagance, even if all the odds and ends try to distract you. They describe Samuel Brennon as a man of taste, be it his own or his designer's. It's not a big wonder why girls love to come back with him. And, with the sheer amount of space, it's not a wonder why he always takes them.
It must get lonely in a place like this. The flat really does exude class and he would never pin point a certain brawny Scot as the owner. Actually, with the way it looked, one of his passing fancies must have helped design it.
Really, he'd rather not be staying here. He could kip in the workshop if he really needed to. This... And what with Sam giving him a week off, well, closer to firing him for a week, forbidding him to come within the building's perimeter for the duration, he just plays Tetris on his laptop between walks in the park or rides on the tube for no reason. He really didn't inhale that much smoke, no, really. This is completely unnecessary.
It's boring, the continued tedium.
He tries to be in the flat at Sam's arrival because if he came later, his entrance might as well be accompanied with fanfare. The man would just try to wait on his every whim as soon as his foot was through the door and it was annoying. A bit better than trying to get into his pants, but still. Otherwise, the man was his own exuberant self when he came home telling tales of what mayhem was going on in the office because of his absence. It wasn't particularly comforting, but funny in its own way.
"Hey, Ricky." It had been raining that day and he'd been forced to stay in, since Sam seemed to not own one decent umbrella. Or indecent one, for that matter. Because Warwick couldn't find one in his absence and the man had just come through the door sopping wet. "I've been thinking." He didn't bother lifting his eyes up from the computer screen balanced on his lap.
"Sounds like a cause for celebration."
"Ey, shut it, you. One, because the boys have been naggin' me and two because you've been moping around like a kicked puppy, I figure I can let you come back in tomorrow." The back of the couch dipped slightly as the other leaned on it and Warwick looked up this time, eyebrows raised.
It had only been three days. Sam was grinning ear to ear. "What's the catch, Brennon?"
"Aw, Cherry, don't be like that. You know I only have your best interests at hand. Even I've started to miss your presence over at the office. And someone's been accusin' me of tyin' you up to my bed and forcibly keepin' you here and I can't stand for unfair statements like that."
"If I didn't know better, I'd believe that statement." He watches Sam disappear into the kitchen with a rising feeling of glee.
"Best interests at hand, Ricky!" Perhaps, considering that the bastard actually noticed. With outside help, quite possibly, since when Gale visited on the first day he'd already been bored out of his mind. But still. "Care for some beer with the latest dinner special then? To celebrate your expedient return to the work force after not only sufferin' such a devastatin' personal tragedy but puttin' yourself in harm's way." Sam had gotten in the habit of grabbing his daily meals from the restaurant barely a couple of blocks down.
"Wouldn't be opposed, frankly." As if he'd ever be.
Of course, one bottle quickly turns into several and there was a match on the large, fancy telly but no one had been really paying attention. He is relaxed, at least, which means he hasn't been in a long while. It probably has something to do with the relapse into normalcy. Well, relative normalcy. When they're just having a friendly chat and there isn't some sort of ulterior motive and no one is trying to coddle him to death. He likes this Sam. Very much, actually.
He prods the other in the ribs, gracelessly interrupting him in the middle of a sip of beer and a comment about about the state of the weather in Spain. "Who designed this flat, anyway?" The question is directly related to the previous thought process. In his mind, anyway. Maybe he is a little bit tipsy now. Maybe it's time to put this bottle down. It clicks poignantly on the table as Sam considers the question.
"Well, the main part of it was done by the previous owner, who was a bit of an architect 'imself, then Sabrina liked to rearrange things to suit her 'zen feelin'' from the off-and-on time we had. And I just leave everything where it is, well, I used to, since there's always someone all bargin' in, changin' it all up. Now everything just kind of," a vauge motion with his hands, almost spilling some beer, "falls into place. Dunno. Evolves itself. Or sumthin' like that."
"And it doesn't feel empty ever? It's a big place, it echoes too much, I think."
"Aah, sorry 'bout that, love. T'wasn't my place to keep you holed up here. I think you'd be better off at work, anyway. You spend most of you wakin' moments there. And some non-waking." A sigh. "Figured I'd follow what the doc said, but you know them, always overbearingly cautious. Stay in bed forever and you're set for life. But yeah, as you said. It gets fairly lonely from time to time. You 'onestly think I'm in your workshop all day just so I can shower you with attention?"
"Seems like it." Warwick gives an annoyed sniffle. "I like this better, you know. Just how it used to be, you know. It's nice. Not... stressful."
"You're awfully strict, Ricky. Haven't you ever fancied anyone?"
"I was a fidgety nervous wreck back then, should you know. Lacking even more social grace than now. It's irrelevant."
"Yes, it's relevant, you've got to understand what I'm goin' through here-wait, a minute. You fancy someone now?" He takes a defiant sip of his beer (which had somehow reinstated itself into his hand) instead of an answer. "Oh, come on, Cherry, that's hardly fair. I'm like an open book with you," a snort into his bottle, "no, really, awh, come on, you're killing me here."
Alright, the alcohol is making him far more agreeable and lenient than he really should be. But what's the harm in a little indulgence? An almost long suffering sigh and he presses his lips in a soft peck against Sam's, briefly letting the combination of aftershave and alcohol waft over him. He is planning on going back to the game and his own bottle after but that clearly isn't on the other's to do list. Instead, Sam hovers within a couple of centimeters, eyes dodging between looking straight at him to his lips and back again, and, oh, fine, alright.
This time Sam is actually expecting it and he's coaxing his mouth open and it's all very fast but somehow slow and good and before Warwick even knows it, he's on his back on the couch, blinking up at the bleary ceiling. This is a bit too far, probably. And with the quality of the lighting, he predicts a bit of a hangover for the next morning. Might as well call it quits. "Oi, get off my bed, you." He nudges a frozen Brennon with his knee, who looks like he's done something wrong and is waiting for adequate punishment.
"You aren't mad...?"
Warwick rolls his eyes, but ends up sending the room spinning doing so. "No, I'm intoxicated. And we have work tomorrow, if you've happened to forget. Get. Not to mention we need to get this table place cleaned up. And I need a smoke." The last thing will have to come first and he gingerly lifts himself off the couch, grabbing his carton and lighter from the coffee table, heading out onto the balcony. The city view is inappropriately picturesque and he's glad for the muted noise of traffic that isn't remotely close to some cheesy instrumental playing in the background. The cool air is at least doing all it can to help him sober up.
"You can't just pretend that didn't happen." You really can't have a cigarette in peace around here.
"Yes, I can. Watch."
"No, you really, really can't. It's unfair, Ricky. This is unfair."
"I'm sure you're well aware of the effects of alcohol on people." He'd really wanted to avoid this conversation. But now that it's forced on him, he has to relive the little episode every time Sam speaks. Really, this isn't good.
"Yes, and I know that it doesn't mean people generally do what they aren't inclined to and you just basically admitted you fancied me while, at any other time, you would deny the fact enough to make me believe to opposite. Really, Cherry. Please have some pity."
A sigh and he's forced to finally turn around, leaning back on the barrier between him and a couple dozen stories' fall. "Mind, I'm still drunk and I'll probably deny all this in the morning. Yes, I liked you. Liked. When you weren't after my soul. When you were just a regular, fun-loving guy and a good friend. Not trying to impress me or have at me with every turn. And you reminded me of him tonight. That's all."
"Oh." Well, now that they've reached an understanding. Except, no, Sam has to go and close the gap between them, leaning his hands the railing to both of Warwick's sides. It is hard not to accidentally brush him with the burning stump and their position gets even more precarious. "So you don't like it when I make passes at you? Indulge you, get you things? Not even for work, eh, workaholic?"
"That is useful, but puts me in bad standing with the rest of the guys."
"But I trust your judgement on things that should be done."
"And I trust theirs."
Sam shifts his weight, obviously considering what to say next. It's novel, but the hesitation only lasts a beat before he starts talking again, voice lower and softer, further inserting himself into Warwick's personal space. "And you don't like it when I call you brilliant? Handsome, beautiful? I'm not even lying, you know. Although you might be, shakin' your head like that. Nuh-" a finger instated itself across his lips as he tried to put a word in. "You can blame it on the beer all you like. But before it wears of, mind indulging me some more?"
Fine. Fine, if it's so important to him. Definitely not as a direct result of those mushy, melodramatic adjectives. There's barely any distance between them, anyway, with the way Sam's crowding him. It's not even as uncomfortable as it usually is. Perhaps because no one can possibly be looking. Or maybe because all of his regrets and grievances are waiting for tomorrow morning to jump. He resigns himself to the latter and kisses the man again.
This time, it's longer, softer, and Sam's kissing him like he's the most fragile thing in the world and it's annoying so he takes a step forward and pulls so that they're doing this properly, so they're flush against each other and, dammit, it's good. And then it's gone and it's Sam's fault this time, yet he's grinning like it's Christmas. "That does about settle everythin'. Good night, Warwick."
And then he goes and leaves. Just like that. After using his full name which never, ever, happens. The lights turn off and he's left to figure all this out with a lingering blush and a slowly smouldering cigarette. Great. A puff of smoke and the mint doesn't help erase the musky, heady smell that still manages to linger. Great. Really, just great.
......
The digital display greets him with 1:46. And, judging by the sunlight streaming into the windows, it's not the middle of the night. It's also not really helping the pounding headache. Of course, there's no one to yell at for not waking him up because Brennon is gone and it's not even funny. Warwick mentally plans a phone call to his esteemed boss. But after he finds something to drink.
A happily domestic plate of breakfast greets him instead, with a note describing how cute he was that Sam couldn't bear waking him. Which, in Brennon speak, meant he probably had a similar hangover and decided to let Warwick sleep it off. Why? There's a tall glass of water right next to the atrociously cheery omelet.
Fucking bastard.