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Reece can’t stand this bar, and it isn’t even because it’s queer.
Even Steve’s presence beside him isn’t the soothing balm it usually is on undercover assignments — the lights are too bright, the music too loud. He’s got a headache behind his eyes that’s pulsing in time with the heavy bass of the club music. Steve blows out smoke in his face.
Reece is here because he can lip read. “You owe me,” Steve had said, smiling, and Reece didn’t even ask what he owed Steve for.
Steve widens his eyes and jerks his head — he’s spotted their suspect. “Behind you,” he says.
Reece swears. “It’ll be suspicious if I turn around, won’t it?”
“Yeah,” Steve says, then pauses, takes a drag. “Come here, I’ve got an idea.”
Reece slides off his chair. Steve grabs Reece’s hips and yanks him forward, stumbling, colliding into him. He takes Reece's hands and places them on his shoulders, then spins them around so Reece has their suspect in sight. Steve’s got that nice green shirt on, let one of their WPCs do him some eyeliner. It suits him.
Steve traces his mouth down Reece’s neck, arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
“What the ‘ell do you think you’re doing?” Reece gets out, higher-pitched and less indignant than he’d like.
“Undercover, remember?” Steve murmurs, mouth next to Reece’s ear. His breath is warm.
Steve says something else, probably important to their case, but Reece can't focus on the words themselves, too distracted by the shape of them pressed burning into his skin, by Steve’s hand slipping beneath his leather jacket and warming his skin through the polyester of his shirt. He’s got one of Steve’s thighs between his own, solid muscle and a haze of smoke around them.
Maybe this club isn’t so bad.