InsaneJournal

Horsepower AU Fic: "Calling the Shots"
Title: Calling the Shots
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII (AU)
Series: Horsepower
Pairing: Noah/Vossler
Length: 4068
Rating: NSFW
A/N: Started out as a one-sentence meme-bit, and this is what happened. Takes place about a year and a half before One Horsepower. So, Good Horse --> Long Distance --> Calling the Shots --> One-Horsepower --> Grocery Run.
A/N Part Deux: If you're reading, I'd really love a comment, even if it's blank (honestly, no pressure to say anything!), just to see if any of this is still relevant to people's interests.


Noah makes a beeline for the bar, doesn't look at anything but the cold, already-sweating bottle in his palm. The new business has been one gigantic headache after another--of the six guys he's hired, he's had to fire two of them already, and a third is always late, so that's only a matter of time. He didn't do this to do paperwork and hold interviews--he just wants to build things, to make homes, and he misses Basch, but it's at least another month until he can start expecting him. He's asked Drace for recommendations, and that's where he got two of the three guys on the crew who aren't liabilities, and he's sure Vossler knows some people, but Vossler hasn't spoken to him since he quit, since he put up the sign and became competition (only he's not, not really, because Vossler's crew does mostly commercial sites anyway, but Vossler's a stubborn ass). Noah takes a pull from his beer. The bar is crowded--Friday nights usually are, because it's the weekend for everyone else, but Noah's got to do three interviews and get more work done at the shop--and the music's loud, and they even turned on the bank of colored lights at the back, and people are kind of dancing, even.

He turns, leans against the bar, and watches the crowd. Maybe he’ll try to pick someone up—Christ knows it’s been long enough since he’s gotten any. There are two women—probably college girls, the way their clothes almost match, like they got ready to come out together—dancing fairly well on his side of the crowd, and they’re hot in a kind of generic way, but it’s just too much effort to move, to put on the cocky face, and he doesn’t really want the possibility of someone expecting him to call again. Not now. He’s so sick of the telephone, but there’s nothing he can do but answer it when it rings. Not if he wants to make this company work. Not if he wants to talk to Basch, on the rare chance Basch can find a phone. He looks more—a skinny, earringed guy stands in the corner, and Noah bets he’d be game, but then a tall woman appears at his side with a beer in each hand, and even if they’re not touching, he doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation. He doesn’t really want to talk. He takes another pull at his beer, and he’s barely in the mood to drink now.

Settling more into the bar, he thinks he’ll finish his beer and go. Maybe he’ll luck out and Basch will call, and the worst that will happen is that might actually get more than five hours of sleep tonight. Unlikely, because he’s got to do a bunch of payroll stuff to finish up before the bank even opens, get that done before the interviews and everything else. The lights pulse color across the cramped dance floor, and he lets them blur, relaxes his eyes until everything’s fuzzy, but someone’s breaking up the even silhouette of people, someone a head taller than the—girls, has to be girls—people around him, something familiar in the outline. Noah looks harder, and it’s Vossler, and yeah, he’s surrounded by girls, girls he’s not actually looking at, but who are mostly dancing on him, the arrogant bastard. The purple haze of the light filters over Vossler’s hair, the fluffy spikes that never even lay down fully after a whole day in a hard hat, and he’s got a beer in his hand, is almost smiling.

He should go. Vossler doesn’t want to look at him, made that pretty clear when Noah turned in his notice, and Noah maybe said he’d just as soon choke on his hammer than work with him again—but he doesn’t really want to go back to more paperwork. And Basch almost never calls on a Friday. Usually on Sundays, late. He’s sure this is a bad idea, even as he’s weaving through the people, and Vossler sees him coming, lifts his chin—flaunting that two more inches of height he’s got—and starts actually dancing with the woman all but grinding on his thigh, but Vossler’s still not looking at her. Noah’s not sure why, but for a brief moment, he’s jealous. That doesn’t help anything when he pushes right up to Vossler’s side, bumping into him not-so-incidentally, and Vossler’s eyes narrow.

The music’s loud, too loud to say anything and be heard, because Vossler’s right in front of the speakers, and Noah remembers how they could always hear Vossler’s truck coming up to the jobsite before they could even see it, the awful eighties metal blaring. So Noah sets his jaw and stays where he is, closer than he should be, given the expression on Vossler’s face, where they are. Vossler stops what he’s doing, and now the woman’s glaring at Noah, too, but one of her friends pulls her away because it feels like it’s about to get ugly. Vossler jerks his chin toward the door, and they both cut through a crowd that’s already parting.

The air outside the bar is still so thick it almost seems to part as Noah follows Vossler out. He’d rather be ahead of him, but Vossler wouldn’t let it happen, hurrying without walking faster, the long sweep of his legs and the foreman’s scowl that’s already on his face.

He didn’t go up to Vossler for a fight, and he’s not sure he wants a fight—hell of a thing to have to do interviews with a fat lip or a black eye—but when Vossler keeps going, past the cluster of people that mill around the entrance, all the way out to where Vossler’s truck is parked, Noah thinks that’s what he’s getting. It isn’t until Vossler turns around, squares with him, that Noah thinks maybe that would be okay, anyway. A fight would be something to do, something that isn’t work, isn’t missing Basch.

Vossler raises his beer again—Noah hadn’t even seen it, shadowed by Vossler’s hand and wrist as it was, distracted as he was by the hard set of Vossler’s shoulders in front of him. Vossler finishes the bottle, puts it down purposefully, says, “What?” He doesn’t cross his arms like he used to do on the job, and Noah suspects it’s because he’s about to get socked.

“Nothing,” Noah says. The next words come out before he can stop them. “You’re the one who has a problem, apparently.” It sounds distressingly like “You started it!” in his mind, and Basch would make a face and shift his voice high and mocking at that, like their father did whenever they tried to blame each other for something they’d done jointly. But Vossler did start it, was the one to get his piss in a bubble over something that wasn’t personal in the least.

Vossler scowls blacker. “You ditched my best crew at the—”

“After that big run. Between jobs. I put in my notice. I’m not even bidding on the same jobs. Like hell I ditched—”

“You ditched the company.” Vossler’s hands are fisted at his sides, and Noah’s watching them as best he can, but it’s a conversation that needs the glare, something Vossler’s good at, that supervisory withering stare over Vossler’s own hard features. “I recommended you for a promotion at your next review. Wouldn’t have been more than a month, and you’d have had your own set of framers.”

Noah tightens his jaw. He’s not going to feel guilty about that. “That’s not the same as having your own crew. To go bottom to top on your own job.” He hates that Vossler’s taller than him, that now Vossler’s arms cross his chest. He looks almost amused at that.

“Want to call the shots, do you?”

“Too goddamned right I do.” Noah takes half a step forward, and the streetlight and shadow seem to pick up every muscle under Vossler’s black t-shirt.

“What makes you think you’re qualified?” Vossler lifts his chin again.

“You just said yourself you were going to put me in charge.” Noah takes another step, almost an arm’s length away, but the space feels like it’s collapsing. Like he wants it to collapse, because somewhere in all this macho bullshit—Noah knows what it is, knows he’s as bad or worse than the next guy—the conversation has changed, he’s pretty sure. “Only thing that’s changed is that I don’t work for you anymore.”

“Good,” Vossler says, and the word bites, and maybe he’s still actually pissed about that part, but he also relaxes a little, leans against the tailgate. “So what?”

Noah weighs his options. He was expecting to get hit earlier, but it never happened. If he gets hit now, he won’t really have lost anything, right? He doesn’t know for sure that Vossler even goes this way, but he’d heard stray bits of things on the job that hinted maybe, possibly, and no one’s ever seen him actually out with a woman. Of course, half the guys say that’s because Vossler’s a huge prick and no one would actually date him anyway. Noah rolls his shoulders back—they’re still somehow used to hunching against the cold, though he hasn’t been cold even once since they moved here—and says, “So come back to my place and find out how qualified I am.” He makes himself keep his eyes on Vossler’s face, and Vossler’s expression doesn’t change. The lull draws out, but Noah won’t give in first. Someone else backs their car out and turns it onto the street, and when the dust settles a little, Vossler straightens himself out of his lean.

“My place. I’m not fucking around on seal skins or whatever you Canadians use.” He’s already pulling his keys out of his pocket, thumbing the automatic doorlocks open.

“I’m not Canadian.” It’s reflex now, and there’s no heat in it, not on either side. He steps up into the passenger’s seat, closes the door. “But if you have bear rug fantasies, we’ll talk.” The inside of Vossler’s personal truck smells good. The company truck smells a different kind of good—sawdust and concrete and the metallic tang of nails and rebar—but this smells like Brut and—Noah sniffs, looks behind the seat. There’s a neat rack of fishing rods, no less than three tackle boxes, and that’s what the other scent is. A vague fishyness, comforting in its implication of running water and wild spaces. Noah thinks, maybe, if this goes without major disaster, he’ll ask if Vossler can recommend a decent place for him and Basch to spend a couple of days.

They talk about nothing on the short trip to Vossler’s house, and Noah will worry about how he’s getting home later. He could walk it, if he has to. It’s only a couple of miles, and it doesn’t get cold at night here, and there’s no having to worry about Mr. Kiniviuk’s mad horse charging out of nowhere (sometimes with Basch on her back). She never really did like much of anyone but Basch, not until the sun came back in the spring, and she got through her fence every few weeks, anyway.

When they get inside, Vossler offers Noah a beer, and they stand on opposite sides of the kitchen table for a while, drinking, and Noah remembers what he said. He doesn’t want to be the guy that’s all talk. He puts his bottle down, skirts the edge of the table, and he’s glad to see Vossler put his own drink down when Noah gets close. And this is the tricky part, getting things started, because Noah hasn’t met many guys who like to kiss—at least not many willing to admit it on the first date, and this isn’t even a date; he’s not sure what it is, but he’s pretty sure it’s not a date.

“Going to give me the tour?” Noah’s still not sure where to put his hands, not in a situation like this, but Vossler solves the issue by simply turning, cutting the corner to the livingroom, toward a hallway that Noah assumes leads to a bedroom, but this isn’t a bedroom kind of thing.

“Livingroom,” Vossler says, and Noah takes in the décor at a glance—almost everything black, from the recliner to the couch, and he’s pretty sure they’re both leather, TV that takes up half the wall, and Auburn orange and blue accents from the paired flags that serve as curtains to the coasters and a folded stadium blanket on the arm of the couch. Before Vossler can lead him any further, Noah catches Vossler across the small of the back, nudges him toward the couch.

“This is all I need to see for now,” he says, and he’s pleased when Vossler goes pretty willingly. Noah’s wondering, though, if his mouth wrote him a check he’s not completely sure how to cash, because seeing Vossler settle into the corner of the couch, right at home on all that black leather—Noah’s thinking whips and chains and he can’t help it. He’s never done any of that stuff, and he’s never even seen Vossler without a shirt, but he’s watched his share (and probably Basch’s share, too) of porn, and one of those chest harnesses would probably look ridiculously good on him. He wonders if Vossler’s into that stuff, if he’s into something, because he didn’t really bat an eye at the way Noah had put it, “calling the shots.” There’s a little flare of anxiety at that—Noah’s been on the giving end more than the receiving, sure, and Basch calls him a bossy bitch often enough, but that doesn’t get him closer to understanding what it was, exactly, Vossler thought he meant. Only one way to find out, though, and he still hasn’t been punched.

Vossler’s got his legs kind of spread, and one arm’s stretched out over the back of the couch, like he expects Noah to get comfortable on him. Not exactly. Noah stands in front of him, so their knees just touch, and they both know where this is going—more or less—so there’s no reason to be shy, right? He curls his fingers in the bottom edge of his t-shirt and pushes kneecap to kneecap.

“Let’s see what you hide under those nice button-downs,” Noah says, and he doesn’t lift off his own, not yet.

“Fuck buttons,” Vossler says, and Noah almost wants to laugh, because it did always seem a little out of place, how Vossler seemed impatient even with the short sleeves, and now Noah’s picturing him in one of those white tank tops—but then Vossler’s reaching back, hauling his shirt up and off, and goddamn. Even if he’s not hauling lumber around the jobsite, then, he’s working out or something, because his pecs are broad and smooth—Vossler shaves his chest and it’d be funny if it weren’t so damn hot—and the dark curling trail at his navel makes Noah’s mouth water. It’s only after he’s pulled his own shirt off that it sinks in—Vossler listened to him. Vossler Azelas. And Vossler’s looking at his chest, his chest and his zipper, and looking like there’s something there he wants. That makes Noah feel a little more bold, and when he drops his hand to his beltloops, Vossler sits up, straightens himself. Noah takes a step back, and the space between himself and the couch is conspicuous. He pops open the button, slides his palm firmly over the hardening bulge there. Vossler’s eyes move with Noah’s hand, and if he wasn’t hard before, he is now.

“If you want it,” Noah says, “come and get it,” and he tugs himself out of his boxes, hoping like hell this works. He’s not taking his pants off before Vossler tosses his.

Vossler looks up at him then, but he moves, drops to fill the space at Noah’s feet—Noah has to move back until his calves touch the coffee table, and Vossler reaches, shoves the whole thing back another foot to get his long shins to fit between Noah and the couch—and once he’s there and settled, he doesn’t hedge at all. He yanks Noah’s jeans down more, strips his boxers with them, navigating cock and fabric a lot more deftly than Noah would have thought to give him credit for. He uses both hands on Noah’s hips, his thumbs brushing a tease where the flesh hollows, and Vossler’s tongue is wet everywhere, licking circles around the head and thin stripes up the shaft. Noah’s trying to wait him out, doesn’t want to force him to suck, and this is good, bastardly, infuriatingly good, because every time he thinks that the licking’s starting to be enough—especially when Vossler flattens his tongue, just rubs it on the underside of his cock, the heat of his mouth so wickedly close—Vossler backs off, licks at his balls or mouths the inside of his thigh.

When he points his tongue and dips it into the slit, teasing even there, Noah clutches a little at Vossler’s shoulders, and Vossler’s eyes flick up, though he doesn’t move his tongue any more than that fraction of an inch. Vossler’s eyes flick up, and the corners of his mouth turn with them, the sly bastard, and yeah, Noah’s made up his mind. He slides his hand from Vossler’s shoulder to the back of his neck and pulls him forward.

“Suck,” he says, and he’s glad he can keep the moan out of his voice for that because when Vossler tightens his lips, pushes all the way down until Vossler’s nose touches his skin, until Vossler’s throat works tight around the head of his cock, the sound fills Noah’s throat, his mouth, the room. The son of a bitch has been holding out on him, on everyone. The arrogant, grudging hardass sucks cock like a dream, sucks it and likes it, if the way Vossler’s eyes are closed and his fingers are flexing, pulling Noah closer in sweet little jerks, is any indication. It’s just too good, and Noah thinks it might be worth the risk, because he still hasn’t gotten hit and he’s calling the shots. He tightens his fingers on Vossler’s nape and pulls back, his own fingers around his cock while Vossler rewets his lips and eases his jaw. Watching that--Vossler opening his mouth wide and closing it again, knowing he was a stretch, Vossler’s tongue on his reddened lips—that’s almost as good as it felt when they were on him.

Noah thinks he deserves to be hit for this, but he can’t help it, doesn’t want to help it—it only takes two rough-fingered strokes until he’s coming, and he paints one white streak over Vossler’s cheek and the bridge of his nose before he cups the rest in his palm. His hand’s a mess, and his boxers will be, too, but so’s Vossler, and Noah feels giddy. Giddy, and maybe touched with a little dread, but Vossler doesn’t come up swinging. Instead, he wipes his face clean with one hand and smears the come across Noah’s stomach. He’s kind of smiling.

“You’re an asshole.” Vossler levers himself up with Noah’s belt loops, so he’s standing and Noah’s jeans are pooled at his shins, but he’s not moving away, and the bulk of his cock is tantalizingly evident.

“And you loved it.” Noah tugs his jeans back up with his clean hand, wipes his other hand on the inside of his boxers. At this rate, a little more won’t matter. He reaches then for Vossler’s fly, tracing the hot swell with his fingertips before sliding his palm flat against it. He squeezes, just a little, and Vossler’s exhale is gratifyingly wanton.

“Love it more if you’d hurry up.” Vossler rocks into his hand a little and Noah squeezes harder.

“I’m calling the shots, remember?” He opens Vossler’s belt as slowly as he can, but it’s not easy because all he really wants to do is get his mouth on Vossler, too. “And your cock doesn’t seem to be complaining.” Vossler wears black briefs, and the head of his cock juts over the top of them. Noah rubs his palm over it, heavy and velvet-hard, and there’s already a wet smear on his hand. Vossler’s chest is right there, too, and he leans in, leaves a bite over one nipple, and grins. “So damn glad I quit.” He slides his hand into the heat of Vossler’s underwear, strokes over the shaft while his wrist is held close and awkward by the elastic, but he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“Good riddance,” Vossler says, his voice strained as Noah’s fingertips touch his balls, and Noah has to look. Pushing Vossler’s briefs down, he follows, but he shifts Vossler back to toward the couch, and Vossler sits. He doesn’t want to take the time to get Vossler’s pants all the way off, so he spreads his legs wider over Vossler’s, holding his knees together and pushing his hips into the couch. The couch smells so good, perfect with the masculine scent of Vossler’s cock, the clean sweat and a touch of cologne higher up, and Noah doesn’t tease because this is what he wants, and yes, it’s exactly what he wants, Vossler trying to arch up, push him deeper, and Noah gets his hand on one of Vossler’s wrists and holds it down while he sucks. The muscle under his fingers shifts with the clenching of Vossler’s fist, but he doesn’t move it, and his cock twitches on Noah’s tongue, the bitter taste of come sharpening on it. This is always tough, not knowing exactly what the signs are, but that’s a good one, and so is Vossler’s in-drawn hiss, how he can feel the tendons in Vossler’s wrist go tight, so he pulls back, too, licks his palm and strokes him, spit-slick, until Vossler tips his head back against the couch, teeth bared as his cock pulses white on his own stomach and Noah’s hand. When Vossler knocks his hand away—one last twitch that makes Noah want to do the whole thing again—Noah returns the favor, wiping come on Vossler with a grin and enjoying the flat pane of his stomach.

“Dick,” Vossler says, but he just tugs his briefs back up, lets the zipper on his jeans hang open. It’s still a nice view.

Noah sits on the other side of the couch. “You’ve said so before,” he says, stretching, and it’s almost two in the morning. He should go—it’s almost an hour’s walk, anyway. He pulls on his t-shirt—he’ll wash up when he gets home; the come on him is dry now, not a big deal—and stands up. “Thanks.” He probably shouldn’t say it, but he’s pretty sure he shouldn’t have walked up to Vossler at the beginning of the night, too. “Ever want to do that again sometime, I’m game.”

Vossler cleans off with a handful of tissues, yanks his shirt over his head, and his hair gets even more ridiculous than it was before. “If you’re willing to go the other way, next time.” He’s looking at Noah evenly, and Noah’s not really sure how to answer, because he’s not sure what that means for Vossler, either. But hell, why not?

“All right,” he says. “I’ll think about it.” He suspects he’ll think about it all the way home, in the shower tonight, possibly tomorrow during interviews if they’re not going well.

“Fair enough.” Vossler stands up, too, walks to the kitchen, picks his keys up from the table. “Got everything you came in with?”

Noah pats his pockets, makes sure his wallet and keys are still there. They are. “You don’t have to drive me home.” The whole situation’s surreal enough without Vossler dropping him off at the mailbox.

“I’m going to the diner. I can drop you off on the way, or you can come get food, and I’ll drop you off on the way back.” Vossler’s already walking out, and the only thing Noah can do is follow, make sure the door closes behind him. A cup of coffee and some waffles sounds better and better with each step.