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Sturges takes the back route to Church's house right ‘round three, unlatching the back gate and picking his way through the vegetable planters. He gives Dogmeat a good scratch under the ears when the dog comes over to investigate him, licking his hands and weaving between his legs, snapping at the fat flies that take to the air when they brush past the bean trellises.

It's been a good week for Sturges, all in all. The weather has been unseasonably kind, the mutfruit patch behind his shed is fruiting hard, and Church is back in town with no ambitions of moving on for a good while. A few weeks, maybe a month. He turned up a few days ago and parked up in his house without fanfare, already asleep on the sway-backed sofa when Sturges called ‘round for a social call.

That’d been a nice homecoming, square over the kitchen bench and loud enough to make the neighbours next door avoid catching his eye when he called around later to buy some milk for their meal.

Lord knows what the folks next door might make of this afternoon. The way Church pitched it made it sound like a perfectly reasonable proposition: come on over, make a little small talk, fuck in the warm afternoon sunlight while Church’s big piece on the side watches with rapt adoration.

The things we do for love, he thinks. The things he readily says yes to after a big steak dinner and Church working him over ‘til he’s a boneless pie-eyed fool near melting into the couch cushions. If it was anyone else he’d be a little miffed at being so expertly played like a cheap fiddle, but hey. Curiosity was quite the motivator.

He takes the step up to the garage and sidesteps the drop cloth laid out on the garage floor, a robot thruster in pieces in the middle. Each part is laid out in a grid, letters and numbers messily penciled into the canvas underneath each gleaming piece so it can all go back together without a screw left over.

Maintenance day, he guesses. Poor Codsworth was taking a short break from existence to get his parts briskly scoured with a big wire brush, polished back to gleaming metal and de-caked of carbon and grime.

He'd say he was sad to miss the pleasure of the robot’s company, but that'd be a bald faced lie. It's gonna be hard enough to put the sweet moves on his beloved while Church's big burly Brotherhood dog watches on, let alone hone his a-grade material to a chorus of disapproving robotic noise about certain people leaving greasy handprints on the scrubbed formica.

Dogmeat gives the disassembled robot a wide berth and eagerly noses against the door, shoving between Sturges’ legs and whipping the back of his knees with his tail.

“You know there’s no dogs in the house, buddy,” says Sturges, bracing his arm against the door and picking at his bootlaces, one dry knot at a time. Dogmeat’s tail wags harder, hard enough to make his knees buckle if he’s not careful.

Well, one dog, he thinks, tugging one bootlace loose. One big dog with a penchant for duty and honour and, uh, playing fetch. He's still not real clear on the details of what Danse and Church actually do beyond the obvious, truth be told. Maybe it'll be a fine icebreaker to use this afternoon. So what tricks do you know, Rex?

To his credit he doesn't startle like a jackrabbit when Danse unexpectedly opens the door out from underneath his hand, stepping backwards as Sturges takes a stumble over the stoop. He nearly takes a handful of Danse’s thick chest to find his balance - and there's a whole lot of it filling his vision as he tips forward, and for a moment all he can think is Church sure has a type - before he grabs the door frame instead, saving everyone a whole mess of embarrassment.

“I heard a noise,” Danse says by way of explanation, and bodily blocks Dogmeat from slipping between their legs.

“Out,” says Church sharply from behind him, and makes a loud clicking sound with his tongue. Dogmeat reluctantly allows himself to be gently pushed back outside with a whine, and Sturges gives him a pat before firmly closing the door in his face.

“Not the entrance I wanted to make,” says Sturges with a chuckle, and pulls off his work boots. No point in leaving them outside unless he wants Dogmeat to destroy them even further. There's only so much reparative duct tape a man can use to keep his boots in one piece, and he's beyond that limit already.

Church looks freshly scrubbed pink, his hair wet and uncombed and falling over his eyes when he takes Sturges by the shoulders, fingers digging into the sunwarmed cotton of his shirt as he kisses him light and sweet.

It's a treat to see Church without his hair set with pomade and brushed pristine, a fastidiously tidy piece of the old world that he stubbornly refuses to abandon. It's not like Sturges is unfamiliar with a touch of vanity in that regard himself - the higher his hair, the closer he is to the Almighty - but Church keeps himself damn near pristine. Having him damp and unpolished and refreshingly soft ‘round the edges is a delight, and Sturges breathes in the antiseptic scent of carbolic soap on his skin as he says now do it proper and gives him a big wet kiss and threatens to dip him low for good measure.

“Ease up,” says Church, but the corner of his mouth gives away his amusement. He squeezes Sturges’ hand and steers him to the kitchen bench, clearing away a big bowl of nearly rotten mutfruit to give him enough space to rest his elbows when he takes a seat.

They make a little conversation between them, and Sturges takes a good look at Danse looming big in the corner of the kitchen. He looks like he's close to shitting himself, dark brows beetled in an over-wrought telegraphing of nervousness as he alternates between chugging his beer and washing up a few dishes with an intensity unsuitable to a soapy sea sponge and yellowed melamine plates.

Danse glances over his shoulder when he thinks no one is looking, a move about as subtle as a punch in the face. Sturges can feel Danse eyeballing him from toe to tip, sizing him up and getting a read on the way he sits and laughs and fills the room. There's no malice in it that he can feel, and if he's mastered at least one soft science over the years, it's the art of knowing the difference between someone taking a measure of him and someone mentally calculating how sizeable a shallow grave they'd have to dig for his big ol’ burly ass.

Truth be told he's got no real outwards opinion on Danse ‘cept that he's handy to hold a plank of wood in place and give a well armoured stinkeye to anyone with ambitions of shaking down the locals, but he gives Church something that Sturges can't provide and won't provide.

Control. Order. Faithful obedience. Admirable traits behind closed doors, but not exactly words Sturges would be quick to pin to himself without his tongue firmly in his cheek.

What Danse gives Church - what Church gives Danse - makes the man mildly more agreeable which in turn makes him happy. It’s unconventional, sure. Not exactly the romantic relationship that he'd envisioned for himself during his tender years, but hey. It's good. Most of the time it’s better than good, and after nearly forty years on earth, Sturges wasn't inclined to say no to someone who made him happy just ‘cause it wasn't like something from a storybook.

Danse hands him a beer with soapy fingers. He nods his thanks and wedges the bottle into the crook of his arm, popping the cap free with a flex. It's a cheap showy trick but it plays up his assets, and worked on Church like a charm the first time, the second time, near every time since. He clicks the bottle against Church’s glass of flat soda water, and turns to offer a toast with Danse.

He taps his near empty bottle to Sturges’ after a moment of hesitation, his hands still covered in suds. “To your health,” he says, and clears his throat.

They make a little practical small talk at the kitchen table. Things that need to be done around the place, the barn engine that Sturges built with Mrs Connie over at Abernathy last month to chop and bale alfalfa hay. There's a reclamation project about to start on east end of Sanctuary once they get enough concrete banked, with an unsubtle hint that if Danse wanted to use the lifting power of his beloved tin can to aid with clearing some logs then that'd be just dandy.

Truthfully they all manage just fine without Church around any more, but it's still nice to have some improvements out in the boonies backed up by the relative impressiveness of the General of the Minutemen, even if Church's signature is mostly forged by Garvey these days.

Technically his fella still occupies the position of General in name, although not in practice. Nothing wrong with taking advantage of a little cronyism to benefit the greater good, a statement that even Garvey agrees with after a few drinks.

“Your level of impromptu organisation is impressive,” says Danse, finally joining them at the bench. He carefully stands exactly equidistant to him ’n Church both, his hands at his sides like he's not entirely sure what to do with them. “If you're ever looking to make a real difference then I'm sure the Br--”

Church cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head. “Danse.”

“No harm in asking,” says Sturges, not wishing to walk straight into that particular ideological minefield. “Orange ain't my most flattering colour though.” He picks at the damp label with his thumbnail, peeling it back from the bottle in stubby strips, and gives Danse a sly look over the top of his glasses. “But if you big boys want to make some goodwill and drop off a few comforts to the locals out here in the sticks, then I don't think anyone would think complain about it too loud.”

Church wisely stays out of the conversation, opting instead to take a seat on the bench and busy himself with twisting the stem off a pock-marked mutfruit and catch the juice on his tongue before it spills on the countertop. He rests his foot on the brace of Sturges’ stool, and encourages the immediate wandering of Sturges’ hands with a silent nod.

“I’ll pass the idea to my command,” says Danse. The look on his face says not a chance in hell.

Finally, eventually, Sturges decides that it's now or never. Enough with the small talk. He catches Church's sleeve and tugs him down a little to kiss him real gentle, all cigarettes and astringent toothpaste and syrupy sweet fruit.

Church comes to life under his ministrations. He licks into Sturges’ mouth, knots his free hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugs until Sturges is tilting his chin up, taking his mouth until they're both breathing a little harder, a little deeper.

Danse's eyes are as big as dinner plates, and he twists his beer bottle between his fingers, tight around the narrow glass neck.

“Danse,” says Church. The big guy starts before his name has died on Church's tongue, snapping to attention.

Keen, thinks Sturges. Or nervous. Both are good. They're reassuringly human emotions on a guy with a standard issue stick wedged so far up his ass that he makes Church looks relaxed and easygoing in comparison.

“Take a chair into the bedroom. Wait in there.” He nods approvingly when Danse abandons his beer and grabs at the heaviest armchair in the living room, rocking it onto its back feet and dragging it over the knotted rag rug. Three other chairs he could've taken, none that weighed as much as a man, but that's what he went for.

Hell if he knew why. Maybe he wanted to show off. Maybe that's what was expected of him. To be the biggest, the hardest working, the most eager to please and excel and rise above the competition.

No wonder Church indulges him, Sturges thinks. They've got more in common than either of them realise.

The chair scrapes down the bare floor in the hallway, knocks against the bedroom door with a hollow thump.

“You good?” Sturges combs back Church's damp hair, rubs his thumbs over his cheekbones. From this close he can see the lines under his eyes, shadowed deeper than usual. He gives him a slightly soppy smile and slides off his chair to stand snug between his knees. “Good to have you back, sweetheart.”

“Yeah.” He looks tired. There's a new cut on his jaw, scabbed over but mostly healed. “You know I've been thinking about you.”

“Better hope so.” Sturges kisses him again, and their glasses click and collide and push into the bridge of their noses. “I hope your boy in there isn't expecting a whole song and dance.”

“He expects nothing more than he's going to get. What we decided.” Church leans back enough to finish his piece of fruit, spitting the pip into the bin. Sturges takes his hand and sucks the juice from his fingers, careful and slow, until they're both breathing heavy. “No songs.”

“And you don't dance,” says Sturges, hands on Church's hips as he slides from the bench. They're pressed together from belly to knee, a matched fit. “Which is a damn shame ‘cause I cut a mean rug. But I get you. Light and easy.”

“If I took you dancing I'd stand on your feet,” says Church, smoothing down the collar of Sturges’ work shirt before giving him a little push until he takes a step back to set him free. “Take a load off. I've got something to attend to first.”

“That's fine,” says Sturges warmly. “You go do what you gotta do. I want to wash up anyway.”

Being fine should be a lie - probably, reasonably, for a given value of ‘fine’ - but in a way he's made a good peace with the idea of Danse as the silent rare intrusion into the… the arrangement he's got with Church. Which sounds clinical and transactional, maybe, but god knows Church ain't someone who the word ‘boyfriend’ fits comfortably against.

Not to imply that Church fights against being his sweetheart, or rejects the concept outright. It's just wrapped a little different, all locked up tight behind his closed doors. The signs are there though, hints of warmth like little delicate flickers of flame buried deep behind the veneer Church lacquers over himself, all glossy and hard and distant.

But hey, Sturges is a craftsman who has always prided himself on having a fine eye for little details. Him ‘n Church, they have a private light shining just for each other. Romantic gestures are nice, and he'd never turn down a nice handful of flowers on occasion, but the older he gets the less importance he puts on grand displays of affection.

This is good. They're a good fit, both of them. Other people come and go, other people warm the big bed at the back of his workshop when the mood strikes, but him ‘n Church keep going on regardless, steady and reliable.

Danse being on the edge of their orbit is just currently part and parcel of it. It's an outlet. Like Church's bone deep craving for order builds up until it has to break free somewhere, and god knows Sturges would cuff him on the ear if he demanded anything more than a little tongue-in-cheek yessir/nossir when the mood strikes.

If they both ultimately get something beneficial from finding someone to be Church's real good dog then hell, who is he to say no?

Besides. Maybe one day he’ll be the one sitting in the corner of the bedroom, hand on his dick in rapt attention while Church trains his big Brotherhood hound to sit and obey. Stranger things have happened. Depending on how this afternoon goes he might even be not particularly adverse to the idea.

Maybe, possibly. No sense in putting the brahmin before the cart.

He kills some time and drains his beer, and takes the opportunity to empty his pockets. The day-to-day essentials land unceremoniously into a faded enamel dish painted with red crabs promising him a cracking good time. A few caps, a clean handkerchief, a bolt and screw gauge that he stamped into a sheet of tin last week. His copy of Church's side door key, a chuck from the new drill press that he's still wary of. The vitals.

Church leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. He acknowledges Sturges quietly slipping into the bathroom with a slight lift of his chin. Somewhere in the dozen steps between the kitchen and the front bedroom he's already lit up, a cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth and smoke wreathing around his glasses as he watches Danse making the bed.

Sturges takes a peek too, just ‘cause he can. Clean sheets stretched across the mattresses, tucked tight with crisp folds at the corners, drawn tight enough that Sturges could probably bounce a cap off the cotton. The sheets are creamy off-white, bleached hard to wipe away any signs of age. The linen must've cost Church a fortune.

“Atta boy,” says Church. Danse laughs at that, a kind of embarrassed huff that trails off into nothingness. “Did you get some--”

“Some towels,” says Danse, too eager by half. He pulls up the coverlet and smooths it flat, setting the knitted stripes straight and even. “I stacked them by the bathroom door.”

A glance in the mirror confirms it. Some small towels were indeed folded up on a shelf by the door, all of them worn and faded and none bigger than a shirtfront. The fact that Danse has been tasked to prepare makes him feel inexplicably nervous. This isn’t just fooling around with his sweetheart while said sweetheart’s occasional… shit, he still didn’t really know to clearly define what Danse was. Outlet. Piece on the side. Reliable friend?

... gentleman caller, his mind supplied, and he bit back the urge to snort with laughter at the inappropriateness of it. According to Mama Murphy’s paperbacks a gentleman caller showed up with flowers and a chocolate box. Danse just showed up at the back door with an apparent limitless desire to switch off the burden of authority, and probably with a thick hound’s collar held hopefully in his hand for good measure.

Hell, whatever works for him, although some flowers and a box of dainties to go with that collar would make him infinitely more likeable in Sturge’s opinion. Danse could sleep curled on a burlap sack at the end of the bed for all he cared, but only if he had the courtesy to provide a supply of sweet cake first.

Anyway. The fact that Danse, either through self direction or obedience or both, had planned ahead to the sweaty cleanup afterwards put a whole ‘nother spin on the afternoon.

Shit. Now he really had to make it impressive. Church said there was no show expected, but shit . He’s hoping he didn’t go soft or put his back out or...

“--always prepared,” says Church, cutting through the white noise of his silent panic. “Pillows next.”

Danse leans over the bed, one knee up as he squares the pillow on the far side of the mattress. He jeans pull tight across his thighs.

Sturges isn't truly intending to look through the still-missing wall panels in the bathroom, an assurance that sounds weak even to himself, but it's wise to scope out the territory. Isn't that what Danse would do? Tactical assessments and all that soldier boy brahminshit.

Anyway, the old curtains are still drawn back to flood the room with afternoon sunlight. If anyone is truly guilty of taking a peek it's the people walking past to their way to the market, looking with curiosity into the rarely occupied front bedroom of Sanctuary’s most absent resident.

What a sight it must be from the outside. There's already a healthy amount of well meaning gossip in town about Church and himself having a long irregular courtship and when, if ever, they'll settle down into sensible monogamy. Adding in the sight of Danse devotedly making Church's bed is going to add a new element of excitement for the next few days.

If Sturges was in the room as well the Gundersons across the way would have an apoplexy and dine out on the salacious gossip for weeks. There'd be no dealing with it.

“Good,” says Church, and ashes his cigarette into his near empty glass of soda water. “Right where I want you.”

Danse makes that embarrassed noise again, but leans over further, putting on more of a show. Sure , thinks Sturges, and turns back to the mirror to make sure his hair is still looking presentable. Ok. Big guy, big muscles.

Good lord, but his fella is predictable. Big and bulky, his type to a tee.

The light gleaming through the gaps in the wall goes golden and muted as the curtains finally get pulled. Thank god.

“You'll sit,” says Church. “Don't unzip your pants. Don't unbutton them. You can touch your dick through your jeans, you can get yourself off, but you can't put your hands under the waistband.”

“I'll keep my hands where you can see them at all times,” says Danse, tongue in cheek. “This is a small challenge.”

“Tough shit. It'll be worth it.” He clears his throat. “I'll make sure it's worth it if you're good.”

There's a muffled noise. The heavy chair being moved, the weight of two hundred pounds of muscle hitting strained upholstery. Whatever Danse is saying it's too low to hear.

“No,” says Church. He sounds tired. “Trust me. Heel or leave. You know how this goes . ”

The door frame creaks when Church pushes off it, rolling his shoulder and almost spilling his foul glass of ash when he steps into the still-humid bathroom.

Sturges wipes his face dry and gives him a slightly concerned look in the mirror. The bare bulb Church installed a month prior does neither of them any favours, highlighting every line and crease on their respective faces. Church licks his fingertips and pinches out his smoke with a slight sizzle, dropping the butt into the glass and leaving the whole mess on the bench to stew.

“C’mere,” Sturges says quietly, and bundles him up in his arms and takes his mouth. It feels almost illicit to be kissing him with Danse on the other side of the half-hollow wall, which is doggone ridiculous no matter how he cuts it. He takes his mouth and chases the taste of mutfruit and ash on his tongue, and runs his big hands down the length of Church's spine and digs into his ass.

“You c’mere,” Church counters him and sits down on the toilet seat, tugging Sturges between his knees. He smooths his hands down his sides, down his thick thighs and filling his palms with as much of him as he can, and rests his forehead on Sturge’s stomach with a quiet sigh.

Sturges rests his hands on his shoulders and digs his thumbs into the curve of his neck, prodding at his muscle and meat until the tense set of his shoulders eases a little.

“No harm if you change your mind,” says Sturges.

Church makes a disparaging noise into the fabric of his trousers and rolls his cheek over Sturge's fly, before sitting back enough to unbutton him and pull his dick free with a heady mix of enthusiasm and gentleness.

The angle isn't real good for either of them and the thrill of being blown through his fly faded for Sturges when he was seventeen, but it's the principle of the thing that matters. Artfully sucking cock has never been Church's number one talent but it's an enjoyable ride regardless, the warmth of his mouth enough to overcome any lingering nerves about putting on a show.

He runs his fingers through Church's damp hair and cups his jaw, and grunts when he swallows wet around him. “Sweetheart,” he says softly, and holds him a little closer, pushes his cock a little deeper until Church pushes at his thighs and pulls back, breathing hard through his nose before letting Sturges use his mouth a little more.

Danse sneezes on the other side of the wall and, after a moment, says ‘excuse me’ to the empty room.

You're excused , mouths Sturges, and grins when Church looks up at him with a lil’ hint of laughter in the lines ‘round his eyes and his mouth full of dick.

It'd be tempting to let Church suck him off and blow over that patrician face, calling the day off entirely and telling Danse to beat it and try again later. But, shit, to hell with it. He's got some bravado up his sleeve now. He's kept his afternoon free for this, his cock is hard, and he's going to go into that room and give that third wheel sitting in the corner an eyeful of his big round ass. Ad Victoriam, Paladin.

Sturges puts his dick back in his pants and hauls Church up by the elbow, and swats him on the rump. There's enough cup to his palm to make the sound crack hard, echoing off the tiles.

“C’mon you,” he says loud enough that Danse can hear him. “Lemme take you to bed.”

Sturges walks him backwards to the bedroom, steering him by the elbows until he’s kissing him with great enthusiasm, close enough to Danse that he keeps brushing against his knees.

“You need to relax more,” he advises him, and combs his fingers through Church's damp hair. “He needs to relax,” he says over his shoulder to Danse, as if there was any possible way he might've missed it.

“That recommendation has been made before,” says Danse. “It was ignored.”

“Nothing like that selective deafness,” says Sturges. He laughs at Church's almost imperceptible grunt of annoyance at being discussed like he’s not there.

“I've noticed that the ability to follow orders in that vein seems to be turned on and off at his discretion.”

“Well shit,” says Sturges, turning around to turn the full force of his sunny grin on Danse. “You make jokes? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He takes off Church’s glasses with careful fingers, folds them down and places them into the nook of the headboard, next to the alarm clock set ten minutes fast and yet another pack of cigarettes, behind jars of herbal oils and a big pot of lanolin traded from somewhere way west. The junk and detritus of a bachelor’s life, multiplied by two. “You good, hoss?”

“Less fussing,” says Church but kisses him anyway, running his hands along Sturges’ arms from shoulder to elbow, lingering over the swell of his biceps.

“I’m allowed a little fussing,” says Sturges, firmly overruling him. “It's my hobby.”

He crowds Church backwards until his knees hit the side of the bed, toppling backwards and taking Sturges with him with a loud oof of expelled air. They roll onto the mattress, knees and elbows everywhere, tussling over who gets the upper hand. Church twists and does his damn best to get himself back on top and in control, but Sturges kisses him quiet and pins his hands by his head, wrists held against the cotton sheets with a grip he could break out of easily.

He's half expecting Church to shake free and flip him over and put things back to how he likes them, neat and orderly and in the right place. Church on top, Church in control, Church all locked away and shuttered up. 'Cept he doesn't. Goes all quiet and turns his chin, and rolls his eyes when Sturges gives him a soppy grin.

“Look at you,” he says tenderly, and presses his lips over the drumbeat of Church's pulse in his throat. A small voice in the back of his head says that he’s not gonna like being treated like this, not in front of his boy, but he ignores it. “More handsome every time I see you.”

Church squints up and tells him to go fuck himself, but not unkindly. Sturges laughs anyway, says that he always knew his soft spot for him ran a mile wide.

Danse makes a noise at that, air being exhaled between his teeth. Sturges chances a glance back at him and offers up a friendly grin. Danse is pink in the cheeks, a picture of studied nonchalance in the threadbare armchair.

“You hanging in there, big guy?”

“Fine,” says Danse. He opens his mouth when Church impatiently arches his hips up, strokes one socked foot down Sturges’ thigh, and swallows nervously, his throat sticking with a loud click. “It's more than fine. I encourage you to continue.”

Sturges takes his time. He tugs down the knitted cover and undresses Church real reverently on those bleached sheets, rolling down his socks and bestowing a kiss on the bony line of his shin where the thick wool has worn and rubbed and left behind smooth skin. His undershirt, his briefs, all divested with a careful hand, like it's the first time he's got to unwrap such a surly, cigarette-scented treasure.

He ditches his own clothes with a whole lot less care, stripping bare as quick as he can undo his buttons, shimmying free and tossing them on to Danse’s lap. Danse turns his worn work pants over in his hands, rubs the seams between his fingers and presses it to his nose.

Sturges poses at the end of the bed buck naked but for his glasses. The warm light filtered through the curtains does him a world of favours and he's not above playing to his appreciative audience with a flex of his muscles. “Now you’re gonna tell me I’m the the prettiest thing you’ve laid eyes on all day, right?”

Church snorts derisively but his eyes crinkle up at the corners and the corner of his mouth lifts a little, and that's as fine as a belly laugh from anyone else.

“Maybe,” he allows. “It's been a slow day.”

“Breakin’ my heart, handsome,” he says, mock wounded. Sturges walks up the mattress on his knees and lazily waves his finger in the air, a silent order to roll onto his belly. Church obeys, albeit begrudgingly, and Sturges grins to himself when he hears the armchair creak in answer.

Poor guy. Danse must be sweating rivers.

Sturges squeezes Church’s ass and sits across the back of his thighs, runs his hands from neck to waist parallel to his spine.

“You look like shit,” he says kindly. The way he's laid out on the mattress tells Sturges about all he needs to know about how Church's month has been. There's a twist to his shoulders and his hips are uneven; every firewatch spent sitting on rough ground, every mile of boot leather worn out under the pull and tug of an loose rifle sling, all carved out on his muscles and bones.

“Let me work out your back.” He gives him a little pat, feeling just a touch melancholy. “Someone oughta take better care of you.”

“Horseshit,” says Church, his voice muffled by the crook of his elbow. “Got too much to do to take a bubble bath every night.”

“Now that's a nice thought,” says Sturges, bulldozing straight past the prickly rebuttal. “I'm gonna make that happen. What do you think?”

He tosses the last sentence over his shoulder. Danse's eyes are as big as dinner plates, his hands flying to the arms of the chair, transparently embarrassed at being caught palming himself through his jeans.

“I'll endeavour to assist,” he says, after just enough of an uncertain pause to make the friendly grin on Sturges’ face feel pasted on. “I’ll make it part of my duty of care.”

“Like hell,” says Church into the coverlet. “Do that and I'll jam my fist so far up your--”

“Another pretty thought,” says Sturges smoothly, cutting him off with a knuckle hard into his scapula. “Next time you take me on a hot date to the big city it can be you, me, and a big jar of vegetable oil. You can take me past the wrist, you reckon?”

He doesn't need to see Church's face to know that he's chuckling silently to himself, but Danse's almost sweet little draw of breath is a right delight.

Objectively he knows that the guy is nowhere near a virginal shrinking violet. Church's occasional moments of pillow talk confirmed that, the warmth of his descriptions tempered by the hand-in-hand confession that there were things Danse cajoled for that were well out of Church’s wheelhouse in both interest and comfort.

The big Brotherhood paladin is an apparent empty vessel, keen to fill his ledger with every experience at least once, and this afternoon was another line in his wishlist. By the sounds of it his brother-in-arms pushing him down and splitting him wide was just added to the tally.

Church blindly reaches up to the headboard and takes the first jar he touches, shaking it twice and handing it back to Sturges. The room fills with the scent of carrot flowers when he unscrews the dented cap, tipping a little oil onto the small of Church's back, just enough to puddle along his spine.

Sturges rubs him down with firm strokes, over his flanks and down to the sparse smattering of hair at the dip of his back. The tender skin inside his thighs shines a luminous tan when he palms him wide, offering a gentle respite from the mean touch against his back. His dick sinks between his thighs as he leans forward to push his weight into Church’s back, riding him as he shifts restlessly against the mattress, breathing hard into the crook of his elbow.

He feels out the knots snarled up in the muscles in his shoulders, his sides, his back. Church holds his stress right at the join where the solid line of his neck curves into the meat of his shoulder, and he grunts in pain when Sturges digs his thumbs into each tangle of muscle and works him loose.

“I might get a taste for this,” says Sturges, sweet as syrup. Church winces as he pushes into a stubborn knot just shy of his armpit, grinding his knuckles down deep into the soft skin until the tension gives way. “You're pretty when you're cringing.”

He shuffles down his thighs a little and sits up on his knees. Church’s hip settles evenly with a few good tugs, sharp and quick, and he uses it as an excuse to send some time lavishing attention on his ass, muscled and defined after miles and months on foot. Fingertips first, digging in hard, and pushing with the heels of his hands until Church makes a noise of complaint into the pillow. Sturges scrapes his nails until Church's skin blanches pale, and he works in a set of long red lines that welt up just a little, firm and hot under his palms.

He tosses his glasses under a pillow and kneads the meat of Church’s ass, spreading him wide to spit on his hole. Sturges eats him out until Church half on his knees, pushing back into Sturges' tongue and panting into the crook of his arm. He fists the cotton sheets hard enough to pull them out from the corner of the mattress, turning the air blue when Sturges hits his stride and plays him with the finesse of someone truly practiced at his craft.

Sturges has always enjoyed this, no matter whoever the happy recipient might be, and he sure as shit loves eating out Church. It brings out a different side of him, all reactive and responsive for just a short while. It's like his own personal glimpse of the man who existed long before his time, ‘fore he left the freezer all burned on the edges and iced over brittle and hard.

Time is a luxury they don't often have together, him ‘n Church, but the long absences are made a little easier by remembering the times they've whiled away the hours down in Sturge’s homely living quarters. Nothing quite like having nothing more pressing on his schedule than lavishing attention on Church's finest feature, edging him into a righteous state and holding him on the plateau of release until he's unwound by a long dry orgasm that rolls on like a river.

Hell of a thing, really. It leaves Church boneless and agreeable and occasionally knocked out so hard that he sleeps solid for hours. Sturges privately refers to those moments as performing his civic duty, and laughs ‘til his eyes water when Church tartly tells him to fuck right off whenever he hears him say so.

It'd be a treat to do the same again, really take his sweet time to make him feel next level good, but that's… that's his thing. Their thing. Danse ain't entitled to watch every little moment. Not this time.

Sturges rolls them over and leans back against the pillows, wiping his mouth on Danse's crisp clean sheets. He sighs happily when Church sits astride his thighs and kisses him, rough hands cupping his jaw, the insistent press of his dick hard against the soft swell of Sturges’ gut.

He runs his hands down Church's back, feels out the lines of muscle and fat. His skin is hot where he clawed it red, raised up in stripes that make Church close his eyes for a moment when the salt and sweat of his palms make them sizzle and sing. His hands dip lower to spread his ass and rub his fingertips against his hole, still wet with spit.

“You want…?”

“No,” says Church, hips rolling against him. “Not tonight. Next time.” He pauses, waits for something, and almost imperceptibly nods with satisfaction when he hears the choked off groan from the armchair.

“Hold you to that,” he says, winking big and obvious and grinning like a split melon when Church says christ, must you under his breath. “Hold you like that.”

Sturges pushes his hips up, bumping the head of his dick against Church’s hole. Now now, but next time. The promise of next time when Church can ride him ‘til his knee gives out, and next time when he’ll flip him over and stack the pillows up and make him lie back and - for once - let someone else do all the hard work.

Next time, when Danse isn't in the corner of the room, breathing like a set of noisy bellows, restless in his chair between the desire to surge onto the bed yet kept in place because Church told him to.

Like, goddamn. Sturges knows that in this scenario he's the sunstruck idiot leaving his metaphorical porch light on for the fella who can't accept a sweet nothing without getting all rude about it. But if Church told him that he had to sit there and fist his dick while -- lord, what other fool man would be thirsting enough to want to go pray at this altar -- while Preston fucked him three feet away, Sturges would be whooping with delight and joining them before the mattress could creak.

Real impressive, that kind of control. In Sturges’ experience a dog is only as good as his training, and from what he can see Danse is very, very well trained.

Church leans over him, head hanging low. His hair falls into his eyes and his hands dig into the thick meat of Sturges’ arms, clipped nails digging into dancing girls and poked stars and lucky aces long blown blue and faded by the sun. The soft golden light cast by the bedsheet curtains doesn't make him look younger, not by a long shot, but it gives the illusion of being well rested. It's a good look on him.

“Sit up,” he says, and nods appreciatively when Sturges tenses his muscles, gives his biceps a lil’ pop and flex. Bless him, it's so easy to pander to Church's tastes when his type is so patently obvious. “Let me suck you again.”

“Later,” says Sturges airily, snaking a cool hand between them and taking Church's dick in hand. He's hard and heavy, the sideways curve to his cock fitting into Sturges’ palm like the Almighty designed them as a matched set from the very start. “More interested in your thighs today.”

“Hold you to that,” says Church, and sucks back a big ragged breath when Sturges shakes his arm free enough to card his nails through the hair on Church's chest and pinch at his nipple.

Sturges spits on his palm and jerks him off fast with a twist of the wrist where it matters, just how he knows Church likes it. There's a time and a place for taking it slow and making it extra good, but this isn't it.

Lord help him, but he can't help but watch Danse in his armchair while he's playing Church like a fiddle. Every noise he makes is like a dog whistle to Danse, mirrored in the bite of his lips and the knit of his brows, his big hand working his dick through worn denim. His eyes flick between the arch of Church’s back and the flex of Sturges’ elbow, so engrossed in every roll of Church’s hips that he doesn't notice Sturges watching him with naked interest.

As he said, hell of a thing. Half of him wants Danse to keep on falling deeper into this technicolor fantasy playing within arms distance, happy to make his fella sing for such an appreciative audience. The other half of him wants Danse to look up and meet his stare and acknowledge him as the conductor of this private symphony being performed for his appreciative eyes.

Territorial pissing, he thinks, and drags his eyes back to Church. The asshole is watching him, the lines by his eyes crinkling with silent amusement even as he fucks into Sturges’ fist and chases his peak.

Yet another thing to be examined and picked apart and neatly filed in Church's mental vault, he guesses. No way in hell this isn't gonna come back to bite him sometime soon. In a good way, hopefully. The kind of way that’ll put a sizzle up his spine on the long nights with only agreeable traders and pretty blowthroughs to warm his bed.

“Don't you go analysing me,” he says, tugging Church down enough that he can whisper it in his ear and give him a wet kiss while he's at it. He rubs his thumb firm on the bowstring of Church's frenulum and loops his fingertips just so, his thick thumb pressed firm against the soft skin behind his balls, and murmurs all kinds of sweet nonsense when Church's gut clenches hard as he comes thick and generous down Sturges’ fingers and wrist.

The moan Danse makes is like music to his ears.

He stops jerking him while it still feels good, ‘cause unlike his sweetheart he doesn't have a mean habit of working a man until he's right on the edge of it being too much, drained and wrung out and nerves brittle in an unholy dawn chorus of pleasure and near torture.

“Christ,” he says. He slumps down and exhales hard, and before he can get his head together Sturges topples Church onto his side with an oof of exhaled air and holds him flush, knees slotted together like they were custom crafted to fit. Church’s eyes are closed, mouth open slightly as Sturges pushes his cock between his thighs, snug and warm and slick with Church’s own cum. He grunts when Sturges cups his jaw and smears semen over his chin and lips, twisting up so he can kiss him, graceless and open mouthed and wet.

“Your boy’s watching,” he says, close to his ear. He mouths at the curve of his ear and worries the cartilage between his teeth, gentle and mean.

“Danse,” he says, the evenness of his tone bumped askew by the press and roll of Sturges’ hips, skin sticking and peeling against skin and oil and sweat, wet and loud. “Your conditions.”

“Don't unzip my pants,” says Danse, quicker than Sturges imagines he would be able to muster under these circumstances. “Don't unbutton them.” His voice sounds thick, like his mouth is parched dry.

Sturges looks over his shoulder at Danse, catches his eye. He's slouched down in the armchair, thighs wide, the heel of his hand hard against his dick in his jeans. Danse’s cheeks are flushed and his hair staring to stick to his forehead, and he looks as hungry as a dog being denied a meal.

Golly, Sturges’ mind supplies unhelpfully. Aren’t you glad he’s still stuck to that damask?

Sturges fucks Church’s thighs wet and quick, with one big hand wrapped ‘round his chest to pin him back and hold him still as his dick notches against his balls. He can feel the hard plate of his sternum shifting under the heel of his palm, in and out with every breath. Church might not be all broad muscle and meat like their rapt audience in the corner, but he can take the bunch and press of Sturges’ practical strength without more than a token complaint when the mood suits him to be extra prickly.

“God,” says Sturges. Never been real eloquent at this stage. “Sweetheart, fuck, I'm gonna--”

“Yeah,” says Church, thigh muscles clenched for that extra squeeze when it counts, right as Danse says yes to himself, louder than he realises.

He sloppily mouths at the back of his neck when he spills between his thighs, nose buried into the cropped fuzz of hair shaven clean from the nape. Church smells like carrot flowers and clean sweat, a hint of soap and chlorine and old pomade. It's a good smell. It'd be real good if he got the chance to smell it more; to wake up with it on his pillow and ground into the collars of his shirts, lived in and unremarkable.

Christ, he thinks and kisses him again, neater this time. I really got it bad.

They lay together a while, pressed tight from neck to knee, breathing just out of sync, in-out, in-out. Sturges feels good and heavy, loose and unwound. He can't even find the energy to care that Danse is still there, staring with such rapt intensity that Sturges can imagine twin holes being seared into the back of his neck.

They both sigh at the same time, as relaxed as either of them get.

“You're an uncongenial host,” Sturges says eventually, just low enough that Danse can hear. “Leaving your guest like that. Your robot would have your hide.”

“Like you’d know. Codsworth won’t stand for you in the house,” he says offhandedly. “Tune his exhaust. Put him together later, maybe he'll tolerate you.”

Sturges snorts and slips his dick free before they stick together, forever joined at the hip.

“Come on,” says Church, a little louder than before. He shrugs out of Sturges’ arms and rolls onto his back, an arm folded behind his head. He pats his thigh. “Up. Before you break my furniture.”

Danse is out of the chair before Church can properly relax back into the lumpy feather pillow, swarming onto the bed and kneeling between his legs.

“God,” he says reverently, hands hovering over the drying sticky mess on his thighs. “Church, I--”

He doesn't bother to open his eyes. “No,” he says. “You can wait a little longer.”

Sturges makes a sympathetic noise. Danse is so red in the face he looks like he's ready to stroke out, his shirt dark and wilted from the sweat pouring down his collar.

“Have some pity on the big fella,” he says, the afterglow leaving him more inclined to be generous to Danse than he was ten minutes previous. “All this waiting will block his pipes.”

Church snorts. “Heel, Danse.”

“I am,” says Danse, fervently. “Please,” he adds, glancing at Sturges from underneath his brows. “Let me…”

“Go on,” says Sturges indulgently. “He’s been real patient.”

“Good dogs don't beg at the table,” says Church, but there's no real bite behind his words. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Danse pops his buttons before the words die in the air, shoving his jeans and shorts down enough to pull his dick free, flushed and wet. He comes in only a few short pumps of his hand, spilling semen over Church's thighs with an unabashed moan, adding to the mess of cum already matting the dark hair into sticky whorls.

Danse sighs when he runs his fingertips through the semen smeared over Church’s thighs, smoothing it into his skin. He hesitates for a moment and glances at Sturges before closing his eyes and rubbing his cheeks into the sticky dampness, wallowing in it and licking him clean with broad flat strokes of his tongue.

Sturges tears his eyes away from the sight - because goddamn, that was an unexpected addition, like Danse should do him the courtesy of buying him a meal first before taking such liberties - and finds Church watching him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Church gives a near-perfect illusion of being completely unmoved by Danse's enthusiastic worship of the load painting his thighs. “You good?”

“Yeah.” He reaches over and takes Church’s hand in his, squeezing his fingers. “You?”

He shrugs. It'd look a lot more nonchalant if he wasn't petting Danse's neck, scratching his fingertips behind his ears.

“My back feels great.”

Sturges laughs, his thumb brushing over Church's knuckles. “Well shit, glad that's the least I could do.” He glances at Danse, swallows a little at the sight of him gently sucking Church's soft cock clean. “Makes a change from my usual afternoon activities, I'll give you that.”

It's Church's turn to let out a huff of laughter. “At least I keep your schedule interesting.”

“You keep everything interesting,” says Sturges with complete heart-on-his-sleeve sincerity, and good naturedly rolls his eyes at the automatic scoff this earns. One day he’ll make that hard lacquered facade crack, even if he's got to chip through it with pure honest affection and every sweet nothing he could possible think up during the increasingly long absences between visits. Or by being completely underhanded about it. He wasn't picky.

Church scratches Danse round the jaw and tugs him up onto his knees. “Wipe your mouth,” he says, and settles his hands on Danse’s hips as he obediently blots his face with the sweaty collar of his shirt.

Church rolls up on one elbow and tugs at the hem of his shirt, pulling it towards him and showing the thicket of hair crawling up his belly, dark and thick. Danse is still half hard as he hunches over for Church’s convenience, one big hand petting at his dick. Sturges gives him the courtesy of looking out the gap of sunlight between the sheets on the window in an attempt at privacy while Church wipes his face clean, the semen Sturges daubed all over his mouth and chin scoured away.

The arrangement had been that Danse could sit and watch all he wanted, but there weren't words about that observation going the other way. Sure, he could probably ask , but the look on Danse's face says that he's got a head full of warm thoughts and not much in the way clear thinking, and some things ain’t Church’s decision to make.

Better to have that conversation next time. If there was a next time, Sturges corrects himself. Maybe that was a little presumptuous of him, or an overestimation of how unconventional his sex life might occasionally be in the future.

He chuckles at that thought before he can help himself, and waves away the quizzical look Church gives him. “Nothing, nothing,” he says. “Just thinking. I’ll leave you boys to it and go wash up.”

Danse grabs at his arm before he can swing his feet off the bed, and says no! with such fervor that Sturges feels like he’s done something wrong.

“I require you to stay seated,” says Danse. He shakes his head and clears his throat, clearly intending to taking a second run at whatever he wanted to say. “That is, I request that you stay here.”

“Right,” says Sturges, one foot still hovering an inch off the bare floorboards. Church is no help, grinning to himself and looking at the ceiling rather than giving him any indication that he's going to help out either his kindly boyfriend with the patience of a goddamn saint, or his piece who manages to turn a request to find more joy in being a good dog always ready to serve into a barked battlefield order.

God, the two of ‘em can keep. Unbearable, the pair.

Danse’s damp hand is digging onto Sturges’ forearm hard enough that it’ll probably bruise tomorrow, mottling his lucky dice and roses with big fingerprints. Gonna be a riot to explain that one to anyone who asks. No dainty pre-war etiquette book he’s ever read has covered this exact scenario, that's for sure.

“I’ll do that, buddy. Sure. No problem.”

“Thank you,” says Danse formally, pinking up a little ‘round his ears as he lets him go and tugs down his shirt down for modesty. His dick catches against the thick cotton hem, cradled in place and managing to look twice as obscene for it.

The window, Sturges thinks. Back to staring at the window. These encounters always seemed so much easier to manage in Garvey’s little cache of blue books. Lots of brawny NCR rangers and chiseled frontier roughnecks glistening buck naked in the moonlight, nothing about a fella politely averting his eyes while his boyfriend’s piece on the side shoves his junk back in his jeans and stumbles ‘round the bed on wobbly knees.

He vows to write a more correct book himself one of these days. Just as much glistening, sure, but a realistic level of tripping over discarded clothes.

When Danse finally leaves the room Sturges lets out a big breath from way down deep in his chest, one arm slung over his eyes as he says jeeeeeeeeesus under his breath. There's a rustle of sheets and Church sits up a little and tugs Sturges over until he settles against his side.

“He's going to the kitchen,” says Church, answering the question Sturges didn't really need to ask. “He's going to make us something to eat, and bring you a drink, and some towels.”

“I'm good,” says Sturges, from the relative comfort of the darkness behind his arm. Church jams his arm behind Sturge’s head until he's got no choice but to move and allow Church to draw him close and rest his palm on the swell of Sturges’ shoulder, his thumb tracing small circles against his skin.

“I know,” says Church, as if no other possibility existed. Sturges suspects he's already run the maths, run the scenario, compared it against his mental file and come to the conclusion that yes, Sturges is fine. It's a singularly annoying habit, being constantly predicted like that. “Danse is…”

“Big.” Real eager to please.

Church mmhmms in agreement. “Yeah. Big.”

After a moment Church kisses him on the temple, a dry press of lips against the sweat still beading on his skin. They lay together in silence, breathing gradually slowing.

“Thanks,” says Church gruffly, apropos of nothing. “By the way.”

He already knows what's he's talking about, but it's not like Sturges is so good hearted that he can rise above taking an underhanded opportunity to make Church unclench his jaw a little. “For what?”

“This,” says Church after a while, when it's clear that he's not going to be let off the hook that easily. “Indulging this.” He waves a hand at the bed, Danse's chair, the pile of Sturges’ clothes on the floor.

“It wasn't a real onerous chore,” says Sturges, and cuts off the inevitable ‘but’ that's forming in the air between them with a thick finger lopsidedly pressed to Church’s mouth. “I'd be a damn liar if I said I want to make it a regular thing though.”

“Yeah,” says Church, and Sturges can hear his relief buried deep in the word. His lip catches on the pencil callus thick on the side of his finger, and gives him a peck for good measure. “That's good to hear.”

“Wouldn't mind sitting in on one of your training sessions though,” he says just a little too innocently. He was unsure of this before, but curiosity is a hell of a encouragement. “Just to even things out. Fair's fair if your dog agrees.”

Church says hmmmm, his tone unreadable.

Outside the windows a merchant is hollering at her brahmin and pleading with it to get up and get moving. There's going to be a steak dinner in her future.

Church retrieves his cigarettes from the nook on the bedhead and offers one to Sturges, and lights up with relish when he politely demurs.

“He's not gonna suck my dick clean, is he?”

He snorts at that, flicking the lighter cap with his thumbnail. Click, click, click. “That's your business to hash out.”

“Good to know,” says Sturges with as much syrupy sincerity as he can muster. “Now I got some new ideas to fill these long lonely days with only pretty traders to warm me.”

“Cute,” says Church, and doesn't hold him back when Sturges rolls onto his elbow and sits up with a grunt. “Real cute.”

“Damn straight,” he says brightly, clapping Church on the thigh, away from the big dark line that splits his knee, a handspan long and healed into a pucker at the ends. “You love me for it.”

The horseshit this earns is more a reflexive rebuttal than a rejection. Church sits up too, and sounds almost embarrassed when he says that he needs to go check on Danse.

“Do what you gotta,” says Sturges, and hands him his glasses before he needs to ask. “I'm good.”

He yawns wide and stretches from his fingertips right down to to his toes after Church leaves the bedroom, watches the shadows of the long grass outside make patterns on the curtains and listens to the fragments of conversation he can hear both outside and from the kitchen. The scent of cigarette smoke goes stale in the air, and Sturges weighs up the benefits of opening the curtains a little to let in some fresh air, versus the knowing looks he'd get next time he lined up for chow from the communal kitchen.

Fuck it. The room can smell like cum and carrot flowers and Danse's desperation for a while more. The curious eyes outside can go jump. He's shared enough of himself for today, even if it was more… more…

He finally settles on enjoyable. It's been an enjoyable afternoon, more fun than he expected. Not in a great hurry to repeat it, not rushing to make Church's big Brotherhood dog a regular fixture in his private life, but it's been enjoyable. That's good enough.

He yawns again, and kicks down the top sheet and coverlet so he can lounge properly on clean sheets and a mattress that's kind to his back. He's good, the quiet conversation drifting in from the kitchen is probably real good too.

It’ll do. It's good. Can't ask for more than that.