The stupid thing is, Stuart doesn’t even realize it. Not when he gets the call on his day off, not when he arrives at A&E, not when he’s standing by Ash’s bed and a nurse is telling him that his partner is fine and only has a minor concussion.
Not until Ash says: “I can’t believe I forgot fucking such a beautiful man.”
Stuart falters. He realizes, all in a rush, that he’s not here because the staff know he and Ash are coworkers and best friends. He’s here because Ash, the idiot, has had him as his secret ICE contact for fuck knows how many years and is currently so out of it that the A&E staff have convinced him they’re partners in the romantic way.
He has to say something. “We’re not—”
“Sorry,” Ash says, with the barest hint of a smirk. “Being in love with such a beautiful man.” His eyes, gazing vaguely in the direction of Stuart, are so glossy they’re more sex-high than concussed. (Stuart’s seen both states before, sometimes at the same time.)
“Ash—”
“Sir,” the nurse whispers, forcefully steering Stuart out past the curtains and turning to give him the You’re A Shit Boyfriend glare. It’s frighteningly effective on the face of a middle-aged Asian woman. “I don’t care if you’ve had a fight recently, but your partner needs your support right now.”
“We’re not that kind of partner—”
“I don’t care if you’ve had a fight,” she spits in a low voice, and they both automatically turn to check if Ash has heard.
Ash is still looking incredibly dopey, like that time he’d been arse over tit over a charming consultant only to find out the man was very, very in the closet and ultimately a fuckwit. It comes to Stuart, suddenly, a vague memory of Ash a couple years ago saying that his ICE was the person he wanted beside him holding his hand. Ash had been strangely defensive too. Fuck, was Ash in love with him? Is Ash in love with him?
Does Ash think Stuart’s a fuckwit consultant stuck in the closet?
Under the watchful glare of the A&E nurse, Stuart shuffles to the rickety stool by Ash’s bed and sits. He gingerly reaches out to take Ash’s hand. Ash meets him halfway, tugging lightly until their joined hands come to his cheek, so that Stuart is nearly cupping his face. The nurse visibly harrumphs before closing the curtain behind her.
“Ash—” Stuart tries again, whispering in case the nurse is eavesdropping.
“What’s your name? Are we living together? Can we get married yet?” Ash must see something on his face, because he lets go of Stuart’s hand and shrinks back into the A&E bed. “Are we not out?”
Stuart sighs, and takes Ash’s hand back and gives it a practised patient-comforting squeeze. “I’m Stuart, no we’re not married, yes we can get married, and we’ll go over everything else when we get home, alright?”
“Alright,” Ash says, much too agreeably for a certified Ash situation. Stuart tenses just in time for Ash to open his mouth and say: “If you promise to tie me up and eat me out.”
The curtains fly open and the nurse from before is there, looming. “May I remind you that this is a hospital. There are children.”
Stuart knew she was eavesdropping.
They’re home, it turns out, sooner rather than later. The A&E doctor easily signs off on Ash’s release, saying the amnesia was probably a symptom of the concussion and to come back in a few days if it wasn’t. After that, the new nurse on shift is all too happy to see them go, probably because he’d just overheard Ash describing giving a blowjob to Stuart in explicit detail.
(Stuart is only a man. He’s been going through a dry spell. He can’t be blamed for getting just the slightest bit hard, for Ash noticing and licking his pink, pink lips.)
Stuart is given a list of strict care instructions, which means he has to either take Ash to his flat or go to Ash’s. He knows Ash hasn’t cleaned in the past week or two, so he bundles Ash into his ratty Corolla and drives to his flat. As soon as they’re in the door, Ash is attempting to undress sexily. It’s absolutely hilarious as his usually top-form coordination is all off and it’s less porn and more panto.
Ash stops with his trousers midway down his thighs. “Don’t mock the sick man,” he grumbles.
“I’m not,” Stuart says through hiccuping laughs, but reaches forward to help Ash out of his trousers.
Stuart tenses as Ash’s hand goes heavy against his nape. He readies as Ash starts falling over. Ash’s mouth suddenly meets his. There’s so much tongue, wet and curling, and Stuart doesn’t know how Ash is this good when he has the balance of a man three sheets to the wind.
Stuart squeezes his eyes closed and counts to five.
He untangles his hands from where Ash are nudging them towards his waistband, manages to push Ash’s mouth away. “Not when you’re concussed.” He says it in a firmer voice than he thought he was capable of while breathless from an unfairly good snog.
Somehow, whether from the concussion or Stuart’s insistence, Ash calms readily and ceases his randiness. Stuart slowly steers Ash up the stairs, out of his shirt, and into bed without further sexual incident. He breathes a sigh of relief and starts to make for the sofa, when Ash’s hands suddenly latches on to his.
Stuart eyes Ash. He looks blessed in sleep, too idyllic for someone who’d been halfway to sex not an hour ago. Stuart gives Ash’s octopus arms one last half-hearted tug, sighs, and slips under the covers.
Stuart wakes up to an empty bed, the smell of breakfast, and Ash incredibly close and soulfully gazing at him.
He shoots up, thinking he should have been awake before Ash made — he checks — a full fry-up while concussed. Then the rest of it clicks. Ash doesn’t remember. He still believes they’re together. What if Ash never remembers, Stuart thinks in a panic, as Ash starts to lean in for a kiss.
Suddenly, Ash leans back a smidgen. Smiles rakishly.
“I really fucking had you going.”
Stuart gapes. He shoves at Ash. “I thought you were experiencing mental trauma, you fuck.”
Ash gives his shoulder a patronizing pat. “If you think being attracted to you is traumatic, you better see a therapist for your self-esteem.” He leans in too close, only to pick a sausage off the tea tray and suck it into his mouth in the worst way. “Report yourself to the HCPC for medical ignorance while you’re at it.”
Stuart scoffs, if only to not have to deal with the sausage and the closeness and everything. “Did you just call me hot in a backhanded way?”
“A hot eejit,” Ash says, placing his now-free hand too close to Stuart’s hip. This close, Stuart can’t help but track the bob of Ash’s throat as he swallows, the sliver of tongue that peeks out to lick the trace of salt off his lips.
“Fuck off, I am not the hot idiot in this relationship.”
“Is a relationship still on the table then?” Ash leans in again, so close Stuart could count his eyelashes if he wanted to, and drops his voice so low Stuart can barely hear over the rasp of his throat. “Or on the bed, as it is.”
“After you just abused my goodwill?” Stuart doesn’t know what he’s saying any more.
“But I made you breakfast in bed,” Ash whispers, his free hand tracing at the edges of Stuart’s mouth.
Stuart’s hands fly up and clutch at Ash’s shoulders. “If you’re fucking with me,” he says, giving Ash a emphatic shake, “I’m requesting a transfer.”
Ash looks directly at him, for a moment, and his grin softens. “Not this time,” he whispers.
Then, finally, he closes the distance between them, and the last thing Stuart sees is Ash’s eyes flitting shut in slow motion. All he knows is those soft lips nipping lightly on his, those calloused hands clutching at the skin of his back, the faint twinge of the cologne Ash only ever wears when he’s on the pull.
“Not to complain,” Stuart gasps, as his fingers tangle in red curls and Ash presses hot kisses into his neck, “but what about breakfast.”
“I have a much better breakfast here,” Ash says, and Stuart can’t even make an indignant sound at the awful line before Ash’s hands are on his cock doing something unholy. The concussion is definitely gone.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Stuart says, pulling on those fucking distracting curls before Ash’s mouth can get anywhere near his cock. “Condom!”
Ash eases off. “You haven’t had sex since at least two STI tests ago,” Ash says, rolling his eyes, and leans in to give the head a tantalizing lick.
Stuart tries not to gasp as he says, “You haven’t pulled in ages either.”
“So that means I get to do this,” Ash says, and dives back down. His tongue is discovering and digging into every sensitive spot Stuart never knew he had, and Ash still has the nerve and the composure to look up at Stuart with an impish expression peeking out from his eyelashes.
Stuart is barely able to think that he’s going to come too soon before Ash has one firm hand tightly circling the base of his cock and another delicately trailing across his balls.
Ash lifts his head up just enough to say, “No more complaints?”
“You’re a bastard,” Stuart pants.
“None, then,” Ash says, and there’s a twist and a suck before Stuart’s coming all over his fingers and tongue and lips.
“I think that’s a record for me,” Ash says. He’s licking the come off his lips, looking all too satisfied and not at all sated.
“Never talk to me again,” Stuart mutters. He wants to cover his face but can’t, too wrung from his orgasm to move.
Ash smirks. “But you proposed, partner.”
Ash still has a bit of a come sheen to his lips and Stuart is a weak, weak man, but he manages to narrow his eyes. “Concussed amnesiacs don’t remember what happened when they were amnesiac.”
“No,” Ash says, incredibly smug, and leans forward for another kiss.