title:               burns

author:           Lady Charena

fandom:          Kung Fu – the legend continues

codes:            P/P, NC-17

archive:          TOSTwins – others just ask


sum:              love is the only medicine


Disclaimer: This story’s mine, but I do not intend to touch the rights of the owner of the characters from KF-TLC I’ve used. No moneymaking, no offence meant.


More P/P stories from me and my friends at the Dragon’s lair à http://tostwins.slashcity.net



Searching for a way through the crowd, Peter pushed and pulled people away. Finally he was stopped by an uniformed officer, trying to usher him back. Wordlessly the young detective flipped his badge and the officer – either reacting to the police sign or perhaps to the determined look on Peter’s face – stepped aside to let him pass.


Despite he was still several meters away from the burning building, Peter could feel the searing heat. Acid smoke and fat, black flakes of ash made it difficult to breath. He looked around, searching for a familiar figure admits the miasma of firemen and police officers, trying to clear the area from the still growing crowd of spectators. His eyes started to water and Peter pulled the collar of his jacket in front of his mouth, trying to make it easier by breathing through the fabric. Fighting to breath he was also fighting to hold back memories from the destruction of the temple, whirling in his mind like a kid’s toy carousel on overload.


The message about the fire came over radio when Peter was on his way back to the precinct after having been spared to testify in court. The address in Chinatown – close to his father’s, too close for ‘his’ liking – made him curb the Stealth roughly. He knew, if Pop’s been at home, he would surely now be found at the scene of fire, trying to help. Peter told himself in vain he wouldn’t be needed there, his dad was absolutely capable of taking care of himself – gritting his teeth he speeded towards the place, uneasiness causing his heart to beat faster.


Suddenly feeling something like a slap, Peter stopped in amazement. If his father had been standing next to him, he’d been thinking it’s been time for another “pushing in the lesson”. He was almost tempted to touch his cheek, because the feeling was so real. In a way it helped him to fight down the panic and to concentrate. He was trying to locate his father by using the mental techniques Caine’s been teaching him – with little to no success. Peter blinked away the tears. Almost accidentally his gaze fell upon the doors of an ambulance, which opened when a paramedic came out. Behind the man Peter spotted his father, sitting calmly on the stretcher. Peter made a beeline for the car.


Caine studied the bandages around his hands with almost open disgust.


“Pop?”, Peter asked, his voice rough with smoke and emotion. “You’re hurt!”


The priest just shrugged, his eyes turning towards his son, sending silently comfort and reassurance.


“He’s your father?”, the paramedic asked with an air of disbelief. “I guess you’d better get him out of here.”


“What happened with him?” Peter controlled himself not to rush to his father and drag him away at once.


“As far as I know he’s been already here before the fire department arrived, trying to help the inhabitants out of the building. A part from the metal rail of one of the balconies above fell onto them and he pushed it away, burning his hands. He’s been a lucky man, just superficial burns, first degree.” The paramedic turned to gaze at the priest. “The bandages are to keep the wounds clear of dirt.”


“But he will be okay?”, Peter asked anxiously.


“I am… okay.” For the first time since the arrival of his son, Caine spoke.


“Given ample time and care he will be.” The paramedic shrugged. “He refused to take painkillers, so if the pain gets worse, take him to a doctor.”


Peter smiled faintly. “My father’s… a bit stubborn”, he said, talking to the paramedic but looking at Caine. “I will take care of him now.”


“Fine with me.” The paramedic stepped back, looking for other people in need of attention.


Peter climbed into the ambulance and knelt in front of his father. “You okay?”, he asked quietly.


A small smile tugged at Caine’s mouth. “I will be… in my home.” He lifted his hand as if to cup Peter’s cheek but remembered the bandaged hands and stopped. He got up from the stretcher, adjusting the strap of his satchel by moving his shoulders.


Peter got out and turned to help his father down the ambulance – but the priest stubbornly refused any help. Not speaking they made their way towards Peter’s car. The uniformed police officer waved them through the barrier, after a hastily explanation by the detective. The same uneasy silence lasted during the short ride to the brownstone building where Caine lived. Actually they could have walked, but Peter didn’t want to abandon his car.


* * *


Closing the French doors, Peter turned to finally get some answers from his father – but the room was empty. “Pop?” With a sigh he pulled out his mobile phone from his jacket to call the precinct and to explain his delay to Captain Simms.


A few minutes later he pushed the device back into his pocket, laying the jacket neatly over the back of the still lonely chair. Surprisingly Captain Simms gave him the afternoon off to look after his father. Of course he knew of her fondness for his dad… he caught movement from the corner of his eye and whirled round – confronting only his father. Taking a deep breath he shook his head. “One day you will…”, he started, but smiled, his mouth stretching without his conscious intent and beyond his control.


Caine looked at him. “One day?”, he prompted, a feign stern expression on his face.


“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”, Peter said quietly, resting his eyes on the figure in black and white silk, the glossy silver hair dimmed for a moment, as Caine moved through the door and into the candlelit room. “Can you imagine how scared I was when I couldn’t find you?”


“I know. I had to… resort to… dramatic means to regard your attention”, Caine answered with a smile.


“So it was you”, Peter murmured, watching his dad sit down on the chair, holding his hands carefully away from any contact with chair or his own legs. Was he in pain? “Pop… your hands… what happened to the bandages?”, he asked vehemently


“Peter, calm yourself. I do not need bandages, for my hands are already healing. I am well.” Caine extended his hands toward his son and Peter took his first look at them. Amazingly the skin looked only sunburned, reddened and partly beginning to peel off. It didn’t look as bad as expected, but did neither soothe Peter. He raised his own hand, paused and glanced at his father, and then he brushed the backs of Caine’s hands. He repeated the movement with both hands, marveling at the sensations. His fingers dipped between his father’s.


Caine’s fingers closed just slightly, in a movement that might have been defensive, and Peter looked up if there was pain in his face.


Caine’s eyes held him, the clear brown depths so accepting and so warm that Peter was immobilized. He found that he had slid his fingers between his father’s as far as they would go, they were virtually holding hands.


Peter licked his dry lips, tasting smoke and ashes. “Am I hurting you?” he murmured, but did not wait for an answer; the feeling of Caine’s skin was too intoxicating to stop stroking it. He traced the outside of his hands, and ran fingertips across his father’s outstretched ones. Peter turned his wrists and rubbed along Caine’s palms, carefully, back to the hollow between tendons where a gentle pressure let him feel the rush of blood beneath the skin.


The sound of an exhalation made Peter look up again to see Caine’s lips just parted, and in his eyes such an expression of love, sending a shiver through the younger man… eyes virtually alive, a gaze compelling, sweet, undefended, seeing so far into Peter that he almost thought he could feel it inside his skull; squeezing his heart, the skin of his cock and balls warm with his… lover’s regard. There was no dark corner in Peter that Caine could not see. Even now, with only two inches of their skin in contact, there was no place in Peter that Caine did not touch.


Peter clutched convulsively at the warm palms above his own and, this time, Caine did flinch – only a tiny movement, but Peter let go at once.


His father’s eyes closed for a second, then opened again, clear of any expression. “Do you not need to return to the precinct?” He got up.


“Captain Simms gave me the afternoon off... to take care of you.” Peter took a deep breath. “Don’t ever scare me again like this. You could have died in the fire.” He shuddered, this time in recalled horror. “Again.”


“But I did not die.” Tipping up Peter’s chin with the back of his hand, Caine searched his son’s eyes. “Not then. Not now. I am here… and I love you.”


Somehow feeling oddly shy, Peter put his arms around his father.


Caine’s arms closed around him firmly, though his hands remained relaxed. The side of one hand brushed Peter’s cheek, and he turned his face into Caine’s shoulder. Warmth surrounded him. He breathed in and savored the familiar sweet-spicy smell of herbs and silk. Caine rubbed up to his shoulders and down again, with his forearm and the back of his hand. Peter felt the knuckles bump along his spine, and held him more tightly, sliding his arms upward to hang onto Caine’s shoulders. They kissed; Peter knew he ought to answer verbally as well, but when he moved his head back, Caine followed and slid his lips slowly back and forth across Peter’s, slipping his tongue between Peter’s teeth and upper lip, and suckling the lip until one strong wrist pushed Peter’s head back where it had been and Caine deepened the kiss.


One of them made a sound, half a murmuring word, half a moan, but it was trapped between their mouths and Peter did not know whose voice it was. To feel this… heat around and rising inside him, Pop’s body and his own body shaking and straining to push together as if they could literally merge… He broke the kiss gasping for air, and Caine put his head down on Peter’s shoulder. Real. The breath at Peter’s ear, puffing on his neck, convinced him. He was well and alive in Peter’s arms. No doubt.


As real as the erections trapped between them, as real as the fragile skin on Caine’s hands, Peter remembered. “Now”, he whispered, his lips grazing Caine’s temple. “Do we try some sort of hands-free sex, or do we try to step away?”


“You…” answered Caine hoarsely, with uneven pauses between the words, “…are evidently giving me an ill-timed example of your sense of humor.”


And Peter did laugh, and catch his breath, and laugh again. “If I wouldn’t be in love with you already… I would be now”, he whispered, kissing all of Caine’s skin that his lips could reach. Sweet. Sweet and just slightly rough. Tongue between his lips, Peter pulled back, craving the taste of all of Caine’s skin as if it were air.


They moved to the sleeping room in the back of the loft.


Caine set down on the edge of the futon, hands upturned loosely on his knees, and Peter began to undress him. The smooth silk were unexpectedly resistant in his trembling hands and in the end he pulled the body of the shirt over Caine’s head and peeled the sleeves off inside-out. The awkwardness of it made laughter bubble up in Peter again. He run his palms over ribs, the damp tangle of the hair up Caine’s chest and back to his shoulders.


Caine squirmed like a tickled child and mouthed Peter’s hair, his breath caressing the tousled strands, at least sliding his teeth along the edge of Peter’s ear, bit the skin behind it, and sucked there. “Let me,” Caine said softly into Peter’s ear, licking between the words, “let,” his thumbs were hooked under Peter’s shirt, “me,” the thumbnail and knuckle and the bone above the wrist scraping up each of Peter’s sides, “do,” fingertips and nails now running down and up either side of his spine, “this,” and now it was Peter writhing and working his way out of the tangle of shirt around his neck and shoulders. He threw it down and Caine bent his head and took one of Peter’s nipples in his mouth, holding his waist between his forearms. Peter’s back arched, his head and shoulders falling away as his hips pushed towards his father, and he could not have kept his balance if not Caine’s arms had not held him, if not his own arms had not locked above Caine’s elbows. Every part of his body, even his eyelids and the lobes of his ears pounded with his pulse, and his head spun.


Peter’s hands shook so much when he tried to unfasten Caine’s pants that he could loose the string. Caine, trying to reach around Peter’s arms, was having much the same problem. Any moment now, with Caine’s fingers moving there, Peter would come in his jeans. “Pop,” he groaned as he squinted at his own fumbling hands and the bulge he kept rubbing, half by mistake. Caine murmured something soothingly – the low vibration seemed to go directly to his hands and resonate there – and Peter’s hips and thighs jerked and trembled with his clenching muscles. There! He had it, and the fabric slide away.


Caine moved as if to stand up, but Peter pushed his shoulders back, guided him until he was leaning back on his elbows. Sunlight from the small window above fell on his slightly tousled hair and neck; it blazed in desire-darkened eyes, glistened on lips wet with Peter’s kisses – “Mmmh, look at you,” Peter said, gazing across the breath of his shoulders, strong arms, hard rosy nipples in the grayish hair on his chest –


“I am looking at you,” Caine replied with a smile and Peter had to lean over and kiss him, burying his fingertips in the crispy chest hair, drawing lines from the collarbone in, then out to the edge of his chest, then down the stomach, lower, below the hip bones – Caine let his head fall back. Peter run his lips down the long throat, sucking the adam’s apple, while Caine murmured again, the syllables still not making sense to Peter, but feeling wonderful as they vibrated against his mouth with that delicious, salty, succulent spiced taste. Peter’s hips pressed into the sides of the futon, squeezing his erection until it hurt. He had to get his jeans off. He kicked off his boots, holding Caine’s ribs, and then pushed himself up, took his hands reluctantly away and shakily pulled his pants down to toss them away. His cock sprang out with a rush that weakened his knees, and he let them bend, kneeling – Caine set up and looked down at him.


Caine’s toes brushed across the tip of Jim’s ertappt <g> cock and he fell back, gasping. He had to rest his head against Caine’s leg for a moment, fighting for control.


Caine run his fingers through his hair, his fingertips little points of warmth on his scalp.


“I want you too much,” Peter murmured. “I want everything, all of you, right now.”




Peter turned and surged up between his lover’s legs and slid down his pants almost in one movement. Caine had leaned back on his elbows again, and Peter put his arms around Caine’s thighs and his face into the hollow between cock and hip. He licked and nuzzled around the smooth skin stretched over bone, over the velvet of the balls, the veined hot skin of the cock, his hands sliding under and around Caine’s thighs and his mouth closing, at last, on the head, down the shaft. He ran his tongue around it and around again; he opened his mouth further and tongued the skin. Caine’s hips lifted and Peter’s fingers found the crease between his tight buttocks, and Caine jumped beneath him. Peter could feel the tension growing in his father’s muscles; feel how close he was, taste the fluid seeping into his mouth, and kept going. ‘yes, come, now, come for me’ he thought, staring at the flushed, uncontrolled face as Caine turned his head to one side, then the other, his jaw clenching and his eyes shut. He was thrusting into Peter’s mouth, then a moment of stillness and Peter felt the rush build and then burst down his throat, and he gulped gratefully.


Caine caught blindly at Peter’s ear and shoulder, urging him closer, and the struggled backward until both were lying on the futon. Caine reached between their bodies and grasped Peter’s cock, his fingers firm as he stroked from tip to base, base to tip, back and forth, and Peter meant to tell him that this was not hands-free sex but could do nothing but gasp. Then Caine sat up, nudged Peter’s hips over to the center of the futon and bent over to lick him. The moment that searing wetness closed around him, Peter was coming, shuddering and arching his back and gone, gone, in a flash of throbbing heat like the heart of a star.


The priest moved up, braced on hip and elbow, until he leaned across Peter but barely touching him; Peter wrapped his arms and one leg around Caine, who rubbed his face against Peter’s collarbone. He bent to kiss Peter’s shoulder and his neck. “Sweet boy”, he whispered.


Peter’s arms tightened. “If I had lost you in that fire…”


“You will never lose me.” Caine reached for Peter’s face and stroked it.


“But no promises”, Peter whispered.


A shadow crossed the priest’s face. “Peter…”


“I know,” Peter interrupted, forcing a lighter tone into his voice. “I know.” He slid his hands down Caine’s ass and rubbed it.


Caine kissed him, his tongue moving in the same rhythm as Peter’s hands. “Yes,” he murmured on his way from Peter’s mouth to his neck. Then he kissed Peter’s shoulder, the inside of his upper arm, and Peter’s arms came up to his shoulders and gripped hard.


* * *


Caine woke. Peter lay sprawled across his body, his down turned face beside the priest’s. His thoughts slowly assembled, and he felt his son’s weight riding up and down on his own ribs, heard Peter’s soft snoring inhalations, the rapid movements of his eyes giving away Peter was dreaming… probably it was this that had woken him. He reached up to stroke along Peter’s sides, then up and down his back. The muscles that had begun to tense against him, relaxed, but his own palms prickled and stung as he dragged them across the damp, cool skin. Pain and tenderness, sharp and soft, heat and chill… so they were together, and he would not have traded one instant of their nights for any simpler bliss. He turned his head until his cheek met Peter`s, one hand now at the nape of his son’s neck and the other rubbing at the base of his spine, then smoothing down the nearer buttock.


“Mmm,” murmured Peter and pressed his face closer without opening his eyes, pulled in his arms and held Caine, tightening his grasp slowly as he woke. Caine felt the shift to awareness, and the light brush of Peter’s lashes as he opened, then blinked his eyes.


Peter drew up one knee and shifted some of his weight; Caine made a protesting sound and held on, wanting the length of body and leg against him. Peter’s knee pressed against his side, his toes slid under Caine, who dropped his arm to trace the line between thigh and calf, and then the outside of Peter’s ankle, and then around and around the callus of his heel. Caine bit Peter’s neck, not hard, and then kissed him, and he discovered he was hungry for Peter’s taste.


An even better taste was the salt of Peter’s skin, and Caine sucked at the tender neck and shoulder languidly. Peter stroked him now. Caine bent the leg Peter was not lying on and turned a little, leaning the inside of his thigh against Peter’s hip.


Peter’s hand strayed over his lover’s flank in lazy circles. For some time they moved against each other, not speaking, too tired for sex and never really erect, but unwilling to separate, unwilling to stop tasting and touching each other, waves of emotion eddying back and forth between them without urgency. It felt good to both of them. It all felt good, and the pleasure of it faded only into sleep’s shared darkness.


* * *


Neither knew, when they woke again, which had stirred first. Neither moved away. Caine now lay with one hand extended off the side of the futon and the other arm draped over Peter, who was spooned closely into the angles of his body, keeping him just warm enough for sleep.


Peter took a deep, slow, easy breath. Then he pushed the back of his head into Caine’s shoulder, and tensed all his muscles, arching his back, straightening his legs and bringing up one elbow in what would have been a stretch if there had been more room. Then he relaxed again, reaching back to lay his free hand on Caine’s hip.


Caine bent his head and put his face into the musky tangles of Peter`s hair.


“You okay?” Peter asked drowsily.


“I am well.” Caine kissed the back of Peter’s head.


Peter slid his hand up to Caine’s waist and back down to the hip and yawned.


Caine smiled. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Sleep.” Peter relaxed against the priest, who rubbed his back, gripping and massaging the unresisting muscles.


“What are you doing with your hands?” Peter whispered.


“Sleep, Peter.”