title: Living in a dream (March 05)
author: Lady Charena
fandom: Kung Fu - the legend continues
codes: P/P, NC-17
archive: TOSTwins - others just ask

sum: Pop accompanies Peter to a police training. When
Peter returns from an evening out with his colleagues, he acts very
strange... (Set sometime towards end of the second season)

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. Lyrics from "Leaving New York" belong
to R.E.M.

More P/P stories from me and my friends at the Dragon's lair -->

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
...now life is sweet, and what it brings I tried to take.
The loneliness it wears me out, it lies in wake.
And all I've lost, you're in my eyes,
shatter a necklace across your thighs.
I might have lived my life in a dream...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"But you won't get bored, will you?" Peter looks at me - bouncing on his heels, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans - and I cannot unravel the meaning behind his words... nor the conflicting emotions shining in his eyes. He seems eager spend the evening with his police colleagues. At the same time I sense his reluctance to leave me alone in our hotel room. Despite we have been together for the most part of the day, he is afraid to... neglect... me by spending a few hours with someone else.

I know his thoughts. Sometimes he understands that my needs are different, and honors and accepts those differences. At other times he surrenders to his old fears that I might be gone when he leaves my side. My son does not believe that I will never again willingly depart from him. My love for Peter is deep and it is strong... and not always beneficial. Sometimes I fear I love him too much...

However - his thoughtfulness warms me inside. I smile to reassure him and shake my head. "I will not," I answer. "I plan to meditate."

"Well... okay then. Since you're sure. Don't wait up, Pop, I've got my key." Peter comes to me and kisses my forehead. "Goodnight, Pop."

I watch him leave the room, which seems now too silent and too empty and ponder my feelings. They are... unexpected. I already yearn for my Peter and I will miss him even more during the hours that lay ahead.

I am greedy and I bow my head in shame.

To be able to accompany Peter to this training class is more than I could have wished for. I do not think Paul Blaisdell will be pleased when he learns about my being here with Peter. The last time I met my son's foster father, he told me he thinks I am 'smothering' Peter, trying to make up for fifteen years in a too short time. He envies our closeness and it is obvious he does not understand the dependency Peter has formed to me - nor mine to my son. Neither of us can be whole again without the other. The knowledge is both a source of deep satisfaction and concern to me.

I cannot stand aside and watch my son struggling with the changes our reunion brought into his life, but this is what Paul Blaisdell wants me to do. It was not a pleasant conversation and I let go of the memory.

Releasing a breath I did not notice holding, I turn away from the door and start to light the candles and a few sticks of incense I brought with me and place them around the small statue of Buddha, I never travel without. I will say my devotions and then meditate before retiring. I will not stay awake and long for my son.

* * *

I rouse from deep sleep as I hear a key turn in the lock and the door open. My inner time sense tells me it is around two in the morning. I left a candle burning on Peter's bedside table, despite the fact I did not really expect him to return early when I retired. By its light I watch Peter enter the room, walk directly to the small space that separates our beds and begin to undress. Satisfied that he seems fine, I turn to my other side before he notices that I observe him and content myself to go back to sleep.

Silence settles for a moment, and then, to my utter surprise, my blankets are lifted and Peter's cool naked body slips into the bed besides me. Before I can even start to form a question, Peter is curled up to my back, bent knees tucked spoon fashion behind mine and a heavy arm comes to rest across my shoulders.


The only reply is my son's deep even breathing. Suppressing the impulse to flee out of the bed and Peter's... arms, I instead sniff the air. There is no telltale odor of alcohol so he is not drunk.

"Peter?" I speak his name more quietly this time, however receive the same response.

Since Peter obviously cannot be awakened, it is only sensible to get out of the bed and into the other empty one. However, common sense takes a brief vacation, when Peter's hand slips down my chest to rest over my pounding heart.

I hold my breath and try to think beyond the sensations attacking my mind. The bed is big enough for two and even if it has been on rare occasion, Peter has slept in my bed before.

When he was a child.

He is now a man.

This should make no difference, I am still his father. And if Peter needs my physical closeness tonight - whatever causes his desire - there is no reason why I cannot remain with him. I choose to accept the argument, however skewed it might seem, and let myself drift back to sleep.

* * *

For one of the first times in my life, I find myself unable to determine reality from dream, when I wake later the same morning. I lie on my back, with my son's sleep-warmed body close to mine. The tousled head lies on my shoulder, face pressed to my neck, where warm lips bestow sleepy kisses to my throat. What finally makes the distinction for me is, that I surely never dreamt of something like that before.

Still I indulge myself in the wondrous sensations for a moment, before I allow my mind to voice objections. Of course, Peter is asleep. I gaze at him and Peter's eyes are not closed. Admittedly, they are only half open, but definitely not closed.

The lips on my throat part and a wet tongue takes over, lapping up toward my ear. My body betrays my confusion - I feel myself react to the caress.

Perhaps Peter dreams of a lover. Perhaps he does not know who he is in bed with. I am still mulling what to do, when my son speaks, as if reading my mind.

"Mmmm, Pop, you taste good."

My eyes open wide. "Peter?" I hold my breath in anticipation of the imminent waking and ashamed withdrawal of my son. I try to prepare myself to sooth him and to...

"Who else were you expecting?" Peter mumbles between nibbles at my earlobe.

I try to think of a response. But my mind does not come up with the necessary words to say - even if I had the breath to speak - which I have definitely not when an inquisitive tongue slips into my ear.

A hand slides down my chest now, tweaking an erect nipple in passing, but not pausing long. Then the warm fingers are wrapping  possessively around my engorged manhood and fire blazes my mind. And I find, I have neither the wit nor the will to do anything more than moan or writhe beneath the delightfully moving hands and mouth. Electric impulses flash between my throat where sharp teeth inflict playful nips and my groin, where Peter's finger dance over my burning penis. I moan and trust my hips upwards.

His hand grips my slick manhood firmly and starts pumping, while the smooth lips brush my cheek and a sensual whisper makes my senses  pin.

"Yes, oh yes. You like that, don't you? I love it. Love it when you lose your control. Love that I can make you feel that way. Love you, Pop. Love you."

The whispers abate into incoherent mumbling as Peter works his way down my throat and onto my chest. Hungrily the seeking lips find and latch onto an erect nipple, causing again electric pulses to surge through my body.

Peter slides still lower.

Gentle hands stroke my thighs, glide over the inner surface, urging them apart in a... sprawl... bereft of dignity or defense. But I do not feel I need either. Not with Peter's fingers holding me and with his head lowering... His tongue flickers out, licking along my burning length.

"Do you want me to take you in my mouth?" His voice is soft, barely audible above my labored breathing.

No! "Yes..." I meant to shout it, hiss it, gasp it. Whatever. It comes out as a breath of sound, softer than the question had been. Softer than his ears can possibly hear. But he does, for cool lips press to the tip of my penis, part, slip down over the head, then engulf the entire throbbing length.

I force my eyes open, see the marble body between my legs and the brown head bend over my groin. Even with my body uncontrolled racing towards climax, my lust gives way to my love for my son. My hand lifts to stroke the tousled hair tenderly. Hazel eyes meeting mine are sparkling with love and I could have easily fallen into them, if not at this moment the waves of ecstasy peaked and swallowed me.

* * *

I return to sanity in stages. First comes the echo of the incredible sensations Peter bestowed upon me, followed by the awareness of the warm, smooth body cuddled close to my side.

"Peter?" I whisper, my voice raw with wonder. I receive no answer. The candle at the nightstand flickers and expires.

Shadows surround us and I will my heart to be still, while I listen to the deep and regular breathing of my son. I almost persuade myself to believe that I dreamt. That I did not perform a sexual act with my child.

Then I turn to look at Peter and even in the dim light I can see his slightly swollen lips, glistening wetly as an early ray of the morning sun flitters through the blinds to settle upon his face.

I lift my hand and brush back the strands from his forehead, my vision filled with the memory of his head bend over my groin... I close my eyes. I kiss Peter's temple, then carefully slide out of his embrace.

An unfamiliar sensation of lethargy floats my body, but I force myself to leave the warm bed.

Almost automatically I move to the bathroom and use the shower, as if water could wash away the memories of the night. I feel cold, so I return to the room and wrap myself in a robe. Still I cannot stop trembling.

Peter sleeps untroubled. He slipped over to sprawl on his stomach across the space I vacated, his face turned into the pillow. My eyes idly follow an invisible line from the strong shoulders, down the smooth back to the gently swelling of his buttocks. For a moment I imagine my hands travel the same path, my tongue touch the silken skin, my fingers slip into the cleft between his buttocks, spreading him open to my view, for my pleasure, for me to...

I snap out of the fantasy.

Blindly I turn away from him and walk over to the window. My fingers claw into the heavy folds of the blinds and tear them open. The clear
light of the morning fills room, but it brings no salvation from the shadows clouding my soul.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
...I might have lived my life in a dream
But I swear it, it's real
And you refuse, and it shatters like glass
Mercurial future, forget the past
But it's you, it's what I feel...
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The ringing of the telephone startles me from my thoughts. I wait for Peter to wake and answer it, but he only buries his face deeper into the cushion.

I walk over to the small table to silence the noisy device and gingerly take the receiver. "Yes?"

There is a short pause at the other end of the connection. "I am Captain Clarcy. May I speak to Detective Peter Caine, please?"

"He sleeps," I tell the other man and turn to watch my son. Peter stirs again, his fingers gliding over the sheet as if he searches for something. Or someone...

Another small pause. "Whom am I speaking to?" comes from the receiver - this time with a clear undertone of irritation.

"I am Caine," I tell Captain Clarcy. "Peter's father."

"I came to believe that Captain Blaisdell is Peter's father."

My eyes narrow and I quell a surge of possessiveness. "Foster father," I say with a neutral voice.

As if reacting to my words, Peter rolls to his back and yawns. "Pop?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep. "What's wrong? Who're calling?"

"I have called no one. This is a Captain Clarcy to speak with you, Peter." I dare not to look at him.

"Why... shit! I'm late! Am I late, Pop?" He frantically searches the room for a clock, then gets out of the bed to take his jeans from where he dropped them and pulls out his watch. "It's not yet seven." Abandoning his pants, he comes to me and takes the receiver from my hand. "Caine."

I step back and stare at my hand. My skin burns where his fingers brushed mine.

"What?" The seriousness of his voice causes me to look at my son. Peter's features show puzzlement. He meets my gaze and smiles, obviously to reassure me. "No," he answers to a question I cannot hear. "Seems I didn't get any of it or it didn't work with me. I'm fine... other than a headache but I know where *this* comes from." He laughs and cannot help myself but to bask in the loving gaze he sends my way. "Yes... I'll be on time... nine o'clock. Yes. Good morning, Captain." With this he puts the receiver back to its proper place.

Peter runs his fingers through his hair. "We went to a bar last night," he says, obviously finding it hard to remember. "Someone drugged the drinks, someone who hates cops. Some of the others went sick tonight, started to hallucinate or do something weird. One of the guys thought his room were on fire and tried to climb out of the window. Broke a leg when he hit ground." He shakes his head. "Did I do something... strange... tonight?" he asks, his eyes checking the room. "Besides taking over your bed," he adds with a grin. "Where did you sleep, Pop? On the floor?"

I can do nothing except to stare at him.

Finally Peter looks down at himself and blushes. "At least I had good sense enough to undress," he murmurs sheepishly. "Well... I better hit the shower and look if I can find a couple of aspirin for my head."

"I will take care of your headache, Peter." I speak to his retreating back, for Peter is already on his way to the bathroom. "You did nothing... wrong... tonight, my son."

He stops and turns his head slightly to look at me. Obviously he waits for me to say more, but I cannot trust my voice to be steady and remain silent.

Peter shrugs. "Whatever you say, Pop. I don't remember a thing since I walked into the hotel hall." With this he vanishes into the bathroom.

I release the breath I did not notice holding. A sense of relief fills me, but a part of me mourns. I turn to get dressed. But instead I sit down on the bed, my fingers caressing the pillow, still rich with the scent of my son. Peter does not remember. But how am I supposed to forget?