Intensive Care

A paediatric nurse takes some time after work with the Head of Psychiatry.

3.4k, cis M/M. Some fucky power play between coworkers, both of them very aware of each other’s character flaws, featuring age difference, size difference, riding, oral, anal, lots of physical intimacy and affection, with a hint of overstim at the end.

CW for mentions of past trauma, implied rape and sexual abuse, and incest. None of these things are explicit or present-day, and they’re discussed in the context of unpacking a trigger and some invasive thoughts.

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It’s been a long shift in the PICU, and Nick has been lying on Geordi’s couch for two hours when Geordi comes down from the psych ward and comes back to his office. He doesn’t turn on the main light, flicks on the desk lamp instead, and Nick turns over on his side, looks over at the older man as he drops his stack of files on the desk and moves his mouse around to wake his monitor up.

“You been here a while?” he asks.

“A few hours,” says Nick.

“You sleep?”

“Not really,” Nick mutters, reaching up and rubbing at one of his dry, tired eyes.

“Hard day?”

“Yeah.”

Geordi steps casually toward the door and turns the key in the lock. It makes a loud click.

“You wanna talk about it?” asks Geordi.

“No,” says Nick.

“Too bad.”

Nick drops his weight onto his chest, pressing his cheek into one of the cushions and looking over at Geordi as he goes back to his desk, sinking into his office chair. He puts on the glasses on the chain around his neck as he opens up his computer and starts logging his file notes on the system.

Nick looks up at the ceiling instead of at him, at the faded grey paint on the office ceiling. A lot of the department heads have had their rooms redecorated in the past few months, but Geordi keeps waving them off and telling them to go to some of the junior heads and the other offices, the meeting rooms, the staff rooms.

There’s not many rooms left in the hospital that have this faded grey paint on their ceilings. It’s not like Geordi’s holding out because he particularly likes it — he’s just stubborn, and hates change, and doesn’t want to spend a few days dealing with the smell of fresh paint.

“Lot of patients?”

“Ramona Sulley’s daughter died,” Nick says quietly. “About forty minutes after I clocked in.”

“Complications from the PE?”

“She was septic.”

“I’m sorry,” says Geordi. He’s using his therapy voice disconnected from the rest of his therapeutic vibe, so his voice is soft and warm and full of compassion, but his face is completely blank, his eyes distant, and he’s focused on his notes as he types them up. Nick can hear his fingers moving rapidly across the keys. “That’s never easy. Was it busy today, or did you have time to digest it?”

“I had time,” Nick says. “Uh, I didn’t cry, but I just let it hit me. No other deaths, but a few hard diagnoses, there was a kid that came up from that van crash.”

“And?”

“And? It’s the PICU. It’s rough.”

“And there’s something else,” says Geordi, “or you wouldn’t be in my office.”

“Maybe I just want to suck your dick, Geordi, does everything have to be so fucking complicated?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” says Geordi in measured tones, as unbothered as he ever is when Nick snaps at him. “I’d appreciate it if you could answer the question.”

Therapy is the price of admission.

Nick remembers the first time Geordi had approached him — Nick had been working over at Saint Michael’s back then, had been doing shifts in their ED, and Geordi had been in with his grandson, who’d had a fall off his skateboard and sprained his wrist.

“You’re good with kids,” he’d said to Nick once his daughter had arrived, and the two of them were waiting outside.

“Your grandson’s a pretty confident kid,” Nick had told him. “He doesn’t need anybody to be good with him. You teach him to be like that?”

“I taught my daughter,” Geordi had said simply. “She just passed it on.”

Nick hadn’t got the vibe upfront that Geordi was gay, exactly — he had ex-wives, multiple, and had like five kids other than his daughter. But he’d gotten the vibe that he was interested in Nick, maybe, and Nick had been so fucking tired of Grindr at the time, of quick, surreptitious fucks between shifts at work or the commute home.

He’d never been with someone as old as Geordi before — Doctor Geordi Haas was sixty-two now, had been in his fifties back then, and Nick had just wanted a connection that was more than sex, that went beyond it.

Geordi had accepted the coffee dates, and they’d gone out together a few times, all the time talking, talking, talking.

It had felt good. So good as to be infectious, even, so much that it went into other parts of his life, being seen as so interesting, being asked so many questions about his life, about his experiences, about his feelings — and it wasn’t like it had been entirely one-sided. Geordi did talk about himself, too, could be real, could be emotional.

But there was an imbalance then, and there’s an imbalance now, a kind of…

“You’re an emotional vampire, you know that?” Nick asks, and Geordi doesn’t look over at him from his computer and his face mostly stays the same, but his eyebrows raise. “You get off on it. The therapeutic process, someone else’s emotional vulnerability, cracking them open to get at what’s inside. Do you jack off to your patients, too?”

“Deflection,” says Geordi crisply.

Nick looks back up at the grey, grey ceiling. “A girl came in. Marcia Lanek, she’s eight. Loves The Little Mermaid. She’s got pneumonia, and her lungs are pretty bad — her prognosis looks okay now we’ve got her on the right meds, but she still needs to be in the PICU for now, you know? She’s a good kid, and her mom is — Yeah. Anyway, her mom was there during the day, and then in the evening, her dad came in. His name’s Pete. He’s got big hands, meaty palms, heavy knuckles. Mechanic.”

“Like your father,” says Geordi.

“Uh huh,” says Nick.

“Similar personalities?”

“Yeah,” says Nick. “Yeah, he’s pretty, uh… Coarse. Hard. Has this way of walking that’s pretty like my dad’s.”

“You see him walk?”

“He came striding down the corridor toward me. For a second I went to brace myself for the punch.” He remembers it, remembers the sudden roar in his ears as Mr Lanek had come toward him, the rapid beat of his heart. The other man had said something and he just hadn’t heard it, processed it — it had just gone right over his head, through him, even. He’d had to collect himself to ask him to repeat himself. “He’s on Grindr.”

That gets the old bastard’s attention.

He’s not wearing the full therapeutic mask, and that means Nick sees his expression falter as he looks up and meets Nick’s gaze. He sees the surprise in his eyes, the part of his lips as he processes what that must mean for Nick.

He nudges his glasses down his noses so that he can look at Nick properly. His eyes are kind — he’s got kind eyes. They can be cold, too. Hot either way, for different reasons.

“He messaged you?” he asks.

“Just Tapped me,” Nick says. Geordi’s never used Grindr, but they’ve talked enough about it that he understands the broad strokes, understands the specifics, too — he’s looked over Nick’s shoulder while Nick’s looked at them. He’s picked men out for him too.

“Surely he’s discreet?”

“Yeah, his pictures are below the neck. I recognised his hands.”

“How does that make you feel?” asks Geordi. “I know you have complicated feelings about this, that men resembling your father have approached you before.”

“His daughter’s in the hospital with pneumonia,” mutters Nick. “It seems fucked up for him to be looking for a hookup.”

“People cope in different ways,” says Geordi immediately. “How do you feel?”

“Well,” says Nick. “I came here, didn’t I?”

There’s quiet between them for a few moments, and then Geordi stands up from his desk and walks over. Nick’s gaze drops from his face to his belly, the soft grey wool of the sweater he’s wearing and the lumps of the buttons underneath the fabric. He wears tailored shirts and his sweaters are fairly tight — his slacks are loose in comparison, flow as he walks.

He doesn’t move from where he’s laid out on Geordi’s office couch, even when Geordi’s standing right in front of him, looking down at him, his crotch close to Nick’s face. Nick reaches for his thigh, half-expecting Geordi to push his hand away, but he doesn’t right away, not as Nick settles his palm on the side of his thigh and pushes up higher, coming to loosely hold the older man’s hip.

“It took me back to every time he fucked me,” said Nick quietly, sitting up on one of his elbows. “The smell of the motor oil. His hands on my shoulder, gripping my hips, my hair. How he’d move me — no man’s ever moved me around like he did. He treated me like a fucking toy when he fucked me, didn’t care if it was hurting me. Hurting me was the point.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I just, um, I just…” Nick trails off, feeling a lump in his throat.

“You just?” Geordi prompts him, his voice quiet. His hands are at his sides, not reaching for Nick, not touching him just yet.

“I thought about letting him for a second,” Nick mutters. “Like — Like messaging him. Fucking him. I know he’s not my dad, that the reason that he… He treated me like that because he felt entitled to abuse me, and because I was a kid, and it wasn’t right. And this guy wouldn’t abuse me just because — because that’s the trauma talking. Same as when I braced myself for that punch.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t valid.”

“No, I know. I just thought it might be nice,” Nick says. “For a — Like, I caught myself thinking it. Like I missed it, like it would be nice to go back to it. Being fucked being that uncomplicated. And the thought was halfway done, and I realised what it was, what I was thinking, and I caught it, and stopped it, but I already had thought it. And I felt sick. Because that’s — Because it’s fucked up. Missing it is fucked up.”

“Doesn’t mean you miss it,” Geordi says quietly, reasonably. “Like you said, you caught that thought while it was in progress, and then backtracked on it. The thought distressed you, even.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, focusing on unbuckling Geordi’s belt and loosening the strap, opening it up before unclasping the front of his trousers, dragging down the zip.

Geordi’s half-hard, and Nick wonders if therapizing everyone makes him like this, or if it’s just Nick — or if it’s just men like Nick. What is it about Nick that’s hot to Geordi, exactly? His distress? How fucked up he is inside, how it’s all layers of shit? That he’s a nurse, that he’s repressed, that he’s a rape victim a few times over?

“I still wanted it,” says Nick. “For a second, I wanted it. I wanted it back.”

“And then, instead of messaging him, you came here,” Geordi reminds him.

Nick drags down the white band of Geordi’s boxers — he used to wear y-fronts until Nick had picked out boxer-briefs for him one Christmas and he’d tried them, realised how comfortable they were.

“He never made me blow him,” Nick says. His voice cracks a little as he says it, his throat feeling thick and heavy. His eyes sting for half a second. “He didn’t want to look at my face, I don’t think.”

He wants to say sorry for talking about it, for talking about sad, miserable shit and his sad, miserable life.

Geordi’s still rocking a chub, so it’s not like he has to apologise for being a turn-off.

“Is this gonna help?” asks Geordi.

“Yeah,” Nick bites out, and then bows his head forward.

He doesn’t pull at Geordi’s cock with his hand to get him hard, just eases his mouth down over the length of his prick and sucks it into his mouth. He feels the heat of him, tastes the musk and sweat on his skin, and feels the blood flow further down to Geordi’s cock, feels it thicken on his tongue, fill up more of his mouth.

He almost wants to cry again, this time tears of relief, at the weight of Geordi’s cock, at the slide of it against his tongue. He leans forward, crams as much of his face against the underside of Geordi’s belly as he can, takes his cock to the root and fully experiences the way the shaft of it widens, the way the head of it tips to press into the base of his throat.

His body is throbbing with want, with need, and he finds himself glad he hadn’t changed out of his scrubs when he’d come into Geordi’s office, likes the weight of the fabric against his skin, how light it is. He’d felt nauseous at the idea of changing back into his jeans, feeling the weight and thickness of the denim, and he’s glad to still be in these.

His own cock is hard as he bobs his head, lets Geordi’s cock slide over his tongue and past his lips, sink deep into his mouth and nudge against the back of his throat before he pulls back again. It’s an annoying position, Geordi’s belly over his head like this — he wants to be able to press on and squeeze it, settle his cheek against it like he can when Geordi’s laid on his back.

He does, however, feel completely shadowed by him, and there’s something comforting about it. Geordi looms over him and there’s something comforting about it, somehow, being in his shadow, feeling the warmth that radiates from his body.

Geordi’s hand slides to loosely grip Nick’s hair, his fingers carding through it and tugging gently on it as he strokes through the locks. Nick whimpers around his prick at the sudden heat it sends down to his groin, the tingling warmth between his legs as his cock springs more to life, feeling constrained in his scrubs.

Geordi’s hand grips just a little tighter, but he doesn’t pull Nick’s head around, doesn’t shove him one way or the other — he never does that, never. It’s not his style, he says, not his thing.

But just his hand feels like a lifeline right now, just the carding of his fingers feels perfect, and he moans, breathless and overwhelmed with the slide of Geordi’s cock inside him, the taste of him.

He pulls back, swallowing down his own saliva, and he looks up at Geordi. There’s no therapy mask on his face, but he’s not doing the blank face he does when he’s working, either — there’s emotion writ on his features, warmth and care, satisfaction.

“Can I sit on it?” asks Nick.

“Let’s see, shall we?” Geordi asks quietly, and he shrugs off his white coat as Nick wriggles out of his scrubs and puts them aside. He doesn’t pull off his sweater, just pulls it up to his chest so that it’s no longer over his belly, and when he sinks back onto the sofa, he unbuttons his shirt.

It’s a good sofa. Nick likes it, likes how plush it is, how comfortable, how much he sinks right into it, just like how he can sink into Geordi, and when Geordi leans back he can lean back far enough to leave Nick space to manoeuvre.

He drizzles some lube onto his fingers and swipes it around his hole, puts the rest over Geordi’s cock once it’s warm from his hand, and then he comes to straddle the older man. He wipes his hand on his own thigh to get the excess lube off as he lines Geordi’s cock up with his hole, and Geordi curls one hand around his lower back and the side of his waist, the other coming to settle on his shoulder.

Nick is slow about lowering himself down, and he hears himself groan aloud as if he’s outside of his own body as he sinks himself down, feels Geordi’s cock fill him up. He shifts his hips slightly, presses himself down until Geordi’s cock is all the way inside him, his own cock pressed up against the rounded swell of Geordi’s belly and sandwiched there by Nick’s own.

He can feel the pump of his blood in his veins, feel a flushing heat up his neck and throat, between his legs, and his hands are unsteady as he comes to rest them on Geordi’s shoulders, steadying himself.

“That’s it,” Geordi tells him quietly, his hands resting on Nick’s body and staying there, steadying him even more, as Nick raises himself up on his knees and then sinks himself down again. “That’s it, that’s it. You want to keep riding, or…?”

As soon as he’s asked, Nick drops forward, buries his face against the side of Geordi’s neck and loosely gathers his arms around Geordi’s belly, and he whimpers helplessly as Geordi thrusts up and into him. The hand on his waist slides down to loosely grip at his ass; the one on his shoulder slides to stroke over Nick’s naked back as he keeps fucking up and into him, a slow, even rhythm.

It feels good. His cock is ground between the both of their bodies, Geordi’s prick in his ass another slide of wonderful friction, and most of all it’s comforting — Geordi’s body under his is warm and strong and soft and real and so fucking gentle Nick could burst into tears as he’s bounced by the thrusts of Geordi’s cock in him.

“That’s it,” Geordi tells him softly. “That’s it, I’ve got you.” One of his fingers slides between his cheeks, tugs at the rim of his ass where his cock is already splitting Nick open, and Nick moans, spreading his thighs farther apart so that he sinks down just slightly more. He feels fucking surrounded by him, like the whole world is just Geordi and Nick on top of him, his cock feeling hot and wet and so fucking good —

Geordi speeds up, at the same time crushing Nick’s face against his shoulder so that when Nick whines it’s muffled against Geordi’s shirt and his rumpled sweater.

Geordi holds him there, cradles him as he slams his hips up and into his arse, the slapping sounds filling the room and ringing in Nick’s ears, and Nick grabs at Geordi’s body, holding onto him for dear fucking life as he’s rocked in his place, as his orgasm crashes over him hard, and his cock spasms and pulses between their bodies, his balls drawn up tight.

He shudders and gasps, his body shuddering, and Geordi keeps hold of him as he weathers it, as his body comes unstrung, all the tension leaving him, his body loosening and relaxing. He feels like all his strings have been cut as he goes limp in Geordi’s lap, dropping like dead weight onto Geordi’s chest, and Geordi makes soft, soothing sounds, both of his hands sliding up Nick’s back and then back down, up, down.

“You’re so fucked up,” says Nick.

“That makes two of us,” says Geordi.

Nick wonders if he feels the instinct to call Nick something like buddy or pal or whatever else, the sort of thing he calls his patients, calls other people, too — Nick has bitten at him a few times not to call him shit like that, and at least he’s dialled it back with him.

“I love you,” says Nick.

“Love you too,” says Geordi, his voice softer, warmer now, and he cups Nick’s cheek, strokes his thumb over his cheekbone as he looks at him. His expression is gentle, but distantly concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” says Nick. “Better now. You know it doesn’t mean the same thing when you say you love me as when I say I love you.”

“Oh no?” asks Geordi, eyebrows raising. “Do tell.”

“From the five-times-divorcee?”

“I never even told my second wife I loved her,” says Geordi, and Nick laughs, his head tipping back as that fucking hits him, the way that Geordi says it so flatly and so evenly, like it’s true, like it’s not just true, but normal. Geordi’s palm is gentle still as it slides against his cheek, his jaw, the side of his throat. “Okay if I keep going?”

“Yeah,” says Nick, although a hot thrill runs through him at the thought of it, knowing it’s gonna be a lot, knowing he’s overstimulated, that this is just going to add to it, and fucking aching for it. “Yeah. Keep going.”

Geordi kisses him, their noses brushing against one another, before his hips slam up and into him again.