Disclaimer/warning: Don't own 'em, Fontana, et al do; making no money. Contains m/m smut, flavored with a dash of angst.

Summary: It's S6, Chris is off death row, but he's been transferred to Unit B, so the boys aren't getting to see each other very often, just whenever the fates of Oz work in their favor, like here...

Thanks to Christy for the push and the beta.

Interlude

Deja vu flashing through his mind Chris tenses at the first brush of someone's hand along his back. Feeling something close to panic as arms encircle him from behind, grip him and hold him still, it takes an eternity to understand the words murmured against his ear, to realize the touch against his throat isn't cold steel but the wet warmth of his lover's mouth.

"Toby?" His voice sounds shaky, breathy -- like he'd just gotten the shit scared out of him, and he thinks the maniac laugh that vibrates against his throat shouldn't be so reassuring.

"Who were you expecting?"

The fucking Grim Reaper, he thinks, but says, "What're you doing here?" Not that he's thinking of lodging any kind of complaint, not with Toby reaching around to unbuckle his belt and pull his zipper down.

"Sister Pete sent me to get some copy paper," Toby murmurs against his throat, kissing and licking at that one particular spot he knows makes Chris weak in the knees. His hand's busy, too, fingers slipping inside the waistband of Chris' boxers and stroking the hard cock he finds.

"Yeah?" Chris knows he sounds breathless again, but for a whole different reason. "There's gotta be -- oh Christ," Toby's touching his balls, cupping them and squeezing, wrapping his fingers around Chris' cock, "a, a hack with you..." As if that was a deterrent. He'd fuck Toby right in the middle of the cafeteria if he could.

"He's down the hall," Toby's fingers stroke him, pet him, "shooting the breeze with Lopresti." Toby's lips and tongue nibble and lave his throat, his shoulder. "We've got a few minutes." He tugs the navy blue wifebeater out of Chris' pants and hikes it up his chest, baring one nipple. He lays his hand over it, his palm pressing and rubbing the tender flesh.

A few minutes, he thinks, and tilts his head back against Toby, trying to be quiet under his lover's tender and persistent assault. That's all they ever have -- a few precious minutes snatched whenever the opportunity came along. Even more rare was any time they could grab a moment all to themselves, no prying eyes looking on, using their love to fuel jerk-off dreams. He doesn't dwell on that often. He can't afford to. This time when he can have Toby -- touch him and hold him and love him -- it's so short, it will be gone so soon. He has to store up every moment to fuel his own dreams during that long, long time that Toby will be gone.

Now, right now, this instant -- that's what they have. It has to be enough, he thinks, and he presses his forearm across his mouth, muffling the cries of pleasure welling up from his chest. Another moment and he reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Toby's head and angling his own around to find Toby's mouth, needing to feel Toby's mouth against his own. There, that's better, those thin lips hot against his, that astonishing tongue filling his mouth. What the fuck does it matter if he can't breathe? He doesn't need air. He only needs to be saturated with Toby.

"Jesus...fuck..." Toby's the one to draw back, just for an instant, just long enough so Chris can turn to face him. Then he dives back for more, hands sliding up along Chris' back to cup the nape of his neck, fingers crooked and digging into his scalp as they kiss.

There should be another word it, this voracious craving for each other's mouth. He thinks that for a second, every thought evaporating the next as Toby's tongue slides against his and flicks at the roof of his mouth. All he can do is feel, soak up every sensation as it shudders and jolts through him. All he can do is wrap his arms around this diabolic angel, longing to keep him close forever. Longing to stop time so they can stand there, wrapped up each other, devouring each other through all eternity.

Panting for air, Toby drags his mouth along Chris' cheek to his ear, flicking his tongue there for an instant before he bends his head and grazes his lips across that one exposed nipple. He feels Chris shiver at the touch and opens his mouth, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin and Chris trembles more. Toby lashes the puckered flesh with his tongue and Chris moans, feeling that touch sizzle right to his groin.

He threads his fingers through his lover's hair and growls, "Suck me."

A puff of air against his wet nipple makes his skin prickle deliciously, and Toby's lips close around the nipple, sucking.

That's good, but, "Suck my cock," he demands and feels the chuckle as much as hears it.

"Well you only need to be specific," Toby whispers against his skin, falling to his knees. His tongue darts around Chris' belly button as he pushes Chris' pants down a bit more. Chris starts to object to being teased -- but the protest is erased by the feel of Toby's mouth on him, by the hot wetness of Toby's mouth sucking him.

He strokes and pulls at Toby's hair, he kneads the nape of his neck as Toby sucks him. He feels the pleasure, the pressure building, spreading through him, igniting every nerve. Chest rising and falling with it, he bites his lip, tasting blood, muscles bunching and flexing as his climax rips through him and spurts into Toby's mouth. Chris thinks he could come again, watching Toby lick his lips clean, just like he was eating his favorite flavor of ice cream.

Breathing hard, Chris drags Toby to his feet, kissing him again, wanting to return the favor and reaching for the fastening of his pants. After a moment, though, Toby pushes back, smiling at him and covering Chris' hand, pressing it hard against him for just a moment before moving it away with a look of regret.

"Later," he whispers, gently tucking Chris back in his pants and zipping him back up.

Later -- there might not be a later, he thinks, feeling regret bumping up against them. It's always there, no matter how they try to escape it, weaving words and fantasies in the night. Its bittersweet tang flavors every moment they steal, and sometimes he thinks that's even why it's always so good.

"Later," he whispers back as Toby pulls his wifebeater back down, pausing to trace fingers over his heart for a moment.

"Love you," Toby says, eyes locking.

"Love you," he says back, seeing the words in those clear blue eyes, feeling them in his soul.

Tragic joy -- that's what he always sees in those eyes, too, knowing the same thing flickers in his own.

Toby comes in for another kiss, soft and sweet this time, fingers brushing the hair at his temple. "I better go."

Chris nods, watches him walk away. "Hey, Beecher?" When Toby pauses and looks back at him, Chris picks up a package of paper, tosses it to him. "Better not forget this."

Toby catches it, flashes a let-there-be-light smile at him, nods, and walks out.

He stands there watching after him for a long moment, then sighs and turns back to his dull and dreary work.

~~the end~~