Chapter Text
Carl Mørck is a pathetic, pathetic man. He is also very good at his job, which means that Assad is in a situation where he is both turned off by Carl's general pitiful aura, and he is turned on. Under that wet rag of man, an ember smoulders, and Assad will do almost anything to see if he can fan it—if the fire will flare up.
It could have been worse, Assad thinks as he is once again the target for Carl's pointed comments. Yes, by God, he wants the man in his bed, but the man could have been a real asshole. In contrast to the asshole he is right now, a half-finished asshole, an asshole-in-the-making. He is not bitter enough to be a real asshole, just traumatised.
Just traumatised.
Assad will get through to him. He has enough patience for both of them—Assad is where he is today because he knows what it means to take his time, to wait for the right moment to come.
But God above, how pathetic is he? What will it be like when it comes down to it? Does he want someone to hold him, all emotional and cathartic? Assad can do it, but it doesn't seem quite right. Does he want it to be hard and brutal so that he can go home and continue to feel bad about himself afterwards? Hm, maybe not. Will he keep all the reins and exploit Assad until he gets what he wants? No, not that either.
They are close. Close to solving the case. Closer to each other. Assad pulls the plug on the stepson’s shitty music and thinks, yes. Carl would like someone who knows how to take the lead. Not because he can't figure out how to pull the plug himself, but because it's nice when someone else bothers. It's not quite a puff, but the ember has to be kept alive, right?
He'll figure out the coffee too.
One thing's for sure: it's really, really sexy when Carl's brain really gets going. Assad knows smart people, has even worked with some of them, and he's slept with a fair few. The physicality of it almost becomes irrelevant - women, men, it doesn't matter. And once Carl gets going, he's almost terrifying. His eyes sharpen, his mouth tightens, his body— his hands stop shaking, as if he's forgotten that he's almost had a nervous breakdown. Everything else fades into the background, nothing else is more important than the case, the next clue.
So when Carl walks into the restaurant, wet as a drowned cat, Assad doesn't think he's pathetic to look at (although he is), but he thinks, now. There's life in the embers. Carl's dark eyes glow in the gloom, and Assad has long since made up his mind.
He stokes the fire.
***
Afterwards, when it's all over, when all the wounds have been tended to, and everything is as okay as it can be under the circumstances, Assad drives Carl home. Carl offers to drive, and maybe Assad should have let him; his side stings uncomfortably when he turns the steering wheel, but. He drives Carl home. Coffee, Carl asks, and Assad says yes, and follows him in. It's quiet in the stepson’s room, maybe he's not home, maybe he's sleeping, maybe it doesn't matter. The kitchen is dark, only a little light from the coffee machine, cold light from the refrigerator for a moment, then it shuts again.
The smell of coffee spreads. Carl's coffee smells better than it tastes. It's scalding. I must teach you how to brew better coffee, Assad says and approaches until he's so close he can smell the coffee on Carl's lips. Carl says nothing. Assad takes the coffee cup from him and places it and his own on the counter, and then there's nothing more to say. Carl tastes of coffee, of passion, but it's nothing compared to what he's doing with his hands.
There's nothing pathetic about Carl Mørck now. It turns out he's competent in more than one area. It's neither hard and brutal nor emotional or anything else, it just is. Assad's jacket on the floor, pants down around his knees, Carl's hands on his cock, Carl's lips on his neck. Assad's teeth on Carl's ear, his hands firmly on Carl's ass, and it's pure pleasure. Like this, he says, yes says Carl. Here, he asks, yes says Assad. Bedroom? No. Next time, maybe. Round two. Do you have the stamina for it? What do you think? Shut up. The sounds are amplified in the small kitchen, their breathing seems louder, but it's how Assad wants it, how Carl wants it. Aah, it sounds from Carl, yes, yes, says Assad, finds Carl's mouth. Feels him twitch; he squeezes his hand around Carl's cock, come on, come on.
They finish their lukewarm coffee and then go into the bedroom anyway.