When I'm not dodging bullets, I suppose. (Part 1)

"And after the shower, there's a hot tub." Foster pulled on his pants. "And a pool." He picked up his t-shirt and started shrugging into it (he looked like a slowly dying worm...a wonderful comparison, I know). "And a water play park." He snagged his socks and shoved his feet into them, not paying attention whether he had them oriented right (which annoyed the hell out of me). "With a slide." He waggled his eyebrows at me (I must admit that was weirder then usual). I knew all of these things, but Foster thought they were worth repeating, given that if we were going to be intimate with one another, a whole new area of play was being opened up.

I was smiling softly. "You certainly seem to be in a good mood."

"Why wouldn't I be? I just got laid!" He took a seat on the couch while pulling on his shoes. "And he calls me dense..." He murmured, not meaning to be overheard (he failed).

I chuckled and shrugged (like a dork), coming over to sit at the other end of the couch while I put on my shirt (I'm not sure why I did that, cause wiggling into a shirt is really hard while sitting down).

"Laid with you!" Foster looked at my bashful expression and decided to rub it in. "And hey, you're really good in bed." He reached over and nudged my shoulder, adoring how I looked shocked and then colored profusely (what was he trying to do? Embarrass the hell out of me?). "What, aren't you usually in a good mood after getting laid?" Fully dressed now, Foster leaned back against the corner of the couch, canting his body to face me. It wasn't like abuse was the only sex I had ever had, but we hadn't really discussed it in detail (and for that I am grateful).

"When I'm not dodging bullets, I suppose." (That was weird, but true) I buttoned my shirt up, trying not to get caught in the memory.

"Dodging bu...okay." Foster faltered for a moment, suddenly having a bit of realization about why I didn't like or want to talk about my experiences. Then he rallied, trying to cheer me up with, "Well, there's no one here to shoot at you, so you're safe!"

I nodded solemnly, finishing my shirt and crossing the room to get my shoes, not bothering with socks (they were all dirty still, cause I'm lazy).

I didn't say anything, so Foster took it as an invitation to speak, "Listen, no one's going to take a shot at you. I will fuck you, or get fucked by you, as many times as necessary until getting shot at isn't what's on your mind after sex." He stood up, as we seemed ready to leave.

One brow went up on my otherwise straight face. Foster held the door open. It took me several seconds to get myself moving towards the door (I wasn't mentally prepared for the shock of the outside world but I wanted to leave anyways). Foster's offer was left hanging in the air because it was something I simply couldn't believe. In retrospect, even Foster thought it was a weird thing to say, but he'd said it (and he clearly wasn't about to back down from it). "How many times do you think it will take?" Foster said challengingly as we walked out, not willing to drop it.

"Oh, at least a hundred," I answered immediately in a deep tone, heading for the set of stairs leading down.

"A hundred?" Foster was aghast. (It would most definitely take more times then that, trust me trauma isn't easy enough to deal with as those damn books make it seem) He didn't seem to understand my tone of voice (I was trying to make a fucking joke and failed as usual).

"Maybe five hundred," I elaborated. "A year of once or twice a day...that would be a nice start, assuming you were serious. Then we could reassess my status."

"Oh." Foster figured out the joke and laughed out loud. "Oh! Well … actually, we'd need to be absolutely sure. I'd be willing to go up to a thousand, you know, just to be sure."

I snickered at him, Dexter joining in the banter. "We both know what a sucker you are for a good cause."

"Yeah," Foster quipped back. "I've been told I'm a pretty good sucker, too."

And that shut me up for the rest of the walk...(I'll let your mind elaborate on that)....(ick)....(what a strange man)....(I just love adding parentheses all around this page Dexter wrote).....(yeah I think that's enough).........(okay maybe not)........(just one more).......(okay).....(there).....(begins shouting in slow motion)....(noooooooo!!!!).....(waaaaaitttttt!!!!)....(what can I say?)......(it's really really late)....(okay).....(you can leave now...)........................................................................................
...........................................................................................................(I lied)................................
........(LEAVE).......(NOW).........(aw, shucks, I got shot by a damn sniper...again)....(writing and playing COD at the same time is hard)........(Damn it)......(GAME OVER).


Dexter/Gabriel.

Okay, so most of the credit goes to Dexter, but I must say my parentheses were a nice touch. Haha! What can I say, I'm really lazy, besides Dexter's better at this sort of stuff.