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He really didn't have time for this 'excursion', but he knew that if he didn't relieve the pressure - and soon! -, something would break. And Baylin needed him. Kyle needed him.
And that was the problem.
He would have preferred to go to San Francisco - it would have been perfect for what he was after -, but he simply didn't have the time to fly out all that way. That left... not a lot, but Vancouver was closest, what with Seattle simply not being an option.
A short Google search on his laptop later, and he knew exactly where to go. The bar was dark, hot, crowded, and a bit shady, but frankly, he preferred a bit of darkness.
The music drowned out any attempts at conversation. He wasn't here for conversation anyway. The bass pounded through his body, as if in concert with the hard beat of his heart.
He found a seat at the bar and signaled the bartender.
No more than three beers a night, Tom; remember.
Most of the men here were decades younger than him, with the hard, fit bodies of active soldiers. But he wasn't here out of nostalgia. And a soldier wasn't who he was looking for.
There, in the corner, were a couple of college kids. Gay, bi-curious, or gay bashers scoping out their victims? He drained his beer slowly and watched them out of the corner of his eyes.
Two of them kissed, and their friends looked on with tolerant affection.
Possibilities, then, not the enemy.
Two looked like they fit the parameters of what the beast raging inside his chest was demanding, but neither was perfect. Frankly, both were too old, but that was not a consideration. He swallowed hard, but the last gulp of his beer stayed down, thankfully. He was not a fucking pedophile.
One was too short, the other too slender. Damn.
The redhead with them reached out and snagged the belt-loops of another guy passing their table. A friend? The welcoming smiles of the others at the table seemed to suggest so. They dragged a chair closer, and the newcomer fell down into it, laughing.
A spark in his gut, of anticipation, of recognition.
The new guy was just perfect.
Tall, dark-haired, muscular but not bulky, with a smile that lit up his face.
He slammed his empty glass down and signaled the bartender for two more, took them up carefully and made his way over.
Make or break time.
He put down one of the glasses in front of his target. The guy started, looked up, and smiled.
Apparently, he didn't care about the age difference, not with the way his eyes traveled down Foss' body.
"Wanna dance?" Foss asked, huskily.
"Sure," the guy said, and waved back at his friends when Foss grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the bathrooms.
The beast inside him snarled in anticipation. Perhaps this would finally, finally, quieten the sheer want in him that had made it impossible for him to stay in Seattle.
How could he desire a boy he should have - had had - parental feelings for, a sixteen-year-old, for God's sake? He wasn't a monster.
This might only be a stopgap measure, but as long as it helped shore up his failing control, he'd happily spend the whole three days he'd allowed himself fucking his way through Vancouver, from one dark-haired Kyle Trager-lookalike to the next.
"Kyle XY" ficlet by allaire mikháil, 575 words, Foss/OMC & Foss/Kyle UST, Foss POV, rated PG-13.
The story is set immediately after the events of episode 2x14 "To C.I.R., With Love".
This is unbeta'd and the result of too much exposure to Kyle XY in too short a time, especially considering the embarrassing amount of squeeage heard in this apartment whenever Nick Lea came on screen. :::shamefully wipes drool off the monitor:::
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