A/N What really would've happened if JJ hadn't been in the room during 3x05.

Rated M. Cook/Freddie.

Don't like slash? - don't read, it's very simple.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

It's bloody simple. Karen ruined the shed, their shed, so he ruined her competition. No big deal.

But apparently it was, because Freddie is pissed off, and Cook can't keep from staring at his friend as he paces back and forth, everything about him screaming 'fight'. That's his Freddie, right there. No one gets to see that side of Freds-the-funsponge but him, no one has this affect on him but Cook and it's just…right.

"You prick…you selfish fucking prick!" Freddie yells, pacing back and forth, muscles tightening with each agitated step. He has to keep moving, has to somehow rid himself of the storm that's raging on the inside. Karen's crying and Freddie's livid beyond belief and Cook - Cook isn't taking his eyes off him, staring at him like whatyagonnado and it hits him somewhere dark and fiery inside his chest. He moves before he knows it, grabbing a hold of Cook's shirt and pulling him close, raising his fist as he does. He wants to punch the smug grin of Cook's face, wants to punish him. Simply wants.

There's a rush of fresh adrenaline through Cook's bloodstream as Freddie raises his clenched fist, pulls him close. The collar of his t-shirt is digging into his neck and he has to stand on his fucking tip-toes not to allow Freddie to tower over him, meeting his angry stare head on.

Reality comes crashing down around him; Freddie is going to kick his ass. Heat pools at the pit of his stomach, mingling with a sliver of trepidation. Something's changing, he can feel it in the fucking air around them. In that second he wants to run. Run and never look back, but then he changes his mind. "Fucking do it then, you pussy!"

The headbutt sends flares of pain through his skull. Finding himself on the floor, Cook shakes his head to clear off the fog. Freddie fights dirty and it fits because everything Cook does could be considered dirty. Inappropriate. Over the top.

The fighter in him reacts on pure instinct, getting to his feet in one smooth move despite of the lagers he's downed earlier at the pub. Freddie's eyes widen as Cook grabs a hold of his collar, and the gulp of breath is audible.

They're so close, their breaths are mingling and Cook smells of lager and cigarettes and something else. They stumble, and his hand rests briefly on Cook's back before he pulls it away as if he's been burned. Still struggling for breath, Freddie waits for the inevitable punch with something unidentifiable thrumming in his veins. When Cook suddenly grabs his face and kisses him, Freddie's momentarily frozen. The kiss is rough; lips pressed together so tightly it hurts and Freddie panics. The punch throws Cook to the floor for a second time, this time coughing and curling around his midsection as he struggles to pull air back into his lungs.

Freddie stares, transfixed, having a front row ticket to the way Cook's eyes darkens dangerously. The air is still thick around them, boiling with tension and leaving both of them panting. Cook gets to his feet slowly, moving like an animal stalking its prey and Freddie finds himself backing away. Cook follows, and it's not until his back hits the wall that Freddie stops.

Everything stops.

Freddie wets his lips, desperately trying to get his lungs to function, and watches how Cook's eyes are immediately drawn to the movement of his tongue. The second kiss is just as rough but doesn't linger, Cook is quick to pull back and look to him for a reaction. This time Freddie can't ignore the rush of heat or the way his pants are suddenly a little too tight. It's enough to drown out the voices at the back of his head that are constantly reasoning and looking too closely at things, and to spring him back into action.

Cook's been hard and aching since he managed to pick himself off the floor, and when Freddie moves - one hand sliding behind Cook's neck and the other fisting in the fabric at the back of his shirt as he kisses him - he reacts on impulse.

Stepping closer, bodies pressed together, he returns the kiss with fervor. One hand closing IN the dark hair at the back of Freddie's neck and tugging, hard, Cook swallows the half-groan with another bruising kiss.

Cook slides his lips along Freddie's jaw, feeling the stubble, biting down on the bone and feeling Freddie's hips jerk in response. He wants to leave a mark. Let the world know who Freddie really belongs to. Licking a stripe up the column of his friend's throat he sucks at the skin hard enough to bruise. There's no way of stopping the stuttered groan from escaping his lips as Freddie grabs him by the hip and pulls them flush together. "Fuck."

Gasping, Cook repeats the move and grinds his hard-on against the bulge in Freddie's pants, one hand clamping down hard on the arm still looped around his waist. They're back to kissing, frantic and rough with lips and teeth and tongue. The need for friction grows and soon they're both moving against each other in harsh, jerky moves, the sound of their labored breathing and clearly audible in the otherwise silent room.

Freddie can hear the sound of the telly coming from down the hall, through the velvety haze of his mind, knows his dad and Karen are there but can't find the power to care. All he can focus on is the need for more. Cook's mouth is hot against his, tongues sliding together, and he is so hard he aches.

Cook groans, licking over Freddie's pulse point; tasting salt and feeling the galloping of his heart through the delicate skin. Does it again and feels him shiver. This is simple. Everything else is difficult and messed up and bloody hurts but this, them, is simple. It's an easy solution to all the tension and awkward emotions and everything that is just too much. Feels too much.

Reaching down between them Cook palms Freddie through his pants before squeezing hard, and staggers under the weight of him as Freddie collapses forward and comes with a loud gasp. Frowning, Cook continues to move, feeling Freddie shudder against him. Then he finds the place - that space between Freddie's hip and his groin - where his cock fits perfectly and it's not long before he comes too, the sound muffled against Freddie's shoulder.

Silence falls, still charged with something that's sizzling around them. But the energy is different this time, feels bigger somehow. More. It feels like looking back and new beginnings all at once.

The seconds tick away, the sound of the television now barely audible over the wild thrumming of their hearts. Freddie leans back against the wall, taking some of his weight off Cook, and Cook swallows, straightens where he stands.

"I really fucking love you, you bastard." He whispers heatedly against Freddie's throat - breath hot against the sweat damp skin - before backing away on trembling legs. As he turns his back there's something in Freddie that wants to reach out, make him stay, fix things, them.

It's always them.

Cook pauses briefly before he walks out the door, pulls a hand through his hair as he looks back and their eyes meet. Freddie can't speak; his tongue feeling like an alien thing too big for his mouth. But when Cook nods at him tersely the question - 'we cool, mate?' - is evident in his eyes, Freddie finds himself returning the gesture.

'Always'.

FIN

Thoughts?