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Sean's toweling his hair dry, soft cotton of his shirt sticking to his back, when Tim blows into the locker room. It's late, everyone gone home or on duty for the night, and it's just them - Sean, one foot out the door, and Tim, square in his way.
He smiles. "Hey."
The moment stretches out into forever. It's never a sure thing, between them; Tim could come on all friendly, he could be prickly and looking for a fight. He could have something he's been stewing on, some new brilliant idea or a minor grievance cooking just under the surface, ready to erupt.
Murphy always thought that someday, he'd get a handle on McManus; some sense of his internal barometer, a feeling for what made him tick. Twenty some-odd years and the only answers he'd ever got near were all so poetic and cliche he'd rejected them as not even close. Whatever Tim was, it wasn't cliche.
Tim's mouth twitches into something that passes for a smile. "Hi." He makes his way to his locker, still breathing heavy, wiping a hand up his face and over the top of his head. Fresh from the gym; t-shirt hanging limp and damp off his shoulders, skin flushed and gleaming. Murphy can smell him, when he gets close; sweat and fading cologne and bone-deep exhaustion and it goes straight to his cock. He forces himself to look away, before he makes a fucking scene.
"You been shootin' hoops? How'd you do?" He directs the question over his shoulder, focuses on lacing up his boots.
"Okay." Rush of air and sudden warmth at his side; Tim bumps him with his shoulder as he settles on the bench, bends to untie his sneakers. "Would've been better with a partner."
Murphy grins, shakes his head. "Sorry. Was busy puttin' your dinks to bed. Hoyt and his boys wouldn't settle the fuck down."
"Did you try reading them a bedtime story?" It takes him a second to process and when he looks up, what-the-fuck ready and waiting on his lips, Tim's giving him the blankest, most innocent look he's ever seen.
"Clever." He lets his shoulder rest against Tim's for a second, just long enough to feel the heat coming off him, long rolling waves. He wants to stay there forever. "Sometime next week, okay? I should be done kinda early on Wednesday, we'll play a round." Tim nods; he's got that tiny secretive McManus smile on his face, eyes all crinkled, corner of his pretty mouth quirked upward, and before Sean even knows what's going to come out of his mouth he's saying "Hey, you wanna go grab a bite to eat, a couple beers?"
He doesn't know how he manages to choke it out; it sounds stupid and desperate and needy and he thinks, fuck, but Tim just says "Yeah, lemme hop in the shower, I'll - I'll meet you in the lobby?"
Sean nods. "Okay." He doesn't know why he's not moving yet - except really, he does.
Tim bounces on the balls of his feet, bites his lip; he looks left, looks right, then lurches forward and kisses Sean, quick and warm and firm.
Jesus. He stares at Tim, stupid and blank, and then it all comes together and he's reaching out, dragging Tim in. He crashes knees-first into the bench, crawls up onto it, slides his hands up Tim's arms and into the sleeves of his t-shirt. Tim's making surprised little noises, wiggling against him and nipping at his lips and it takes every bit of willpower Sean's got to push him away.
"Okay," Tim says. He's at least got the good sense to look a little embarrassed. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, grins. "Okay, that's - that's okay. That's okay, isn't it?"
"I." He swallows; his mouth's dry, his ears ringing. "I think so, yeah."
Tim's starting to look awkward and unsure and all of a sudden, being near him's got Sean feeling - parched, strung out, and he says "I'll be outside," flees before he can do any of the stupid things he's thinking about, slamming Tim back against the lockers, pushing those shorts down off his skinny hips. He makes it all the way to the lobby on that thought before he remembers - winter, snow, cold. Fuck. He jams his hands in his pockets, studies the potted plants.
Tim shows up, eventually - coat open and flapping, bag barely slung over his shoulder, trailing office debris. Outside, the sky's dark - again, still. Sean's not sure which. Not sure if it matters.
"Jesus Christ," Tim says, jerking the collar of his coat up around his neck, pulling his head in like a turtle. "How the fuck is it still this cold?"
Sean's sick of talking about the cold. He's sick of the snow and the howling wind, sick of letting it permeate his mind and his days. He shifts closer to Tim as they walk, until their shoulders bump and rub together. "Let's just go to my place," he says, quick, before he can stop himself; "We can leave your car, ride in together in the morning."
It's the boldest, most blatant about it he's ever been, and even while the words are tumbling out of his mouth he can't believe he's saying them and he's got no idea how Tim's going to take it - but Tim just huddles a little closer, says "Yeah, fuck it, let's just go," and then they're in Sean's truck and leaving Oz behind.