What The Fuck Was That For? Essay
“I’m not used to other people touching me.” Dex says, and it sounds like half an apology, which Derek figures is all he’s going to get. “I forgot I wasn’t back in-- back home.” Dex wrinkles his nose in a way that lets Derek know that that’s not at all what he wants to say, which makes him curious.
“Where the hell did they even keep you?” he asks, getting up off of the floor. His nose isn’t broken, though he makes a mental note that Dex has a killer right hook. He wasn’t one of those defenseless Q types, then. “It definitely wasn’t at the HAUS; I’d’ve seen you before now, if so.”
“Maine.” Dex says, rolling his shoulders and settling back into his seat, seemingly more calm. “Like, really fucking remote Maine. Cabin in the woods type of deal, except with really good wifi. It wasn’t too bad.”
“I’m not the woodsy type, so, I’ll take your word for it.” Most of the flannel that was in his civilian clothes was designer; Derek had grown up in Manhattan and had been camping exactly once, for training.
“What, Mr. Champagne and Armani’s never roughed it? I’m so surprised.” Dex rolls his eyes, sitting forward and grabbing his laptop.
“Oh, I’ve done a few things rough.” Derek snorts, smirking and enjoying the way Dex’s face automatically goes red. “I just can’t sustain a lifestyle that way.”