Back in Business

Title: "Back in Business" (1/1)
Author: Jimbo
Subjects: Gamble/Street of "S.W.A.T."
Date: July 25, 2005
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters -- just borrowing them for the fun of it.
Dedication: To Kyra, who unabashedly enjoys this stuff and gives me a lot of encouragement. (And my answer to liking the way Brian smells is "hell, yes!")
Warnings: A little nasty. Slashy and definitely scat (descriptions of shitting, possibly erotic). Read at your own risk of being offended.

He sits, doubled over with an ache deep in his gut, wondering if his life will ever be back to normal again. It's not strange for stuff to occasionally get fucked up. Things go wrong, and sometimes they go terribly wrong. But when you can't believe in your own instincts or even trust your own body, what do you have left?

Jim Street was finding it hard to remember when his life was easier, when he wasn't cleaning guns and shining boots in the L.A.P.D. armory. His partner in the cage, Gus, puttered around, delightedly slurping soda and shoveling junk food. Gus never worried about his own mortality or even his fitness level, although he occasionally gave a second thought to the damage he might be doing to his soul, recently claimed by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Gus was content in his limited little world, and that meant Gus was a happier, healthier man than the ultra-fit, ultra-cool Jim Street.

"Fuck him," Street mutters to himself in his misery. How could someone like Gus have anything to complain about when his expectations were so low?

Street, however, had very high expectations, especially when it came to physical performance. His legs should be ready and able to run fast and far. His arms should be capable of punching and pulling, shoving and lifting, of holding the tightest bear hug with barely a tremor. His balance should be good enough to clamber across the slipperiest roof or ride the trickiest wave. His dick should always be hard or just finished being hard or preparing to get hard again.

And, he should be able to shit like a champion each and every morning, his efficient colon a virtual flume for an almost-always-impressive log.

For months, Street had battled the anathema of all living creatures:

Constipation.

When had he gone from a well-oiled, perfectly-functioning human machine, as mechanically impressive as the automatic pistols and rifles he worked on every day, to the pathetic, cramped-up bastard that now sits on a cold toilet in the lonely men's room, straining to eject even the smallest, hardest shell casing?

He knew the answer. When Street parted ways with his partner of five years, Brian Gamble, he also severed the almost symbiotic physical relationship they had enjoyed in the dining room, the poolroom, the bedroom and, yes, in the bathroom. The lack of support both real and psychological from the man who knew him better than anyone on the planet had really screwed with Jim Street's head and with his body. And he now finds it difficult to perform any of his former routine rituals with the same enthusiasm or success.

"You've changed," she said when they parted ways, and he couldn't argue. He had changed, in more ways than just in the ways he talked to and touched his live-in love, Lara. Fucking Lara just wasn't as much fun anymore without Gamble to describe it to, without meeting the merry, conspiratorial look in those silvery eyes as Gamble dug for every detail and shared in the memories of Lara's shape, sound and smell.

And before Lara, there had been so many others, women they had shared in reality, not just in fantasy. He couldn't forget Gamble's tiny whimper as his balls felt the sharp edge of teeth bared between lipsticked lips, or Gamble's shiny face when he came up for air after diving between a pair of slender, tanned legs, or Gamble's insistent and profane encouragement and incredibly strong hands clutching his ass as he made his final thrust.

Street couldn't think of sex without thinking of Brian Gamble.

And if sex wasn't fun anymore, the other favorite pastime of the partners, playing pool, was actually painful for Street to contemplate. Gamble and Street had been an unbeatable team at several local establishments, winning far more beer money than they ever relinquished, regardless of how drunk one or the other, or both, might be. Street could line up any shot. He had the eye and mind of an engineer, looking across the felt and surveying the potential action far in advance. And Gamble was the expert trigger man, able to execute any combination Street suggested, regardless of how unlikely. Their pool playing was, in fact, much like their police work -- outrageous and inspired and sometimes deadly.

Since Gamble walked off the force, mad at the world and at his partner for not being willing to do the same, Street has avoided all their favorite restaurants, diners and cafes, and so inevitably ended up changing his diet. Now he relies almost completely on the protein powders and power bars that had mostly fueled his mornings when he and Gamble were together. No doubt this alteration caused something of a trickle-down effect, so to speak, when it came to the functioning of Street's bowel, and his movements went from monumental to miniscule in a matter of weeks. At the same time, Street's workouts have gone from enjoyable to compulsive, and as he became obsessed with the architecture of his musculature, he began to mistrust almost every foodstuff he put in his mouth.

So, as Street sits straining to accomplish much of anything in the lonely stall, he is almost happy to hear the door open and heavy booted footsteps walk slowly to the cubicle next to him. He nearly speaks up, then thinks better of it and silently wishes the newcomer more luck than he's having, as his own efforts have resulted in little more than an occasional pellet.

"Uhh," grunts Street's neighbor, followed by a low "ahh" as the man's intestines give up their goods. Street can hear the telltale splashes that signal success, along with the undisguised sounds of pleasure emanating from next door, sounds that remind Street strongly of the way his former partner used to loudly enjoy his daily bathroom business.

Street breathes in, experiencing the other emanation, the heady, healthy odor of the man's shit. It seems so comfortable, so familiar -- so pleasant, even -- that Street is carried back six months to the last time he and Gamble shared a restroom. They had been in perfect accord, dropping trou and slapping asses against their porcelain targets at almost the same time, starting and finishing within seconds of one another, despite their disparate styles and products -- Street's long, straight and firm, Gamble's softer, coiled and almost artistic.

And now, as he sits inhaling the familiar scent and listening to the familiar sounds, Street knows for sure his senses can't be lying to him.

"Gamble?" he says. The name comes out gruff and almost angry, even though he doesn't mean it to, as though he's already steeling himself to find out his assumption is wrong.

"Hey, Jimbo! What the hell are you doing in there all this time?"

It's Gamble's voice, just as it had been Gamble's sounds and Gamble's smells.

Street feels a surge of warmth rising in his gut, as though the toilet beneath him has suddenly turned into a bidet and splashed his private parts with tepid water, a spray so well directed that it has entered him like an enema, loosening the contents of his colon so they can at last be sluiced out with abundance and relief. His cramps dissipate, and Street shits with the gusto and pleasure of a man whose life and constitution was never impacted by the stresses of work and love and loss, leaning forward, his legs shaking, not even bothering to grunt. And when he's finished he feels emptied and satisfied, a sensation he hasn't experienced in months.

"It's about time, brother! It's not like you to wait for me!"

Street doesn't answer, feeling a little lightheaded, unsure of what to say and suddenly afraid of breaking whatever spell has spirited Brian Gamble into this restroom.

"You wanna see this?" Gamble asks, standing up.

"Nah. That's okay," says Street, almost laughing.

"Your loss. It's fucking impressive." Gamble flushes the toilet while Street sits silently for a minute, savoring the scenario: two partners, side by side, prepared to take on anything and share everything, even their morning business.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asks, not really caring.

From next door comes the sound of Gamble fastening his pants. "I came to my senses. Got the union to help me out and requested I be assigned here with you. I asked them not to tell you until it was done." The door to Gamble's stall opens and then bangs shut. "You finished?"

Street spins out a length of toilet paper and squeezes it into a ball. He reaches between his legs and wipes enthusiastically, enjoying the feeling of the somewhat scratchy standard government tissue against his anus. As strength returns to his legs, Street is finally able to stand up, shakily at first, but with enough balance to allow him to survey his own output. While he hasn't produced his traditional foot-long dog, he has managed to leave an impressive mess, splattered against the sides of the bowl and mounded in the center like a desert island in the middle of a murky lake.

He grimaces with satisfaction and then flushes, tossing the wad of stained paper into the swirling mass. When he pulls up his shorts he finds he's starting to sport a little wood, and he has to tuck his lengthening dick carefully away before zipping up his pants.

Then he opens the stall door and finds himself face to face with a grinning Gamble.

"Gimme a hug," Gamble insists, his arms held wide.

Street hesitates, marveling at the sight of the snug L.A.P.D. armory t-shirt Gamble is wearing. "Jesus, Brian, I need to wash my hands. I was a mess in there."

"Fuck that! Hug me!"

Wrapped in Gamble's strong arms, Street squeezes his eyes closed and effectively shuts out the rest of the world and the rest of his questions and doubts. When Gamble gives him an enthusiastic, wet kiss on the mouth, he allows himself to start to imagine the other things the two will do together later and in the days to come. He wishes his pants weren't quite so tight.

"I had to come back, Jimbo," Gamble says, finally pulling away and allowing Street to breathe. "I couldn't take a decent crap without you!"

Street approaches the basin and thumbs on the hot water. When he looks into the mirror, he's surprised to see his own smile.

"Well, that's it, then," he says, finding Gamble's reflection in the glass and meeting his eyes. "I guess we're back in business, partner."

The End