![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Rescue Me
Happy Trickyfish Day!
Rescue Me
Pairing: Chris/Lance
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing but a pretty story here
Lance was so screwed. Also, dead. So very, very dead. He might as well go ahead and call the damn tow truck and write his last will and testament, because Joey was going to kill him so many times his mother would be lucky to get a body to bury next to Lance's great-grandmama when it was all through.
It wasn't his fault; really, it wasn't. He hadn't done anything. Joey had loaned Lance the big, ancient Buick, Joey's pride and joy, out of the goodness of his heart, so that Lance wouldn't have to take a bus on his date. And now, now, for no reason Lance could figure, it was dead as a doornail on the side of I-4 and so was Lance. Dead.
And if someone back at the house didn't answer the freaking phone soon, he was really going to be dead because this diner was about as far away from the unnaturally happy world of theme parks as you could get and Lance was very, very certain that he might as well be wearing a target on his forehead as his second best pair of (neatly pressed) jeans and the blue button-down he'd decided was nice enough without being too nice for a first date. Which had turned out to be entirely too much effort for the actual event, but he'd had to try.
The waitress at the counter wasn't actively hostile, but the cook in the back and most of the customers seemed to be openly laughing at him, and Lance had never been so happy to hear Chris's impatient, "Yeah, yeah," on the other end of the phone. It was good that it was Chris, because Justin wasn't old enough to drive and JC wasn't good with directions; but it was bad, too. Between jobs and rehearsals, Chris only had a couple of hours to sleep; Lance was screwing with that time, and Chris didn't take kindly to having his schedule messed with.
Still, Chris only grunted when Lance told him where he was, saying, "Don't do anything stupid like going back to check on the car," before he hung up. Lance slid back onto the stool at the counter and smiled weakly at the waitress when she came by to refill his cup. After unexpectedly having to pay for his own dinner, he had enough money left to cover coffee and leave a little bit of a tip, but it was pretty clear she felt the space could be better occupied by someone who was going to be spending more.
Lance kept his head down and stared at the flat black surface of the coffee, doing his best to ignore the laughter he was certain was directed at him. Pretending to be casual took up all his concentration, so much that he didn't notice Chris until a rough hand shook his shoulder. Chris's eyes were dark and unreadable, but he didn't say anything, only jerked his head toward the door. Lance fumbled in his pocket for his money; Chris sighed and dropped some crumpled bills on the counter while he pushed Lance toward the door, staring down the crowd with a bored sneer.
Chris's car was even older than Joey's, and he didn't have the love affair going with it that Joey had with the Buick, so Lance didn't feel bad about slamming the door with unnecessary viciousness when he heard the final burst of laughter following them down the street from the diner.
Chris raised an eyebrow at Lance's little display of temper, but only said, "You break anything and Mama Bass is getting the bill." Lance took a deep breath and buckled his seatbelt, staring straight ahead while Chris coaxed the engine to life and pulled away from the curb.
The Buick was still there, right where Lance left it. Of course, Chris had it started in less than two minutes. Lance didn't even bother to ask what Chris had done, just got behind the wheel and tried to think of suitably nasty things to call the car as he drove back to the house. Sadly, he still didn't have the right vocabulary, even after having lived with JC, Joey, and Chris for two months.
Inside, everything was normal: Justin was parked in front of the Nintendo; JC had his headphones on. Lance slid by with minimal interaction, which, aside from Chris getting to the diner before he died, was the first good thing that had happened all night. When Lance got upstairs, Chris wasn't in the room they shared, but his clothes were crumpled on the floor and the shower was running.
Lance found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and his book. Justin whooped downstairs, and Lance decided to stay in the room. The little reading light over his bed wasn't too bad, and at least it was quiet. He could concentrate on his book--he had to write a paper on it next week--and ignore the world.
He was doing a fairly good job of it--he'd always been good about blocking things out when he wanted--when Chris slammed back in the room, hair still dripping onto the towel he had looped over his bare shoulders. Lance kept his eyes down. Sharing a room was new and having someone in his space had taken some getting used to, but Lance thought he'd adjusted fairly quickly.
He'd always shared rooms at family reunions and on fishing trips with his granddaddy and cousins; what he hadn't counted on was how much more difficult it all was when the person you were living with wasn't another kid or a cousin or God, even Stacey, but seriously a man. That was next to impossible to ignore.
Chris threw himself onto his bed, groaning and dragging a pillow over his head, and Lance scrambled up. "Sorry, sorry," he said, feeling guilty that he was sitting in the room with the light on, when he knew Chris needed to sleep, all because he didn't feel like talking about his date.
"I'll just--let me get my stuff," he started, fumbling at the light switch.
"Nah, man," Chris said, from under the pillow. "You're fine. I'm too fucking wired to sleep."
Lance settled back onto his bed, but couldn't resist looking. With Chris's head under the pillow, it almost felt safe to let his eyes slide over the pale skin. Almost. Chris was never safe; that was the whole problem, Lance thought.
Lance allowed himself one quick look, then back to his book, even if the words were only ink spots on the page.
"Fuck," Chris said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so fucking tired and my brain won't shut the fuck up."
"Count sheep?" Lance suggested, without looking up.
"They give me nightmares."
"JC swears by whatever tea it is that's supposed to be relaxing."
Chris lifted the pillow off his head and made a rude noise.
"I'll bet Lynn will make you warm milk if you ask her nicely."
Lance hadn't thought it was possible, but the reply to that was even nastier-sounding.
"That's all I've got," Lance said.
"Tell me a story?"
"Lord, Chris. Where do you come up with this stuff?" Out of the corner of his eye, Lance could see Chris rolling onto his side and mentally braced himself for whatever came next.
"Laaaaance," Chris sing-songed. "Laaaaance. Tell me a sto-ry."
"Once upon a time, there was this royal pain in the a--" Lance began, and ducked the pillow that came flying at him. He smiled his best innocent smile. "What?"
"Not that kind of a story," Chris said, flopping back down on his back. "Tell me a truuuuuue story."
"The other one wasn't?"
"Tell me the story of your date," Chris said. "Let me live vicariously, because who the fuck can remember the last time I had anything remotely resembling a life."
"Oh," Lance said. He couldn't very well not answer, if only because Chris wouldn't let up until he did. And then, well, Chris had driven out to nowhere to pick him up, after all. "It was, um, okay."
"Whoa. Way to thrill me, Bass. At least JC'll tell me what he had for dinner before he gets all modest and circumspect."
"Chicken fingers and fries," Lance said shortly. "And a Coke."
"Right," Chris answered, just as curt. "Sorry, didn't mean to pry."
Lance's jaw dropped. "I--"
"No, really," Chris said, pulling the comforter up, rolling away to face the wall. "Forget I asked."
Lance stared at the rigid set of Chris's shoulders and back. "It sucked, okay?"
Chris tilted his head back so he could eye Lance. "How can you screw up chicken fingers?"
"Not the dinner, Chris. The whole night. The high point of the whole stupid thing was having to be rescued." Lance took a deep breath and stared at his book, biting back the by you that finished that sentence.
Chris stayed quiet, but Lance could feel his eyes. He knew that look, that focused laser that Chris brought out when things started to fall apart in rehearsals or performances.
"It was just," Lance sighed, looking up. "Stupid."
"C'mon, a nice college boy from Rollins?" Chris's laugh was sharp. "He asked you to dinner and a movie. If he was any more your type, he'd be you."
Lance looked back down. "He wasn't," he said, shrugging. "My type."
For as much noise as Chris made, he was eerily good at shutting up when he wanted to know something. Lance heard himself talking when he hadn't meant to. "He was so… pompous. He couldn't shut up long enough to hear anything I might say; he was way too impressed with himself and how busy college kept you, not like high school, and how it sucked that his dad insisted that he work a whole four hours a week--four hours, Chris, four hours, he probably spends more time than that looking at his perfect face in the mirror--and, and it was so ridiculous, I couldn't help laughing at him. I mean, really. He's not working two jobs and rehearsing ten hours a day, like you and JC and Joey. He's not even working as hard as Justin--"
"Or you," Chris interrupted. "Don't think we don't see how fucking hard you work at this."
"I--thanks," Lance stuttered, because actually he hadn't known that.
"No problem," Chris answered, dropping his usual sarcastic tone for that quick second, before picking it right back up again. "But really, Bass, laughing at your date? Smooth, very smooth. I can just picture it--the low, intimate lighting of … ?"
"Ruby Tuesdays," Lance muttered. "At the mall."
"Oh, yeah, classy," Chris said. "You were supposed to be impressed by his suave knowledge of the menu, kid. I'll bet laughing at him went over like the fucking proverbial lead balloon."
It hadn't even gone that well, Lance thought. "Please. What did I care at that point?"
"Not arguing with you there. Laughing at the dumbasses'll keep you sane."
"And alone," Lance mumbled, and then bit his tongue, because how big of a loser did he sound like, whining about a lame high school date?
"Nah," Chris laughed. "You're not even close to the Bad First Date Hall of Fame. Not that I would know anything about it myself, but if you want proof, it'll only take a beer or two to get the spaz downstairs--the other spaz, not the kid--to spill some of his more oblivious moments in dating history. You know that's gotta be a riot."
Lance laughed, more at the sly, knowing look on Chris's face than at anything else, but the twisted-up feeling in his gut eased. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for dating tips from a buzzed JC."
"Much as I hate to admit it, that's probably a wise move," Chris said, nodding. He stretched and kicked the damp towel off his bed in the general direction of the door. "So, if preppy college boys aren't your type, what is?"
Lance wanted to laugh, because, God, a type? He'd barely figured out a sex. Chris was watching him, though, clearly waiting for an answer. He shrugged. "Dunno."
"Well, think about it, and get back to me when you figure it out."
Lance looked carefully at Chris, at the strong, determined set of his mouth, at the fire that never went out of his eyes, the sarcasm that he wrapped around fierce protectiveness, so that you could skim right over the fact that he'd come out to rescue you and then talked you out of your bad mood even though he had to be exhausted--really looked at all that and thought, "Oh."
"Yeah," he said, still watching the dark eyes across the room. "I'll do that." The moment stretched out endlessly, until Chris yawned, and the spell was broken, but the promise remained.
Lance got off the bed, tossing the pillow he'd dodged earlier back to Chris. "Thanks for coming to get me, and doing whatever to Joey's car so he won't kill me. I'm gonna go hang with the J's so you don't paralyze yourself on a back flip tomorrow because you didn't get your full three hours of sleep."
He got all the way to the door before Chris called to him, the smirk coming through loud and clear. "Hey, Bass."
"Yeah?"
"It's been a long time since I was the high point of anybody's night. I'm gonna write this date down so I'll remember it forever and ever."
"Wait," Lance deadpanned. "Let me go raid JC's backpack for the pink markers."
"Oooo, do they smell like roses?"
"Watermelon."
Chris snickered. "Even better. Dear Diary, Today was The Best Day Ever," he said, stuffing the pillow under his head.
Lance turned the light off on his way out the door.
--fin--
Thanks to A, C, and M for the betas, and for holding my hand while I whimpered at the snark.
Rescue Me
Pairing: Chris/Lance
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing but a pretty story here
Lance was so screwed. Also, dead. So very, very dead. He might as well go ahead and call the damn tow truck and write his last will and testament, because Joey was going to kill him so many times his mother would be lucky to get a body to bury next to Lance's great-grandmama when it was all through.
It wasn't his fault; really, it wasn't. He hadn't done anything. Joey had loaned Lance the big, ancient Buick, Joey's pride and joy, out of the goodness of his heart, so that Lance wouldn't have to take a bus on his date. And now, now, for no reason Lance could figure, it was dead as a doornail on the side of I-4 and so was Lance. Dead.
And if someone back at the house didn't answer the freaking phone soon, he was really going to be dead because this diner was about as far away from the unnaturally happy world of theme parks as you could get and Lance was very, very certain that he might as well be wearing a target on his forehead as his second best pair of (neatly pressed) jeans and the blue button-down he'd decided was nice enough without being too nice for a first date. Which had turned out to be entirely too much effort for the actual event, but he'd had to try.
The waitress at the counter wasn't actively hostile, but the cook in the back and most of the customers seemed to be openly laughing at him, and Lance had never been so happy to hear Chris's impatient, "Yeah, yeah," on the other end of the phone. It was good that it was Chris, because Justin wasn't old enough to drive and JC wasn't good with directions; but it was bad, too. Between jobs and rehearsals, Chris only had a couple of hours to sleep; Lance was screwing with that time, and Chris didn't take kindly to having his schedule messed with.
Still, Chris only grunted when Lance told him where he was, saying, "Don't do anything stupid like going back to check on the car," before he hung up. Lance slid back onto the stool at the counter and smiled weakly at the waitress when she came by to refill his cup. After unexpectedly having to pay for his own dinner, he had enough money left to cover coffee and leave a little bit of a tip, but it was pretty clear she felt the space could be better occupied by someone who was going to be spending more.
Lance kept his head down and stared at the flat black surface of the coffee, doing his best to ignore the laughter he was certain was directed at him. Pretending to be casual took up all his concentration, so much that he didn't notice Chris until a rough hand shook his shoulder. Chris's eyes were dark and unreadable, but he didn't say anything, only jerked his head toward the door. Lance fumbled in his pocket for his money; Chris sighed and dropped some crumpled bills on the counter while he pushed Lance toward the door, staring down the crowd with a bored sneer.
Chris's car was even older than Joey's, and he didn't have the love affair going with it that Joey had with the Buick, so Lance didn't feel bad about slamming the door with unnecessary viciousness when he heard the final burst of laughter following them down the street from the diner.
Chris raised an eyebrow at Lance's little display of temper, but only said, "You break anything and Mama Bass is getting the bill." Lance took a deep breath and buckled his seatbelt, staring straight ahead while Chris coaxed the engine to life and pulled away from the curb.
The Buick was still there, right where Lance left it. Of course, Chris had it started in less than two minutes. Lance didn't even bother to ask what Chris had done, just got behind the wheel and tried to think of suitably nasty things to call the car as he drove back to the house. Sadly, he still didn't have the right vocabulary, even after having lived with JC, Joey, and Chris for two months.
Inside, everything was normal: Justin was parked in front of the Nintendo; JC had his headphones on. Lance slid by with minimal interaction, which, aside from Chris getting to the diner before he died, was the first good thing that had happened all night. When Lance got upstairs, Chris wasn't in the room they shared, but his clothes were crumpled on the floor and the shower was running.
Lance found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and his book. Justin whooped downstairs, and Lance decided to stay in the room. The little reading light over his bed wasn't too bad, and at least it was quiet. He could concentrate on his book--he had to write a paper on it next week--and ignore the world.
He was doing a fairly good job of it--he'd always been good about blocking things out when he wanted--when Chris slammed back in the room, hair still dripping onto the towel he had looped over his bare shoulders. Lance kept his eyes down. Sharing a room was new and having someone in his space had taken some getting used to, but Lance thought he'd adjusted fairly quickly.
He'd always shared rooms at family reunions and on fishing trips with his granddaddy and cousins; what he hadn't counted on was how much more difficult it all was when the person you were living with wasn't another kid or a cousin or God, even Stacey, but seriously a man. That was next to impossible to ignore.
Chris threw himself onto his bed, groaning and dragging a pillow over his head, and Lance scrambled up. "Sorry, sorry," he said, feeling guilty that he was sitting in the room with the light on, when he knew Chris needed to sleep, all because he didn't feel like talking about his date.
"I'll just--let me get my stuff," he started, fumbling at the light switch.
"Nah, man," Chris said, from under the pillow. "You're fine. I'm too fucking wired to sleep."
Lance settled back onto his bed, but couldn't resist looking. With Chris's head under the pillow, it almost felt safe to let his eyes slide over the pale skin. Almost. Chris was never safe; that was the whole problem, Lance thought.
Lance allowed himself one quick look, then back to his book, even if the words were only ink spots on the page.
"Fuck," Chris said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, I'm so fucking tired and my brain won't shut the fuck up."
"Count sheep?" Lance suggested, without looking up.
"They give me nightmares."
"JC swears by whatever tea it is that's supposed to be relaxing."
Chris lifted the pillow off his head and made a rude noise.
"I'll bet Lynn will make you warm milk if you ask her nicely."
Lance hadn't thought it was possible, but the reply to that was even nastier-sounding.
"That's all I've got," Lance said.
"Tell me a story?"
"Lord, Chris. Where do you come up with this stuff?" Out of the corner of his eye, Lance could see Chris rolling onto his side and mentally braced himself for whatever came next.
"Laaaaance," Chris sing-songed. "Laaaaance. Tell me a sto-ry."
"Once upon a time, there was this royal pain in the a--" Lance began, and ducked the pillow that came flying at him. He smiled his best innocent smile. "What?"
"Not that kind of a story," Chris said, flopping back down on his back. "Tell me a truuuuuue story."
"The other one wasn't?"
"Tell me the story of your date," Chris said. "Let me live vicariously, because who the fuck can remember the last time I had anything remotely resembling a life."
"Oh," Lance said. He couldn't very well not answer, if only because Chris wouldn't let up until he did. And then, well, Chris had driven out to nowhere to pick him up, after all. "It was, um, okay."
"Whoa. Way to thrill me, Bass. At least JC'll tell me what he had for dinner before he gets all modest and circumspect."
"Chicken fingers and fries," Lance said shortly. "And a Coke."
"Right," Chris answered, just as curt. "Sorry, didn't mean to pry."
Lance's jaw dropped. "I--"
"No, really," Chris said, pulling the comforter up, rolling away to face the wall. "Forget I asked."
Lance stared at the rigid set of Chris's shoulders and back. "It sucked, okay?"
Chris tilted his head back so he could eye Lance. "How can you screw up chicken fingers?"
"Not the dinner, Chris. The whole night. The high point of the whole stupid thing was having to be rescued." Lance took a deep breath and stared at his book, biting back the by you that finished that sentence.
Chris stayed quiet, but Lance could feel his eyes. He knew that look, that focused laser that Chris brought out when things started to fall apart in rehearsals or performances.
"It was just," Lance sighed, looking up. "Stupid."
"C'mon, a nice college boy from Rollins?" Chris's laugh was sharp. "He asked you to dinner and a movie. If he was any more your type, he'd be you."
Lance looked back down. "He wasn't," he said, shrugging. "My type."
For as much noise as Chris made, he was eerily good at shutting up when he wanted to know something. Lance heard himself talking when he hadn't meant to. "He was so… pompous. He couldn't shut up long enough to hear anything I might say; he was way too impressed with himself and how busy college kept you, not like high school, and how it sucked that his dad insisted that he work a whole four hours a week--four hours, Chris, four hours, he probably spends more time than that looking at his perfect face in the mirror--and, and it was so ridiculous, I couldn't help laughing at him. I mean, really. He's not working two jobs and rehearsing ten hours a day, like you and JC and Joey. He's not even working as hard as Justin--"
"Or you," Chris interrupted. "Don't think we don't see how fucking hard you work at this."
"I--thanks," Lance stuttered, because actually he hadn't known that.
"No problem," Chris answered, dropping his usual sarcastic tone for that quick second, before picking it right back up again. "But really, Bass, laughing at your date? Smooth, very smooth. I can just picture it--the low, intimate lighting of … ?"
"Ruby Tuesdays," Lance muttered. "At the mall."
"Oh, yeah, classy," Chris said. "You were supposed to be impressed by his suave knowledge of the menu, kid. I'll bet laughing at him went over like the fucking proverbial lead balloon."
It hadn't even gone that well, Lance thought. "Please. What did I care at that point?"
"Not arguing with you there. Laughing at the dumbasses'll keep you sane."
"And alone," Lance mumbled, and then bit his tongue, because how big of a loser did he sound like, whining about a lame high school date?
"Nah," Chris laughed. "You're not even close to the Bad First Date Hall of Fame. Not that I would know anything about it myself, but if you want proof, it'll only take a beer or two to get the spaz downstairs--the other spaz, not the kid--to spill some of his more oblivious moments in dating history. You know that's gotta be a riot."
Lance laughed, more at the sly, knowing look on Chris's face than at anything else, but the twisted-up feeling in his gut eased. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for dating tips from a buzzed JC."
"Much as I hate to admit it, that's probably a wise move," Chris said, nodding. He stretched and kicked the damp towel off his bed in the general direction of the door. "So, if preppy college boys aren't your type, what is?"
Lance wanted to laugh, because, God, a type? He'd barely figured out a sex. Chris was watching him, though, clearly waiting for an answer. He shrugged. "Dunno."
"Well, think about it, and get back to me when you figure it out."
Lance looked carefully at Chris, at the strong, determined set of his mouth, at the fire that never went out of his eyes, the sarcasm that he wrapped around fierce protectiveness, so that you could skim right over the fact that he'd come out to rescue you and then talked you out of your bad mood even though he had to be exhausted--really looked at all that and thought, "Oh."
"Yeah," he said, still watching the dark eyes across the room. "I'll do that." The moment stretched out endlessly, until Chris yawned, and the spell was broken, but the promise remained.
Lance got off the bed, tossing the pillow he'd dodged earlier back to Chris. "Thanks for coming to get me, and doing whatever to Joey's car so he won't kill me. I'm gonna go hang with the J's so you don't paralyze yourself on a back flip tomorrow because you didn't get your full three hours of sleep."
He got all the way to the door before Chris called to him, the smirk coming through loud and clear. "Hey, Bass."
"Yeah?"
"It's been a long time since I was the high point of anybody's night. I'm gonna write this date down so I'll remember it forever and ever."
"Wait," Lance deadpanned. "Let me go raid JC's backpack for the pink markers."
"Oooo, do they smell like roses?"
"Watermelon."
Chris snickered. "Even better. Dear Diary, Today was The Best Day Ever," he said, stuffing the pillow under his head.
Lance turned the light off on his way out the door.
--fin--
Thanks to A, C, and M for the betas, and for holding my hand while I whimpered at the snark.
no subject
"Today I was pompous and my sister was crazy." Oh wait, wrong fandom. ;-)
The snark was fantastic!! I loved this and I'm glad to see you finished it.
no subject
no subject
Lance looked carefully at Chris, at the strong, determined set of his mouth, at the fire that never went out of his eyes, the sarcasm that he wrapped around fierce protectiveness, so that you could skim right over the fact that he'd come out to rescue you and then talked you out of your bad mood even though he had to be exhausted--really looked at all that and thought, "Oh."
*loves*
Thank you for this!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
And thank you; I'm so glad you liked it.