#i want three shots of jagermeister

[crvelmelody]

ugly ass maynard drawing ive just done

first and LAST drawing EVER!!!!!! i make of him cause hes so damn difficult to draw

[candy-floss-crazy]

Another selection of misadventures from our past history. Keep Them Wheels Turning 2010 When we first started and was operating on a limited budget, we frequently had problems with equipment failures and vehicle breakdowns. As we grew and ended up in a position to buy better equipment, and also put back up systems in place we found that things seemed to run a lot more smoothly. However the law of averages caught up with us the other day, we had quite a busy schedule, calling at a small village in Surrey to apply 125 chair covers and sashes and set up a chocolate fountain, then on to Sevenoaks to set a number of stalls and a couple of catering carts up, back to the first venue to drop two members of staff off, then I continued on to Walton on Thames to operate a candy floss and popcorn cart. As soon as I finished I derigged everything and shot back to the first venue with the intention of picking my staff up to travel home to Yorkshire, grab a couple of hours sleep, load the van up with the rest of the equipment for the Sevenoaks job and set back off down South. Bang Goes The Tyre Everything was going great guns when a bang, signalled that I had a tyre blown out, 'great, just what I wanted on a lane in the middle of nowhere, a tyre change.' In time I ended up wishing I was changing a tyre, because when I crawled under the back of the van I discovered the spare wheel missing (it was a hire van). I rang the owner and ot him out of bed, "ring the AA he said, the van is covered", trouble is when I explained the problem they informed me that under their terms of service, not having a spare wheel meant that I wasn't covered. Rang John again, "Ring a tyre firm he said and bill me". An hour later after ringing every number I could find on the internet I rang John again. After an exchange of ideas, he informed me that he was setting off with a spare wheel, wonderful, the three of us only had to sit and wait in the van whilst John covered the 216 miles to us. Now before John set off he had to nip up to our place and pick up the items I needed for the next day, this included a striker (test your strength machine). On our striker the base unit is made from 20mm steel plate to give it the weight needed to remain stationary whilst being hammered. The base unit is kept on a small set of wheel which allow it to be moved about the yard. When John and my other half lifted it into the van, John had not realised that the wheels were not part of the structure and left his fingers underneath when they dropped it into the back of the van. My wife rang me to tell me that John was running around the yard squealing about his fingers. She wasn't in the mood for sympathy and told him that if he went to the hospital they would only tape his fingers up, and she offered to lend him a roll of tape to ensure he got on his way quicker. When he arrived at our end the first thing he did was show me his fingers, which by then were black and blue and quite swollen. Bloody well serves him right for removing the spare wheel. Mobile Bar Buzz 2010 We recently installed a bar at an event for a major motor industry manufacturer and a games console company. This was a pre paid job with us supplying a fixed package of drinks, including cocktails and one of our Jagermeister tap machines. The event went stormingly with everyone in fancy dress and the room buzzing. Sabine Schmitz (the German female racing driver who raced Jeremy Clarkson around the Nurburgring race track, with Jeremy in a Jaguar S type, and Sabine in a Transit Van, she lost by only 9 seconds. Ms Schmitz and a cohort of German friends managed to consume our stocks of Jagermeister, before moving onto frozen Margarita cocktails with an added shot of Vodka, something our cocktail mixologist insisted you couldn't do, but the Schmitz party proving you obviously could! De Computer Sez So 2010 Quite often nowadays I don't have time to keep this blog updated. Odd occasions I do have time I sometimes struggle for something newsworthy to write. Occasionally however something drops in my lap that I just have to put on here. I recently added a new van to our line up, and insured it with the company that insurers our other CItroen dispatch. In common with our other insurances we pay in a lump sum at the start of the insurance term. A couple of days ago the postman knocked on the door to deliver a registered letter from said company, upon opening it I read a formal notice that as I had not settled an outstanding amount they would be cancelling my insurance unless it was paid in the next 7 days. Now this puzzled me as I know I paid in full at the start of the policy term. Upon reading further down the page, the amount outstanding was in large bold type to make it more noticable. It read that I owed them £0.00 that's right Zero pounds and zero pence. I sent them a very nice email admitting that I owed this amount and asking if they would like a cheque for £0.00 or would they like it in cash in which case I would send them an empty envelope. Amsterdam 2010 February, which is usually our quietest month (although this year turned out to be a busy one), saw us managing to fit a 3 day break to Amsterdam in. I have been there in the past both when I was single, and also spent part of my honeymoon there whilst touring Europe. As is normal nowadays, everything was booked online a few weeks before, with the booking system informing me that actual airline tickets are no longer issued, we instead have E tickets. Anyway a couple of days before we were due to fly I discovered that my other half's E ticket had been issued in her maiden name, and knowing that airlines are particularly picky about names since 9/11 I rang our carriers, KLM straight up. "No problem Mr Moody, said a pleasant Dutch voice, we can change names quite easily." was followed by "Oh, sorry we can't change your ticket". Upon inquiring as to why, I was told that since I had booked them through a travel agent, the agent would have to make the name change request. I duly rang the agents to do this. (No problem Mr Moody, that's quite easy, please hold the line", was again followed by "Oh, we can't do it". The reason this time turned out to be the fact that it was Saturday, and the KLM office which deals with name changes doesn't work weekends. SO we ended up being told that we should get to the airport early, and the ticket desk there should change the name for us. On the morning we were flying we arrived bright and early only to be met with a queue of about 80 people! We informed an airport attendant of our predicament and asked if there was anyway of getting the ticket sorted sooner, upon asking to see our ticket, his reply was "I wouldn't worry about your ticket mate, that flight was canceled last night", turned out that the plane we were supposed to be on didn't land because of fog. Five bloody hours were in that queue for. Mid way through it the rumour seemed to be that the next available flight was the day after.Not wanting to lose a day of a short break, I got my laptop out, connected to KLM's site and booked three seats on a later flight, reasoning that I would worry about refunds later. After booking the seats I was informed that I would have to pay for them at the ticket desk, so I would still have to stand in the bloody queue. Anyway as we reached nearly to the front of the queue I discovered that the ticket agent was in fact booking people on the same plane I had just reserved 3 seats on, great it looked like I would have 6 seats on the flight, but at least one of the 6 would be in my wife's current name. I duly reached the front of the queue to meet the ticket agent, a short stern faced lady who looked like she would make a good concentration camp guard in the movie industry. I was just about to launch into a tirade about waiting 5 bloody hours and not being informed of cancelled flights when a young man dropped a bundle of papers on her desk and exclaimed innocently "These need taking care of when you get a minute", the look she gave him would have welded steel from 40 paces, and her reply of "You know what you can do with those Stephen, shove them up your bloody arse!" seemed to modify my temper somewhat. As she turned that steely gaze upon me I gave her my best smile, what I hoped was a slightly pleading look in my eyes, and informed her that not only did we need our flights sorting out, but my wife's ticket was in the wrong name. Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders tightened and a visible shudder ran through her, taking a hold or herself she sighed loudly, stared towards the heavens, closed her eyes for a long moment then sorted everything out for us. Amsterdam turned out much as I remember it, the Dutch must be the most laid back and pleasant race in Europe, and we spent a pleasant 3 days strolling around the city, with a short trip to the seaside town of Vollendam thrown in. THe first tram we boarded into the city centre, I asked the conductor for the price of the ticket (most locals use pre paid cards much like the oyster system in London), he just smiled and told me not to worry and get of when we were ready. The next day having some experience of the tram system, we boarded the tram outside our hotel and I asked for 3 day passes. The lady conductor smiled sweetly and apologised for having run out of them. "It is not a problem", she said, "Just buy them from a ticket machine when you get off". Can you imagine that, over here it would go like this, "3 Day passes please","Can't do that mate I've run out""Oh, well can I buy them when I get off at the other end""No sorry can't do that you need a ticket to travel""Oh well give me 3 tickets please""Sorry, just told you I've run out!" Mid way through I had a headache coming on so thought I would nip into a chemist for some pain relief. What greeted me must have been one of the barest shelves of painkillers I have ever seen, about the size of a television set, it contained pretty much only what you could buy from a late night garage in this country. Upon inquiring about something a bit stronger I was informed that I would need a doctors prescription. "So let me get this straight," I said, "I can walk into anyone of a million coffee shops and buy cannabis or marijuana, without any problems, but if I want something stronger than 400mg of Ibuprofen I need a prescription?"."That's pretty much it", replied the chemist."Strange country","Yep" came the retort, along with that pleasant Dutch laid back smile. Ready to come home, we reached Schipol airport, and found that they have a fully automated system to book in and be issued with your boarding card. I entered our E ticket number, only to learn that I was booked on the flight along with our daughter, but not my wife. It made me think of a recent case where an immigration official had waved his wife off at the airport in London, went back to work and added her to the known terrorist list of people banned from entering the UK, and then proceeded to live the single life until he was found out 4 years later, in the meantime his wife had spent 4 years stuck in Pakistan unable to find out why she wasn't allowed to board a flight back to England! As it turned out, because of the name change we had made at Bradford, my wife had received a separate reservation, which no one had bothered to inform me of. If you missed them take a look at some of our other old stories here. Read the full article

[cyn-the-bartender]

Day 2:

So I started this journal on a previous Tumblr but it was connected to a journal I did eons ago that I was just over… so we’ll just restart here.

**This may be long… I was three written posts in and I gotta put it all into one post now 🙄***

Fuck it.

So an intro of sorts… I’m a 51 year old full time bartender who’s divorced/single with three kids ages 27 (boy), 25 (boy) and 12 (girl). I’m also the Gigi to my 3 year old grandson! I live in New England almost 30 years now but grew up all over as a Navy brat in my younger days. I do call the South “home” because I lived there the longest before here. I have Southern blood and no amount of time here can change that.

I suffer from (but do not identify myself by) Lyme Disease and osteoarthritis in my right hip. The Lyme cause the osteoarthritis to be worse than it should be at my age along with chronic fatigue and various other joint pain albeit the hip rules the pain roost! I’ve had Lyme since the late summer of 2015 and other than the first six months after diagnosis and the occasional flare up I’d consider myself to be living with it pretty well. Until a little under a year ago and especially since September. The hip pain and fatigue are unbearable and have caused a noticeable difference in my gait which SUCKS more than anything as I pride myself on my appearance and most people are shocked when I reveal my age. So yeah walking like a granny isn’t working for me!

Anti-inflammatory medication and my beloved Advil Duals just aren’t cutting it anymore. I’ve began to self-medicate in ways I shouldn’t (nothing illegal) because I’m trying to avoid opioid pain relief desperately and am prolonging a more than likely hip replacement until I’m a little older. I have an addictive personality and have abused alcohol and recreational drugs in my past… still am on occasion if I’m being honest. And well… that’s not the life I want to lead. I’m sure deep rooted emotional pain doesn’t help but here we are…

So a week or so ago I was watching this documentary on Netflix called “What the Health” and it inspired me to make some radical changes in my diet and lifestyle. (It’s an awesome doc even if my choices aren’t on your radar!). Plus with Lyme it is often suggested that a vegan diet (dairy is BRUTAL for me where Lyme is concerned!) helps minimize flare ups and elevate ailments.

So with that being said yesterday I started back on a vegan diet consisting mainly of whole food, giving up drinking (we’ll get to that in a minute), giving up soda (I’m a Pepsi addict), conscious exercise (I rejoined the gym after yearsssss), drinking more water, getting more sleep and making myself a priority!

I’m two days in and proud to say I’ve stuck to my diet and yesterday was my first bar shift in eons where a drop of booze did not pass my lips! Now don’t think I go getting sloshed behind the bar (not saying I never have in my 30+ years of off and on bartending but not typically), but on a typical shift I will have a few shots (I love Jager) with my regulars. Yesterday… not a one and that’s YUGE!

I’ve never been a “sober” bartender although I know they exist. I personally don’t know any but I’m on a bartender group on Facebook and there’s a ton of them. And I’m not even sure how I feel about the term sober because right now I’m committing to 2-3 weeks not drinking and going from there with the hopes that I’m going to feel so fantastic that I won’t want to go back! BUT if I do it’s in STRICT moderation and no more Jagermeister because it’s just loaded with sugar and bullshit empty calories!

The funny thing is I have this image of myself as the bartender who does a few shots to get myself and the bar going and to a degree that’s 1 billion per cent true… so can I do that sober??? Time will tell! Because I want to be that same sassy/sexy/crazy bartender without the booze because the party always seems to continue after my shifts if I don’t need to be home and that’s where excessiveness can rear it’s ugly head!

Drug use is not a real issue… anymore. I smoke a little weed here and there and NEVER at work because I’m as my friend calls, a Supertaster. Whatever the fuck that means…

Tomorrow it’s my first time to the gym in legit years! I’m not a lunatic and will only be using the treadmill (very slowly I might add) to start. But I’m fearful. I can stand up and work my bar for up to 12 hours at a time but I cannot tell you the last time I took even a stroll for 30 minutes consecutively??? Slow and steady wins the race right???

Funny thing is before Lyme I was an avid runner. I wasn’t fast but I could run pretty far! I was also vegan for three years. I chose a vegan diet in order to train for a marathon. I never did a full marathon but I did two half marathons as well as countless 10k’s and 5k’s. Lyme disease made running impossible. I went from someone who ran at least 20 miles a week to barely being able to run around the block in less than a month after that MF-ing tick bit me!!!

But I’m hopeful. And realistic. I will most likely never run again but I just want to function with as little to no pain at all. I want to feel vibrant and like I’m not just going through the motions of my day to day life. I want a life that doesn’t revolve around whether I’m too fatigue, in pain or hungover to participate!!!! Because right now, minus my kids/family there isn’t much going on that makes me proud to be me!

And this is not about weight or vanity (although if a few pounds came off and I looked hot I wouldn’t complain!)… I need to feel better and feel ALIVE again!

~C~

[shanie-the-toyaddict]

It's late and I'm feeling like sharing a story for @thatnerdwriter

So here goes.

The Story of Shanie's 21st Birthday.

So to state this now, I had had a few drinks before my 21st. Even got drunk once. But for the most part, I wasn't an underage drinker.

So, when I turned 21, I was working as a telemarketer at a call center. Our team often got together on weekends to go out mini-golfing and other stuff and out team leader sometimes worked as a bartender at the local watering hole. (more on that later)

So, when word came that I was turning 21, the team decided we'd all go to the one bar and celebrate. The team leader came with us.

Anyway, I was on a slew of psych meds at the time and knew that I shouldn't be drinking in the first place. But I wasn't missing my 21st so I figured a couple smirnoff ice's wouldn't hurt.

Anyway, I get to the bar and immediately, one of my team members said "Let's get you three dead nazis" which is apparently the term for a shot of jagermeister, a shot of goldschlager, and a shot of rumplemintz. He told me what it was and I point blank said "You do that you'll have three dead nazis and one dead p*lak" (Me.) He laughed and asked me what I was drinking and I said "You can buy me a Smirnoff Ice".

So he did.

And he told the rest of the guys at the bar that I wasn't doing shots due to my medicine and everyone was cool with it.

Well, cue the team leader showing up. He heads right behind the bar, pulls out the Smirnoff Ice the first guy had ordered for me, and hands it to me saying "For your 21st. on the house"

I was shocked because how the hell could he just do that.

NOW. IMPORTANT NOTE.

I knew this guy. I had *known* this guy. Since high school. He was in my class...

... a fact which neither of us had ever told a single person at our work and neither of us ever intended to. After my first day there, he greeted me by name and gave me a look that said "never tell them" and we didn't.

So you can imagine my surprise, on my 21st birthday, when one of his fellow bartenders mentioned that he'd been working for them for THREE YEARS by that point.

I did indeed choke on my Ice but I managed not to spittake it. Good on me, I guess.

Anyway, I'm broken away from the group, sitting at the bar, and this guy gets on the other side of the bar from me. And, in a very low voice, I raise an eyebrow and say "Three years?"

Him: Shhhhhh. Anything you want. On the house. Just keep your mouth shut.

He asked me if I wanted to do one shot for good luck. I told him no but I said I had an idea.

Still unknowledgeable of the scope of alcohol, I asked him to point me to the strongest stuff they had there. It was Bacardi 151. Completely crystal clear, 151 proof of shanie-death juice.

I told him.

"Make like you're pouring me a shot of that, but fill the shotglass with water instead"

He gets this devilish look on his face but does what I said.

He brings me the "151" (water) and I say "Follow my lead"

I turn to the rest of the team, hold up my shotglass, and say "TO TWENTY ONE!" and knock it back, letting out a loud AHHH after I did so and slamming the shotglass back on the bar (as one would) The team leader, not missing a beat says very loudly... "You know, I tried to tell her the 151 was a bad idea, but she insisted..."

IMMEDIATELY the entire team got the most horrified looks on their faces. One guy literally started choking on his jaegerbomb. The color drains from everyone's face and they're all staring at me like I just took a shot of cyanide.

It was WONDERFUL.

Of course, we only let them hanging for about ten seconds when the team leader and I burst into laughter and admitted it was just water.

And everyone let out a sigh of relief and I got a fresh bottle of Smirnoff Ice and toasted them for real.

Unimportant to the story but, later that night, I got the attention of the pizza guy for the bar. I asked him what it would take to make a Chicken-Ranch pizza (it wasn't on the menu). He said that he couldn't make off-menu items but the Team Leader stepped in again and said "It's her 21st, man, make her the pizza" and he made it exactly as I ordered. I slipped him a 20 dollar tip for his troubles and it was the best damn pizza I've ever eaten in my life.

Anyway, that's the story of my 21st birthday party. I left that company four months later and, no, it never came out that I went to school with the team leader.

Fun times.

[ill-skillsgard]

Henry’s Birthday Weekend - Saturday - His Mistress

Warning: 18+ sex/mentions of sex work/slight degradation

Note: Hi, guys! How are you all holding up during this Bill drought? I’ve been trying to keep myself busy and distracted from the fact that I can’t really go anywhere except the grocery store. Hopefully, this will serve as a distraction for you as it has for me. Reblogs are extremely appreciated in this dry spell, comments make me happy and likes are great too.

This is a direct continuation of Friday Night, if you haven’t read it.

 Enjoy!

Read more Henry x Mistress imagines here > Masterpost

You knew he would come home livid. That was all right; you had prepared for the storm by dawning a new set underneath your casual clothes. It was an outfit of black lace and gold accents. But he wouldn’t know until he arrived.

 At a quarter past eleven, you heard his keys in the lock of the front door and turned on the couch to greet him with an oily smile. There was no use in playing dumb. You would consider it a miracle if one of his colleagues didn’t reveal you as the culprit during their romp to the nearest and classiest strip-joint. And judging by the way he pushed open the door and settled his eyes on you, the truth had surfaced.

 “Why?” he asked.

 You let the question resonate through the condo before shrugging. 

 “Why not?”

 “Because! That’s why!”

 “Oh,” you nodded. “Because. Yes. An excellent reason.”

 “I am so angry with you!” Henry belted.

 “How angry?”

 He tossed his keys onto the kitchen island and looked down at his jacket, huffing as he dusted glitter from the sleeves. “I don’t even think I can look at you right now.”

 “But you’re looking at me,” you pointed out.

 “And they took my phone!”

 “Good. So everything went according to plan.”

 “Plan? What plan? You planned on having me kidnapped and dumped into a den of strippers?”

 A giggle escaped your lips, and you touched your fingertips to your mouth, feigning a look of innocence. “Oopsy.”

 “No! No oopsy! That was completely out of line. I can’t believe you’d do that! And with Frank, nonetheless!”

 “Oh, come on, Henry. What’s so bad about getting some boobies pushed up against your face?”

 “Everything!” He shouted.

 Henry took several laps around the kitchen, fetching himself a shallow glass of water that went down like soot, then turning back toward you and remembering he did not wish to see your evil grin.

 “Babe, come on. Didn’t you have any fun? Not even a little?”

 “No. That was horrible. Degrading, even! And they wouldn’t let me leave.”

 “Degrading? What’s degrading about it?”

 Henry opened his arms wide, pointing out the window at the city below. “Someone’s daughter was rubbing her... Her everything all over my lap!”

 “What?” You pouted. “You don’t like the idea of someone’s daughter giving you a lap dance?”

 He caught the twist in your tone, softened for a breath, then shook his head and reangled his brows to look exceptionally pissed. “Strip clubs are... They’re disgusting.”

 “I thought I told them to bring you to Nikki’s? It’s classy!”

 “Oh, right, yeah... is it classy for my coworkers to pay a stripper to pour a shot down her ass-crack? I smell like pussy and Jagermeister!”

 You covered your mouth before another giggle could set Henry off on a tangent.

 “How is this so funny to you? Are you insane?” He asked.

 “I’m sorry, baby. I just thought you might want a little time with your friends for your birthday.”

 Henry shook his head, his frown turning into a cocked grin that still illustrated his objection. “No, no! No, no, no. Those guys aren’t my friends. I can barely stand them in a professional sense, so what makes you think I’d want to go to a strip club with them against my will?”

 “You’re a big boy. You could have left.”

 “No, for your information, I could not. They confiscated my phone and keys!”

 The plan had played out exactly how you imagined it would. You stood up and sauntered over to Henry, who was propping himself on the island. He pulled away from you but didn’t go far enough to evade your embrace for long.

 “Henry, do you really dislike naked girls or is this about something else?”

 “I’m not going to tell you I like naked women. That’s a trap waiting to happen.”

 “It’s not a trap,” you clutched his jaw, facing him so your eyes met. “Do you think I’d be offended if you said you are attracted to women?”

 “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

 “Yes, you do.”

 “No. I guess not.”

 “If you stood right here and said ‘babe, I think naked women are fun to look at,’ what do you think my response would be?”

 “I don’t know. You’d probably have some smart-ass thing to say.”

 Henry avoided looking at you, so you stood on the tips of your toes and kissed his cheek until his shoulders slumped and his arms relaxed. “I’d say ‘hell yeah. Naked chicks are great’.”

 “I still don’t see your point,”

 “Do you watch porn?”

 “No!” Henry exclaimed.

 “Henry,” your voice dropped an octave. “Don’t lie to me.”

 “Okay, yes. I’ve watched some.”

 “And did you enjoy it?”

 He scoffed again and rolled his eyes, a pinkness creeping over the crests of his cheeks. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 “You liked it,” you said. “You really liked it.”

 “How do you know?”

 “Because your face is turning red as a tomato.”

 “What does watching porn have to do with tonight?”

 “I’m just trying to make a point to you, Henry. I’m not the kind of person who gets upset over things like that. Hell, I watch porn all the time.”

 “You do?” He sounded shocked.

 “Yes!”

 “Wh-why?” He asked.

 “Because it’s hot.”

 “But,” Henry shook his head again. “I don’t get it.”

 “It’s not like I’m watching it and saying, ‘oh, I’d like that guy to fuck me.’ It’s more like ‘hm, I like sex and watching other people have it arouses me.’ It’s not cheating. It’s human nature.”

 “But you’re getting off to another person.”

 “So if you were to masturbate while thinking of someone in an erotic situation, is that cheating? Even if you’re completely alone in bed?”

 “I suppose not.”

 “Do you think about me every time you masturbate?” You asked.

 “I don’t... Do that,” Henry said.

 “You’ve sent me videos of you playing with yourself.”

 “Okay, but that doesn’t count! I did that for you.”

 You pulled away from him, turned around, and he followed. “You’ve never rubbed one out on your own for the entire time we’ve been together?”

 Henry expelled air from his nose and sighed. “Why would I need to when I have you?”

 “What about when we’re not together?”

 “When we’re apart, I’m working.”

 “Henry, I know you’re trying to sound like the virtuous gentleman to me, but you’re preaching to the wrong choir.”

 “I know!” he said. “I know you’re a hundred times more progressive than my ex, but you must understand where I’m coming from. I’m just not used to all this kind of stuff being acceptable topics of conversation.”

 You took his hand, but instead of hugging him again, you pushed him into the couch, securing him to the cushion with your foot hovering an inch from his groin. 

 “What that woman did to you is a crime. I’ll never understand how somebody with access to a cock like that would do anything less than worship it every day, but you need to start getting yourself out of that constrictive little bubble of thinking. I’m not Mary. And even if we were from the same generation, I’d still never understand. Sexuality isn’t a sin, just like paying a dancer to dance is not.”

 You took a step back and unfastened the first three buttons of your blouse, exposing a hint of lace to Henry’s wandering eyes. His breath caught in his throat, silencing him as he watched.

 “Oh, you’re such a good boy. I suppose... If I were to start stripping for you right now, you wouldn’t have a good time.”

 “I would!” He defended.

 “But you just said it’s degrading. Do you think I’m degrading myself by showing you this lovely bra underneath my top?”

 He chewed his bottom lip while the flush of his face remained stagnant. “It would be degrading if there was a pack of howling men at your feet, throwing singles at you.”

 “A woman making money by using her natural gifts is anything but degrading to her. You conservatives need to start understanding that.”

 “Oh, so now we’re getting political?” Henry asked with a slight smirk.

 “No. You’re being quiet, and I’m dancing for you.”

 You opened your blouse, revealing the see-through lace and your nipples peeking around embroidered flower petals. Henry’s eyes locked onto your chest, so you scooped your breasts up with both hands, squeezing them together to show him all he was missing.

 “If you slipped a bill into my bra right now, would that be disgusting?” You asked.

 “No.”

 “Exactly.”

 “For the record, I didn’t use any of my own money. Frank paid for it all.”

 “Oh, I know,” you dismissed. “He insisted.”

 “Fucking asshole,” Henry whispered.

 “Tell me something, Henry. Do you like me better with my skirt on, or would you prefer I slide it off and show you the rest?”

 “Well, now, you have me intrigued. So, of course, I’d say off.”

 “But isn’t it so awful of me to take my clothes off for your viewing pleasure?”

 “No, but you are evil.”

 “And you’re a nasty boy. Under that suit and that cute smile, you’re a raunchy bastard who loves getting his cock wet whenever he can. I’ve seen how easily you get hard. How all I have to do is bend over and slide this skirt off,” you acted out the narration, looking back to make sure Henry was watching. “And by the time I’m out of it, that dick will be hard.”

 “To be honest, I was the second you started undoing your blouse.”

 “See? You’re just as dirty as anyone else. Maybe even a bit more. Most guys don’t spring one until they see skin. You get hard just from the thought of me stripping for you.”

 Henry spread his feet farther apart, awaiting more criticism. You feigned leaning over to kiss him and grabbed the TV remote from the side table, leaving Henry’s lips wanting.

 “What are you doing?” He asked.

 “Since you’re such a nasty fuck who likes to go to strip clubs and watch porn, and, being that it’s your birthday weekend, I reckon you deserve a little overstimulation.”

 “Oh, yeah?” Henry watched you flick through a few channels until you found an adult network.

 His eyes lit up, and all the dreamy swagger fell away from him. When you turned around, Henry affixed to the television like a deer in headlights.

 “What’s wrong? I thought you liked porn?” You asked, resuming your slow swaying dance.

 Henry cracked a smile and shook his head, which only intrigued you more. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

 “It’s something.”

 He sighed as though reminded of a long-time joke and wiped his eyes. “It’s just... Mary still gets the cable bill in her name. So she’s going to see the charge for the porn.”

 “Good,” you said. “Let her see it. And if she gives you shit for it... Tell her how we put it on so we could copy every sex position. Since, you know, it’s your birthday, and you deserve to have that cock treated right.”

 He stared at you with a predatory sheen cutting through the amusement on his face. You had removed all your clothes, and stood before him in lace and mesh, waiting for him to lunge at you like a viper. Henry took hold of your wrist, tugging you closer until you had to climb over his lap, and smothered your mouth while you twisted his tie up in your fist.

 “Fuck me exactly how he fucks her,” you whispered, tossing a nod back at the TV.

 “Right now, he’s practically assaulting her throat. You want me to do that to you?” Henry asked.

 “Make it hurt, daddy.”

 He grabbed the meat of your arm, tugging you onto the couch so he could stand up to undo his belt. Henry looked at the screen behind him and then back at you once you arranged yourself to kneel on the couch cushions. Realizing the position made you too tall to reach his groin, you slithered onto the floor and waited. 

 The bulge in Henry’s slacks elated your eyes, and even more so when his hand dove in to produce said swollen appendage. It sprung out of its hiding spot beneath saxx underwear, coming up like a most welcomed visitor in a sea of wool and cashmere. He took a step closer, pressing you against the sofa until you had no choice but to distend your jaw.

 Henry grasped your chin with one hand while tugging his cock a few times in the other. “Let’s get this straight. I’m hard because the whole time I was made to watch those girls on stage, I wished they were you. Not because there’s a woman on TV getting her face fucked, but because, in my good Christian way of thinking, as you say, I’m picturing my cock down your throat. You’re the only one I want grinding on my dick. Ever. You got that?” Henry waggled the head against your outstretched tongue until you nodded eagerly. “Good. Now, open up wide. You know Daddy has a big one.”

 The perverse choking sounds playing over the speakers faded into nothing but background noise when Henry dipped his cock halfway into your mouth. He didn’t follow along with the film, as he was far too enraptured in stroking your face as you took him to the back of your throat. Henry was right; his manhood required substantial room to accommodate, and at a tilted angle, he slipped past your uvula and blocked your windpipe. But when he came away with his shaft frothy with saliva, his concern for your comfort faded fast.

 “Are you sure you weren’t a porn star before we met? You look so good taking a big fat cock in your mouth.”

 “I’ll be your porn star, how about that?” You murmured, lips nipping gently around the tip of his glistening cock. “You can film me doing whatever you want. And you don’t even have to pay me.”

 Henry shuddered. There was only so much he could take before the auditory overload got to him. Between the moaning in the background and the purposely sloppy noises you made sucking his dick, he felt his balls hitch and the lovely burning sensation in his gut fan out of control. He stopped and guided you back to the couch, threw you onto your stomach, grasped your garter straps and hauled your ass into the air.

 “I’ll pay you. Pay you in orgasms,” he said.

 “Just give me that cock,” you wiggled your hips. “That’s all I want.”

 The woman on television rode her partner backward, howling at the ceiling as she went. Your scene was slightly more tasteful and twice as authentic even in your lingerie and Henry with slacks around his thighs. The condo was modern and well-decorated, and you couldn’t help thinking about how a homemade porn movie might look filmed there.

 Henry slammed himself into your wetness and stayed there to enjoy the heat before pulling out and slamming in again. He kept his hands on your hips, only ever trailing away to grope your thighs as he went. A contented sigh spread over your back as he leaned over to wrap you in his arms.

 “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again. I don’t care if it’s my birthday. I belong to you, and I have no desire to have my suit dry-cleaned because I can’t get the stripper glitter off it. So I’m going to fuck you hard enough to prove how much I want you, and only you.”

 “I know, Henry,” you whispered.

 Fingers slid through your hair, gripping the strands and tugging your head back while he pumped into you from behind. Your spine absorbed the shocks while you whimpered out loud.

 “No, I don’t think you do. I think you’re a whore, whose only purpose in life is to tease my dick and drive me up the wall. But... You know what?” He asked, standing up on his knees so he could watch his length jamming up your insides. “I love it. I love my nasty whore. I love that as soon as I pull out my cock, you turn into this cum-hungry slut for me. That’s the best gift anyone could get.”

 “Better than ten strippers grinding on your lap for free?” You teased.

 “I’d rather fuck your pussy than have a hundred naked girls dancing on me. Don’t play dumb. You know what this cunt does to me.”

 “Oh, Daddy... You say such dirty things.”

 “It’s all for you, baby.”

[kyouryokusenshi]

How Maggie Stole Christmas

For: @suitablyaggrieved and organized by @xfilesfanficexchange @gaycrouton

Summary: Mulder hasn't really celebrated Christmas since Samantha was taken and unbeknownst to Scully, he receives an invite from Maggie to celebrate with the Scully family!

Notes: This was such a fun prompt to write. :) Many thanks to @monikafilefan & @ceruleanmilieu and @rationalcashew for the beta!

Mulder sat idly, drumming his fingers on the surface of his desk as Scully placed a folder into the filing cabinet with a resigned sigh. He looked up as she turned toward him, knowing it was time to go home for the next few days and weather out the storm brought on by St. Nick.

Caddyshack , his beloved video collection, and The Twilight Zone all awaited him at home as he suffered year after year in silence with a box of Chinese takeout on top of his coffee table. Top all that off with a booze cruise to nowhere and it was golden.

"Mulder? You alright?" Her voice permeated his thoughts, making him realize he was staring straight through her as she was trying to get his attention.

He looked up suddenly and nodded. "Yeah, Scully. I'm… alright."

She regarded him skeptically for a moment. "It's time to go, Mulder. Go home and get some rest."

He nodded reluctantly before he got to his feet. He could hear Scully's heels clicking against the linoleum, indicating her retreat as he moved to retrieve his jacket.

"Monday will be here before you know it. I don't want to spend another second in this office," Scully remarked by the door, her body language clearly indicating that she wasn't leaving the office without him.

"Alright, alright. Right behind you, I'll catch up."

Scully rolled her eyes as she made her retreat, "If you're not out in five, I'm sending in the cavalry in."

He wouldn't bet against it either. Grabbing his suitcase, he moved around the desk to the row of file cabinets. Pulling out a file, he slipped it into his briefcase and hurried after Scully.

Together, they entered the parking garage and Mulder followed Scully to her car.

"Give your mom my best for me, would ya?" Mulder grinned. "Bill, too."

Scully rolled her eyes as she looked back at him with a smirk. "I'm sure the feeling is mutual."

As she piled her things into her car, Scully looked back up at Mulder and smiled as he held the door. "Merry Christmas, Mulder. Promise me you won't be doing any work while we're off the next few days."

"Pinky swear."

Scully shook her head as she gently moved to squeeze Mulder's arm. "Goodnight, Mulder. Call me if you need anything."

"I can't imagine that I will," he quipped as he watched her get into the car. With a quick smile and a wave, he gazed on as her car disappeared toward the exit of the building.

He felt a sense of melancholy at her departure and shuddered against the cold before making his way to his own vehicle.

-----

Mulder tossed and turned as the illumination of the TV flickered before him, contrasting against the darkness. However, his focus was not on the TV but rather on Christmases of Times past. He couldn't recall the last time he had a truly normal Christmas. Ever since Samantha's disappearance, his parents had put in minimal effort around the holidays.

On the drive home, he had taken a longer route through suburban Virginia, watching several families bustle about in the snow and admiring the gorgeous displays of lights adorned on the modest homes. A stark contrast to his empty, mundane apartment which lacked warmth and mirth. He was too busy and it was just him. No sense in decorating a place he really just used for sleep.

Aside from that fact, the holidays brought nothing but depressing memories. The exception to the rule had been just last year when he and Scully were investigating that haunted house and Scully was unable to make it to her family's on time. Well, if he was being honest with himself, that last part was fully intentional. Scully had decided to show up at his place when she should have been opening up gifts with her family.

A small part of him couldn't help but hope she might show up at his door and rescue him from the endless black hole his mind kept wandering into. He closed his eyes before pushing himself upright, reaching for the X-File he’d stuffed in his suitcase before pouring his second annual celebratory shot of Jagermeister.

The piercing sound of a ringing phone made him jump, resulting in the liquid spilling down his shirt. "Shit!"

The phone continued to ring as he often let it. With a glance at the clock, he wondered who would be calling at eleven at night. He fetched a paper towel and dried his shirt as the answering machine came on.

"Fox," a familiar voice started to speak. "Maggie Scully, Dana's mom." In one swift motion, Mulder all but lunged at the phone, retrieving the phone from its cradle.

"Hello, Mrs. Scully?" He asked breathlessly, his heart racing in his chest. "Everything okay?" He asked before the older woman could respond.

"Yes," the matriarch Scully was quick to insist, assuaging his fears almost as if she anticipated them.

Mulder closed his eyes with relief, already having imagined more than a dozen scenarios where Scully might have been in some kind of trouble.

"Don't worry. Actually, I was calling because Dana had told me you don't usually go anywhere during the holidays. In fact, she suspected you might be working right now," she said.

Mulder nodded, having poured himself another shot and inhaling the glass' continents. "Hmm, she did, huh? Well, no need to worry. Tell Doc I'm taking good care of myself."

"Fox," Maggie implored in a tone usually reserved for chiding one of her children. Mulder raised his eyebrows at her sudden change in tone.

"I, actually, wanted to invite you over for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow."

Mulder was taken by surprise and set his shot glass down before he had another accident. He was touched. "I appreciate the gesture, Mrs. Scully, I really do, but I couldn't possibly intrude."

"Nonsense, Fox. I insist. Unless you have some other arrangements."

"No, just the usual movies and takeout."

"Then, I'm not asking, Fox."

Mulder couldn't help but smile. "As long as you're certain I wouldn't be putting you out."

"I'm positive."

"Alright. Do you need anything tomorrow? I'm more than happy to pick it up and bring it by."

"You just worry about getting yourself here. Five o’clock, but you can come earlier if you'd like. You're welcome to attend the Midnight Mass with us as well."

"I might take a raincheck on that one." They both laughed.

"Alright, you had better be here, Fox, or I'll send the cavalry after you."

Mulder chuckled. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

----

Mulder had slept soundly shortly after that phone call. He called it a night almost immediately after, as he had little time and presents to pick out and wrap before the drive out to Mrs. Scully's place.

Waking up the following morning was almost magical as Mulder slid off his new mattress and padded toward the window overlooking the city. He often overslept during the holidays as he really had nothing to get him out of bed aside from a case.

He quickly dressed and headed out, determined to buy appropriate holiday wear for the occasion and gifts for the family. Speaking of gifts, he really had no idea what to buy. He rarely shopped for anyone, aside from Scully last year. Scully. He felt his heart thud wildly in his chest. He wondered if Maggie's invitation was Scully's idea or exclusively hers. Either way, Scully must have told her about his plans, or lack thereof, around this time of year.

Navigating the mall filled Mulder with anxiety. He definitely was not used to any of this. He ended up picking out several sports items he figured might be good for someone like Bill- he just hoped he wasn't wrong in assumption as it could easily land him in a world of hurt.

He spent a good time window shopping until he came across a pink cashmere sweater that he knew would look perfect on Scully. As he browsed, he tried to decipher whether she was an extra small or small. He eventually settled on a small to be safe.

A few hours later, he had all of the presents picked out, hoping he had a little something for everyone as he didn't even think to ask Maggie who would all be in attendance. Scully had recently mentioned that her youngest brother, Charlie, was estranged from the family. Scully had never gone into detail and he never pushed, but he got the sense that it was of Charlie's own volition to distance himself from the family. Although, he couldn't understand why. Maggie always had mirth that was so contagious and always spread to anyone she encountered. He never felt anything but welcome when it came to Scully's family, with the exception of Bill.

When Mulder returned home, it was getting close to three and he felt like a madman rushing to wrap all of the gifts before he had to leave for Mrs. Scully's. He had even found an oddly appropriate ugly sweater to spread the holiday cheer he was seriously lacking each year.

Somehow, he managed to wrap everything and get himself appropriately dressed in record speed before he was off to Mrs. Scully's. For the first time, he actually looked forward to celebrating the normally dreaded holiday but, most of all, it was another opportunity to have an excuse to celebrate with Scully.

----

Mulder took a deep breath as he ascended the porch steps leading to Mrs. Scully's home. The exterior of her home reminded him of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine with its pristine landscaping and potted plants. The warmth inside of the home that he had been fortunate to experience on a few occasions certainly matched the welcoming exterior.

His heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the door to open, his arms full of gifts. He took a deep breath as the door opened to reveal Scully's stunned expression.

"Mulder?"

Mulder opened his mouth, fumbling for words. He certainly hadn't expected this reaction. Before either could speak, Maggie Scully appeared behind her daughter. "Oh, Fox, you made it!" she beamed.

Scully turned to look at her mother, her mouth wide. "Mom, you didn't tell me you invited Mulder over… "

Maggie said nothing as she moved past her daughter and enveloped Mulder with a big hug, steering him inside.

"Well, don't be a stranger. Come in!"

Mulder looked at Scully and shrugged as he followed her mother. Maggie smiled at her daughter as she closed the door behind her.

"How thoughtful! I'll take those from you, Fox," Maggie said as she reached for the large bag of presents. "You may as well be St. Nick," she added cheerfully as she walked into the living room.

Mulder turned towards Scully, taking in the Santa hat she was wearing in addition to the sweater swallowing her up. It was pinned with various ornaments and tinsel followed by Ho-Ho-Ho lettering. "You didn't know? I swear, I didn't want to intrude. But your mom insisted," Mulder quickly defended himself.

Scully shook her head. "No. I mean, I normally hate surprises and she should have told me, but this is a good surprise. You need some normalcy in your life, Mulder."

Mulder sighed with relief. "Uh, thanks. I think?"

"She must have called you after I told her about our little adventure last year."

Mulder nodded slowly. "Ah, I see."

"Not everything, of course," she added in quickly. "By the way, nice sweater," she teased, pointing at the giant Rudolph on the front of his chest.

"Right back at you, Scully," he grinned. "You really went all out."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Mulder."

Mulder smiled as Scully led him into the large family room, both of them mentally preparing themselves for Bill's wrath.

When Mulder spotted him, Tara, and a young toddler that he presumed was Matthew, Bill stood up from the table immediately. That was when Mulder noticed each Scully member had a fully decked out holiday sweater.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Bill roared.

Thankfully, Mrs. Scully was immediately back in the room, almost as if she anticipated this turn of events.

"To be fair, I didn't feel like I belonged myself," Mulder explained in his usual self deprecating manner.

"William Scully Jr.!" Maggie Scully snapped with a look that could kill.

Bill said nothing as he returned to his seat, sulking.

Tara, however, walked over and gave Mulder a quick, one-armed hug before turning their attention to the little boy in her arms. Mulder smiled.

"Matthew, this is Fox Mulder. He's a very nice gentleman who works with Auntie Dana."

The crimson-haired boy with the deepest blue eyes smiled at him. "Fox. Just like my pet fox," he said, pointing to the stuffed fox in his grip.

Mulder smiled. "Yeah, just like that, kiddo."

The modest home was overwhelmed with the smell of freshly baked pieS and cookies intermixed with the savory smell of ham in the oven. It was Heaven on Earth.

Aside from the tension in the air between him and Bill, so far everything went off without a hitch. The family matriarch told stories about both Bill and Dana when they were children and teared up whenever she mentioned Melissa or Charlie.

"No haunted house stakeouts keeping Dana from her family this year, that's good," Bill quipped.

To Mulder's surprise, he was far less bothered by Bill's comments than he otherwise would have been. It actually reminded him of more carefree days when he and Samantha were little and the bickering they would often do as siblings did.

"Nope, but surely it was a Christmas to remember."

Scully looked up and smiled at him conspiratorially over her plate of food.

Bill huffed as he continued to eat. Matthew played with his toys as Scully, Tara, and Maggie talked about when Matthew would get a sibling. It made his heart hurt for Scully and he turned to her and smiled, their focus on each other nearly drowning out the sounds around them.  

He turned his attention from their words to the environment of the home and how happy he was to be there. He also came to learn that Maggie Scully made a mean cranapple pie.

"I know you won't be coming to mass with us, Fox, but I do have an extra room so you can open presents with us in the morning," Maggie insisted.

Mulder looked over at Scully for approval who nodded reassuringly.

"Okay," Mulder agreed. "As long as I'm not intruding… I'll have to stop by my apartment to get some things."

"Oh, that reminds me," Maggie said suddenly. "We do have a tradition of opening one gift on Christmas Eve each year and when you open it, you'll see why."

Everyone gathered around the rather large douglas fir that was illuminated by colorful lights and carefully decorated with ornaments. Mulder couldn't help but notice several baby ornaments that must have belonged to all of the Scully children when they were born.

Each of them was handed a carefully wrapped present of the same size as Maggie watched from the center of the room. "You can all open them at once," she instructed. Everyone simultaneously began to pick at the delicately wrapped presents. Tara helped Matthew open his present as the rest of the adults quickly shed the wrapping paper to reveal matching flannel pajama sets.

"You know my size, Mrs. Scully. It must be a conspiracy," he chuckled as Scully swatted his arm.

"I did have a husband and raised two boys, Fox," she chuckled, her laughter contagious. "Looks like you won't need to go home after all."

"Uh oh, looks like I might have to be joining for mass after all."

"Only if you want to, Fox, but it would make me happy if you did."

"Just so long as I don't burst into flames," Mulder said, throwing his arms into the air for full effect.

----

The rest of the night was uneventful and as everyone returned from church and changed into their PJ's, a knock on the door sounded on the room Mulder took residence in. If he had to guess, he would say this had to be Charlie's old room.

"Yeah?"

"It's me," Scully said from the other side of the door.

Mulder quickly moved to open the door, revealing Scully in her matching PJ's.

"I must say, Scully, this exceeds the endless well-tailored suits."

"Don't get too comfortable," she teased, walking into the room. "Bill is just down the hall."

Mulder chuckled. "Yeah, that's a bear I wouldn't want to poke."

A silence passed between them as they sat together on the bed. Scully was the first to speak. "I'm glad you came, Mulder. Really."

Mulder pretended to look surprised. "I really wasn't trying to crash your family Christmas dinner," he insisted. "But it's a nice reprieve from thinking about times past."

"I know," Scully said as she reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "I realized how much fun I was having last year celebrating it with you while on a case, chasing monsters."

Mulder chuckled and squeezed her hand. "Sorry to disappoint you, but the only real monster we have to worry about is down the hall."

Scully laughed. "Well, I'll see you in the morning, Mulder. Goodnight."

Mulder watched as Scully reached the door. "If you need anything, knock three times," he said with a wink.

Scully rolled her eyes. "Goodnight, Mulder."

END

[incorrectdeceptionquotes]

It Takes Two

In collaboration with @s4karuna, she introduced this idea by striking up a conversation with me (so glad she did) and we’ve been building on it for a couple months and we finally decided to actually write it! XD

Hope you like it guys!

...And Happy New Year!

O'Leary's was the last stop on Team Deception’s bar hopping night, their usual homecoming tradition when they came back to New York after a national tour. Dina had somehow managed to wrangle Gunther into doing a duet with her while Cameron and Jordan were downing shots in a corner booth, occasionally heckling Gunther.

“Okay...” Jordan slurred. He was a bit of a lightweight and despite having matched shot for shot with him, Cameron didn’t seem as drunk, only slightly tipsy. “Cameron...”

“Yes Jordan?”

“I got a challenge for you.”

“Oh?” Cameron raised his eyebrows, “What are the stakes?”

“If… If you win...” Jordan garbled, “I… will dye my hair… hot pink again.”

Cameron was intrigued, “And if you win?”

“You… will do whatever I say.”

Cameron raised an eyebrow at that. “Uh Jordan, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I just wanna be friends.”

“Ha!” Jordan slapped the table, “You wish you could land this… but no.” Jordan looked to be thinking, “If I win… I have something else in mind...”

“Are… are you going to tell me?”

“Nope! I'll… I’ll only tell you if I win.”

Cameron smirked, “So that’s how you want to play it?” He did another shot, “Fine. What is your challenge?”

“I... dare you... to take a shot.”

“Wait, that’s your challenge?” Cameron snorted, “We've been doing that all night.”

Jordan wagged his finger, “Oh-ho-ho-ho... no, my friend. Not just any... shot.” He downed another, “I’m talking about... the infamous Smoker’s Cough.”

“The Smoker’s Cough?”

“It’s a shot of Jagermeister... topped off with mayonnaise.”

Cameron scrunched his face at that, “Ew, mayonnaise?”

“It’s not… not too late to back out.”

Cameron took another one of the shots in front of him with a shake of his head. “No way.” He swiftly downed the drink, “Take that as an ‘I accept your challenge’.”

“There’s only one rule.” Jordan stated, “You’re not allowed to gag or spit it back after drinking it.” He got from his stool, “I’ll be right back.”

Cameron downed another shot. How bad could this drink be? He’d had worse things before so it couldn’t be as bad as Jordan had implied. A few minutes later, Jordan came back with a shot in hand and sure enough, it was topped with good old fashioned mayonnaise.

“Here… you go.” Jordan shakily placed the drink in front of his friend. He really was a lightweight.

Cameron picked up the shot and eyed it for a moment, “Okay… here goes.”

Jordan watched him as the blue-eyed man shrugged and downed it in one go. He seemed to be alright at first. Then his face scrunched up in disgust as he clapped a hand over his mouth to contain his coughing.

“G’ugh! It's vile!” He wheezed. “What the hell is in that?”

Jordan laughed as Cameron let out a couple of coughs, “I had the bartender…” Jordan slurred, “M-make the drink with Andong soju instead. Packs quite a punch, doesn’t it?”

“Oh yeah. Can’t help but think--” He coughed again, “That might have be cheating. Not even your hal-abeoji can drink it and he could give vodka guzzling Russian ex-soldiers a run for their money at his age.”

“You never said I couldn’t change anything.”

“Well played Kwon. Well played.” Cameron mumbled, “So what is it you want me to do?” Cameron would be lying if he said that the gleeful look on Jordan’s face didn’t make him feel a little nervous.

Three years later…

The Archive had been host to many Team Deception celebrations over the years, but this had to be a first. Helping the FBI break a major case by doing what the team did best had... sparked something in him for lack of a better word. Through the din of the party, Cameron spotted Kay in the corner, her phone to her ear as--was she smiling just now?

It wasn't like he hadn’t seen her smile before, but this one was different. It was one of pure joy, her eyes radiating every ounce of love in her heart.

It was beautiful. That smile was beautiful.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he only managed to catch Kay saying “--okay, I’ll see you in a minute, honey.”

Wait, what?

Honey? Suddenly, Cameron was very interested to know who she had been talking to. He just wasn’t expecting there to be anyone who would make someone as cool and professional as Kay call them “honey” of all things. He shook his head and escaped to the balcony.

Kay noticed him walk out as she hung up before her eye caught one of his show posters. The past couple of days had showed her that he wasn’t just some playboy illusionist. Magic really was his life. It really meant something to him… and his brother meant everything to him, she could tell. It reminded her so much of her and Caroline in the past, she mused as she joined him on the balcony.

“Hey.” She said as she walked up next to him.

He grinned, “Hey.”

“You did good Cameron.” Kay told him, “Thank you.”

His smile only widened, “Don’t mention it. Sorry we didn’t get off to the best start.”

“Water under the bridge.”

They were silent for a moment. Cameron opened his mouth, about to ask something like so who were you on the phone with if you don’t mind my asking, when he suddenly heard what sounded like little kids squealing in the other room.

“Uh Kay? Are you babysitting or something ‘cause whose kids am I hearing?”

Kay's lips twitched in amusement. “I’m not babysitting, it's a completely different thing.”

Well, if they were going to start working together, she might as well tell him now.

“You don't babysit your own kids.”

Cameron’s jaw dropped. “You have kids?!”

Kay nodded. “Twin girls.” She had been a little hesitant to tell him that part, worried that it might hit a little too close to home. “The sitter’s just bringing them here for me.”

Cameron was about to respond, say anything other than since when do you have kids and when you gonna let me meet them, when he heard shrieking giggles as a pair of tiny toddlers holding hands, dressed in pink and purple tumbled onto the balcony.

“Oh my God,” he gaped, shocked by the sight of two identical girls with round apple cheeks and adorable little dimples waddling over to Kay, “there's two of them.”

It was impossible not to see the resemblance to Kay when they had the same feathery dark curls and bronze skin. They were perfect little copies of their mother... except for the eyes. The girls’ eyes were opal blue and star-like and Cameron’s smile was fading fast because he never considered the possibility of her being married with kids. Even though he had secretly checked her hands several times for a ring only to find nothing.

Kay laughed as she picked up one of the giggling toddlers, who had purple overalls and a gold bunny shaped clip in her hair. “Well, I assume that as a twin yourself, you’d understand that twins generally come in twos.”

Still, he had to admit that even he and Johnny weren't this cute at that age. Kay's genes were truly magical.

“Soooo…” he drawled, “Who’s the lucky guy?” He wasn’t going to try to beat around the bush this time. If she was with someone then he didn’t want to step over any boundaries.

Kay was silent for a moment as she settled her daughter on her hip. “Donor #478.”

Cameron scrunched his nose in confusion.

“There’s not really a father in the picture,” Kay explained, straightforward as always. “I honestly couldn’t tell you who he is if I wanted to. Kind of the point.” That wasn’t the part that confused him. It was just… there was something about that number. Something familiar.

“You’re a single mom?”

Kay nodded, unashamed. She decided a long time ago that she wasn't going to have a partner and ended up with two when she went in for one. She suspected that identical twins ran in the donor's family. Kay's mother had helped take care of the girls until her strength had failed and she would've been completely alone if it weren't for Mike and Lara.

“That’s… kind of amazing,” he grinned in wonder.

Kay chuckled, “Well not everybody thinks so.”

“Eh, screw what other people think.”

He suddenly felt a tiny hand tug at his pant leg. He looked down and found a familiar pair of blue eyes staring up at him in wonder. The girls had obviously inherited Kay's impossibly long eyelashes and he was positive that they would destroy hearts someday just like their mother.

He crouched down, smiling at the little girl, still amazed at the power of genetics. “Hi there.”

The girls were nearly identical, but this one had hair that was a shade or two lighter than her sister and a pink penguin print headband that matched her overalls.

“That’s Liya.” Kay explained.

“Hi Liya.”

Liya eagerly raised her arms up and her tiny voice squeaked, “Up. Up.”

Cameron gave a quick look to Kay, “Do you mind?”

Kay looked a little surprised. Liya wasn’t usually so friendly with strangers. The agent shook her head before she thought much of it. “Uh, no. Go ahead.”

Cameron scooped up the little girl and she beamed up at him. He paused as he noticed Kay’s unreadable expression, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just… Liya usually isn’t so welcoming to new people.”

“Well, maybe she can tell I’m not so bad.” Liya rested her head on Cameron’s shoulder. He briefly caught the comforting scent of baby powder as she did so and it made him melt a little. “Who’s this other little lady?”

“This is my oldest, Ayana.” Cameron smiled at the toddler and Ayana gave him a tiny smile. “Ayana, you can say hi.”

Ayana waved and squeaked a little, “Hi.”

Cameron grinned at the little girl, “Hi Ayana.” The little girl buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and yeah, he was just about dying from the sheer cuteness of the Daniels girls.

“So Liya and Ayana, huh?”

“My mother's Ethiopian. Her grandmother came here from Addis Ababa all by herself to start a new life and I think she would've had some very strong words with me if I didn't follow the Assefa family tradition.”

Cameron chuckled as a thought popped into his head. “Does this mean that Kay's just a nickname?”

Kay rolled her eyes. “Cameron Black, you can't expect me to give away all my secrets.” She'd keep her birth name to herself for a while.

“Eh, between Mike the fanboy and Jordan’s hacking, I'll figure it out eventually. How old are the girls anyway?”

“They just turned two a couple of weeks ago.”

“Wow. Well, I should get them something then. How do they feel about stuffed animals?”

Kay chuckled, “Cameron, that’s sweet but--”

“No, no, I’m serious. Two is a big milestone.” He grinned. Somehow, for a moment, he wasn’t feeling hopeless.

“So what's next?” Kay asked, “You go after the mystery woman who framed Jonathan? I still have to prove she did it.” Cameron figured she was right, “What about your show, your team?”

“When we were kids,” Cameron started, “I was the performer, the onstage persona, but Johnny was ‘The Disappearing Boy’ hidden under the stage, behind the curtain, but he was always there for me...” He turned to face the agent he’s decided he’s befriended, “I have to get him out, Kay.” He could feel Liya’s little arms wrap around his neck in a pseudo hug, almost like she was trying to comfort him.            Kay nodded in understanding, “I did notice something. Jonathan's illusionist copied every detail from your disappearing-jet trick except one.”            Cameron raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You watched my special?” He turned his head to the toddler in his arms, “Did your mom watch my special?” Liya just giggled.

Kay laughed, “Okay. I saw it. It was fantastic.”            Cameron grinned in disbelief, “Fantastic? Wow.”            “After you made your jet disappear, you left something behind. Deck of playing cards.”            Cameron nodded in realization, “We should go back to the hangar and make sure she didn't--” He was cut off by Kay pulling out an evidence bag with a deck of cards in it. He chuckled, “You already went.”            She grinned. There was that smile again, “This is where I say ‘ta-da,’ right?” Ayana giggled at the way her mother was speaking. Despite being so young, Ayana and Liya never heard their mother sound so playful.

“Yeah.” Cameron smiled as he reached for the deck, “May I?” She handed him the bag. He pulled out the deck. It made a few beeping noises before it started to ring. He answered.

“Hello Cameron.” A woman’s voice came from the other line.            Cameron could feel his frustration flare up. “Who are you?”

She shook her head. “Always asking the wrong questions.”            “Why are you doing this?”

She raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “You don't remember? Don't worry. I don't blame you for that. But I've thought about you and Jonathan for years.The show's about to begin my show. Are you ready?”

Cameron heard the sound of Beethoven’s Fur Elise being played in the background. “You're in the Frankfurt International terminal. Spent the last twelve months flying around the world, and airport acoustics are pretty distinctive. Plus, Frankfurt pumps muzak Beethoven like they're afraid someone might forget he's German.” Cameron could have sworn he heard this mystery woman’s breath stop for a split second. “Tell me, did you look over your shoulder?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Goodbye Cameron.”            “Get used to looking. We're coming for you.” It was all Cameron could say before the call disconnected.

“Hey.” Kay said as she adjusted Ayana in her arms, “You alright?”

Cameron pursed his mouth and nodded as he put the deck in his pocket and adjusted Liya just to make sure he wouldn’t drop her. “I’m fine… just can’t believe that after all this time, there’s a lead.” Kay gave him a sympathetic smile, “Believe it or not, this is the first time I can confidently say that Johnny’s going to come home.”

“You know, it’s really admirable that you’ve kept hope for all this.”

Cameron gave a small smile, “I’ve always believed that hope can be a powerful thing.”

They gave each other a smile and spent a moment in silence, watching the city lights before Ayana tried to wiggle out of her mother’s hold to join her sister in Cameron’s arms. Kay tried to get her to calm down.

“Ayana honey, be careful.”

Cameron chuckled, “If Ayana wants a hug too, I don’t mind.” He opened his other arm as a sign to the little girl that she could join her sister.

“You sure?”

Cameron nodded, “Positive. It’s a good thing I have enough arms because if you had triplets then things might be a little difficult,” he joked.

Kay helped him adjust both girls in a way that would be easy for him to hold them both at once. What really surprised her was just how fast her girls warmed up to him. She knew that Cameron was a good man, but it was still a little odd that Ayana and Liya could see that so quickly too.

“Hey there Ayana. You didn’t want to miss out on the fun either, did you?”

The older twin giggled as her tiny hand gripped his shirt. Kay smiled. It wasn’t often she felt comfortable letting her daughters be held by someone else, but she trusted Cameron.

“Hey Kay?”

Kay raised her eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“We have some chocolate chip cookies.” He didn’t notice the way the girls perked up at the word ‘cookie’. “Do you mind if I give them one?”

“Cookie?” Ayana squeaked.

Kay smiled. “Well, they already heard the word ‘cookie’ so you kind of have to give them one now.” Cameron laughed at that. “Why do you have chocolate chip cookies in the first place?”

“Agent Daniels,” he gasped in mock offense, “I might be a man of fine tastes, but I can enjoy a good chocolate chip cookie once in a while.” Kay rolled her eyes at his childishness.

“Cookie!” Liya babbled.

Kay’s chuckle turned to laughter. She knew the girls’ sweet tooth would distract them. “Well, we should probably get them their cookies.”

She reached to take one of the girls when Cameron just cuddled them closer to him. “You know I don’t mind holding them for a little while.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, “Oh yeah. You’ve had a long day too, let me help you by carrying around these adorable little ladies.” Kay couldn’t help but smile as they made their way back inside.

Three years ago…

Cameron and Jordan pulled up to the building they asked the cab driver to take them. “Why are we here?” Cameron narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Why do you think?” His friend responded, “This is your punishment.”

“Oh my God, Jordan, you don’t mean...”

“Oh… but I do.” Cameron rolled his eyes, “Hey! You lost our wager.” Jordan retaliated, “If you had won, you so would have watched me dye my hair pink!”

Cameron paused. “...You’re not going to come inside to watch me do this are you?” Jordan gave him a look. “I’m sorry Jordan, but the way you say things all sound very suggestive!”

“Just go do it!”

“Fine.” he huffed. They both got out of the cab and went inside the building. It was a bank and all Jordan had dared him to do was make a donation. He stayed at the front desk until the deed was done. There was nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn't as if Cameron was the first person to make a donation like this.

In fact… he was the 478th person to make a donation for that particular bank.

[buckygirl-fanfiction]

Sparks Chapter 17

Pairing: Bucky(POV) X Reader(POV) ft. other characters from the avengers team

Word Count: 5.1K

Summary: So I totally got this from New Girl 2x15 when they played True American, the drinking game. Drunk Steve and Bucky being cute. Sam, Wanda, Nat, Cho, & Everyone locking y/n and Bucky in her bedroom until they kiss. Spoiler they finally kiss.

A/N: This is a story about two people building a great friendshipand then slowly falling in love. y/n is a strong, independent, and smart scientist. She meets Bucky when she wakes him up from cryo sleep and they become friends. This is going to have all the angst / best friends falling in love / fluff / drama / & eventual smut ;) that I can possibly fit in it. This fic is going to be looong! So far my document is like 50,000 words. So editing is hard If you catch any grammatical or formatting errors let me know.

Januaray 22, 2016

 Bucky’s POV

 I’m having lunch with Bahni again this week. She’s actually a pretty interesting girl. Funny, what the mind can overlook when it’s split. Fortunate for me she’s somewhat of a history buff and i’ve got plenty to share on that front. I walk through the halls towards the elevator, i’m supposed to meet her at the Founding Fathers in 10 minutes. It’s almost 4 o’clock and we are grabbing a late lunch since both of us had to be in meetings and briefings all day. On my way down I fix my hair looking at my reflection in the shiny elevator doors. I slick it back behind my ears and wonder whether I should get a haircut.

 I spot her sitting by the bar when I walk in and once she sees me she gets up to greet me with a hug.

 “Bucky,” she says with a warm smile on her face that mirrors mines.

 “Bahni, how was your day?” I ask politely kicking off the small talk. Sometimes I wish I could skip all the awkward initial steps of getting to know someone and get to the comfortable part where you can be open and free.

 y/n’s POV

 “Bye sweetheart, mommy is going to miss you.”

 “Bye bye mommy,” Ben says in an adorable little voice to his mother. Then he turns to me and says, “Bye y/n.” With a small wave he hops into the back seat of the car and Olivia leans in buckling him in and shuts the door.

 “Bye Mark,” I say to the man sitting inside the car in the driver’s seat.

 “Honey, don’t forget Evie’s bath and …” I watch Olivia discuss the domestics with her husband while I patiently wait on the curb for her. She’s such a soccer mom I think, then chide myself for the though. Just because housewife doesn’t appeal to you, doesn’t mean it’s a bad life choice. I smile at Ben through the window and watch the car pull away into the traffic.

 “Boy he’s in for some major traffic,” I say to Olivia, “leaving the city on a Friday evening, rush hour is going to be insane.”

 “I know,” says Olivia sighing. “I hope Evie sleeps through the trip.”

 “Well!” I say walking over to Olivia and taking her by the arm, “you don’t have to worry about that this weekend because you’re baby free!”

 We walk with our elbows intertwined down the crowded street towards the Founding Fathers, “Where are we meeting Cho?” She asks from besides me.

 “At this bar near work,” I say. “I think she’s bringing Steve.”

 “Oh, dreamy Captain America is coming?!” she says swatting me on my shoulder. “Score! Now all we need is that hot hunk of yours and the night is complete.”

 “Bucky? Oh. I don’t think he is coming. He might have plans i’m not sure,” I say. I haven’t seen much of Bucky this week especially since I cancelled our morning sparring sessions. The sleep deprivation was really starting to get to me and he suggested I just sleep in.

 “What a shame,” Olivia says as we turn the corner. I spot Cho and Steve walking our way and prepare myself for their loud reunion.

 On cue Cho lets out a high pitched scream when she sees Olivia by my side, “You’re actually here! It’s been too long!” Steve and I stand by exchanging glances as we watch their overdramatically loud reunion.

 “So what do you have planned?” Olivia asks Cho, “dinner and a movie?”

 “No! You’re in the city now and it’s Friday night and we are going to have some fun!” Cho says. “It’s time for some True American.” I internally groan when the words come out of her mouth. True American was a really weird drinking game we used to play back when we were all in college together. As I remember, the game always ended in a mind blowing hangover and someone cleaning up vomit in the morning. Actually, this might be interesting. “Okay so Steve and Sam are going to go pick up the 6 packs, we are going to go get the good stuff,” Cho says pointing at me and Olivia, “and meet back at y/n’s in half an hour?”

 “Sounds good,” Steve says and with a tip of his baseball cap he’s off.

 “Meet at y/n’s? Sam?” I say. “Who volunteered my place?”

 “I did since I didn’t want to volunteer mine and Wanda didn’t want to volunteer hers,” Cho says with a grin on her face.

 “Wanda?” I can already picture the mess that my apartment is going to be tomorrow. “How many people are coming?”

 “Oh, I sent out a group text,” Cho says shrugging her shoulders. “Come on you can’t get mad at me Olivia is back and I thought, since it took her 20 years to get here, we might as well show her a good time before she disappears again into the hoard of soccer moms.”

 “Hey,” Olivia says in protest.

 “Plus, True America with the Avengers. How amazing is this going to be!” Cho says.

 “Just saying, I’m not going to be cleaning up vomit again like last time.”

 We walk towards the Founding Fathers that’s just a couple doors down and I walk up to the bar while Cho and Olivia do some much needed catching up. “Hi I need a bottle of Jack Daniels and Smirnoff.”

 “We need gin and Jagermeister too,” Cho calls out to me.

 “Sounds like one hell of a party,” I hear a voice say from behind me. I turn around to find Bucky and Bahni sitting at a table a couple feet away from the bar.

 “Oh hey!” I say smiling at them, “Hey Bahni.” She smiles at me and returns the greeting.

 “Guess who's here!” I say pointing at Olivia.

 “Bucky,” she says with a smile on her face, “Ben keeps asking when you’re going to visit. Are you coming tonight?” She asks.

 “Yeah you guys should,” Cho says interjecting. “We’re playing True American at y/n’s.”

 “God, True American the drinking game?” Bahni says in reply, “I have some wild memories from that.”

 “Great! Then you’re coming,” Olivia says smiling at the woman seated next to Bucky.

 “y/n’s place in a hour alright!” Cho says as I walk over to pay the bartender and pick up the small crate of bottles.

 We walk back to my apartment and soon after Steve and Sam arrived with a half dozen six packs. I do my best to hide the fragile stuff in my room while clearing up some more space. Wanda and Nat get here a few minutes later and we begin setting up for the game. I drag my coffee table to the center of the room and place the bottle of Jack in the center. Then with Cho’s help we create four lines of beer cans going out in different directions from the bottle of Jack.

 “Okay so how does this work again?” Steve says standing next to Cho watching her set up. Wanda and Nat having already played with us once set up the chairs around the room.

 “So this is the castle,” says Cho pointing to the table. “The bottle of Jack is the King and the beers are pawns.”

 “Umm,” Steve says with confusion still on his face.

 I’m torn from observing their conversation when I hear another knock at my door. I look over and find Dean poking his head in through the doorway.

 “Dean!” I say walking towards him, “What are you doing here?”

 “Oh I invited him,” Cho shouts from the other side of the room then goes back to explaining True American to a very confused Captain America. I groan internally thinking about the growing amount of people here and the state my apartment is going to be in tomorrow.

 …

 “Alright guys the game is True American.” Cho says loudly as we all huddle around her. “This time with a sexy new twist, Clinton Rules!”

 “I still have no idea how to play,” Steve says.

 “Don’t worry buddy me either,” Bucky says holding the bottle of pure alcohol Bruce gave him for Christmas.

 “It’s easy pick your intern, strip every time someone gives you a rule, and drink!” I say from beside Cho.

 “Yeah also the floor is lava,” Bahni shoots in.

 “What the hell is this game?” Sam says.

 “It’s like fifty percent candy land and fifty percent drinking game,” Wanda chimes in.

 “One! Two! Three! Four! JFK,” Nat yells starting us off.

 “FDR!” the rest of us yell, well the ones that know what the hell we’re doing.

 I grab the nearest can of beer and start the game with a shotgun tip off while everyone around me chants, “Chug, chug, chug, chug!” After i’m done I jump onto the nearest chair and the game begins.

 The rest of the night passes by in a blur of screaming, jumping from chair to chair, chugging beer, and doing shots. Even Steve and Bucky, who are usually always sober, end up getting a little tipsy when Bucky breaks open his bottle. I’m down to my bra and a pink fluffy tutu I got from a old halloween costume. Sam’s shitless, Olivia’s wearing a makeshift scarf top, Wanda is on top of my coffee table holding my broom and Steve and Bucky are surprisingly animated.

 Steve trips when moving from my bar stool to a chair and ends up on the floor in a very uncoordinated awkward fall and we yell, “Lava.” He tries to defend himself from the empty cans of beer we pummel him with. Across the room I spot Bucky and Bahni with their arms around each other balancing themselves on my arm chair.

 Cho, whose considerably drunk at this point yells, “My name is Eli Whitney and I invented the cotton gin.” Then proceeds to chug gin straight from the bottle as the rest of the room chants, “Gin, gin, gin!” Boy she’s going to regret that in the morning. Surprisingly everyone around me seems to be so carefree and happy. Am I the only one who is still stressed right now? I keep sensing that eerie feeling of fear always lurking behind every corner.

 I push the feeling down hear Nat yell, “Iron Curtain!” She holds up the broom like a scepter, standing in her underwear.

 “What,” says a confused Sam, who is now stripped down to his grey boxers.

 “Two of us have to go behind the iron curtain and french!” I say.

 The room erupts in noise and we do the count. I put up two fingers against my forehead and wait for the others.

 “NOoo!!” I hear Cho, who's holding up a three, yell in surprise.

 “YEss!” I hear Nat and Olivia yell in unison.

 Bucky’s POV

 I haven’t been tipsy in a long time and the feeling is quite freeing. We’re jumping around the room on chairs yelling god knows what and laughing. I’m standing with my arms around Bhani and two fingers held against my forehead waiting to find out who the victims of the iron curtain will be. Then I look around and realize everybody is staring at y/n and me.

 y/n’s POV

 Me and Bucky are locked in my bedroom behind my door, the iron curtain, with a group of immature children chanting, “kiss, kiss, kiss,” on the other side.

 I can hear Bahni yell, “french it!”

 “We want a picture!” Yells Nat.

 “I wanna see tongue,” Olivia yells.

 Bucky is leaning against the door, his back to me, banging on the wood trying to get the children on the other side to open it.

 “Yeah!!” I hear sam yell from the other side and I swear I heard Dean join in on the chanting.

 “Come on stop being a baby, lets just kiss,” I say to Bucky who's still leaning with his forehead against the door.

 “No!” Bucky says resolutely still banging against the door, “let us out!”

 The chanting continues outside but has devolved into mostly laughter.

 “Come on french me and we can leave!” I say looking him in the eye when he turns around.

 “y/n i’m not gonna kiss you,” he says walking towards me.

 “Just kiss me!”

 “y/n stop!” He says this time with more force.

 “Come on Barnes, just kiss me!”

 “No!” He says, “Not like this!”

 Bucky’s POV

 I don’t know why that came out of my mouth, maybe I was more tipsy then I thought I was and the words just sort of slipped out. y/n’s face changes and she raises her eyebrows, “What? What does that mean?”

 The alcohol didn’t help with articulation and I stumbled and said, “No nothing… I didn’t mean it… like that you know… it’s just we can’t… like this… you know? We can’t just… like that… you know that’s not…” I stammered over my words awkwardly and for the first time I realize that y/n might be the more sober one of the two of us. She stands in front of me in her purple bra and a ridiculous looking pink tutu eyes wide open and before she can say anything I say, “If you’ll excuse me,” and walk towards the window.

 “Bucky,” she follows me, “What are you doing?” I open her window and climb out onto the fire escape and lean over out towards where the living room window is facing. It’s icy out and i’m in my t-shirt but the chill doesn't bother me. “Oh my god Bucky!” y/n yells sticking her head outside the window. I can see the goosebumps running down her chest. I lean over the railing and look through one of the large living room windows and see the group still standing outside y/n’s bedroom door chanting kiss. Ironically Bahni and Dean seem to be just as invested as everyone else, they also seem just as equally drunk. With my metal arm I pull open the window in one smooth motion and swing myself over the railing and into y/n’s living room.

 y/n’s POV

 I hear a loud commotion outside and the bedroom door soon swings open for me and I stare wide eyed at Bucky who is standing in front of me. The rest of the room erupts in laughter after a moment of silence everyone goes back to playing the game. I’m left standing wide eyed staring at Bucky.

 “I can’t believe he climbed out of a building instead of kissing you!” Dean yelled from across the room standing on my coffee table and everyone booed. The event was soon forgotten and I shrugged it off shaking off any residual feelings I may have had about the incident and rather opted to chug some more beer. After the entire ordeal and crowning Steve the honorary True American most of us either left or passed out wherever we could find space. Dean took a cab home since he had a breakfast meeting tomorrow, he left me with a gentle kiss on the lips. I saw Bahni and Bucky walk out together as for the rest: Sam crashed on the floor beside the couch where Olivia slept. Wanda, Nat, and Cho took my bed and Steve awkwardly passed out horizontally on the bottom half of it, half on top of his girlfriend and half falling off the bed. That left me with only my arm chair to knock out on and I opted instead to clear up a couple cans and bottles before turning in. Sleep still seemed to elude me even in my state of intoxication. I picked up a couple cans and put them in a garbage bag and walked outside my apartment towards the trash room. I shoved the bag down the choot and walked back outside into the hall. I spotted Bucky standing outside my apartment leaning against the wall looking up at the ceiling.

 When he heard me walking towards him he looked over and said, “hey.”

 “Hey, I thought you left,” I said walking over to him and leaning on the wall opposite him.

 “I put Bahni in a cab.”

 “Why are you here?” I asked curiously.

 “I just wanted to come up and say goodnight before I left,” he says sighing and running his hand through his hair.

 “Goodnight Bucky.”

 “Goodnight y/n.”

 We stand there looking at each other for maybe a second too long and I push myself off of the wall and walk towards my door. Before I can step in I feel Bucky’s hand grab my arm and pull me towards him. I gasp at the sudden movement and feel his metal arm snake around my waist, effectively pulling me flush against him. I’m still in my bra and I can feel the cool zipper of his leather jacket press into my skin. His lips press onto mine and I freeze. I don’t know what’s happening.

 Bucky’s POV

Boy I’m going to regret this in the morning. But, as of now I am too drunk to care or have caution. I press my lips to hers and kiss her, feverishly, passionately. It only last a second or two and when I pull away she stares up at me with a doe eyed look that almost stops my heart. I can’t help myself and I learn back down again for a second time and press my lips onto hers and this time I swear I feel her kiss me back. But it’s just a second and I can’t be sure. I pull away and let her go and she takes a step back. I wish she would say something. Yet, at the same time before she has the chance I say, “I meant something like that.” If i’m going to kiss her, I’m damn sure going to do it right. I take a step back and walk towards the staircase, leaving her in the dark hallway alone.

 y/n’s POV

 I stumble towards my living room, closing the front door behind me, and fall down on my armchair. “What the fuck!!” I whisper into the dark room. Olivia stirs in her sleep on the sofa next to me and I put my hands over my mouth.

 “y/n?” I hear a hoarse voice coming out of my bedroom. I turn around to Wanda scratching her head and stumbling towards me, “what’s wrong?” she asks squinting her eyes and looking at me, “you look scared.”

 I push down whatever i’m feeling, plaster on a smile, and say, “just sleepy and you guys took my bed!”

 “Hold on,” Wanda says and stumbles to the kitchen, probably to get some water from the sound of her voice. Once she’s back she says, “come on.”

 We walk over towards the bedroom and she grabs one of my comforters and lays it on the floor at the foot of my bed. “Grab his hand,” she whispers pointing at Steve who is passed out hanging off the edge of the bottom of my bed. We each take a hand and pull, “why is he so heavy.”

 He rolls over with a thud and I whisper, “fuck.”

 “He’s still knocked out,” she whispers. Wanda climbs back into bed and shoves Nat over a little to make some space for me. Nat groans. I get into the crowded bed and lay there with my eyes wide open. If I was having problems sleeping before, now is just…

[candy-floss-crazy]

Another selection of misadventures from our past history. Keep Them Wheels Turning 2010 When we first started and was operating on a limited budget, we frequently had problems with equipment failures and vehicle breakdowns. As we grew and ended up in a position to buy better equipment, and also put back up systems in place we found that things seemed to run a lot more smoothly. However the law of averages caught up with us the other day, we had quite a busy schedule, calling at a small village in Surrey to apply 125 chair covers and sashes and set up a chocolate fountain, then on to Sevenoaks to set a number of stalls and a couple of catering carts up, back to the first venue to drop two members of staff off, then I continued on to Walton on Thames to operate a candy floss and popcorn cart. As soon as I finished I derigged everything and shot back to the first venue with the intention of picking my staff up to travel home to Yorkshire, grab a couple of hours sleep, load the van up with the rest of the equipment for the Sevenoaks job and set back off down South. Bang Goes The Tyre Everything was going great guns when a bang, signalled that I had a tyre blown out, 'great, just what I wanted on a lane in the middle of nowhere, a tyre change.' In time I ended up wishing I was changing a tyre, because when I crawled under the back of the van I discovered the spare wheel missing (it was a hire van). I rang the owner and ot him out of bed, "ring the AA he said, the van is covered", trouble is when I explained the problem they informed me that under their terms of service, not having a spare wheel meant that I wasn't covered. Rang John again, "Ring a tyre firm he said and bill me". An hour later after ringing every number I could find on the internet I rang John again. After an exchange of ideas, he informed me that he was setting off with a spare wheel, wonderful, the three of us only had to sit and wait in the van whilst John covered the 216 miles to us. Now before John set off he had to nip up to our place and pick up the items I needed for the next day, this included a striker (test your strength machine). On our striker the base unit is made from 20mm steel plate to give it the weight needed to remain stationary whilst being hammered. The base unit is kept on a small set of wheel which allow it to be moved about the yard. When John and my other half lifted it into the van, John had not realised that the wheels were not part of the structure and left his fingers underneath when they dropped it into the back of the van. My wife rang me to tell me that John was running around the yard squealing about his fingers. She wasn't in the mood for sympathy and told him that if he went to the hospital they would only tape his fingers up, and she offered to lend him a roll of tape to ensure he got on his way quicker. When he arrived at our end the first thing he did was show me his fingers, which by then were black and blue and quite swollen. Bloody well serves him right for removing the spare wheel. Mobile Bar Buzz 2010 We recently installed a bar at an event for a major motor industry manufacturer and a games console company. This was a pre paid job with us supplying a fixed package of drinks, including cocktails and one of our Jagermeister tap machines. The event went stormingly with everyone in fancy dress and the room buzzing. Sabine Schmitz (the German female racing driver who raced Jeremy Clarkson around the Nurburgring race track, with Jeremy in a Jaguar S type, and Sabine in a Transit Van, she lost by only 9 seconds. Ms Schmitz and a cohort of German friends managed to consume our stocks of Jagermeister, before moving onto frozen Margarita cocktails with an added shot of Vodka, something our cocktail mixologist insisted you couldn't do, but the Schmitz party proving you obviously could! De Computer Sez So 2010 Quite often nowadays I don't have time to keep this blog updated. Odd occasions I do have time I sometimes struggle for something newsworthy to write. Occasionally however something drops in my lap that I just have to put on here. I recently added a new van to our line up, and insured it with the company that insurers our other CItroen dispatch. In common with our other insurances we pay in a lump sum at the start of the insurance term. A couple of days ago the postman knocked on the door to deliver a registered letter from said company, upon opening it I read a formal notice that as I had not settled an outstanding amount they would be cancelling my insurance unless it was paid in the next 7 days. Now this puzzled me as I know I paid in full at the start of the policy term. Upon reading further down the page, the amount outstanding was in large bold type to make it more noticable. It read that I owed them £0.00 that's right Zero pounds and zero pence. I sent them a very nice email admitting that I owed this amount and asking if they would like a cheque for £0.00 or would they like it in cash in which case I would send them an empty envelope. Amsterdam 2010 February, which is usually our quietest month (although this year turned out to be a busy one), saw us managing to fit a 3 day break to Amsterdam in. I have been there in the past both when I was single, and also spent part of my honeymoon there whilst touring Europe. As is normal nowadays, everything was booked online a few weeks before, with the booking system informing me that actual airline tickets are no longer issued, we instead have E tickets. Anyway a couple of days before we were due to fly I discovered that my other half's E ticket had been issued in her maiden name, and knowing that airlines are particularly picky about names since 9/11 I rang our carriers, KLM straight up. "No problem Mr Moody, said a pleasant Dutch voice, we can change names quite easily." was followed by "Oh, sorry we can't change your ticket". Upon inquiring as to why, I was told that since I had booked them through a travel agent, the agent would have to make the name change request. I duly rang the agents to do this. (No problem Mr Moody, that's quite easy, please hold the line", was again followed by "Oh, we can't do it". The reason this time turned out to be the fact that it was Saturday, and the KLM office which deals with name changes doesn't work weekends. SO we ended up being told that we should get to the airport early, and the ticket desk there should change the name for us. On the morning we were flying we arrived bright and early only to be met with a queue of about 80 people! We informed an airport attendant of our predicament and asked if there was anyway of getting the ticket sorted sooner, upon asking to see our ticket, his reply was "I wouldn't worry about your ticket mate, that flight was canceled last night", turned out that the plane we were supposed to be on didn't land because of fog. Five bloody hours were in that queue for. Mid way through it the rumour seemed to be that the next available flight was the day after.Not wanting to lose a day of a short break, I got my laptop out, connected to KLM's site and booked three seats on a later flight, reasoning that I would worry about refunds later. After booking the seats I was informed that I would have to pay for them at the ticket desk, so I would still have to stand in the bloody queue. Anyway as we reached nearly to the front of the queue I discovered that the ticket agent was in fact booking people on the same plane I had just reserved 3 seats on, great it looked like I would have 6 seats on the flight, but at least one of the 6 would be in my wife's current name. I duly reached the front of the queue to meet the ticket agent, a short stern faced lady who looked like she would make a good concentration camp guard in the movie industry. I was just about to launch into a tirade about waiting 5 bloody hours and not being informed of cancelled flights when a young man dropped a bundle of papers on her desk and exclaimed innocently "These need taking care of when you get a minute", the look she gave him would have welded steel from 40 paces, and her reply of "You know what you can do with those Stephen, shove them up your bloody arse!" seemed to modify my temper somewhat. As she turned that steely gaze upon me I gave her my best smile, what I hoped was a slightly pleading look in my eyes, and informed her that not only did we need our flights sorting out, but my wife's ticket was in the wrong name. Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders tightened and a visible shudder ran through her, taking a hold or herself she sighed loudly, stared towards the heavens, closed her eyes for a long moment then sorted everything out for us. Amsterdam turned out much as I remember it, the Dutch must be the most laid back and pleasant race in Europe, and we spent a pleasant 3 days strolling around the city, with a short trip to the seaside town of Vollendam thrown in. THe first tram we boarded into the city centre, I asked the conductor for the price of the ticket (most locals use pre paid cards much like the oyster system in London), he just smiled and told me not to worry and get of when we were ready. The next day having some experience of the tram system, we boarded the tram outside our hotel and I asked for 3 day passes. The lady conductor smiled sweetly and apologised for having run out of them. "It is not a problem", she said, "Just buy them from a ticket machine when you get off". Can you imagine that, over here it would go like this, "3 Day passes please","Can't do that mate I've run out""Oh, well can I buy them when I get off at the other end""No sorry can't do that you need a ticket to travel""Oh well give me 3 tickets please""Sorry, just told you I've run out!" Mid way through I had a headache coming on so thought I would nip into a chemist for some pain relief. What greeted me must have been one of the barest shelves of painkillers I have ever seen, about the size of a television set, it contained pretty much only what you could buy from a late night garage in this country. Upon inquiring about something a bit stronger I was informed that I would need a doctors prescription. "So let me get this straight," I said, "I can walk into anyone of a million coffee shops and buy cannabis or marijuana, without any problems, but if I want something stronger than 400mg of Ibuprofen I need a prescription?"."That's pretty much it", replied the chemist."Strange country","Yep" came the retort, along with that pleasant Dutch laid back smile. Ready to come home, we reached Schipol airport, and found that they have a fully automated system to book in and be issued with your boarding card. I entered our E ticket number, only to learn that I was booked on the flight along with our daughter, but not my wife. It made me think of a recent case where an immigration official had waved his wife off at the airport in London, went back to work and added her to the known terrorist list of people banned from entering the UK, and then proceeded to live the single life until he was found out 4 years later, in the meantime his wife had spent 4 years stuck in Pakistan unable to find out why she wasn't allowed to board a flight back to England! As it turned out, because of the name change we had made at Bradford, my wife had received a separate reservation, which no one had bothered to inform me of. If you missed them take a look at some of our other old stories here. Read the full article

[notarelationship]

Clinging to This Hating Game 3/?

For the @prompt-a-klainefic blog’s 2017 Reverse Bang

Link to the art by @datshitrandom

the prompt:

Kurt and Blaine couldn’t stand each other in high school, maybe one was a jock/cheerleader and the other a nerd/glee clubber. Or they were bitter rivals for competition solos if they were both in glee club. Now they both live in NY and their friends set them up on a blind date, not knowing they went to the same high school.

High School AU, Cheerio!Kurt, Jock!Blaine Rating: Explicit Warnings:  some bullying and homophobic language, teenage sex Word Count: ~5300 (this chapter)

Thanks as always to my superbeta @mshoneysucklepink.

Everything wonky is my fault.

AO3 link Chapter 3

On tumblr: Ch 1, Ch 2

--

Kurt was nervous heading to the party. It was his first party since his ill advised hook-up with Blaine and, while he didn’t have any misconceptions about what sort of hook ups might occur at this party, Blaine was going to be there.

He didn’t blame Blaine for what had happened that night - he couldn’t bring himself to be that unfair, as much as it would have made it easier on himself. Kurt simply didn’t enjoy being faced with his mistake on an almost daily basis.

Because that’s what it had been, he knew that now. He didn’t let himself regret it as much as want to put it out of his mind. Blaine was making that difficult.

Mike’s house was in one of the nicer middle class neighborhoods of Lima, and while it wasn’t ostentatiously large there was a lot of front lawn. He was walking up the wide driveway with Quinn, Santana and Brittany when Puck’s truck pulled up and parked directly in front of the house. Puck and Finn jumped out of the front of the cab; Blaine and Beckham climbed out of the back.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. If Blaine and Beckham were showing up at the party in the back of Puck’s truck then it was hardly a date, at least not by Kurt’s standards. Not that he’d ever been on a date. Or was thinking about if they were on a date.

Still, he worked to ignore the butterflies banging around in his stomach as they stood on the front lawn and watched the boys head up the house

“Are we going in?” Santana asked. “Or are we going to hang out here in the front all night looking gorgeous?”

“We’re always gorgeous, Santana,” Kurt volleyed back. “But yes, let’s go in.”

“S’up,” Puck nodded at Quinn as he caught up with them, the other boys trailing.

“Congratulations boys, that was an impressive win,” Quinn answered, her voice calm.

Kurt tensed just a bit, and he could tell Santana was reacting similarly on the other side of Quinn. Puck had been kryptonite for Quinn during sophomore year and even though they had seemed to have gotten over each other, Kurt knew that Puck possessed enough dangerous charm to mess Quinn up if he wanted.

The boys mumbled their thanks, walking past them into the house. Blaine glanced in Kurt’s direction as they passed, but Beckham was looking at his feet the whole time. Santana sidled up to Kurt once they had gone into the house.

“What is going on there Hummel?” She asked quietly.

Kurt half-shrugged and shook his head once. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Once inside they gathered their drinks and found a corner of the living room already occupied by a few other Cheerios and got to gossiping about the football team, college applications and who was most likely to wind up knocked up before they graduated. There was still a few months, after all.

“You’re not drinking, Kurt?” One of the other girls asked. She’d been on the JV squad since last year but Kurt couldn’t remember her name. She always seemed to be wearing a neckbrace.

“Designated driver,” he said, wiggling his fingers in the air in an approximation of a wave. “Besides, I think I’ll wait to uncover my inner alcoholic when there’s something other than Jagermeister and Schaeffer in cans on offer.”

“It all gets you drunk.” Neckbrace rolled her eyes. Kurt noticed Santana bristle at that. Santana could harass Kurt all day and into the night about his occasionally uptight behavior, but damned if she’d let anyone else give him attitude.

“Yes, well, tonight I’ll pass. I promised Finn I’d drive so he could enjoy the party.” Kurt looked around, sipping his pop. “Has anyone seen him? He wasn’t in the front when I came in.”

“I think that Berry chick dragged him into the basement,” another girl offered. When Kurt made a horrified face she added, “They have a karaoke machine set up down there, I think.”

The music upstairs was loud, so Kurt couldn’t hear anything from the basement, but he excused himself and headed to find Finn. Santana, Brittany and Quinn followed him down the stairs.

When they reached the room where the karaoke was happening Kurt was less surprised to find Rachel standing in front of the machine emoting Stevie Nicks than he was when he realized Blaine was her duet partner. He hated how amazing they sounded.

Kurt stood in the back, frowning at them, wondering idly exactly how much sabotage would be beneath him, and if Santana would help him (he was pretty sure she would).

“Hey.” It was Santana, as if on cue. She nudged his shoulder, nodding across the room, where Beckham was standing, staring daggers at Rachel as she play-acted against Blaine’s Tom Petty. “I always wondered about him, but he never let anything slip.” Kurt huffed. “I guess Blaine’s got more skills than football and singing, huh?”

Kurt turned to her, eyebrows raised. “What do you mean?”

Santana smirked. “Obviously he’s the Twink Whisperer.”

-

Kurt and the girls hung out in the basement for a while, eventually taking their turn on the karaoke machine. Everyone in the room got drunker, except Kurt.

After running through their repertoire of solo choices, Brittany punched in “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls and the four of them got up and bounced around, singing and pulling the other kids in the room into their performance. Kurt ignored the fact that Blaine stayed far away from the group. They collapsed into a heap together on the floor when they were done.

“Nice choice Britt, that was fun.” Santana leaned across Kurt to give her girlfriend a kiss on the cheek.

“I thought for sure Beck would join in,” Kurt said playfully. “I mean it is his namesake.”

Quinn gave him a confused look. “What?”

“Victoria Beckham? That’s obviously where his name comes from.” Kurt looked at the three of them.

“Kurt, sweetheart, I know you’re gay as a three dollar rainbow but he was not named after a Spice Girl.” Santana explained, laughing. “He was named after her husband.”

It was Kurt’s turn to be confused. “Why would someone name their child after an underwear model?”

Quinn laughed. “Oh my god, Kurt, he’s not - ”

“Come on everyone let’s play spin the bottle!” Rachel was standing in the middle of the basement room, an empty wine cooler bottle in one hand and a full one in the other.

After various noises of objection and resignation, a group of willing players moved to the room next door and some other group took over the karaoke machine.

Kurt wanted no part of spin the bottle, especially since Blaine was one of the people coerced into playing, so he found a corner that wasn’t too occupied and sat back to watch the teenage carnage unfold.

It started out more or less fun. But as the game went on and Beckham had to watch Blaine kiss more people that weren't him, Kurt could see the boy get more and more agitated. When Blaine wound up kissing Rachel on the mouth for much too long Kurt thought Beckham was going to tear them apart with his own hands.

When the bottle finally unleashed its magic in Beckham’s direction, he lept across the circle and planted a kiss on Blaine with enough enthusiasm to elicit ooohs and catcalls from the rest of the group.

“Someone wants a piece of your ass Anderson,” Puck crudely observed.

Blaine blew it off. “It’s just the game.” He shrugged and looked flustered. “It’s all right.” Beckham’s face was beet red.

At some point Santana’s spin landed on Brittany, and instead of stopping they just rolled themselves out of the circle and into a corner to continue making out.

When they’d had their fill of each other they joined Kurt on the sofa to watch the game play out, and when they grabbed some shots from a passing tray he indulged along with them.

“Oh my god, that tastes like motor oil.” Kurt gagged as the flavor backed up his throat. “Gross. No wonder I don't drink at these things.”

“You don’t drink at these things because you’ve got one leg in a nursing home, Hummel, don’t kid yourself.”

“Better than having one wrapped around a stripper pole,” Kurt shot back, but there wasn’t (much) heat behind it. The teasing went on for a while, but when the spin the bottle game broke up they all wandered back to the room with the karaoke to find, to everyone’s delight, that someone had plugged in an ipod and karaoke had turned into a dance party.

Couples had paired off, and Kurt saw Beckham tug Blaine into a dark corner, so he danced with the girls for a while. Eventually, Puck pulled Quinn away - eliciting a raised eyebrow from Santana. Kurt excused himself after that, leaving Santana to Brittany’s mercy, and wandered upstairs.

Kurt made a solo loop around the house, wondering how MIke was going to get it cleaned up before his parents came home on Sunday night. He hoped for Mike’s sake they didn’t come home early.

The line for the bathroom on the first floor was long, and rather than take the advice of several hockey players and relieve himself in the hydrangea bush out back Kurt decided to risk going upstairs. He assumed the upstairs was full of classmates in various states of undress (or worse), but he thought if he just focused on getting to the bathroom he wouldn’t be exposed to too many teenage hormones.

Kurt slipped up the stairs, making small talk with his classmates as he passed them. He didn’t have a lot of close friends at the school - and didn’t want them, but he was a Cheerio and by default fit in the class of ‘popular’ students. He was pleased to find that the line for the upstairs bathroom was much shorter, with only two people ahead of him. Kurt was thumbing through his Instagram feed when the door to the bathroom opened and Blaine stumbled out, Beckham tucked up against his back, his hands tight at Blaine’s waist. They both looked drunk and he watched them stagger down the hall in the opposite direction until they tumbled through a half-open door, slamming it behind them. Kurt swore under his breath.

By the time he worked his way back downstairs, Kurt’s heart was banging in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

It shouldn’t bother him, Beckham and Blaine, there wasn’t any reason for it. He didn’t want either of them - he wasn’t jealous of that.

Kurt rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes, pressing hard against his eyelids. Kurt had been the only out gay kid he knew for years. Even before he was really aware of what it meant to be gay, other kids - hell, adults, had assumed things about him that he barely understood. And when he when he did want to hide it was almost impossible.

He had Santana now, and Brittany, and they helped him feel at less alone, but Kurt had been going to school with Beckham Lee for years. And while Kurt would never, ever, expect someone to come out before they were ready, or ever, if they didn’t feel comfortable, he was having a hard time reconciling the fact that he could know this boy for years, that this boy could have witnessed the things that Kurt went through (because honestly, Kurt’s humiliation was nothing if not public) and never say a word, but the minute handsome, talented, charming Blaine Anderson shows up he’s ready to expose himself in a room crowded with his drunken classmates without so much as a second thought.

Kurt opened his eyes, gasping. There were other people in the room, but they weren’t paying much attention to him. He was in the kitchen, so he lifted a half empty bottle of something and a plastic cup and walked out into the back yard.

It was late October chilly, but Kurt didn’t care. He found a spot not already occupied by couples making out and sat, pouring what was probably too much alcohol into the cup. He swallowed a few gulps. It tasted like the foul shot from the basement. He drank some more. He wondered how much he’d have to drink before he either threw up or passed out.

-

Kurt didn’t know how he got home, but when he opened his eyes again he was in his own bed, stripped down to a t-shirt and his underwear. His mouth tasted like hot asphalt and he wasn’t sure he could move his head if he wanted to.

“Kurt!” His dad called, followed by three explosions that could have been knocks on his door. Kurt heard himself whimper. “I’m coming in son.”

Burt sat on the bed next to Kurt’s legs, but all Kurt could do was stare at the ceiling and blink.

“So I have to say that I’m a little disappointed in you, Kurt.” Burt set a large bottle of water and two ibuprofen down on the side table. “But not for the reasons I suspect you think.” Kurt wanted to nod, or say yes, or apologize, or die. “For the time being I’m going to hold off on being angry about this until you can speak for yourself.”

Kurt managed a nod to show he understood. “Dad?” He croaked.

“Yes Kurt?”

“When does it stop spinning?”

-

Kurt didn’t really fall back to sleep so much as bury his head under a pillow and lie in his bed for another few hours. After dragging himself into a shower and putting on clean clothes he felt marginally better, so he forced himself to go downstairs and face the wrath of Burt Hummel.

Finn was sitting at the dining room table in front of a plate full of homemade hamburgers, and his dad was helping his step-mother Carole put the rest of dinner on the table. Apparently he had slept the entire day. Kurt sat gingerly next to Finn.

Finn leaned in and whispered. “Dude, you were so drunk.”

“Finn, how did we get home? Tell me I didn’t drive.”

Finn chuckled. “Are you kidding? I had to carry you to the car. Brittany drove us home. Burt took me over to her house earlier to pick up your car.”

Kurt closed his eyes and tried to remember anything from last night. “Was Dad mad?”

“Well, a little, but he kept asking me what happened. He kept saying you didn’t do things like this so something must have happened.” Finn looked nervous for a moment. “He asked if someone could have slipped you something.”

Kurt managed to turn his head enough to look at Finn. “Like what?”

“Like, you know, like a roofie.” Finn looked uncomfortable again. “Do you think someone drugged you?”

Kurt chuckled darkly. “I wish I could blame someone else for this, but no. I did this to myself.”

Burt and Carole joined them before Kurt could go on or ask any more questions. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d done anything stupid, or if he just passed out on the grass until someone found him. He sincerely hoped it was the latter.

Dinner was quiet, but Kurt felt about seventy five percent better after he’d eaten. He thought he could handle whatever Burt had in store for him.

When Carole drafted Finn to help her clear and clean up, Kurt knew it was time to face the music.

“Come on Kurt, there's a game on.”

Once they were settled in the den with the TV on Burt cleared his throat.

“So, was this about a boy? Because I know I wasn’t always ready for this, but you can talk to me, Kurt. Or Carole, if that’s easier.”

Kurt squirmed until he was lying flat on his back, legs stretched out over the couch. Between the unbearable pain of his first hangover and the accompanying embarrassment, Kurt wasn’t sure if he would ever feel human again.

“Sort of, I guess. But probably not the way you think.”

Burt hummed.

“It seems I'm not the only out gay kid at McKinley anymore.”

“Yeah. Finn told me about the new kid. Impressive game last night.”

Kurt huffed a humorless laugh. Of course his dad knew about Blaine’s football prowess.

“You have something going on with this kid?”

“No. Oh god no Dad.” Kurt flapped his hands in the air. “He’s - annoying.”

Burt laughed. “Finn said he was a bit of a showboat.”

“Yeah he’s just good at everything. He doesn't even have to work for it, I mean he came in and like, everyone loved him Dad. The football team is winning, he's getting all the leads in glee, he's definitely going to get the lead in the musical. It's like suddenly I’ve disappeared. I've worked so hard to be accepted, and to get what I wanted,and now it's all just back to square one.”

“I'm sure it's not as bad as all that Kurt.” Burt rubbed a broad hand over his face. “Your school applications are all in, you’ll get auditions for your programs -”

Kurt sat up, his legs swinging around as he leaned forward. Now that he was talking he just wanted to get it all out.

“It is, it's that bad.” Kurt propped his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. “And NYADA is not a guarantee. Without the musical I have no idea if they’ll even get back to me.”

Blaine’s arrival at McKinley had upset Kurt and his expectations for his senior year, but now - raw from the hangover and alone with his dad, all of the uncertainty he’d been feeling all year came bubbling to the top and he was frustratingly aware of how completely changed everything felt.

Burt started to object, but Kurt cut him off.

“But the worst part, Dad? The worst part is that no one cares that he’s gay. I mean, I should be happy about that, right? I should be happy that everyone has evolved to the point where they just treat him like a person, and who and how he loves someone shouldn’t matter, right?”

Burt sighed, but answered slowly. “Yes, you should. But Kurt - ”

“I mean, no one’s thrown a slushie at him, or tossed him in a dumpster, or even shoved him against a locker. Not that I’ve seen anyway. And there’s this kid, at school -” Kurt stopped and looked at his dad, “I’ve always wondered, you know, if he might be, well, like me -”

“You mean gay?”

Kurt nodded. “But it’s not, I wouldn’t do that to someone - ask them - if they weren’t ready.”

Burt indicated for Kurt to go on.

“But all Blaine had to do was show up, and this kid - he started following him around like a puppy. And last night - well, let’s just say he’s not in the closet any more.” Kurt tried to sound sardonic, but he could hear the cracks in his own voice. His dad chuckled, but there was no humor in it.

“I don’t know if I’m following Kurt. Did you like this boy?”

Kurt shook his head. “No, not like that.” Kurt hugged himself, sitting back against the couch. “But, why not me? It’s not like I could hide from anyone, even when I wanted to. Why couldn’t he have come forward some other time, been my friend?”

For a moment neither of them said anything, then Burt got up from his chair and sat next to Kurt, wrapping him up in one arm.

“Kurt, I am so sorry for the things that you went through, and for not knowing what to do about them sooner. I wish things - no, I wish I had been different.” Kurt tried to object, but Burt shushed him. “No let me finish. As the parent I should have been able to figure it out sooner. No one should have to go through what you went through, and I do believe in my heart - if not my head, that the world is becoming a better and more accepting place. Whether it always wants to or not. But one thing I do know, Kurt, is that you can’t blame yourself for any of those things. You can only be yourself, all of yourself. And I think you are.”

Kurt laughed and willed himself not to cry, but wiped a sleeve across his eyes anyway. “It’s just - it would have been nice to know there was someone else. You know?”

Burt nodded, hugging Kurt tighter. “Yeah, I know son. But I’m proud of you.”

-

Kurt spent the rest of the weekend sleeping and doing his homework, and didn’t think much about what to expect when he got to school on Monday. If he had he might have been more prepared for it.

He met up with the girls in the parking lot, even Quinn - who had little to say about what she’d got up to with Puck at the party, but only smiled coyly at Kurt when he asked.

When they rounded the corner to head to class, they saw a crowd gathered around one of the lockers.

“It’s a little early for drama,” Santana said. “But who am I to question it?”

As they got closer the crowd parted a little, and they could all see, spray painted in huge black letters across a few of the lockers, F-A-G. Kurt choked back a noise that threatened to bubble out of his throat, and he could see various people looking at him as he stared.

“Whose locker is this?” Quinn demanded of the crowd.

Kurt swallowed. “It’s Beckham’s.” The girls all looked at him, but the crowd parted from the other side, and Blaine, Tina and Mike came through.

“Oh my god.” It was Tina. “Where’s Beck? Has anyone seen him?” She looked around at the crowd, and Kurt could see her start to panic. Someone said they thought he was in the office, and Tina took off in that direction, Mike on her heels.

Kurt watched Blaine, who was still staring silently at the defaced locker. After a few long seconds Blaine turned to follow Tina and Mike, brushing past Kurt as he did.

“All we did was make out at a party,” he sobbed out, so quietly Kurt was sure he was the only one who heard.

-

By the time glee club met that afternoon the news was all over the school.

“Beck’s parents pulled him out of McKinley,” Quinn whispered to him once they were sitting. “It seems his parents weren't entirely in the dark about his orientation and they've already petitioned the school board to let them home school him for the few remaining credits he needs to graduate. Turns out they'd been preparing in case something like this happened.”

Santana leaned forward, “Apparently he told his parents about all the shitty things that happened to you freshman year.” Without looking she locked her pinky with Brittany’s. “I guess some people were paying attention after all Kurt,” she said quietly.

Kurt bit his lip, hard, to keep from bursting into tears right there in class.

The class bustled in, and Kurt noticed Blaine looked a little unsteady, but he took his place next to Tina on the risers like he did every class. Mr. Schuester followed them in.

“Alright everyone, I know today has been a difficult one for a lot of people, but we need to get started on a few things. Sectionals is coming up in only a couple of weeks, and we need to cast the musical so we can get started on rehearsals.

“I was thinking we could start auditions for the musical today, so I can post the cast by the end of the week. Anyone without a prominent spot in the musical will be featured in our sectionals performance. How does that sound.”

From the murmured sounds that erupted from the group it sounded like everyone agreed that it would be a more fair opportunity for everyone than they were used to having.

“Mr. Schue,” Rachel interrupted. “I do believe that with my particular level of commitment to performance I could easily handle a major part in the musical as well as my usual place as the lead vocalist for -”

“I’ll stop you right there Rachel. We have more than enough talent for everyone to have a place right now, and I have no doubt that we will get through sectionals, no matter how the class splits its vocal duties. So why don’t you just wait until we get through rehearsals and I make some decisions about the casting before you start to petition me to make changes.” He paused, and the rumbling started up again. “That goes for everyone here.”

Rachel sat back and made a motion to zip her lips, and everyone quieted down.

Mr. Schuester drew their names out of a hat and they all auditioned at random. Kurt paid less attention to the girls as they went on, since he wasn’t in competition for them for roles, but perked up when they boys were performing.

For his own audition he’d chosen “What I Did For Love,” since Mr. Schuester had given up trying to dissuade him from singing songs written for girls early within his first six months in glee club. When Blaine, his eyes red-rimmed and blood-shot, auditioned with “Not While I’m Around” Kurt had to give him props for melodrama while trying not to blame him for what happened to Beckham. It wasn’t easy.

Beckham hadn’t been part of any popular crowds, so the only kids who were still affected by his loss were his close friends (Tina was still upset by the whole situation), so when news that there would be recruiters from some major college football teams coming to watch the team play on Friday pushed the excited uproar about his removal from school faded away. Even the posting of the cast for the musical was really only of interest to those who might get a part.

When the cast notice was posted Friday afternoon during lunch, everyone involved crowded around the board outside the choir room. Blaine, not surprisingly, was cast as the lead, and bashfully accepted congratulations from his friends in the group.

Kurt, also not surprisingly but disappointingly nonetheless, was cast as Mr. MacAfee. Santana as Rosie, Rachel as Kim, and Puck and Finn trading off the role of Conrad Birdie completed the cast. Kurt was relieved to see Mercedes cast as Mrs. MacAfee, since they generally got along and it would make the entire experience somewhat easier to bear. He grabbed her as the crowd broke up to commiserate.

“I am delighted to be your husband for this event, Miss Jones,” he teased. “I have to imagine you’re as disappointed as I am to not have a bigger role.”

Mercedes chuckled. “Well, I had a talk with Mr. Schue earlier in the week. He promised that I would get a lead at Sectionals, and some input into the song selection, so I’m willing to let it slide for now.”

“I wonder if I should go talk to him,” Kurt mused. “Get ahead of the crowd.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Mercedes said. “But I’ll be doing a solo, so don’t even think about challenging me on that.”

Kurt held up his hands in mock protest. “I would never.”

-

Kurt Hummel was nothing if not determined, despite whatever setbacks might come his way, so if his only opportunity to shine was going to be as the campy comic relief, then he was going to be the campiest, most comic relief that anyone had ever seen.

He was still contemplating the potential things he could do in the role, what he might be able to expand or adapt, when he found himself more or less alone with Blaine Anderson in the locker room after the game that night.

“You should give up the lead in the musical,” Kurt said it to his locker, but there was no one else he could have been speaking to.

Blaine turned from his own locker, looking at Kurt as if he’d grown a second head. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“If you’re getting a football scholarship then I don’t understand why you have to take my arts scholarship too. It’s greedy.”

Blaine rolled his eyes and went back to taking his clothes off. Kurt absolutely did not sneak a sideways glance when Blaine took off his shirt

“I am definitely not getting a football scholarship, Kurt,” he said quietly.

“What are you talking about? All those scouts are here for you? And from what I hear through the grapevine there will be more next week! Why else would they be here if not to offer you a scholarship?” He went back to his locker.

Kurt could see Blaine walk toward him, stopping just a few feet away. “Look at me.”

“What?” Kurt’s skin went hot.

“Look at me, Kurt.”

Kurt did not want to look at Blaine. He knew Blaine was stripped down to his football undergarments, and he also knew what Blaine looked like with his pants (mostly) off. He centered himself, and turned towards Blaine, but let his gaze drift over his shoulder. Blaine was shorter than he was, so it wasn’t hard.

“At me, Kurt.” Kurt did. A sweep from head to toe and back, but he landed on his (so, so amber) eyes.

“I will never get a football scholarship. I am too small to play professional football. Hell, I’m too small to play college football most places. Also? I don’t want to play football. I don’t like it, I’m good at it. There’s a difference between those two things.”

“Oh poor you. So good at everything you do.” Kurt was beyond frustrated, and he couldn’t keep it out of his next question. “So what are you doing here?”

“Well, believe it or not, this strangely typical midwestern high school has apparently developed quite the reputation for the arts and as a breeding ground for talented kids. And my father was not happy with my declaration that I would not be going to school to be a lawyer, and that I planned to pursue performing arts. As a compromise, he agreed to help pay for my education only if I was accepted into a short list of elite programs, and this seemed like the best place for me to be so I could make that happen.”

Kurt scoffed. “What about your fancy prep school?”

Blaine held his hands out, an appeal for belief. “Nope. Academics, yes, and they had a decent glee club there. But it was stuffy and not very challenging and wasn’t going to get me noticed, even as the lead vocalist.” Kurt rolled his eyes, Blaine was insufferable. “Nope, it’s true. When the McKinley athletic department found out I was interested they bent over backwards to get me to come here.” Blaine put his hands on his hips. “They just want to use me to help get some of the other kids scholarships. I’m letting them.”

“It’s not fair.” Kurt shook his head and turned away.

“What’s not fair about it? I’ve worked just as hard as you have.”

Kurt spun and looked at him. “You have no idea what I’ve had to go through to make it out of here alive! What this school was like? The bullying, the threats, the general hatred and disinterest from people who should have been able to help me. And you just waltz in, Mr. Fucking Perfect at everything, and ruin all of it for everyone else. My god, Beckham wasn’t even out, and look what happened to him. Do you even care?”

Blaine took a step closer so fast Kurt flinched, eyes flashing.

“You don’t know me, Kurt. You have no idea what I care about.” Blaine took two steps back, then turned and went back to his locker, grabbing a towel from inside before storming off to the showers.

[always-another-story-blog]

Short Story: Turn Left, Look Right

TURN LEFT LOOK RIGHT “What the hell was stopping Chelsea from giving me the directions herself?” Matt moved the phone away from his ear to give it a brief apprehensive look and ran his free hand through his already severely tousled hair. It vaguely occurred to him that if he continued to do that with such high frequency, one day his hand was simply going to get stuck in there. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?” hurriedly returning the phone to his ear Matt cleared his throat before answering. “Uh, I didn’t, Chelsea only just handed me the phone. I’m Matt,” “Well, hi Matt. I’m Natalie, supposedly Chelsea’s friend.” On the other end of the phone Natalie tugged on the ends of her hair and glanced around as she became increasingly unfamiliar with her surroundings. “I kind of thought so,” Matt shot a glance at the blonde currently reclining in the centre of the couch between three guys, another blonde perched on the couch’s arm. All five of them were howling with laughter. With a slight involuntary grimace Matt made a beeline for the door and, once outside, rested his arms on the wooden banister. “What is she doing anyway? Why can’t she do this herself?” “Uh…ouch?” “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean…I’m grateful for your help, I just…” Natalie sighed and kicked lazily at the ground as she walked. Chelsea was going to berate her for wearing boots instead of heels with a skirt. To hell with Chelsea’s opinions on fashion. “It’s okay, Bryan is supposedly my friend and he was too busy trying to out-chug his roommate to talk to me,” as he spoke Matt moved to the stairs and began to slowly descend. “Wow, sorry about that, I guess. Anyway, I’m at King’s Road right now, heading away from town, is that right?” “Are you on the south or north side of town?” “South,” Natalie said, glancing over her shoulder. “Yeah, you’re going the right way, have you gotten to the Royal yet?” “No, I – oh, wait, I see it ahead.” “Okay, you want to take a left down a road with a pink bed and breakfast at the corner,” “Do I now?” Natalie chewed on her lip, the trepidation she had quelled before leaving home bubbling back up. Matt frowned and paused. He had reached the front hall and had his hand on the doorknob, ready to go and sit outside, both to be able to concentrate on the conversation, and meet Natalie when she arrived. “I’m sorry?” “Nothing, just, you said ‘want’, and…never mind. So, I’m at the B’n’B, Christ that is the ugliest shade of pink I’ve ever seen,” Matt smiled despite himself and let himself out of the building, set the latch to avoid being locked out and sat on the top step. The sun was setting; the entire sky was a gentle peach, except for the east where it was turning an amazing shade of blue, not too bright but still brilliant somehow. Matt wished he knew more about specific colours so he could put a real name to it. “How many shades of pink can a person know of?” he asked, finally responding to Natalie’s comment. “Hot pink, deep pink, rose pink. Champagne, baby, Spanish, queen, cameo, orchid, carnation, amaranth, china, Congo, pastel, Mexican, French…need I go on?” Matt blinked. “Jesus,” he said at last “how do you even know all of…are you an artist?” he heard Natalie giggling at the other end. When she paused for breath he could hear her shoes on the pavement. They didn’t sound like heels, more like boots, not that he knew the first thing about women’s shoes, other than the fact that all high heels somehow have a distinctive click when they hit concrete. “Well, I’m in the art department; I wouldn’t call myself a real artist just yet. Though I’ve gotten the hang of all-nighters wearing my dad’s old shirts with my hair in a bandana and drinking coffee straight from the pot, so I’m getting there,” Matt laughed and leaned back on his right hand. Sitting outside and talking to a girl he didn’t even know was proving more fun than the party going on upstairs. Should he be worried by that? “Hey, I’m at the end of the road, now where?” “Oh, uh, cross the road and turn right until you get to the traffic lights,” “Okay,” Again, for a moment all he could hear was her boots on the pavement. “Hey, what are you wearing?” he asked suddenly. There was a pause and Matt bit his lip and shut his eyes. “Uh…” “That was not supposed to sound so creepy, I swear,” Natalie laughed again and Matt gave a sigh of relief. “I get it, so you can see when I arrive right?” “Yeah, I’m waiting outside,” “You don’t have to do that!” “Well, if I’m honest I’d rather be on the front step than upstairs,” Natalie glanced at her phone before returning it to her ear. She had just been thinking that getting directions from Matt was probably going to be the most fun she had all night. Was Matt going to be inclined to agree? “You weren’t enjoying it?” she heard Matt scoff. “I never enjoy Bryan and Jon’s parties, but I’m supposed to be Bry’s best friend so I’m honour bound to attend,” Natalie detected a note of bitterness. “I know the feeling,” she said quietly. Matt pressed his lips together and stretched his legs out in front of him. “You don’t sound too excited either,” he ventured. “How could you tell?” was Natalie’s deadpan answer and Matt couldn’t help but smile. “I’m obviously psychic,” he quipped. He was relieved to hear Natalie laugh again. And then an idea struck him and he slowly stood up. He gave the phone another nervous glance. It was Chelsea’s, she had tossed it to him when Natalie called, she might miss it…but then she had probably had other matters on her mind, like attempting to decide whether her next drink would be vodka or Jagermeister. He descended the front steps and turned left, walking briskly up the road. “Natalie? Are you at the traffic lights yet?” “Coming up to them now,” “Okay, turn left and go to the next cross-roads and turn right,” “Okay. How much further anyway?” “You’re nearly there,” “Great, oh by the way, I’m wearing a red jumper, a grey skirt and black boots,” “Okay,” Matt said with a smile, picking up the pace and turning left, making his way along the main road before coming to a set of lights where he jogged across to the other side and turned right down a side street. “What are you wearing?” Natalie asked “I don’t want to go up to the wrong building and end up on a slave ship,” Matt laughed and shook his head. “Uh, jeans and a blue and grey shirt.” He actually had to take a quick glance just to be sure. After a few minutes Natalie spoke again, just as Matt turned left onto the street he had been aiming for. “Do I just keep walking up this road forever?” Natalie asked, but Matt could hear the smile in her voice. “Uh, what can you see right now?” as he spoke Matt crossed the road toward a well lit square of pale yellow and pushed open the glass door, welcoming the familiar smells and sounds, nodding to the girl behind the counter and casting his eyes around for a booth. “Well, I’m passing in front of a shop called Daisy’s, it looks like a clothing store,” “It is, the original owner’s name was Daisy, her granddaughter took over when she died, they sell homemade knitwear,” Natalie smiled at this information and slowed to look properly at the things in the window. “Sweet,” she said softly. “If you’re at Daisy’s, you should be about to pass a Cancer Research bookshop, and after that is an antiques place called Good Times,” Matt said. Natalie nodded slowly and carried on walking, her pace slightly slowed to look into the shops, even though they were all closed, it was already gone 8:00pm. “Okay, I’m at Good Times, what next?” Natalie slowed a little more, ready to receive instruction. “Do you see the American style diner next door? Keep going a little,” “Yeah…” Natalie said slowly, squinting slightly as the bright light emitting from the place. “Now what?” she asked. “Now, look right,” Natalie frowned and slowly did so. Sitting in a booth in the seat facing the window a guy in a blue and grey shirt with seriously tousled hair sat, a phone held to his ear, two steaming mugs in front of him. Natalie blinked, momentarily nonplussed. Then she pushed open the glass door, walked in and sat opposite him. With a raised eyebrow she lifted her phone to her ear again. “It would be incredibly awkward if I had just sat down at the wrong table, no?” The two of them crumpled in laughter and simultaneously hung up. Natalie picked up her mug and took a long drink. There was no worry about finishing too quickly; Matt had ordered a whole pot.

[fuguestatedandfaded]

Morning Liquor

Your alarm goes off just before the rooster crows.  The sun has not yet touched the horizon but your day is beginning.  Rolling out of an otherwise empty bed, you smell yourself.  Disgusting.  A musk that communicates to all within arm’s reach that you haven’t bothered to take a shower in a long time.  You shamble to the bathroom and relieve yourself, mostly on the bath mat but some makes it into the toilet.  Looking in the mirror you see that you look older than the image in your mind.  Eyes puffy and wrinkles high lighting your expanding forehead and jowls.  You turn and lift up the lid on the toilet tank, pulling out the bottle floating inside.  It’s time to drink.

There are many things to consider when choosing a morning liquor.  First and foremost you need your beverage to treat your hangover without inducing vomit.  It’s likely that 4 minutes into your wakefulness you’re already sweating profusely and your stomach is doing the Charleston.  Your liquor should be soothing.  Something medicinal in flavor.  Jagermeister is a great eye opener.  The herbs and spices are so unwelcome to your fragile system that your body will simply dismiss it as too problematic to address.  Do a few shots (or bombs if that’s your style) and you’ll be ready for the next level of your morning drinking.

Grab a cold slice of pizza and a cup of black coffee because this next phase is going to be a doozy.  Your morning liquor needs to be effective.  You need to get angry drunk and there are only two liquors that are going to get the job done:  Bourbon and tequila.  I suggest a 50/50 mix in a solo cup.  Your bitterly hot coffee makes a great chaser, it will scald your throat but trust me you don’t want to taste this drink.  At this point I also recommend that your wrap your head in a wet towel because you are about to go through a wild bout of systemic inflammation.  Put back as much as you think you can tolerate and then have two more shots.  This breakfast of champions is going to treat you like a bitch.

Pick yourself up off the kitchen floor and mentally prepare yourself because the next phase of alcoholic masochism is going to be focused on concealment.  The goal is to create such an enigmatic blend of smells on your breathe that no one would dare suspect that there’s also alcohol in there.  It’s time to start getting creative.  Add whipped cream vodka to your coffee with a splash of Tabasco.  Add blue curacao and coconut rum to a Slurpee then suck down a big spoonful of mustard.  Pour gin and pickle juice in a nice stemmed glass and light a cigarette.  No one will ever suspect that you smell like booze because at this point your coworkers will be more concerned you’ve been living out of a dumpster.

You’re ready.  Mentally relieved of all those pesky thoughts and void of inhibitions.  Whatever tasks that lie before you on this glorious day you are now prepared to tackle with all the grace and aplomb of a three-legged badger running down an escalator.  Rinse your mouth out with a long pull of peppermint schnapps (like a gentleman) and walk out into the world.  Oh look!  Just in time to catch the sunrise.  For further reading refer to my follow up article on Afternoon Liquor.

[hindsywrites]

Dangerous Li(v)es of Altar Boys

The first time Tom sees Spencer, it's the kind of raining that Tom likes to blame on global warming. It should be freezing but there's sweat dripping over his shoulders, attempting to cool him. The sun is shining and there's no escaping it. Tom looks over and talking animatedly to Pete is the most attractive boy he's ever seen in his life. He is a boy, despite the soft curves of his body. That thought isn't particularly new to Tom, finding a male attractive; there was something about Mike and no one could deny that they wanted to curl their hands over Bill's hips and just pull him close. Without realizing exactly what he's doing, Tom walks over to Pete. He's not an idiot. He knows this boy is part of Pete's new pet project and that he's from Vegas. It explains why the boy is hardly breaking a sweat, even with the humidity. "Thomas Conrad. If it isn't my favourite fucker ever." Pete pulls him in for a kiss and almost throws Tom off-balance. He can choose to blame that instead of the four shots of jag he had half an hour ago. "Tom, this is Spencer Smith. I've told you about him, right?" Tom has to think about it for a moment before he nods and looks between the two of them. Spencer is squinting and it looks like the corners of his mouth are turned down just the tiniest bit. "I think so. Hi, I'm Tom Conrad." Tom extends his hand and watches Spencer examine it for a moment before taking it and gripping it firmly. "So Pete said," Spencer lifts an eyebrow, clearly not all that interested in extending the conversation if his tone is anything to go by. He lets go of Tom's hand and turns back to Pete. Tom can’t quite look away just yet. "As I was saying..." "No more business today, not if these fuckers showed up." Pete claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder and either doesn't notice the way Spencer freezes or does a damn good job of pretending. "Come on, we'll introduce you guys around. It'll be good for you to meet them, especially if we want to get you on the road with them next year." Spencer backs away an inch and Tom feels voyeuristic for watching this exchange as closely as he does. There's an itch in his palms for the weight of his camera, something to capture the tension with. If he took a picture, would there be a physical manifestation of the walls Spencer has around himself? "Let me find everyone else and we'll meet you guys in the venue, yeah?" Spencer says as he backs away from Tom's close examination and like that, the itch is gone. Pete nods and Spencer turns without another word. When Tom's eyes follow Spencer, Pete smacks his shoulder lightly. "You leave your boys somewhere?" Tom breaks his stare to consider Pete's question. "I think everyone but Sisky is here. He's getting dropped off by Jason before the show. Something about packing. I don't know." "Good idea, definitely." When Pete meets Tom's eyes, it feels like he is holding back from saying something. He opens his mouth but is cut off. "Tom Fuck! Beer bong!" And just like that, Dirty saves Tom from any awkward conversation. The next time Tom sees Spencer, it's as he is being pointed to the bathroom after a few too many beer shots. It wasn't the first three that screwed him up, but the ten after definitely didn't mix well with the Jagermeister. Or the whiskey. Spencer ends up being the one with an arm wrapped around his waist and guiding him. "Ugh, you're fucking heavy." Spencer grunts, trying to adjust Tom's weight. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy, even the way Spencer is holding tightly to him. "Smell good," Tom's vaguely aware of speaking but he finds that it distracts him from the smell of Spencer's hair. "Come to my place. Make it smell good." "I think you need to go to the bathroom and puke until you're human enough that I can look at you." Spencer deposits him on the floor in front of the toilet. Tom looks up a half second later and Mike is standing over him, looking a little more than upset. "It's 2 a.m., we need to get the fuck out of here. You've been in here for three hours." Mike's hands feel rough against his sides and it's probably because they are as they haul him up. "Where is everyone?" Tom tries to reconcile the almost empty lot with the full one he saw earlier. The Fall Out Boy bus is still there, but it's the only one. "Wanted to say sorry to Spencer. I think I puked on his shoes." "You did. And you can say you're sorry when we're on tour with them. And you can say sorry to everyone else for making us miss the train." The tension is coming off Mike and twisting Tom's stomach again. He feels it flip over and he can't help it. There's not much left in Tom's stomach but it ends up all over his own feet. Tom doesn't see Spencer before the tour to apologize, which he didn't think he would, but it's the furthest thing from his mind when there's Mike and vans and hotel rooms and venue bathrooms to deal with. It happens by accident the first time but each successive time it becomes less and less accidental. Mike seeks him out, sits next to him in interviews, twines their fingers during long van rides. That they're rooming is a forgone conclusion by the end of tour, except for the part where it isn't when they get back to Chicago for the holidays. Tom is an idiot ninety percent of the time, but even he isn't dumb enough to believe Mike's explanation that it was just an experiment thing. People who experiment don't generally bottom the first time. It doesn't escape Tom's notice that immediately after their conversation, Bill pretty well stopped seeking him out for conversation. Putting two and two together isn't particularly difficult. Tom alternates his time off between bottles of wine while editing pictures, and cups of coffee while shaking on his couch. He plays the same records on loop until even he can tell where the hisses and crackles are on the vinyl, to the exact second. Everyone stops by at some point, everyone except Bill and Mike, until the day Mike does stop by. He's got a package under his arm and it's wrapped in the Sunday comics. Some things are never going to change, and Mike being too much of a lazy bastard to go to the store to get wrapping paper is one of them. Tom has been smoking since he woke up in the afternoon, and it's late evening right now; the apartment holds the smell of stale smoke. "Hey, Merry Christmas." Mike tries to smile but it doesn't quite go all the way to his eyes. "Right. Merry Christmas." Tom doesn't want to sneer, but he thinks it might come out anyway. "What are you doing here?" "Well, I came to wish you a Merry Christmas and to bring you your present." Mike holds the gift out helpfully, as if that will illustrate his point, the reason he chose to come over rather than call. "Okay." Tom stares at Mike, as if that will make his hidden motive easier to determine. Mike kicks a bit at the ground before looking up at Tom. "Look, I'm sorry about the way shit went down. I am." Mike looks up at Tom, his eyes softer than they normally are. One thing people didn't notice often enough about Mike is his fucking eyes. Tom always says that. "If you came over to do that, just save your breath. I'm over it. You were trying to sort your shirt out. So what the fuck ever." Tom purses his lips together, deliberately avoiding looking at Mike. His eyes would suck Tom in, and there was no way he was falling for that again. "Tom, I mean it." Mike stands in place, wringing his hands slightly. Tom focuses on his hands because it's looking at Mike without really looking at Mike. "So do I. You were a great fuck and I'm sorry if you thought you owed me anymore explanation than you gave me." Tom turns and walks to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. Sure, family dinner is tomorrow, but that's no reason not to have drinks tonight. "Do you want a beer?" "Yeah, sure." Mike's face tightens, the soft look replaced with something far less easy to read. Really, Tom doesn't know what he's supposed to say to Mike's apology. 'It's cool, stomp on my heart all you want. It's not like I use it anyway,' somehow doesn't sound quite right. Tom grabs them both tall cans of PBR from the back of the fridge and settles on the couch. It takes a several more beers before Mike says, "it wasn't my idea, you know? I mean. Shit has to go through the proper channels and apparently shit was not going through the proper channels. I mean shit." Mike laughs softly for a few moments before looking over at Tom. "Shit, you are hot, if I wasn't fucking Bill, I'd be all over you." "Shut up, Mike, you're fucking loaded." All Tom can hear is Mike's drunken laughter, admitting that he's fucking Bill. "No, I'm totally fucking loaded, but you're still really, ridiculously hot. Do you even know what you look like?" Mike doesn't stop looking Tom up and down. It gets to the point that even Tom has to laugh about it, because Mike isn't even subtle about it at all and the situation is too ridiculous for words. The laughter comes out wrong and it's the kind of laughing that sounds like crying, because that's what Tom feels like doing at the moment. "I know I'm not the best looking or the smartest and I don't have a lot to offer, but you have these eyes that just sucked me in. I'm such a sucker for your eyes, Mike. I don't care how much of a chick that makes me." Tom's maybe feeling lightheaded. Maybe. It's not like anyone has conclusive evidence stating this. "And like. The way you look at me sometimes. It kind of made me think it could actually work, you know?" "I know, man. I know, but Bill." Mike sprawls over the couch and half in Tom's lap. "What he wants, he gets and he wants what he shouldn't want because it's already taken, but he'll take it again because he's never happy unless he's got it all." Mike snorts and looks up at Tom. "And he wants me because he doesn't want you to have me. It's fucking ridiculous." "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." It's stupid, but Tom can hear the truth in it. Bill has always wanted what's just out of reach. "He should want you for you, and that thing you can do with your tongue." Mike turns a dark red and laughs so hard he falls off the couch and pops back up to grin at Tom. "I haven't done that thing I do with my tongue to Bill. He's not into kissing. I wish he'd kiss like you kiss." "You decided you wanted to stop kissing me. You're an asshole," Tom points this out helpfully. He slips down to the ground and gets eye-level with Mike, grinning lazily. "I'm very mad at you." "Don't be mad. You can't be mad. You'd do the same thing. It's fucking Bill. You know how he is, I don't even know what to say." Mike's chewing on his lips, a sure sign of his level of intoxication. "I think I'll get another beer. That would be good right now." "Hey, hey, hey, wait! Stop." Tom sets his beer on the coffee table, bottle on its side. "Look, my beer is broken. Can you bring me a good one?" Mike snorts and leans against the wall for support as he laughs silently into his hands. "Oh man, that was lame, dude, that was so fucking lame. For that, you get another beer." "Two beers! Two! I want to two-fist!" Tom makes the appropriate hand-motion before checking to see that his beer is really empty. It is and he leans against the couch, scrubbing his face with the back of his wrist. This isn't the situation he imagined himself in when he began his day. He'd had his evening all planned out and it involved a lot more beer and several holiday specials and the list of drinking rules to go with each one. "Two fisting? Man. You. Fucking, you can't do that on Christmas! That's for like, Halloween or something." Mike reappears with four beers all the same and looks down at Tom. "I'm sorry. If you want to drink on Christmas, you drink on Christmas." Mike grins as he flops across Tom's lap before sitting up to open his beer on his belt buckle. "I fucking want to drink on Christmas. It's like, it's the only thing that's going to plan, you know?" After the words are out of his mouth, Tom regrets speaking them. Immediately after regretting them, he shakes his head. Regret is pretty pointless. "I didn't plan on this either, Tom, it just sort of fucking happened." Mike leans against Tom's shoulder and his breath comes out hot and damp against Tom's neck. The ensuing silence is broken only at the sound of both of them chugging from their bottles of beer. "I don't want to talk about this anymore, I'm too drunk to talk about this." "Fuck talking, then." Tom turns his head and presses his lips against Mike's. It's natural still, even after a month of not kissing Mike. It's almost too easy to slip back into the easy touches and meandering kisses. "Mmm, we shouldn't." Mike's words are full of protest but his tone and actions don't match up. He's making no real effort to stop Tom from undoing his jeans, from tugging down his boxers, from doing anything they were familiar with as recently as a month ago. It has lost some of its finesse, but the ease is still there. After, as Mike is slipping back into his jeans, boxers long since lost to the dark corners of the room, he avoids meeting Tom's eyes. "That can't happen again. I'm sorry." He swallows and tries to exit the room without looking up. "Are you. You're fucking serious? You're going to sit there and tell me that means nothing to you? I mean nothing to you?" Tom looks at Mike, tries to force him to make eye contact. He directly blocks Mike's path, reaching out and pushing at his shoulders. "Answer me, jackass. You really want to sit here and lie to me like that?" Tom almost can't believe that Mike would really think he could get away with something like that. "It's not a lie." "Bullshit it's not a lie. Maybe Bill fucking knew that you'd do something like this if given the chance. Maybe he's not the one wanting what he isn't supposed to want, hm? It's not like he held a fucking gun to your head and made you do what you did." Tom just shakes his head and moves to the side. Mike's eyes immediately go down to the ground and he keeps them trained on a stain at the foot of the bed. "You know what would've happened. You saw what happened to AJ. I don't want to be the next AJ because this? This isn't really my thing. This is his thing and it's always going to be his thing and there's not a fucking thing either one of us can do about it. If he wanted either of us out after this, he could do it and we couldn't change it." Mike doesn't say anything else before walking out, leaving his scarf draped over the back of the couch in his haste to vacate the suddenly suffocating apartment. Turning the package over in his hands, Tom tries to figure out what the present is that Mike had gotten for him. What did he need so badly that Mike couldn't wait to give it to him until the next time they were conveniently near each other? Tom opens the wrapping paper, taking care not to wreck Garfield, and runs his fingers over a small gift box. Inside is a small medal, silver in color. It figures, Mike would play to Tom's religion, knowing what a sensitive subject that still is for him. Delicately carved into the solid silver is an image of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of bachelors and travellers. Rather than thinking about what a gift like that would set someone back, Tom sets box down to the ground and turns back to his room. There's an angry text somewhere inside him but he can't be bothered to send it to someone who won't read it and won't understand it even if they do. Stale smoke has been pushed out by stale sex in his bedroom. Tom has never in his entire life been as nauseous as he is right now. It takes all the energy he can muster to open the window and breathe in crisp winter air until his lungs feel like exploding. Once the tightness is gone, there's only emptiness and Tom can't do this, he's far too sober for this. There are only three more beers in the fridge and the liquor store is too far in the current weather, so Tom does the only thing he can think of. Tom calls Jon. Jon has a home and other friends and other family to be visiting on Christmas Eve, but he shows up with a bottle of red wine he'd pilfered from his parents and a plate full of Christmas cookies. He's got his backpack, which means he has his camera equipment and a two-six of something the two of them can share. "You, Jonny Reb, are my savior, my comrade in arms. One day I'll be able to thank you properly and then we'll be even." Tom drapes an arm around Jon's shoulders as much for balance as for anything else. "Hey, none of that. You don't owe me shit and you never will." Jon laughs and tugs Tom over to the couch. Tom-the-emotional-drunk is not an unheard of visitor, but he's a rare guest to the parties these days. Tom's pout turns into a somewhat affectionate grin when he looks up at Jon. "If I could ever repay you, I would; but I'm hard up for cash and memory lacks initiative. Goddamn, the liquor store's closed. We were so close to scoring. It hurts; it destroys 'til it kills. I'm afraid I'm alone and entirely useless… in this department." He rolls from the couch without singing any of the rest of the lyrics. Tom knows that with the way his voice sounds, Jon probably considers that a blessing. "Listen, shithead, if I ever hear you talking about getting fucked up and dying, I'm probably going to have to kill you and that would suck. I'm way too fucking babyfaced for prison." Jon rubs at his cheeks. Tom knows he's trying to lighten the mood, so he runs with it. He's sent pictures to Jon while he was drunk, those pictures of Mike. Thankfully, Jon has never asked Tom about them or the stream of consciousness captions he's added. "Man, if I went to prison and you were with me? I'd never run out of cigarettes." Tom wants to pout and yell and kick and punch until he can't remember the feeling of Mike's lips on his. That's not really an option, so the banter with his best friend will have to suffice. "If you sold me for cigarettes, I'd bite and you'd get the worst reputation. You'd have to smoke fucking Parliaments or something." Jon reaches for the pack Tom has on the coffee table and pulls two out. "Come on, we'll smoke and you can try to sober up a little before we drink the rest of what I brought." "Fuck that noise, man." Tom shakes his head and tries to stand up before collapsing down against the couch. "Jonny Walker, you must bring the alcohol to me. You shall be favored among my servants and when I ascend, you'll take my place." Tom smiles, attempting to look like Christ in the picture of the Last Supper. "Jesus fuck, Tom, if you're going to get biblical on me I'll get your alcohol." Jon ruffles Tom's hair as he stands and walks to the kitchen. "Chaser or no?" "Do I look like your mother? Just. Bring the bottle over and I'm gonna start the movie." Tom manages to roll off the couch and crawl to the DVD player to press play. He really had been planning to spend the evening getting shit-faced while watching Christmas specials. "Okay, I brought more beer out, because I'm not as manly as you. My mangina requires a beer chaser." Jon flops down on the couch just in time for Randy to start whining in A Christmas Story and the first drink to be taken. * "A bus, man. An honest-to-God bus." Siska is bouncing up and down directly in front of Tom. Personally, Tom doesn't see what the huge deal is. Yes, they have a bus and it'll be nice to travel in but it's not like they really need one. They could be doing so many more things with the money the bus is costing them. He's not going to say that and ruin the general good mood. Everyone is happy about the bus. They now have the illusion of privacy when they go to bed. Even Bill seems to be in a good mood as they board the bus and begin to drive away from the parking lot. "The babies are meeting us in the first city?" Tom settles onto the couch, a cold beer in hand. He's got nothing else to do on this trip, Jon is busy editing photos in the back and the understanding he feels for the act prevents him from even occupying the same room as Jon while he does it. "If they're babies, then Sisky's a fetus, so be careful." Butcher settles across from Tom with a beer in hand as well. "I'm pretty sure Brendon emailed me with how excited he was to be on this tour and to thank us for this opportunity. They're pretty much fresh from the womb. He ended it with regards and his full name." Bill looks up from fiddling with the DVD player. They're trying to decide what their first DVD as a band on their very own bus should be and it's been decided that they're going to watch Before Sunrise. Sometimes Tom thinks Bill gets off on his own pretension. After a while, the movie has gotten dull and everyone has wandered off. Bill is in his bunk, writing something that just came to him. Mike is off reading. Butcher and Siska are playing a very involved game of Go Fish, which seems to involve losing clothing. Tom looks down at his half-empty beer and goes to the back to see Jon. Jon looks up when the door opens, as if his concentration has been broken. At first he glares, but when he sees Tom standing in the doorway, his face softens. "Hey man, movie getting boring?" "Yeah, everyone's off doing their own thing. Figured I'd come back here and see what you're doing." Tom knows full well what Jon is doing, but he never feels quite right when he's up having a beer and no one else is. "Hey, you're playing tonight, right?" Jon looks up from his laptop long enough to look pointedly at Tom's beer. "Relax. You're sounding like Mike, I'll be fine." Tom shrugs and makes a mental limit to only have one or two more on the drive. "All right, chill." Jon waves his hand in a careless fashion and looks back to the screen. The next few hours drag on and Tom hates that he can't find something to do. The point of a bus was that they were supposed to always be able to find something to do. By the time they arrive at the venue, Tom is feeling lightheaded and pleasant. It makes unloading the gear a little more of a pain than it should, so he does the bare minimum he can get away with before ducking out the back for a cigarette. He's alternating between messaging Danielle and Nick on AIM when he hears someone come around the corner. "Hey, Bill's looking for you. You're doing soundcheck soon and I guess he wants to try to initiate the Panic kids." Jon ducks his head around and reaches for Tom's cigarette. Placing it between his lips and taking a drag, Jon walks off. Tom rolls his eyes and follows back toward the venue. He'd be lying if he said he was in the mood to take instructions from Bill right now but he knows that as soon as the first show is over, Bill will be in a better mood. First shows have always gotten to Bill, as much as he'll never admit it. Everyone's sitting on the stage when it comes time to actually soundcheck, drinks balanced by their feet. It's painful to hear all their instruments together after the few weeks they had off. Relearning the proper levels takes longer than it will for the rest of the tour and by the end, Tom's head hurts with a mid-day hangover. He shrugs and goes to the backstage area, hoping another beer will take the edge off. Forrest is inspecting a large hot dog costume and Tom has to shake his head again. Sometimes he wonders when things like this became normal. He takes his beer and heads in the direction of outside again, waiting to actually light his cigarette. He takes his time with this beer, feeling his headache dissipate until even the memory of it is gone. Tom smokes only one cigarette before going in search of another beer. When he finds the dressing room this time, everyone has a beer and there's laughter spilling from under the door cracks. "Fuck, where is everyone? We need the babies in here." Bill stands up to make this grand announcement. He walks from the room, head held high as he searches the hallways for traces of their new tour mates. When they're back, Tom wishes they were still in their own closet of a dressing room. Ryan and Spencer are shooting disapproving glances at everyone in the room while Brendon looks longingly at the bottles of beer. Given his age, and his upbringing, Tom doubts Brendon's ever even had a drink, let alone enjoys the taste of beer. To be honest, he's surprised the answer to his unspoken questions haven't just spilled out of Brendon's mouth. Brendon seems to be a nervous talker and now Tom knows a lot more about Brent's porn collection and Brendon's own love of The Simpsons than he would've thought possible to find out in fifteen minutes. Spencer and Ryan are huddled in a corner, talking quietly. They're not being anti-social per se, because they're in the room, but they're not making an effort to be friendly or to make conversation outside the two of them. "Oh, they're like that sometimes. When I first met them…" Brendon launches into a story about the first time he met them and how he was sure they weren't going to like him and how it would've made his life so miserable that he would've had to drown himself in one of the fountains at the Bellagio. Tom tunes it out halfway through to look at Spencer and Ryan, still talking so quietly and so intently to each other. It's clear that this is still new to them. They haven't even been signed for a year and they already have a bus and a spot opening for a band they were fans of not that long ago. Tom takes his beer and heads for the exit again. He doesn't like smoking in enclosed spaces when it's warm enough that he can be outside. While it isn't overly warm, it's still warm enough that he can be outside without having to bundle up. Butcher decides to come out with Tom this time. It's a sight, this skinny guy leaning against the building, exhaling the most elegant smoke rings Tom has ever seen. "I've never really known how to do that," Tom admits. Butcher makes it look almost elegant and Tom thinks about watching it backward, thinks that must be what smoking looks from the inside. "It's hard to do in the wind, I'm lucky any of them are even working." Butcher grins, wide and easy, and Tom forgets his train of thought about smoke rings. "I think the guys are going out tonight, celebrating the start of tour. You going?" Tom tries to think of the words to express the feeling of not being invited, despite the obvious invitation. "I don't know, probably." He'll feel like an intruder, like he always does. One day, he'll ask Butcher how he keeps from feeling like that but he knows that whatever Butcher answers, it won't quite work for him. From the beginning, Butcher hadn't felt like an outsider, like no matter what he did, it wasn't quite the direction they wanted to go. "Cool. Well, I'm heading back in. Do you want me to see if anyone else will come out here?" Butcher nods down toward Tom's half-finished cigarette. Tom shrugs. "I'll see you when I get in there." Tom brings his beer back up to his lips. It's gone slightly warm and it almost seems like it's lost a bit of the flavor, but it'll do until after the show. No one else appears to keep him company, so he goes back inside to find the groupings have changed slightly. Brendon appears to be discussing something with Butcher, his hands swooping in large arcs to illustrate his story. Bill and Ryan are now tucked in a corner, discussing something that looks like it's of utmost importance. There's a game of Mario going on in the corner that has drawn the attention of the remaining people. From the back, Tom can easily pick out Jon and the way he and Spencer are seated together on the couch, Mike on one of the arms. "Tombo! Spencer says you owe him a pair of shoes." Mike looks over his shoulder and grins; Tom hates that grin. He hates how it's nothing but fake and anyone who knows Mike at all knows that. He throws on his own grin and settles on the other arm of the couch, right next to Spencer. "Is that so, Smith?" He can put on his flirting face if he wants to, he doesn't need Mike to make him feel like a complete person again. "You, uh, you kind of wrecked a pair of mine last time we saw you guys. When you guys came to the Chicago show." Spencer seems almost embarrassed to be speaking about it in front of everyone. "You know, I remember thinking that I was going to have to apologize to you for something. I'm just sorry it turned out to be that and not something better." His smile turns genuine when he realizes the tips of Spencer's ears have gone red. "It's fine, whatever." Spencer turns back to watch the game of Mario just as Chad somehow manages to get killed by the slowest moving enemy in the game. His ears are still red and Mike's look the same. Tom grins to himself, taking a longer drink of his beer. * After the show, Tom is still riding his earlier buzz and it's only being added to by the adrenaline coursing through him. "Hey, hey, Xbox on our bus, I'm getting the kids," Bill calls over his shoulder as he runs by Tom. Tom nods in acknowledgement before shaking out another cigarette. Despite the drinks before, he'd played a good set. Better than good, really. The only complaint anyone had was that about a quarter of the audience had left after Panic's set to go try to meet them by the buses. Jason was griping about it backstage, loud enough for everyone to hear. All Tom could do was shake his head. People wanted to hear what they wanted to hear. Mike walks up to him from behind. There are few people who drag their feet while walking the way Mike does, and the gravel does nothing to hide the noise. "Hey," Mike mutters, shaking out a cigarette as well. His hands are trembling the way they only ever do from nerves and Tom rolls his eyes. Bill will get nervous before a show but only Mike gets nervous about actually having to meet people. He's always saying he didn't sign on for that part, he just wanted to play. "Relax, we did good. No one's going to be telling you that you sucked donkey dick tonight." Tom avoids reaching over and taking Mike's hands between his own and forcing them to stop trembling. It's almost painful to watch Mike with his matches, hands shaking too hard for him to even light one. If this were three months ago, Tom would've already had an arm around Mike's waist and been holding on to remind him that this was something real. No one was taking it away. Tom knew better than anyone now how fast a dream could evaporate into thin air. "I know, I know. It's just." Mike shrugs and flicks ash away from himself, almost without thinking about it. "I don't want this to be the peak, you know? I don't want this to be the best show. And I really don't want kids not sticking around to watch us. That really sucks." Mike leans against the venue wall, shirt riding up a little in the back. "I'll be honest, I'd rather have them leave than them stick around if they don't want to see us. No one should feel obligated to do that." Tom doesn't want to argue this with Mike. There's no way things will even end civilly given the current feelings between the two of them. "Look, finish your cigarette, go on the bus, have a beer and just calm the fuck down." "Yeah, I think that's a good idea." Mike nods and pushes off the wall. He flicks ash in the direction of Tom's feet and begins walking toward the buses and vans parked a dozen yards away. "I'm just going to be out here for another few minutes." Tom waves as Mike turns to look at him before walking onto the bus. "Don't worry, I have the code in my phone." Tom's memory for numbers and facts and codes is legendary. It just doesn't exist. On a good day, he can remember his own number. On a bad day, he's grateful for the information section on his phone. He's never claimed to be good at remembering things, but he doesn't like that people call him on it. "If you can't get in, just call one of us." Mike calls over to him before closing the door. Tom's left by himself for another minute before Bill comes back, one long arm wound around Ryan's shoulder and another around Brent's. Brendon walks over to Tom and looks longingly at the cigarette. Tom doesn't bother to hide his confusion. Brendon is a singer and a Mormon. There's little to no chance he's a smoker. Spencer follows Brendon over and looks down at Tom's cigarette. "Marlboros? Isn't that the cigarette that'll pretty much have you coughing up tar?" Spencer wrinkles his nose and looks up at Tom. "Probably, but everything good will kill you eventually." Tom's been put in a sour mood by the thought of Mike on the bus, waiting for Bill to come back with a small harem of small boys. "Not everything," Spencer shakes his head and looks at the door of the bus. "We should go in, Bren. They're probably going to start playing without us." "So? They'll be playing all night, it doesn't matter if we miss the first game or not." Brendon leans against the venue in the same manner Tom does. Tom just does his best not to smirk, it is clear these kids have been taught safety in numbers and they aren't about to split up for anything. "Fine, you're almost done that cigarette, right?" Spencer looks at the cigarette that has almost completely burned to the filter. Tom nods and raises it up to his lips one last time. "Done," Tom mutters as he tosses the butt off to the side, giving no care as to where it lands. He looks over at Spencer and Brendon to indicate he's ready to let them onto the bus and into the joyous party that awaits. Brendon grins and walks in as confident as he's ever walked into any situation. Tom just rolls his eyes and follows before looking over at Spencer. There's a carefully blank look on Spencer's face the second Tom looks over at him. Tom meets his eyes for only a moment before brushing past him and walking to his bunk. There are always good pictures to be had from Academy parties. When he returns, people have settled, though Ryan is no longer anywhere to be seen. Spencer's lips are set in a thin line as he sits on the couch. Tom isn't sure what to blame the difference on until he sees Brent and Brendon both holding onto bottles of beer, not even sipping from them. That's when Tom makes the decision he knows is going to change his life forever. Or for tonight. Whatever. He takes the bottle of Jack he could've sworn was fuller when he left the bus that morning and takes Spencer's wrist. "Come on, they're just going to play Halo all night. We've got a back lounge. We'll put on a movie and they'll start drifting back." Spencer nods, seeming to find it better to watch Tom drink than his own bandmates. Apparently since Tom isn't his responsibility, it isn't as bad. Spencer clutches his pop as if it's the only thing keeping him together at that moment. "Want to tell me why you look like that?" Tom looks him up and down as he pours the whiskey into bottle of pop, swirling it to mix it around enough that he can drink it. That seems to be when Spencer notices he's in the back lounge with Tom. "It's just, Brendon knows, you know? He shouldn't. I mean, we're all underage, you guys know that, and Brendon's such a fucking lightweight. Brent shouldn't have said yes, because then there's no way Brendon's going to say no and we have a fucking show tomorrow and this." Spencer cuts himself off there, looking carefully at Tom. He seems to realize he might have said too much. "Sorry, it's nothing." "Well that, that didn't sound like nothing. If you need to let it out, it's cool." Tom gets the sense that his first impression of Spencer, uptight and needing to have a firm grasp on every situation before he enters it, was a correct impression. "No, it's fine. We don't have to stay back here. There's nothing wrong." Spencer stands and opens the door to go back to where the hoots and hollers are coming from. Tom stands just as quickly and follows him out. "Hey, it wasn't just for your sanity that we're back here." Tom holds the door closed quickly. "I'm not really in for a party tonight. I just don't want to bring everyone else down and you kind of look like you're already down, so…" Tom trails off and removes his hand from the door. "For a drunk, you're observant." Tom's surprised with the speed the comeback comes out at. "For a drummer, you're actually pretty smart." They both crack a smile at that and move back to the couch. "Okay, we've got three choices back here and surprisingly only one of them is porn. So. Do you want A Bug's Life or do you want Die Hard?" Tom crouches in front of the DVD player and holds up two DVD cases. "I think I'll take my chances with Die Hard. The fewer animated children's shows I have to watch, the better." Spencer rolls his eyes and takes a drink from his bottle of pop. "Not a Disney fan, I take it." Tom nods and sets up the movie, skipping through the advertisements that seem to be becoming more common in DVDs. "Well, I've just had my fill of them." Spencer doesn't explain and Tom doesn't ask him to. Once the movie starts, they sit in companionable silence, snorting occasionally at some of the onscreen violence. Tom looks over once to see Spencer tapping out a message on his sidekick. Instead of commenting, Tom just turns back to the film. The second time he sees it, he can't help it. "You know, you're missing landmark American cinema right here. It's got everything, explosions, car chases, and guns." Tom takes another drink from his bottle, swishing it around to try to taste the whiskey. "Tom, I wasn't even a year old when this movie came out." Spencer obviously feels the need to point this out. "So? All the more reason to appreciate it now. I wasn't born when The Sting was released, but you can't tell me that movie wasn't badass." Tom fumbles for his cigarettes and debates opening one of the windows to the screen. Oddly enough, it's the driver that complains about the smell of smoke. Bill will occasionally come back while someone is smoking and steal drags of their cigarettes. "Paul Newman is different, he's classic. Bruce Willis is a fucking joke now." Right there, Tom hits the pause button. "Wait, wait. I'm sorry. Did you just say that? Did you honestly? My God, you did say that." Tom looks around the room for something soft enough to hit Spencer with. "Are you defending his honor? Dude, you're so gay for Bruce Willis right now. I should go back up front. I don't think there's room for you, me, and your boner for Bruce Willis. Do you keep a lock of his chest hair in your necklace?" Spencer snickers and doesn't make a move to get up and leave. "I can't believe you… The Sixth Sense? The Whole Nine Yards? Fuckin' Twelve Monkeys?" Tom is still staring at Spencer in disbelief. "Have a drink, watch him kill his first terrorist again, and tell me he's not the motherfuckin' man. And for the record, this isn't a love necklace for Bruce Willis." Tom holds out the medal for Spencer to examine carefully. Spencer rolls his eyes and, despite his earlier apprehension, reaches for the bottle of whiskey, moving away from Tom and the medal. It's late enough that Tom assumes everyone is on this bus for the night. They can make their way back in the morning. "This didn't happen." Spencer motions to the bottle before pouring a generous amount into his bottle of pop. Tom nods and goes back to the proper point in the film and prepares to start it again. "I would just like to point a few things out before you put this back on." Spencer stops Tom and motions to the TV before taking a swig from his bottle. "Point away." "Well, first off Bandits, The Kid, and Beavis and Butthead Do America. Second of all, that's totally a girl's necklace. Now press play." Spencer is grinning and Tom can't help but grin back before stealing the whiskey to freshen his own drink. Tom frowns and tries to watch the level on Spencer's pop, but it doesn't seem to go down, even though he does offer a small amount of respect for Bruce Willis after he kills his first terrorist. "See? Classic American cinema." "I'm gonna have to disagree with you there, Tom. Classic American cinema would be like, Casablanca, or the original Ocean's Eleven. Not this. This is…" Spencer trails off, looking for the right word. "This is modern in the worst way possible." "What the fuck? Modern in the worst way?" Tom almost chokes on his drink. "This is meant to be a total America movie. Yay, look at us beat the terrorists. In reality, it just makes us sick for wanting to watch other people get blown up, shot, killed, and what have you. It makes us these voyeurs on the worst days of people's lives. And obviously he had two bad days after this, right? There were two more Die Hards? Anyway, classic American cinema had sad endings, but we didn't have to see people's guts in our faces. Now even our love stories don't always end happily and we eat them up. We do it not because we want them to be unhappy, but because we don't think they should be happy if we're not happy. We've turned into a culture that feeds off other people's sorrows." Spencer seems to realize he's been rambling and he turns a soft pink. Tom pauses for a moment before he speaks, choosing his words carefully. "I don't think that makes us sick. I don't think we feed off it. I think we're just tired of being lied to and Disney movies setting unrealistic explanations of love for us. Love sucks sometimes and you don't always get the guy-girl." Tom covers his slip of the tongue by taking another drink. "And I think we revolted against that and got movies with sad endings. Because sad endings, they give you hope that the next time will be better." "I don't think you're talking just about movies anymore." Spencer looks toward the TV, not meeting Tom's eyes. "So what if I'm not? Bruce Willis, man, he's awesome and yeah, I'm watching a guy kill a shit ton of other guys. And yeah, I watched Saw and saw the guy cutting his own foot off. But you know what? I don't think that makes me a sick person. Well, maybe Saw does. But Bruce Willis doesn't. When was the last time you saw acting as fucking awesome as that?" Tom tries to bring the point back to the movie, but all he can think about now is sad endings and how he needs Mike and how this tour is going to kill him. "I think the last time I saw acting that good was in the dressing room this afternoon when you were talking to Mike." Spencer's wry grin shows, even in the flickering light of the television. "Wow. I was right, smart." Tom's voice has fallen flat and he lacks the energy to make it sound normal. "What? You think people don't notice? You're not the only one who's observant, rummy." Spencer takes a small sip of his pop, still not turning to Tom. "No, but I was kind of hoping no one else was observant enough to catch that." Tom taps out a cigarette, opening the back window and hearing things roll by along the highway. "Look, you want to be more conservative about who knows you're in love with your guitarist? Try not looking at him with baby cow eyes, or putting all those fucking pictures of him on your website." Spencer huffs and his bangs fly up just slightly. "Oh, I'm not fucking in love with him." "Right, right. You just always happen to catch your bandmates who don't photograph well and make them look fucking spectacular." Spencer's voice is going as flat as Tom's. "It's really, really not what you think." Tom's fingers shake as he tries to hold his lighter steady. "You don't know what I think it is." Spencer takes the lighter, their fingers brushing, and holds it steady for Tom. Exhaling a stream of smoke, Tom mutters a thanks. "Look, straight up? We were sort of a thing. And now we're not a thing." "Ah, that does explain it." Spencer doesn't elaborate on his statement and that pisses Tom off. It's said in that smug tone that suggests Spencer knows everything about that situation, when he really knows nothing. No one knows what they're talking about when it comes to how Tom feels about Mike. And of course, because Tom's life is a fucking movie, Mike opens the back lounge as soon as Tom turns to look at Spencer, about to give him a piece of his mind. "Oh, hey, you guys are back here." Mike looks between the two of them with a contemplative look. To Tom it looks like he's trying to figure something out and Tom is having none of that. He throws his arm around Spencer's shoulder and squeezes him tightly. "Yeah, we're watching Die Hard." Tom knows it's one of Mike's favourite movies, it's the reason it's even back here to begin with. "Don't worry, we'll put it back when we're done." Mike doesn't say anything else before leaving and the only thing that makes Tom freeze up is the way Spencer is suddenly tense, hardly moving to breathe beside him. "Sorry," Tom mutters, removing his arm from around Spencer. "Don't apologize. Just tell me what the fuck that was about?" Spencer's rubbing at his upper arm and maybe Tom did grab Spencer's arm harder than he thought. "I thought. You said it made sense." Tom looks over at Spencer, confused and not bothering to hide it. "You can be as hung up on him as you want, but you're not dragging me into it, okay? You're both co-workers, sort of, and I'm not getting in the middle of whatever weird shit you two are doing around each other." Spencer shakes his head and it looks like he's going to stand up again. If Spencer leaves the back now, Mike will know that nothing was going on back here and he'll lord that over Tom for the rest of the tour. Tom decides that thinking is overrated anyway, so he stands and blocks the door again, watching as Spencer tries to work out what's going on. When Spencer seems to have concluded that Tom isn't behaving logically, he speaks. "I don't know what you think is going to happen if I go out there. It's not like I'm going to run over and tell Mike that the second he walked in the door, you turned into someone else completely." "I didn't." Tom argues only to argue at this point. "You did, you threw your arm around me and you did the same thing in the dressing room. Like I said, Tom, I'm not getting in the middle of this thing." Spencer sits back down on the couch, face no longer open and laughing like it was before. Tom considers this for a moment before sitting down on the couch and taking another drink from his bottle of pop. It's gone flat and the whiskey taste is still there. "Then don't get in the middle, but don't leave me to get drunk on my own. That's just sad, dude." * Tom notices a pattern as the tour progresses. Headliner invites openers to bus to drink. Openers come. Opener Guitarist leaves when booze is pulled out. Headliner Guitarist gets drunk while talking the ear off Opener Drummer. Opener Drummer does not get drunk. "Spencer Smith, you never let your hair down with us!" Tom exclaims as he and Spencer walk to the convenience store the desk clerk swore was a block from the hotel. Five blocks back they decided he was a liar. There's very little beer left in the hotel room the Academy is currently trashing with the help of Brendon and Brent. More so Brendon than Brent. "Did you actually use the phrase 'let your hair down?' Are you my grandfather?" Spencer can only laugh and switch sides with Tom as Tom switches the hand he's holding his cigarette in. "Fuck you, it's an acceptable phrase! Well. It's a phrase, anyway." Tom shakes his head and tries to tap ash so the wind won't pick it up and carry it to Spencer's eyes. "Yes, it's a phrase that people used when girls still pinned their hair up all the time and letting your hair down meant relaxing at home where you didn't have to impress anyone." "Well, then it's still an acceptable phrase, because you're awfully pretty, Spencer." Tom grins over at Spencer and receives an elbow to the side for his effort. "Hear me out! Okay, so you don't let your hair down. You never get drunk with us, you hardly even laugh except to laugh at me while I'm drunk and yet you're the only one who'll be with me while I'm drunk and not actually laugh at me." "For a drunk, you're pretty observant." "And for a drummer, you're pretty smart. So, why don't you just relax, take a load off?" Tom looks Spencer up and down after a moment and takes in the line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. "Whatever shit you're carrying around isn't healthy." "You're not one to lecture about carrying around unhealthy baggage." Maybe Spencer doesn't mean the words to sound as sharp as they do but they come out sharp as hell and all Tom can do is flinch. "Maybe I'm not, but—" "Look, we're doing a beer run, okay? Then I'll go to my room and relax and you don't have to worry about what I'm carrying around." Spencer's voice indicates the topic is closed. "No, look. I. I just want you to talk about it, okay? I want to know why the hell you look like sometimes you want to kill someone and other times you watch me with that look of complete concern, because I've seen you do it." Tom stands in front of Spencer, blocking his path and crossing his arms. "Did it ever occur to you that the concern might be because I don't want the tour to get cancelled because you choke on your own vomit? I don't want to lose this because you couldn't put down the bottle of Jack." Spencer took his own defensive stance, albeit much less effectively. "But you've never told me to put down the bottle, or the pipe, or anything. Spencer, if you're so concerned, why are you just being on the outside of this? You're watching all the time and I don't know what to think about that." "Okay, you're seriously dense. You're really fucking idiotic. You didn't even think about the fact that I'm here preventing that. I'm here, hanging out with you when no one else will sometimes. I come out for cigarettes when it's cold and I'm tired because I don't want something bad to happen to you and know that I could've helped just by being there and I wasn't. Tom, you don't get so drunk that you pass out in your own vomit anymore. You don't drink enough to get alcohol poisoning now." Spencer takes the cigarette from between Tom's lips and drops it to the ground, stepping on it. "I've been there, having to watch a friend deal with someone having alcohol poisoning, someone so drunk they can barely even walk without falling over. I don't want to see someone else get to that point." Tom starts to speak, starts to protest that he isn't that bad, but Spencer cuts him off. "No, I've watched it happen and I know the signs and I know the slippery slope you're on right now and I'm not going to let you go through that and I don't know how to help except just being here because I don't want you to turn into someone like him. If you do… I don't know what, Tom, but I know it isn't good." Tom stands there for a moment, mouth opening and closing as he tries to comprehend how Spencer Smith just told him off on a street corner. The more he thinks about it, he's not even sure it was entirely about him. "Come on, they're going to run out of beer if we're not back soon." Tom looks down at the ground, for once not even attempting to look at Spencer. They're silent during the interaction with the clerk, silent when they get their change back, silent on the walk back, and silent during the too-long elevator ride up to the floor they're all staying on. "I'm going to my room." Spencer pulls out his card key and, for the first time since the tour began, Tom is drunk and alone. He returns with the beer and everybody cheers but nobody notices when he slips out with a six-pack and goes to the stairwell of the hotel, popping open a can and drinking it while sitting on the stairs. After awhile, Tom texts Jon and asks him to come outside for a cigarette. Jon obliges and says he'll meet him outside. Jon comes with Brendon in tow, like a tiny monkey that will cling onto any limb if he's given an opening. "Wow. Wow, you guys are so awesome." Brendon grins blearily at Tom and then at Jon. "I'd hug Tom but Jon says that's a bad idea. He says that you don't hug unless you initiate it, otherwise it's like hugging a really, really soft tree." Brendon snickers. "A really soft tree." Tom muses over the thought and takes a drink from the can of beer he brought outside with him. "Hey, I might hit the hay early tonight—" "What does that expression even mean? Hit the hay? We're not pioneers, Tom." Brendon seems like he's choosing to only drift in and out of the conversation, so Tom humors him. "We're definitely pioneers, Bren. We just have better wagons." He ruffles the Brendon's carefully sculpted hair. "Watch the ‘do! I spent time on it today! It's going to get me laid one day!" Brendon pouts with both lips pushed out as far as they can go. "Anyway, I'm going to bed early, who has the keys to the other room?" Normally Tom will take the room with the party going on, because he'll stick out a party until the last drop has been drunk from the last bottle but there's something in the way Spencer said what he said that's sticking. At least, Tom tells himself it's the way Spencer spoke and not what he said that's sticking into him like a knife. "Tommy Conrad, ducking out of a party early?" Jon makes a surprised face and reaches for Tom's forehead. They both know it's a joke for the sake of Brendon. He doesn't really need to know how unusual this is. "Ducking out early to bang your Mom," Tom reaches into Jon's back pocket to take the key for himself. "No way, dude, that's why I'm ducking out early! My mom, though, not yours." Jon takes it in stride, the way he takes all jokes of this nature. "Aw, phew, at least I know I don't have to worry about there being any competition." Tom turns to Brendon and speaks in as serious a tone as he can manage. "Jon's hung like a baby." "Yeah, dude. Nine pounds and twenty-two inches!" Jon high-fives an imaginary peanut gallery and Brendon actually falls over laughing. "Nah, Bren, in all honesty, it's only six inches," Jon pauses, "from the floor!" "You're a sick man, Jonny Walker. A sick, sick man. Take care of this key, I'm off to eat crackers and do other unmentionable things between your sheets." Tom hands Jon the other key-card and walks toward the stairwell, ready to let himself in and grab the rest of his beer. There are still four cans there, the same number he left, but for some reason they look off to Tom. He chalks it up to the swirling thoughts in his head and returns to his floor, looking for the correct room. Siska's in the room as well, excused from the festivities because he's coming down with something and when Siska gets sick it's enough to make anyone else get sick just from looking at him. Even his hair looks sick, it just lays there. He's asleep when Tom enters the room and Tom is grateful for that. It means no questioning looks about what he's doing there when the party is still clearly going on a few doors down. Under his breath, Tom starts humming the song about the party two doors down where they're laughing and singing. He's pretty sure anyone but Siska waking up to him humming Dolly Parton would be the most humiliating thing in the world. Siska named his cats Baby, Little Girl, and Little Boy. He isn't allowed to laugh at anyone about anything, ever. Looking down at the beer in his hand, Tom decides to save the remaining for morning when they'll all need a hair of the dog that bit them in order for them to feel human again. His jeans stay crumpled on the floor after he steps out of them and unbuttons his shirt. The day feels longer than the standard twenty-four hours and Tom falls asleep without even pulling his arms from his shirt or slipping under the covers.

Tom looks over at Spencer, in the corner of the room and talking to Butcher while Butcher smokes from a small pipe and blows out the window. No one is watching Butcher as he proceeds to get higher and higher. Tom decides to stumble over and talk to Spencer. What's the worst that could happen? Spencer could tell him off again and Tom already lived through that. "Butcher, Butchski, I'm stealing your friend for a few minutes." "Give 'er! I'm hungry and I'm totally raiding the vending machine." Tom rolls his eyes as Butcher disappears from the room. Spencer holds his hands on his hips and looks at Tom. "I'm sorry, why did you decide to steal me?" He's not giving an inch and Tom can't help but let his hands go to his sides. "I'm here to steal you because you're right." Tom leans his forehead on Spencer's shoulder and wraps an arm around his waist. "I'm right. And what did you finally realize I was right about? It's obviously not shaving." Spencer allows his hand to graze over Tom's cheek for an all too brief moment before he pulls it back. "No, but you were the one who said you were worried about me and you wanted me to be safe. You were right about being safe and so I'm doing what I need to do to be safe." Tom looks up at Spencer, smiling with half-lidded eyes. "Forgive me for assuming anything, but it doesn't look like you're safe right now." Spencer shakes Tom off him and moves back. "It looks like you're drunk." "Ah, but you're forgetting the most important part. I'm drunk and with you. Which means I'm safe." Tom tries to close the distance between the two of them again. "Tom, I don't know what you're thinking, but it isn't right. So just go back to your band of merry men and keep drinking with them." Spencer turns, probably to look for some escape for this conversation. Instead of letting him escape, Tom leans in and presses his lips to the juncture between Spencer's neck and shoulder. "Let's get out of here, then. You can make sure I'm safe and maybe I can do the same for you." He wraps a hand around Spencer's waist. "Jesus, Tom. I don't know what you think you're up to, but I told you once. I won't be with someone who thinks it's fine to use me to get over someone else. And remember, for a drummer, I'm pretty smart." Spencer takes a step back and crosses his arms. "For a drunk, I'm pretty observant and I observe that you don't go keep anyone else company. Not even Brendon!" Tom takes Spencer's wrist in his hand and tugs him out of the room. "Come outside, I want to smoke." Without waiting for an affirmative from Spencer, Tom tugs Spencer to the open stairwell and looks out at the sky. "I like stairwells like this. I fuckin' love California." "That's nice, if you brought me out here to talk about how much you love California, I'm going back in." Spencer looks back toward the door to the hall. "No, I didn't. I swear, I didn't. I brought you out here because I miss you." Tom reaches forward with his free hand and touches Spencer's cheek. "I miss your face." Spencer backs away and looks at Tom with disgust. "Fuck! Were you even in there? I told you, I'm not going to be your rebound fuck, okay?" This circular conversation is hurting Tom's head and it's way too early for him to be hungover, not to mention the fact that he's still drunk. Shaking his head to try to clear a path for his thoughts to come out, Tom exhales smoke. "No, no, not a rebound. I like you for you, like the fuckin' song said. You're fat with a p-h, like Cindy Crawford." When Spencer stares blankly at Tom, he knows he has to try again. "It's like, there's Mike and he was but you are. You're present tense, he's past tense. In the present tense, there's you." "I think you're trying to tell me you like me, but you could just be singing obscure nineties rock at me." "Not obscure, it was top forty." Tom flicks ash from his cigarette, already trying to remember which album it had come from and how high it had reached on the charts. "That's not the point, you were right the first time. I like you, I just kind of suck at showing it. And at life." Tom lets out a loud sigh and rests his forehead against the railing of the stairwell. "So, this isn't just you singing songs about Leonardo DiCaprio at me." Spencer still seems a little overly cautious, so Tom lifts his head and tosses his cigarette away before pressing his lips to Spencer's. "No, not so much about that." Tom's voice is muffled by Spencer's lips and he really wishes he could sound like that onstage. He wouldn't dread the stage nearly as much as he does. Tom pushes the thought of Spencer being eighteen out of his mind as soon as Spencer threads his fingers through his hair. He finds that it's easier to forget about Spencer's age when their hips are pressed together and Spencer isn't pushing him away for once. "Hey, hey, let's. Why don't we go back to one of the rooms? Everyone's going to be at the party for a while." Spencer doesn't meet his eyes as he winds his fingers through Tom's belt loops. It happens in a bit of a blur, the alcohol taking the edge off everything, and it doesn't take long before Spencer is under Tom on the bed, desperately pressing up to get friction and some sort of relief. Spencer's a teenager, Tom does pause himself long enough to remember that, but it's when Spencer's jeans are open and Tom's hand is inside, palming him through his boxers. "We, fuck, Spence, we don't have to hurry this. We have time." Tom's words are lost against Spencer's skin. There's so much of it exposed that Tom can't ever touch enough of it at once. Spencer mutters something that sounds a lot like "drunk" but Tom can't make it out. He won't ask Spencer to repeat it but he also won't pressure Spencer. If Spencer wants something more, he can take the next step. Spencer seems reluctant to take that step and it seems like just minutes since they stepped into the room but the clock says it's been an hour and Spencer is struggling to zip his jeans up and adjust them so nothing shows. "I'm. I'll just be a minute in the bathroom." Even Spencer's voice sounds fucked out and there's nothing Tom wants more at that moment than to press Spencer back down to the bed and take his jeans completely off. Fuck, having morals is so overrated. It's the thought Tom falls asleep to, curled on his side with his own jeans still open, in Spencer's bed. * There's no shit in the morning from his band or from Spencer's, but he feels like he has a sign hanging over his head warning everyone to tread lightly. Jon can't even meet his eyes when they wander off to film for the website. "What? I fell asleep in his bed, I didn't want to go back into the party. It was getting too loud and nobody wants to hear Mike ramble on and on about being the naked guy." "Tombo, if that's all that happened, then I want to sleep in his bed because the bite marks on your neck say he's an awesome drinking bed buddy." Jon can't help but snort as he reaches for the cigarettes in Tom's shirt pocket. "Oh, fuck you very much. Nothing happened. He's a kid." Still, Tom pulls his own scarf tighter around his neck. "With teeth like a vampire. Jesus, I didn't know biting was your thing; unless that's just payback for what you did to him. I didn't even stop to look at his neck. We can go back, you know." Jon looks down the street in the direction they came. "You're an asshole. All that happened is that he got hot and bothered but clearly didn't want to take it any further because he went to the bathroom to rub one out. I left it up to him because I'm not a complete skeeze." Tom shrugs and lights up his cigarette. "Oh my God! You're totally into him! You're so into him. What the fuck?" Jon doesn't even sound like he's confused, just amused and ready to rib the shit out of Tom. "Shut up, just shut the hell up." Tom looks around the block to try to find an escape from this conversation. "We're not talking about this." "Sure, not talking about it." Jon fiddles with the lens on the camera before looking up at Tom and grinning slyly. "It goes without saying that I'm the best man at the wedding, right?" "Oh, you're an ass." Tom throws his lighter at Jon's head and begins walking back to the buses. He doesn't get far, Spencer and Brendon are on their way out and from the flush on Spencer's face, he's getting it as bad as Tom would be if he'd stayed for Jon's harassment. "Oh, hey Tom!" Brendon grins at Tom and doesn't even bother to be discreet when he looks between the two of them. "I guess you two have a lot to talk about, huh." Apparently he spots Jon and decides to run off to join him. "Don't have the talk or anything else in my bunk! I sleep there!" "So, Brendon's borderline retarded, I'm sorry you had to see that. And I'm really sorry that the tour will be cancelled when he turns up dead and I have to go to prison." Spencer's cheeks are still tinted pink as he takes a step back from Tom. "Oh. Uh. No, he's fine. Don't kill him trying to protect my honor." Tom feels too sober for this conversation, like the words will mess themselves up without any help from him. "Is he right, though? Do we need to talk about this?" Spencer kicks at the ground and then curses under his breath at the scuff it creates on the toe of his shoe. "Uh, no? I don't think we need to talk anything through." Tom shrugs and looks at Spencer, crouched down and rubbing at the slight mark on the white leather. "Oh. Um, okay. Nothing to talk about?" Spencer's tone has shifted slightly and Tom can't quite catch with the subtle change means. Spencer almost sounds like not talking about this is a negative thing. "I mean, I'm pretty sure I said what I had to say last night?" Tom suddenly wonders if there's a portion he doesn't remember from last night. If he did something ridiculous like tell Spencer he's in love with him. It wouldn't be the first time that's landed him in hot water the next day. It's almost never been with someone he likes, though, just someone he wanted to fuck. "So. Are you going to explain what happened in the hotel room?" Spencer looks up and for the first time, Tom notices the faint dusting of freckles on the end of Spencer's nose. "I fell asleep? I don't know, it seemed like you were taking about ten years in the bathroom. I must have dozed off." Tom doesn't know why he feels defensive about this. He really doesn't need to apologize. It wasn’t like he fell asleep in the middle of sex. "I meant about why I was in the bathroom and not in bed with you." Spencer's cheeks are now flaming and it clicks in. Tom can't help but bark out a laugh because Spencer is serious. "Wait, did you think that…" Tom trails off, laughing again before managing to calm himself down. "Okay, tell me why you think you were in the bathroom." Spencer blinks his eyes wide a few times before turning on his heel and walking straight back to the door of his bus. By the time Tom registers the movement, Spencer is inside and the lock is clicked into place. Tom hardly knows the code for his own bus, let alone any of the other buses on tour so he can't open it up to follow Spencer inside. This is something that will have to be cleared up later. * "I can't fucking win with this kid. I tell him I like him and he just shits on it. It's so stupid." Tom exhales acrid smoke out the open bus window while Butcher sits with a notepad and a pair of Bill's glasses on. Every so often, Tom wonders if his band really is made up of short bus kids, but then he remembers that he doesn't care as long as it pays the bills. "And how does that make you feel?" Butcher can barely keep a straight face while he asks this. "You know, I could take you more seriously as a therapist if you weren't naked." Tom hates to bring it up, but Butcher's junk is something he really doesn't enjoy looking at. It's a nice dick and all, but it's kind of like seeing Brad Pitt on another magazine cover. It's just overkill at this point. "Be that as it may, this is how I do my best work." Butcher scratches at his thigh and Tom focuses on the skyline from the bus window. "Okay, whatever. The whole thing makes me feel sick. I don't even know what to do. I can't fix it because he won't even talk to me right now." Tom sets down the pipe and picks up his pack of cigarettes. "Okay, now, I don't normally interfere in patient's lives, but you're a serious fucking buzzkill when you're making mooney eyes over Spencer. So, I'm going to go talk to him on your behalf. I'm going to tell him that you're retarded over him." Butcher taps his pencil against the paper and looks up at Tom. "No, you fuckwad, you can't do that! I actually like him. It's like. Okay, you know how when you're in a good thing, you both care about each other and you both want things to be good for the other person. And it feels like that. I mean, I want good things for him. It's why I didn't fuck him into the mattress springs the other night." Tom's eyes widen when he realizes what he said. "Whoa! Wait! You hooked up with him? Actually hooked up? What, did you blow him or something? Did he blow you?" Butcher suddenly looks far too interested in this conversation for Tom's taste. "Oh fuck. Really? Butcher, that's between me and him." Tom shakes his head and flicks ash haphazardly in Butcher's direction. "Oooh. Nothing happened, but not for lack of wanting it. You totally want him. But nothing happened. Who made sure nothing happened?" Butcher leans forward and actually appears to make an effort to cover himself to keep from grossing Tom out. "It was kind of a decision we didn't talk about? I don't know, he's a kid? I didn't want to rush him. Like, yeah, I want to fuck him but he doesn't deserve a shitty first time." Tom shrugs and closes his eyes. This isn't the conversation he wanted to have with Butcher at all. "Okay, you calling him a kid is not going to make him like you. He's an adult, probably more than you are and definitely more than I am." "Well, yeah, you're naked and playing therapist." Tom rolls his eyes. No one can see it, his eyes are still closed, but he does it. "Hey, I may not have a lot of credentials, or a degree, or even any experience, but there's one thing I do know. And it's not that I look good naked, even though I know that. I know that you probably made Spencer feel really fucking ugly and like you didn't want him because you didn't take it further." Butcher reaches for Tom's pack and steals a cigarette. "How do you ever get laid? Jesus. Okay, this conversation didn't happen and you don't know anything about this." Tom shakes his head and leaves the lounge of the bus feeling like quite possibly the worst person ever. He has no idea how he could've thought Butcher would be a helpful person. Sitting in the front of the bus, Tom's leg jiggles as he tries to see how long it'll be until they get to stop and he gets to see someone who isn't naked and who isn't a complete asshole. Siska doesn't count, he'll get naked as soon as he sees someone else is naked. That's a whole other can of worms. "Jon? Do you know when we're stopping?" Tom shouts to the back of the bus. He's there somewhere. He's always there somewhere. "Um, half an hour?" Jon ducks his head out of the bunk. He spots Tom slumped on the couch, leg jiggling. "Uh oh, wedding planning happening in your head? I gotta say, I think you need to be the one in the suit. I know you've got a hot ass and everything, but I'm pretty sure he gets mistaken for a girl at least twice a day." "What does Cassie even see in you?" Tom covers his own face with a pillow. He doesn't know how he could've agreed to something like this. His best friend on tour with him? That's the worst idea he's ever had. "She's seen my dick. Trust me. If you were straight, it'd be enough to turn you gay." Jon pats his crotch gently. "Good boy." "Oh my God. I need off this bus and I need off it now. Do I really have to wait half an hour to get the hell away from you guys?" Tom pulls the pillow down and throws it at Jon's head. It's three feet wide, but he feels slightly better. "Look, you're pissy, he's pissy, so you two better work this the fuck out or we're going to have to have some words." Jon looks at Tom and crosses his arms. "You've got it bad for him and we can all see it, okay? Just, try staying sober and telling him you want in his girljeans." "I tried that! I fucked it up without even trying to fuck it up." Tom shuts his mouth. "Whatever, I'll get over him. I'm already over him." Tom decides those are going to be the last words on the subject. Unfortunately, they're not. They never are when his friends decide to meddle. That's how Spencer and Tom end up having to go to the corner store to pick up mix for the hotel party. Tom regards Spencer with caution. He doesn't want Spencer to explode on him or worse, walk away. "You know, you can stop looking at me like I'm going to break, okay?" "I-" "And I don't know what you were thinking, having Butcher and Jon try to talk to me about this? Are you really that fucking stupid?" Spencer looks at Tom as though he's a complete moron. "Did you not realize that it's completely obvious? What you're trying to do?" "What I'm trying to do?" Tom manages a full sentence before Spencer turns and rests his hands on his hips. "Yes, if you really wanted in my pants, you would've done it at the hotel that night instead of sending your little… gaggle of geese! That's what they're acting like, you know. Gossipy fucking geese!" Spencer seems to be working himself up to yell at Tom for the rest of the walk to the store. "And I don't need geese, I've got shit that I need to do and if you're too much a pussy to just admit you like someone and-" Tom cuts Spencer off by pushing him into an alley just off the street and pressing him to the wall. Spencer stops talking quite as much when he's busy sucking Tom's tongue into his own mouth. Tom is grateful for the peace, but even more grateful that Spencer isn't pushing him away. "Fuck you, this doesn't just make everything okay." Spencer pants when they pull apart, wiping at his lips as if the taste of Tom is somehow equal to that of vomit. "No, but it's a start. You think I wanted you to have a shitty first time when I was drunk out of my mind?" Tom shrugs and tugs Spencer out of the alley. As far as he's concerned that's all the talking they're going to have to do on the subject. Spencer seems to agree because he just walks in silence to the store with Tom, letting their arms brush occasionally. When they return, people are still drinking despite the lack of mix. Sometimes Tom's friends are total assholes. Sometimes meaning whenever they feel like meddling in Tom's life, which was going fine and was going to be fine as soon as he got over Spencer Smith. He grudgingly gives Butcher a smile when Butcher nudges his side hard enough to bruise. "The Captain and I give great advice!" Jon pats his crotch again and grins at Tom. "It's all a matter of what you're thinking with, Tombo." Immediately after Tom sees that, he reaches for the bottle of Jack Daniels and one of the cans of Coke. * Tom may or may not be drunk. He's not trying to deny it, he's just in the floaty state that's a little too drunk to be sober but a little too sober to be drunk. Tom may or may not be whispering this against Spencer's neck as he fumbles with the card key to Tom and Jon's room. Jon proudly announced to everyone at the party that he was going to take one for the team so Spencer could take one for Tom. Fortunately for Tom and Tom's Captain, Ryan had already left and Brendon was too engrossed in Siska's hair to notice that Spencer and Tom were on their way to another room. "Thought you didn't want my first time to be when you were drunk?" Spencer's tone is teasing, Tom knows enough to know that now. "I might be drunk, but I might also not be. And anyway, you totally won't notice, I'm an awesome lay." Tom is already trying to work his hand into the front of Spencer's jeans but they're so tight that it isn't going over well at all. "Fuck, how do you get these off?" "Practice." Spencer manages to open the door and they both tumble into the room, quickly latching the door. Jon still has his key and a fuckton of cameras. Tom wouldn't put it past him to try to get photographic evidence of Tom "getting over himself and getting a piece of ass." "Fine, how about practice getting them off while I make sure that this door is Jon-proof?" Tom looks around the room for something he can push against the door. Jon is a man that isn't to be trusted any further than Tom can throw him, and Tom can't throw anything very far. Once he's satisfied that the chair will at least give them ample time to throw clothes back on or find something to bludgeon Jon with, Tom turns back to the bed and sees Spencer sitting on the edge of the bed and watching him with an amused smile on his face. "See something funny?" Tom looks at the room around him and maybe it is just a little funny. The door is locked with the chain and the deadbolt in addition to the chair pushed against it. "I see you not nearly as close as you should be?" Spencer says it as more of a question. Tom takes it as an invitation to kick off his flip-flops and walk toward Spencer. He's anxious for that first press of lips, the exploration of Spencer's skin. It scares him for a moment. He's never wanted anything as badly as he's wanted this for the last two months. Months? Has it really been that long? Tom has to stop to think about this. He pauses just before he reaches Spencer and thinks about the time they have left together. It's a week or two at best and he's just getting into this with Spencer? He swallows when Spencer makes an impatient noise and reaches out for him. The contact draws him back and he leans in, touching their lips together. It's a chaste kiss compared to every other kiss they've shared but for some reason it settles in Tom's stomach the way the others haven’t. When Tom tries to reflect on the reason for the butterflies, it's only natural to assume that it's because Spencer has taken it upon himself to unthread Tom's belt. "You know what would make this go a lot smoother? If you maybe helped. Or took some clothes off me?" Spencer remains so calm through all of this that Tom has to wonder if he could've avoided the last few weeks of misery just by noticing how ready Spencer seemed for everything in the last hotel room. Tom nods in response to Spencer's statement and reaches down to push Spencer's t-shirt up, feeling his fingers touch skin too smooth to resist. Spencer shivers in response and looks up at Tom, his pupils larger than they were half an hour earlier. Instead of slowing down or stopping to see if Spencer is okay with this, Tom leans down and presses a harsh kiss to Spencer's lips, nipping and biting until they part. Their legs are tangled together to the point where it's difficult to tell which limb belongs to which person. Spencer has a thigh wedged between Tom's and they're both moving together, too hard to have any finesse. Tom manages to pull Spencer's t-shirt over his head and toss it somewhere in the direction of the window. Though neither had remembered the air conditioning when they entered the room, it is obvious now with the way Spencer shivers and goosebumps raise all over. Tom slips a little further down, pressing his mouth to the curve of Spencer's neck. "Your jeans, how am I supposed to get them off?" "Fuck, Tom, you're talking like they're Ryan's jeans." Spencer hooks his thumbs into the waistband and wriggles them down so his hips are further exposed. "Okay, unbutton, unzip, pull." "Sure, make it sound easy," Tom mutters as he unbuttons Spencer's jeans. He presses his thumb into the tiny sliver of skin revealed. The zipper seems too loud, even amidst their heavy breathing and the dull hum of the air conditioner. When Tom finally tugs the jeans off and tosses them in the same direction as his shirt, he notices that he's still fully dressed. "Hey, maybe you should take some clothes off me? That might be a good idea if you want me to fuck you." Spencer inhales sharply and nods, reaching for the buttons of Tom's shirt. It's easy to slip off, even though Spencer's hands are shaking. They're not shaking hard, just enough that Spencer has to pull back once to clench his hands into fists. "Sorry, I'm not always nervous about things." Tom laughs off the comment and slips his own jeans down, letting Spencer's hands rest for a moment. "It's cool. I'd be worried if you weren't at all nervous." He takes a look at Spencer's eyes and wonders if it's possible that they went from blue to black in the three seconds Tom wasn't looking at Spencer. "You're leering," Spencer whispers as he slides a hand into Tom's boxer shorts, palming him easily. "I was looking at the change in your eye color. It changed." Tom touches his thumb under Spencer's eye and rubs along the cheekbone. "For a drunk, you're pretty observant." Spencer says the words without any venom. "And for a drummer, you're pretty smart." Tom grins, ducking down to press their lips together and end the conversation. * In the morning, Tom kind of rolls and hits someone. For the first moment, he tries to remember what he was doing last night. There was a party and he got drunk. But he didn't get so phenomenally drunk that he didn't end up at home. These are definitely still hotel sheets and hotel paintings and a naked Spencer Smith. Spencer isn't awake yet but Tom's heart is pounding. Why is he in bed with Spencer? He remembers kissing him in the alley, remembers getting back and Jon patting his crotch. He doesn't remember going to a room that would've resulted in a naked Spencer. But he's here, and there are chairs pressed against the door, like they'd keep anything out. Tom looks at Spencer's neck and spots the trail of bite marks leading down to his collarbone. "Fuck." Tom tries to slip out of one side of the bed without disturbing Spencer. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be when he was drunk. He was supposed to wait and make it good for Spencer, as good as possible for Spencer. Tom wipes his face with his palm and swallows down the nauseous feeling building in his stomach. "Mmm, Tom?" Spencer stirs and opens one eye, reaching out for him. "S'early, come back to bed. Nowhere to be today." Spencer double-checks his statement by flipping open his phone. Once he closes it, he reaches for Tom again. "C'mon, you're making the bed cold." Wrapped tight in the covers, Spencer doesn't crowd Tom, just rests his head against Tom's shoulder as he starts to drift back into sleep. "Had a good night, Tom, thanks." The last thing Tom feels before drifting back into sleep is Spencer's lips, ghosting over his shoulder. * When Tom wakes again, he can smell coffee brewing and thinks for a minute that he must've passed out at Jon's. The coffee smells a little off and the bed isn't soft enough to be Jon's, so he forces his eyes open. Once he has, he immediately regrets it. There's so much light coming into the room and far too much of it is natural. Spencer seems to have thrown open the curtains when he got up. Making a noise in the back of his throat, Tom rolls onto his stomach and tries to hide his face in the pillow. The morning after has never been Tom's strong suit. Only one had ever gone well, and it going well hadn't kept the relationship from being over almost immediately after it began. "It's just shitty hotel coffee, but I figured it was better than nothing." Spencer is standing over Tom, a concerned look on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. "I put Advil and water on the dresser." If Tom didn't know better, he'd say Spencer was nervous. A little slow on the uptake this morning, Tom doesn't realize that Spencer has probably not had a lot of good experiences around drunken people. "Hey, when is bus call?" Tom rubs at his eyes and takes the coffee from Spencer's hand, only to set it on the bedside table. "In a few hours. I just like to wake up early and make sure everything's going to go well for the day and…" Spencer gets cut off when Tom reaches out and tugs him back into bed. "Good, then unless you have any objections, I'm going to go brush my teeth and see if maybe I can't do right by you this morning." Tom rolls over Spencer to go to the bathroom. He returns after swishing toothpaste and mouthwash around in his mouth. He only has a few hours with Spencer, he's not going to waste the precious time he has with hunting down his own toothbrush. Some people can afford to be classy, because they don't have Spencer Smith waiting in their bed. "So you're gonna make an honest boy out of me?" The words would be funny if Spencer's cheeks weren't so rosy and his voice wasn't quite so breathy. Tom pulls the covers back and oh, Spencer took the time to get naked while he was making his breath a little fresher. Tom's voice can't be described as anything but strangled when he says, "Something like that, yeah." * An hour later, Tom is watching Spencer, blinking only as often as he needs to in order to keep his eyes from burning. "You know, it's kind of creepy when you do that." "I'm watching to make sure you're safe. You don't know the hidden dangers of hotel rooms." Tom stretches his hand out to smooth up Spencer's side. He hates doing it because it reminds him how young Spencer really is, but he can't stop. It's worse than a craving for a cigarette, because that he can have whenever he wants, but this? It's for a few more weeks at best. Whenever the thought hits him, Tom gets short of breath and he wants to mark Spencer. Since it's early in the day and Tom isn't thinking much beyond needwanttouchspencer, he leans forward and nips Spencer's collarbone. "See, that? Not so much safe." Spencer doesn’t exactly try to stop Tom, just tilts his head back. Tom’s hit with a sense of urgency. There are only so many more hotel nights on the tour, only so many nights of tour, period. There isn’t enough time. Tom reaches around his own neck and unhooks the medal he'd had for so long. The weight is heavy in his hands. "Hey, Spence. Spencer, I want you to have something that'll keep you safe when I'm not here." The words come out too fast, tripped over. Tom doesn't know how to say this without it sounding cheesy, so he just goes for it. "St. Christopher. He's the patron saint of travelers." Tom feels his chest go tight again and he forces himself to continue. "If you wear it, he'll watch out for you when you're not with me." He presses the medal into Spencer's hand, sealing the fumbled words with a kiss. Spencer clasps his hands tight around the warm metal and looks at Tom. The expression on his face isn't easily read, especially not by Tom. The kisses, however, can't be mistaken for anything but what they are. "I got it just before I went away on my first tour and I've carried it ever since. I don't know if you believe or don't believe or whatever, but, I want you to take it now." Tom mumbles each word between the kisses Spencer is planting on his lips. "Okay," and Spencer sounds as breathless as he had this morning. "You'll take it? You like it?" Tom tries to pull back from Spencer's kiss. "Are you still trying to talk?" Spencer might sound more stern if he stopped trying to lean in and press his lips to Tom's again. Tom just laughs and gives up holding a conversation as he shifts close to Spencer under the covers. * It's not a huge thing to ride on another bus. Sometimes people get sick of completely familiar places and want to see something that's at least a little out of the ordinary. Panic's bus is completely out of the ordinary. For one, there are no empty bottles lining the counter, like some bizarre trophy display. Another thing? Ryan Ross is on this bus and he's watching Tom closely, like Tom is going to steal something and run back to his own bus. "So, Spencer spent the night in your room last night." Ryan's always seemed a bit off to Tom and this is doing nothing to help his case. Spencer is napping, his feet resting in Tom's lap, when Ryan chooses to speak. "Um, yeah, he stayed with me. Sorry, was he supposed to come back to your room last night?" Tom wants to fidget but he thinks that'll wake Spencer up and he doesn't need that right now "I'm onto you, Tom." That's all Ryan says before standing up and going to the back lounge, where sounds of The Parent Trap are quickly replaced with sounds of Moulin Rouge. Tom pretends not to think about what Ryan just said, about the way his stomach knots whenever he looks at Spencer, and most importantly, the way he feels when he's near Spencer. Tom's stomach turns and it has nothing to do with the alcohol from the previous night or the way Spencer looks when he's stretched across the couch. He'd let himself fall for Spencer? That wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to love Spencer. He was in love with Mike. Tom thinks back over the weeks and tries to find that moment of change, where suddenly he didn't want Mike looking at him, but Spencer. It's impossible to find, even as he sifts through every memory he has. Tom's disturbed to discover that when he gets back to the start of tour, he no longer has memories of the way Mike's face looked when he walked in on Spencer and Tom watching a movie in the lounge, but of the way Spencer had felt, pressed up next to him. Drinks in hotel rooms during parties spent watching Mike and Bill have Deep Discussions had faded into drinks in hotel rooms during parties spent stealing Spencer for cigarette breaks outside, even though Spencer didn't smoke and Butcher was always more than willing to light up. Suddenly the oxygen on the bus is gone and Tom finds himself trying to push Spencer's legs off his own. He was definitely not supposed to fall for Spencer. But where along the line did it turn into something more than making Mike jealous? Tom knows there's a rest stop coming soon, there has to be, they've been on the road for more than three hours and everyone will be in need of coffee. When that happens, Tom will slip out of the bus and go back to his own. Suddenly the two weeks from this morning, the ones that seemed so short, are stretching in front of him. Two weeks around Spencer with these feelings clawing at his chest? He can't do that. All he can manage are short, rasping inhales and they aren't enough to keep his head from spinning. He shakes with the effort of getting enough air into his lungs to sustain him. Just to the next rest stop, he repeats over and over in his head. When the bus pulls in, everyone seems to come to the front, though Spencer sleeps through the whole thing. Tom carefully pulls himself free and pulls a blanket over Spencer. It should be enough to keep him warm. As if in a dream, Tom walks down the bus steps and pauses between the two parked buses. There's enough air out here for him to breathe but before he has a chance to enjoy it, he's doubled over and throwing up against the tires. In the distance, below the buzz in his ears, he can hear someone shouting "Gross!" but he can't bring himself to react. There's not a lot to throw up. Water, coffee, a Danish from the hotel breakfast. He wipes his hand over his mouth and grimaces. The buzzing hasn't subsided and he feels like he could throw up again, if there was anything left in his stomach. There isn't and the feeling passes, even though the buzzing doesn't. When Tom enters his own bus, Butcher is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. "You know, Tombo, meditation will cure what ails you." "Or a drink will cure what ails me." Tom goes to open the fridge, certain to find something in there that will make his thoughts slow down until he can make sense of them. Meditation works for some and while Tom does believe in God and saints, he doesn't really know how much he buys into the idea of a balanced body and mind, especially not when Butcher, the completely balanced body and mind, has been eyeing booty shorts whenever he goes shopping lately. "Aren't you already drunk?" Siska walks onto the bus, eyeing the beer in Tom's hand. "I could've sworn I saw you puking between the buses." The last part is all Mike and Bill hear when they come back on the bus. "Jesus, Tom, it's not even noon." Mike doesn't say anything further, just pushes past him and walks to the back with Bill in tow. Tom swallows another wave of nausea, caused by the fact that he didn't care about Mike's reaction. "I'm not drunk, it wasn't a hangover puke." Tom settles himself onto the couch, still holding the beer. "Well, I'd hope you aren't drinking after a hangover puke. Hair of the dog is before the hangover puke, to avoid the hangover puke." Siska settles himself on the other couch and pulls out his phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keys. "Hey, are you actually going to stick around tonight? Forrest and Jesse are going green and they invited us." Tom considers it for a moment. It'll be a pleasant escape from everything his mind is forcing him to think about and he nods when he realizes he needs that. "Yeah, I think I will." * Tom doesn't. Not for lack of wanting to or lack of trying on Jesse and Forrest's part, but he's curled up over a toilet, emptying an entire bottle of Jagermeister from his stomach. There are snatches of conversation going on all around him. At some point, he's pretty sure that Butcher pees in the shower rather than try to move Tom. All in all, the one thought that sticks with Tom before he passes out against the toilet seat is that Spencer is nowhere to be found. * The next time Tom sees Spencer, the next day, Spencer approaches him. "Hey, so. I heard things got pretty out of hand." He's trying to make light of it, Tom can see it clearly. "I didn't even know you guys were getting up to anything last night." The implication of his words, that Tom hadn't invited Spencer, was obvious. "Yeah, I don't know, it was just a thing, you know?" Tom shrugs, trying not to move too much. He had a hangover puke today and he's not anxious for another one. "Oh," and Spencer's face falls. That's the only way to describe it. Tom bites back a groan at the way his expression turns his stomach. "Well, um, if you want, I can come and you know, do my thing and keep you safe?" Tom's eyes flick to the medal Spencer is wearing around his neck and he shrugs again. He's going to keep himself safe, that's what he's going to do. And that means making sure he doesn't make the same mistakes he made earlier, letting Spencer too far in. "Yeah, sure, maybe. Look, I'm gonna go find Butcher, he said he wanted to go have a cigarette before we get locked in the venue." Tom turns without waiting for Spencer to respond and begins combing the halls for the Butcher. It takes him a few minutes before he manages to track down Butcher and drag him outside. "Hey man, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like shit." "Thanks, that's exactly what I wanted to hear," Tom mutters and lights the cigarette between his lips. He looks at Butcher and tries to convey that he doesn't want to talk about why he was puking into the toilet for the better part of four hours. "Better than Forrest looks today. I don't even know how you green out, but he managed it and he looks like death today." Butcher laughs and launches into a story from the previous evening that Tom should know but doesn't. It gives Tom an excuse to tune out and think about the look on Spencer's face before he walked away. Just picturing it in his memory makes his stomach turn. He's not going to do this, regardless of what his heart is trying to tell him to do. He knows better than to listen to his heart again. When Tom looks over, he realizes Butcher is waiting for a reaction to his story. Tom just laughs and says, "shit, really?" Butcher takes that as a response and continues on with the story. Tom tries to get into it, but all he can hear is Spencer's breathing in his ear. It's ridiculous, he knows he's alone, but he can't seem to relax enough to pay attention to what Butcher is actually telling him. Tom finishes his cigarettes and looks at Butcher. "I'm going to get in there and tune up, okay? I'll meet you back inside." Suddenly, Tom feels like he needs about three more drinks and a lot more time to figure out what he's actually going to say to Spencer. It turns out not to be much of a problem, because Spencer isn't waiting in their dressing room, he's off doing some press with the rest of his band. Tom doesn't actually see him until after the show, almost like their first meeting. "You're drunk." Spencer's arms are crossed when he exits the hotel and sees Tom sitting on a small retaining wall that borders the parking lot. "I think I'm supposed to say you're smart?" Tom wants this playful banter to stretch on, to not have to say what he's going to say next. "Somehow I don't think I'm all that smart." Spencer shrugs and takes a seat next to Tom, pressing the sides of their thighs together. "Oh, you're doing the self-deprecation shit. That's original. God, which crappy teen movie are we in right now?" Tom taps ash away from himself. "I doubt we're in any teen movie right now. You wouldn't be some drunk asshole if we were. You know, I really don't get you." Spencer doesn't move away, but he doesn't move any closer. "I'm a pretty uncomplicated guy, Spencer Smith. It's not like what we did means something huge. It was sex." The words cost Tom a great deal more effort than they should. He looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye. Spencer stiffens up at Tom's words. "Jesus, I said I like you, it's not like I asked you to wear my school pin or my letterman's jacket." Spencer remains silent, looking down at the slightly wet pavement. "Did you think it meant we were going steady or something?" Tom's words are making both of them sick, but only one of them is dangerously close to vomiting on the sidewalk. "Are you done?" Spencer's voice is even, taut as anything Tom has ever heard. It sounds almost the way Siska does when he's talking on the phone to his parents. "Yeah, I'm done." Tom thinks he made his point. They're not in a relationship, the end. "I mean, you keep me safe, but that's hardly enough to build anything on." "I keep you safe. Right." Spencer shakes his head and before Tom knows what's going on, Spencer is taking his hand. "You know, Tom, it's not me, it's you." "You don't get to use that line on someone you aren't dating." Tom likes to think he's the smarter one here. He keeps that delusion only long enough to realize that Spencer didn't take his hand to actually hold it. In the middle of Tom's palm is his St. Christopher medal. "Your faith can't keep me safe. You can't even keep yourself safe, jackass." Spencer doesn't say anything else before looking back at the hotel. "From now on, you just stay away from me, okay? I don't want to waste any more time on you." Before Tom can formulate a response, Spencer is gone and there's only the slightly drizzle to keep him company. If Tom sleeps that night, he doesn't remember it. His throat is sore like he smoked the rest of his pack of cigarettes and his jeans say he was outside in damp weather, so he's assuming he didn't go back to the party. Just as well, he thinks, Spencer might have been there and Spencer wants space. * Spencer gets all the space he wants for the rest of the tour. Tom says exactly four words to him – "Please pass the ketchup" – before it's time for everyone to head their separate ways and not think about this tour and how everyone could see that it was tearing people apart. The tour ends in Chicago and everyone is there, friends, family, enemies. Everyone is there, wishing the bands the best of luck. It feels more like a homecoming than anything else Tom has experienced with the band to date. True to his word, Tom avoids Spencer, playing the show drunker than he's ever played any of the shows on tour. When he wakes up on Nick's couch later, he doesn't remember how he got there. "Nick?" He only knows for sure that it's Nick's place, because he recognizes the pictures on the wall. "Welcome to the land of the living, Tombo." Nick pokes his head in the room, carrying the best cup of coffee Tom has ever smelled in his life. "If you tell me that's for me and that the delicate aroma is a shot of rum to keep my stomach from shooting out of my chest a la Alien, you can have my first born child. And my second born." Tom holds his hands out for the cup of coffee, cradling it close to his chest when Nick hands it over. "You're a good man, Nick, never let anyone tell you any differently." "Crazy night, Tom." Nick looks out the window and grins. "I didn't think that people actually did decide to wear lamp shades on their heads, but apparently after Mike is done being the naked dude, he likes a lampshade hat to hide his shame." "He has no shame," Tom answers on autopilot. "I think you actually told him that before he disappeared into a bedroom with Bill. Then you just laughed and laughed, pulling out your phone to text someone. Didn't get off the damn thing all night." Nick sits down on the arm of the couch and steals the coffee mug from Tom's hands. "Oops. Probably wasn't the life of the party." Tom tries to remember what he felt was so important for him to text, but he knows it was probably just a bunch of gibberish to one number. "I wouldn't say that, you did announce your intention to open your arms and heart to minorities. You said you wanted to be the new Angelina Jolie, and you even let Siska tell you that you already had the lips and the ass." Nick grins, reaching for the remote and flicking on the TV. He switches to the weather channel. "Jesus, Grandpa, the weather channel?" Tom sits up and is amazed to discover that the coffee and it's additive really did keep him from wanting to throw up all over Nick's floor. "Hey, some of us need to know what the weather will be like. We're not going from state to state in a bus that someone else drives." Nick doesn't sound bitter, so Tom knows he's not actually upset about this. "Don't give me that, Nick, you wouldn't trade what you've got here for a life on the road again. You'd miss Steph too much." Tom looks over just fast enough to see a hint of pink on Nick's cheeks. Instead of making him feel warm inside, it just makes his stomach turn. Setting the coffee down, Tom pulls the covers up and looks at Nick. "Anyway, you don't miss it." "Yeah, yeah, just make sure you're taking pictures of everything you can. Us poor souls in Chicago need to know there's a world beyond the border." Nick laughs and looks at Tom, no hint of the blush left on his cheeks. Tom nods in return and looks at the forecast for the day. "I promise I'll take as many pictures as you want." * Warped Tour is everything Tom remembers from being an attendee and so much more. It's hot and there are few hotel nights to wash the grime off himself. He has little time to escape and take pictures, which is just as well, because he hasn't opened his lens cap in a few days. A cold beer is always more of a temptation than beautiful scenery in blistering hot sun. If anybody notices that Bill drapes himself over Tom more and more these days, they don't say anything and Tom just does what he can to stay sane, let alone stay happy. There's pressure on Warped Tour. There's always pressure, they're in a band, but there's more pressure than just that these days. An album needs to be written. Bill's words and Mike's chords need to fit together in a way they haven't before. They need to make this something that will last. Neither of them asks Tom for help and he doesn't offer it. They have their own system worked out and it's all Tom can do to keep from throwing up when he looks at them. They'll sit in the front lounge and throw ideas back and forth. When Bill is too stressed out from the weight of his own genius, he leaves for the Gym Class bus and comes back only when the line of his shoulders isn't so tight. Tom avoids looking at what that does to Mike. For some reason or another, Mike has always needed to care for the people he cares about. It's something he would consider a defect but it's something Tom considers a piece of evidence that under everything Mike is actually a nice guy. When Bill disappears, Mike is a little more on edge, like he can't be enough for Bill, enough to bring that smile back to his cheeks. Eventually, Bill stops leaving to go the Gym Class bus and Tom hears music coming from the back lounge at all hours of the night. It's soothing, almost, that they've regained their musical partnership. Tom puts earphones in as soon as he hears the music stop for the night. He doesn't want to know if they've continued any other sort of partnership. It's easier to lie to himself about the marks on Bill's neck if he doesn't hear what goes on between them at night. Retreating seems easier than talking to anyone, so Tom hides behind his camera, behind his beer, and behind his cigarettes. All three are poisoning him at different rates and it's his camera he gives up first. The camera reminds him of Jon. The same Jon who is currently making his way across the country in a bus with Spencer Smith. Every day Jon sends him pictures, and every day Tom feels a little more miserable that Jon isn't with them. He'd take Jon talking about his own dick over some of the other stuff he has to think about when he's alone. Tom sends him emails that don't make any sense, even to him, and Jon just texts back that he's been spending too much time with William. They call as often as schedules permit but Tom feels guilty about taking Jon from his new bandmates for too long. It isn't official yet, though everyone can see that the one-man Team Jon Walker campaign that Brendon has been putting on is swaying the remaining two judges. Tom thinks about the last tour he was on, how even though Jon was a total idiot and clearly in love with his own dick, he was there. It was easier to breathe with Jon. All he has now is Tony and while Tom loves Tony to death, it isn't quite the same. There's history but less familiarity. By the time Warped Tour draws to a close, Tom is only talking to Butcher for fear that anyone else will upset the delicate balance of his mind. Tom can avoid thinking of Bill and Mike but only so long as he doesn't talk to either one of them or Siska isn't telling Mike something his brother told him. There's no escaping the situation, really, so Tom has to contain it. Tom spends more time alone than ever and he's never been so glad to see Chicago's streets as he is after Warped Tour. They've all agreed to taking some time apart, to regrouping later. There's only so much of each other they can handle, even for people as tight as Butcher and Siska. Cracks were starting to show in every relationship within the band.

The first thing Tom does when he gets home is pick up his acoustic and tune it. It's a familiar process, one that requires him to focus on the sounds his fingers produce. He could do it on autopilot, but he feels like everything he does is on autopilot these days and it's the last thing he wants. He wants to feel connected to his music again. He strums softly at first, ignoring the blinking light of his answering machine. His parents know he's home but he doesn't want to see anyone right. Correction, he doesn't want to see just anyone right now. He wants to maybe see Jon, Spencer, even Brendon and Ryan. They were fun. They knew that he was more than just the sum of his parts. Unfortunately, they're winding their way around the country again, another tour for Jon to take pictures on. He's looking at it as an opportunity only while it's there. Once it's over, Jon will be back in school, finishing his degree. Tom quickly scribbles down a chord progression that he likes the sound of. It's got almost a haunting sound to it and it's been in his head since before he got home. He didn't dare try it out on the bus, not while everyone else was writing and doing their own bit for the next album. It was odd, the lack of pressure he felt at home. There was no Bill or Mike telling him not to play a part that way, and then playing it for him to demonstrate. For the first time since joining with Academy, Tom feels free to write whatever he wants. He can try out a riff and if it doesn't fit with the sound Mike and Bill have in their heads, it's okay. Grabbing himself a beer, he decides to continue working on it. The days pass like that, empty 24-packs building around him. Every so often he'll leave. There are still groceries to contend with, but for the most part Tom stays home and receives few visitors. The only person he'd like to see, he isn't allowing himself to think about. The month runs out and Bill starts making noise about getting back together to rehearse and look over the stuff they've written. When Tom gets the first message, he looks down at the sheets of music that surround him. He's not ready to give these up, to have them torn apart by Bill and Mike. Siska and Butcher have picked their sides and it isn't Tom's. Tom completely skips the first band meeting, too involved in working out the finer points of his latest creation. When Mike stops by later, Tom pretends he doesn't hear the buzzer. It's not healthy, is what Butcher tries to tell him when he stops by the next day. Butcher's beard is gone and somehow he thinks that qualifies him to give Tom real advice that should be taken seriously. "Have you even left since we got back?" Butcher looks at the piles of clothes, dishes, everything. "It's not like food brings itself here, Butcher." Tom looks around and wonders when he got to living like this. "Are you sure about that?" Butcher nudges a pizza box with his toe and Tom half-wonders if something's going to come crawling out of there. "Come on, just come out with us tonight, show us what you've got and just. Stop staying in, man, everyone misses you. I get texts from the guys when they're out and they say it isn't the same." "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but I'm not staying home for a reason, okay? I just haven't felt like going out." Tom shakes his head and looks back down at the pizza box. Butcher looks like he's going to speak for a moment and Tom can hear the words before they're formed. You need to get over Mike. I thought you were over Mike. You were doing so much better. Have you even talked to Spencer? Why did you stop talking to Spencer? Wanting to cut these questions off before they're spoken, Tom says, "I'll come out tonight, fine. Jeez. It's like you missed my pretty face or something." "Or something," Butcher agrees. "Now go shower, you smell like you rolled around in sewage. I'll be here smoking." Butcher is as good as his word. As soon as Tom steps out of the shower, he can smell Butcher's cigarettes. "I hope you opened a window, asshole," Tom shouts down the hallway. "Least of your concerns, good buddy. Wear that grey shirt you have. Bring the ladies to the table," Butcher calls back. "With that cocktail wiener you have between your legs, it wouldn't matter what I wore." Tom enjoys the good-natured ribbing that he and Butcher have always shared. It distracts him momentarily from the fact that he's going to be sharing a table with Bill and Mike. They're never obvious about what's going on between them, but it's always obvious to those who know them. "It's not the size of the ship, Tombo, it's the motion of the ocean." Tom knows that right now Butcher is doing an obscene dance in front of his window and he really should care more about what the neighbors are seeing, but he doesn't. "Okay, do I look hot enough to bring ladies to the table?" Tom enters the living room and he's uncomfortably aware of how he looks. In all honesty, he looks like he's trying too hard, but Butcher gives his thumbs up. Butcher is wearing plaid pants, so he might not be the most qualified judge. It's the first time Tom's worn something that doesn't have a stain in over a month. "You look like the sexiest asshole this side of Bob Barker." Butcher blows Tom a kiss before ashing out his cigarette. Tom just laughs and reaches for his jacket. "Sometimes I don't even know about you." * The bar turns out to be the worst idea they've ever had. Siska barely gets let in; using his brother's ID is never a good idea. It would go a lot better if Siska weighed more than a pre-pubescent girl. Bill insists on Porn Star shots for the table, something that earns a groan from everyone but Butcher. By the end of the fourth round, Tom is ready to settle in with a beer and listen to the goings on around him. After a while, Butcher starts chatting up people he knows, and Siska is still looking around nervously at his surroundings. "I think I'm going to head out, guys. I'll take the El home," Siska says while gathering his jacket in his arms. Bill just nods, fingers of one hand wrapped around the neck of a beer, and fingers of the other under the table on Mike's knee. "So how come you skipped out?" Bill's voice is a little louder than it needs to be, words slurring just slightly. "Just slipped my mind, man. Sorry. I've been doing a lot around the apartment." Tom doesn't know how much Butcher told them about what his place is like, but they accept his words at face value. "Well, you gotta come next time, we want to see what you've got for the new record." Mike looks up and meets Tom's eyes. For the first time all night, Tom flinches and looks away. He doesn't want to be involved in this. He stands abruptly from the table, making some excuse about the bathroom. Instead, he wanders to the bar, settles his tab and sneaks out. He'd been right all along, going out with them was a bad idea. * The band meeting that Tom attends isn't anything like he thought it would be. Though he has all the composed music in a messenger bag, Bill and Mike essentially tell him how the next album is going to sound, what his guitar parts will be like. Tom just nods through the conversation and feels the weight of his bag. They didn't want his contribution, they never did. They just need someone to fill out the sound, the same way the soundboard fills out Bill's voice from time to time. "This stuff looks good to you?" Mike leans over a piece of sheet music with Tom, their shoulders brushing. "Yeah, it's fine. I just don't know why you told us to take some time and work out stuff we liked if you were just going to tell us what to play anyway." Tom knows he's crossing a line, going into something he can't get out of. "Hey, we're just trying to make this sound tight. Make people forget what they saw on Warped and the last tour." Mike's voice is a little too tight for Tom to be comfortable, so he backs off. "Fine, fine. It's cool. I'll take this home and run through it. Saturday, right?" Tom looks up and meets Mike's eyes. Mike nods only once and Tom packs the music in with his own, in need of air that isn't so full of asshole. * Saturday comes and Saturday goes with Tom still in his apartment, more drunk than he's ever been in his life. He hasn't sobered up in more than a week, sleeping and waking drunk. There's a knock on his door and without even thinking to check who it is, he opens it. Mike, Bill, Siska, and Butcher are all there. Tom just has to snort, thinking that it looks like it's so serious, whatever reason they have to be here. Tom is about to tell them they should've called first, but he remembers that sometime the previous week, his phone died. He hasn't bothered charging it since, not wanting to hear from anyone. No one looks at ease, which puts Tom on edge. They're here to deliver some sort of bad news. Tom offers everyone a seat and he's grateful the place looks better than the last time Butcher was here. The cases of empties line the hall to his room and the laundry has been done. All this doesn't change Tom's level of sobriety and he finds himself wishing it did. When the small talk runs out, when the circular talk about drinking runs out, when even Bill looks at a loss for something to say, Butcher speaks up. "Fuck it. Tom, I don't think you should be in the band anymore." For Tom, the moment freezes and he looks between everyone. No one will meet his eyes except Butcher. Tom almost wants to smile at that. The only one who had the guts to say what they were all thinking and the only one who will look him in the eyes after. "You're not happy. Not even just not happy, you're miserable. And you're still our friend. All of us. We want you to be happy and I don't know if everyone agrees on this part, but you're developing a problem. I don't think being in this band is the best way to deal with that problem and I think being out of it will make you happier." When Butcher says this, it isn't unkind, which is perhaps why it hits Tom harder than if anyone else had said it. "Fuck you guys. A problem? I have a problem because I like a drink to unwind?" Tom can't believe the audacity of Bill, telling him that he has a drinking problem. Tom can't even count the number of times he had to hide Bill's drunken ass from his parents. Same goes for Mike. Siska looks just as uncomfortable as Butcher during this, but even so, Tom knows that he's no saint when it comes to drinking. "Tom, we're not trying to judge you, we're just trying to help you. And I'm sorry, but we agreed that you being out of the band is the best way to do that. For you and for us." Butcher looks down at the ground, as if he finally realizes exactly what he's doing. "Fine, I'm out of the band, but you guys are out of my apartment." Tom stands, not wanting to hear the rest of this discussion and how his friends just want to help him. If that were really the case, someone would've been there when Mike tore his heart out. They would've listened when he had new ideas to throw at them. They would've even made a conscious effort to not have booze on the bus at all times. Fuck them and their sanctimonious little ways. As Tom ushers them out of the small apartment, he knows that Butcher wants to stop and say something to him but Tom just holds up his hand. "Just get out. I don't want to hear it." Butcher nods and puts his head down as he leaves. * Tom sobers up the next day. He wasn't in the mood to drink after his bandmates (ex-bandmates, the voice inside his head likes to remind him), left. It feels awful, the awareness creeping back into his brain. It hits him that he no longer has a job, or a band, or even four of his closest friends. In the afternoon, he gets the shakes so badly that he can't even light a cigarette. On his couch, he curls up in a ball and tries to hum to himself. He hums everything from a lullaby he used to know when he was younger to the songs he's been composing for himself. When he charges his phone, there are a dozen messages from his ex-bandmates from the previous week. They get more irate as they come in. They want to know why he isn't answering, why he isn't showing up anywhere. Tom goes into the voicemail and forces himself to listen to each one on speakerphone. For some reason, it's Siska's that hits him the hardest. "Hey Tombo, we're uh. We're at my place. It's me, Sisky, we're having a meeting and you really should be here for this. I miss you, buddy." Siska. He was Bill's best friend, even though the age difference was significant when they were both in high school. Bill collects people like Siska, ones who admire him and who think he can do no wrong. It makes Tom sick, thinking that he could ever be like that. Tom shudders and looks at a crack in the ceiling. He deletes the message and hangs up his phone. He doesn't want to be in this apartment right now. Not with the way the walls are closing in on him. He does the first thing he can think of to keep himself from throwing up. Tom calls Jon. Tom has his own suspicions about Jon having heard the news already, but he doesn't call him on them. Just says, "I can't even be in Chicago right now, but I don't know where I'm going to go." "Don't be an idiot, you're going to come and see me. We both know that." Jon sounds like he can't even fathom any other course of action on Tom's behalf. "You guys are on a new tour. This is the last thing you need." Tom thinks of being in the way, thinks of seeing Spencer with someone new, someone who understands what he needs. "What are you even saying? I think this might actually be my finest idea. You can come out here, spend a week taking pictures of me, and it'll give you something to jerk off over when you're home." Jon sounds way too amused with himself for his own good. "How does everyone else feel about that?" Tom doesn't want to rub anyone the wrong way, especially after the way the last tour with Panic ended. "I think they're going to be pretty okay with it, you know? Brendon says he misses having someone with him who has an ass almost as big as his." Jon's laughter is dopey, slow. "You know, you joined the weirdest band ever. Okay. When should I be out there?" Tom wants the details hammered out before he goes to tell his parents what's happened. They're going to be worried, he knows, but he's going to tell them not to listen to anything they hear about it. "I'll email you the dates and stuff." Jon sounds distracted now and Tom can hear other voices in the room. "Hey, look. Is um. Is Spencer going to care that I'm there?" Tom doesn't want to ask it, but he needs to know. If Spencer doesn't want him there or is going to make some sort of big deal about why he's there, Tom is out. "Lemme check." And like that, Tom remembers why he hates Jon. True, Jon is his brother from another mother, but he's also the least complicated guy Tom knows. Give him a dime bag and a skin mag and he can entertain himself for hours. He also doesn't believe in letting Tom wallow in his own bullshit and he was never one for talking around an issue. "He says he doesn't care what you do, also that I shouldn't stick my nose where it doesn't belong. Not really sure why he said that, since you're my friend and this is clearly where my nose belongs." "Idiot, he's still salty. Forget it, I won't come out there. I'll just harass Nick or something." Tom looks around the room and tries to imagine an eternity here. Maybe he'll die and no one will notice because no one is expecting him to be anywhere. "No, because if you stay home you're just going to stay in your apartment until it becomes a cesspool and your body becomes a leaker and then I'm going to be out a best friend and Nick will kill me and I don't really want to die from Nick killing me. It's always been my biggest fear. Hey, you won't tell him I told you that, right?" Jon suddenly sounds like he's extremely paranoid. "No, no, I won't mention it to him." Tom stores the information away for future blackmail, but only in the event of an emergency. Like Jon being a complete dick. "If you mention it, I'm going to stick my dick in your mouth while you sleep and take pictures." Jon tries to sound threatening, but mostly he sounds high. "That just makes you look like a creep because it's your dick on film and I'm clearly passed out." Tom looks around his room and tries to determine what he needs to be packing. "What can I say, the Captain likes exploring new places. And maybe your mouth isn't completely uncharted territory, but it's certainly unfamiliar." "You know, one day I'm going to record a conversation with you and let Cassie hear it. She needs to know what kind of man she shares a bed with." Tom just shakes his head and cradles his phone between his ear and his shoulder. "And it won't be my fault when she runs screaming in the opposite direction." "Man, you wish you could hear the conversations we have when I'm home." Jon burps loudly into the receiver. "Anyway, are you going to quit being a pussy about coming out here or do I have to fly out there and smack you myself?" "Okay, I'll come out. Just give me some dates and I'll let you know my flight information." Tom clicks off the call, knowing Jon will email him everything he needs to know in order to make his arrangements. He's halfway through picking up the garbage that's been littering his floor since he got home from tour when he feels the email buzz through. The dates don't give him much time to make any plans, but he's fairly certain he can find a good deal on one of those cheapie websites. It's not like he's going to have to pay change fees or anything. Once the email to Jon has been sent, Tom sits down on his kitchen counter and breathes a little easier. He's getting out of Chicago and that's the most important thing right now. He can deal with seeing Spencer as long as he doesn't have to think about his own band and his "friends." At least, that's what Tom tells himself while he's packing and discarding shirt after shirt because he thinks Spencer will think he looks like an idiot. * Jon's waiting in the airport with a large security guard hovering nearby. Tom wants to laugh because he never thought Jon would be in a band that needed security the way these Panic boys apparently did now. "What's with the guard?" Tom whispers into Jon's ear when they hug hello. "He has a name, Tom. It's Zack, and he has protected me and my harem." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder, even though he's taller, and squeezes. "My bevy of beauties must be protected at all times lest they go missing." "Jesus, are you high already?" Tom has just noticed the faint pot smell clinging to Jon and rolls his eyes. Jon crooks a finger to Tom, motioning him to come closer. In a whisper that speaks of extreme secrecy, Jon says, "It makes the make-up easier to deal with." * It's as easy as Tom thought it would be to avoid Spencer because Spencer spends the vast majority of his time avoiding him. Even though Jon has become Spencer's favourite, he never seems to be in the room with Jon when Tom enters. It's some sort of extra sense he seems to have, exiting a room as Tom enters it. "Or it could be that when you're drunk you sound like a herd of elephants stampeding." Jon just shrugs as he looks up from his laptop. They're splitting a bottle of wine because sometime after joining the Panic pile, Jon decided he was classy. Tom has enough photographic evidence disputing this that he's not concerned about it. "Your mom sounds like a stampeding elephant," Tom mutters in return, flipping through pictures on his own laptop. Jon just nods absently in return as he types. Tom is pretty sure he's chatting with Cassie at the moment and he's also pretty sure that he doesn't want to read whatever's going on in that chat window. "No, but seriously, you're not hard to avoid. Especially if someone wants to avoid you." Nine months earlier and that sentence would've sounded like Jon was talking about Mike. Nine months earlier and that's what Tom would've heard. Present tense and with half a bottle of Pinot Noir running through his veins and all Tom can think about is Spencer and the way he'd looked at the end of the last tour. "Fuck it, I don't want to fight with him anymore, you know? He was-" "Please don't talk about your rebound sex with my bandmate? Hearing you and Mike was bad enough. I don't know why you think hotel walls are thicker in England than they are in the states, but they're not. Future reference." Jon cuts Tom off and reaches for his glass of wine, draining the last of it in one gulp. "Future reference? I don't want to hear you and Cass having sex on my couch at the next house party. Just saying." Tom tries to deflect it, like he doesn't want to talk about Spencer anymore. He knows he could count on Brendon if he really wanted to talk about Spencer. For reasons unknown to Tom, Brendon loves talking about Spencer's love life and which male celebrity Spencer would be best with. His personal opinion is that Kevin Spacey and Spencer would make the best couple. Tom tries to argue that two bottoms wouldn't work, but Brendon doesn't seem magnificently concerned with the mechanics of gay sex as he's saving himself for Prince Eric. He's also not magnificently concerned that his life is not Who Framed Roger Rabbit and he can't actually interact with cartoon characters. * "So, no, think about it, Spencer showing up at a red carpet with Kevin Spacey? His hips tilting toward Kevin's? It'd look so perfect." Brendon lets out an audible sigh and Tom has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. "No, I don't want him with Kevin Spacey! I want him to show up at a red carpet with me, tilting his hips at me!" Tom thinks he's made this point before but after the fourth or fifth Corona, it's kind of hard to be sure. "But you don't look anything like Kevin Spacey! How would that even work?" Brendon doesn't think this is as good a plan as Tom thinks it is and Tom kind of wants to shake Brendon until he agrees that it is a good plan and that Spencer's tilty, tilty hips should be tilted at him. He looks at Brendon to see him resting his eyes and leaning back against the pillows in the hotel bed Tom shakes his head and reaches for his beer, draining it in a few long pulls. Spencer, he needs to find Spencer and apologize. That would be a start. Rather than use his phone, the number to which Spencer has and recognizes, Tom takes Brendon's phone from his hand and scrolls through the contacts. Most are entered as "that guy from Kinkos with the bangin' ass." Spencer is listed under his own name, thank goodness. Tom doesn't think he's sober enough to remember Spencer's number from memory. That should've been his first clue. That should've been what told him this was a bad idea. Instead, he looks over at Brendon and decides that the bathroom will offer more privacy. Jon isn't in the room yet. He's down in the hotel bar with everyone else, probably wishing Cassie was nearby so he could do something disgusting with her. Jon is really disgusting, Tom decides as he locks the door to the bathroom, holding the ringing phone to his ear. When Spencer answers, he sounds tired. He sounds like he could use another two hours of sleep before he even considers waking up for a phone call from Brendon. He sounds like he hasn't even gotten to bed yet. "Brendon, I don't care if you're too drunk to remember calling your parents is a bad idea. It is and you know it is, so go the fuck to bed." Tom snorts because Spencer kind of sounded like a girl at the end of that sentence. "You're so pissed off right now, aren't you?" "Tom?" Spencer's voice takes on a strange quality that Tom doesn't know how to interpret. He rubs at the bridge of his nose, nodding until he remembers that Spencer can't hear a nod. He looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. Was there always that man in the mirror? Did he always look like that? "Tom? If you're just calling to tell me I'm pissed off, then I'm really not interested in this conversation." That tone is one Tom recognizes. Spencer's cool, frosty tone is one that Tom is now intimately familiar with. Whenever Tom hasn't been able to avoid them, when Jon has insisted that Tom and Spencer are in the same room because he's a meddling bastard, that's the tone Spencer uses with everyone until he's permitted to leave. "Jon is a meddling bastard," Tom announces this to Spencer like it's news, like Spencer hasn't spent the past few months getting to know that on the road. "Okay, if you're calling to tell me that, I'm hanging up." Spencer's voice sounds like it's getting further away from the mouthpiece of his phone. "Wait!" Tom just got up the guts to call Spencer. It can't be over this quickly. "What, Tom?" The voice on the other end of the signal sounds is too open to interpretation. Tom can't figure out what this one means. He looks over at the mirror again and decides that it either needs to be smashed, or he does. After a moment, Tom answers. "Come outside for a cigarette with me?" It's where everything started, it might as well be what helps everything come together, right? "Tom, you're drunk. There's absolutely no way that I'm coming downstairs to go out for a cigarette with you so just go to bed." Spencer's voice is unreadable, something Tom hates. Spencer and Ryan have that uncanny ability to go monotone whenever they have something important that needs to be kept close to their chest. "Spence, I'm drunk and I need to talk to you." "Pardon me for not giving a flying fuck about what you need while you're drunk, you're always drunk when you come to me," Spencer says dryly. "I need to sleep and you need to do the same." Tom doesn't have a chance to say anything else before Spencer clicks off the call. Tom looks at Brendon's phone, glaring when he realizes Spencer isn't on the other end any longer. He shakes his head and sets the phone down on the bathroom counter. His pack of cigarettes is in the other room, so he can't actually just smoke in here, but he does decide to sit in there and think. He's drunk. Spencer thinks he's always drunk. Spencer thinks he's always a douchebag. Is he drunk because he's a douchebag or is he a douchebag because he's drunk? Is Spencer even right? Tom looks in the mirror again and nods; Spencer is right. Once Tom has reached that conclusion, he realizes that he needs to come up with some sort of plan. But a plan much better than his previous plans, because every plan he's had when it comes to Spencer has been complete shit. Spencer deserves more than that, especially after putting up with what Tom put him through. That's the thought that has Tom leaning over the toilet to vomit up the beer churning in his stomach. * In the morning, with the light streaming into the window, Tom wants to die. He doesn't think he's ever been so hungover from so few beers in his life. Of course, he'd been drinking before he came to Brendon's room and the beer probably hadn't helped, but still. Tom Conrad wants to die. He has a vague memory of calling Spencer but has no idea what the conversation could have been about. It takes half an hour of mentally prepping himself before Tom is ready to get off the floor of the bathroom and face the world. Unfortunately, the face in the mirror isn't ready to greet the world. Tom is a pale green color, lips a stark red in contrast. Just the thought of leaving this tiny room has him ready to bend over the toilet again. A pounding on the door stops him. "Tom, if you're dead, I'm moving you because I need to use the bathroom. You can puke in the sink." Tom groans. Brendon's room. Of course that's where he'd pick to pass out. They were talking the previous evening about Kevin Spacey. How had he gone from Kevin Spacey to calling Spencer? Oh, God. Did he tell Spencer not to date Kevin Spacey? Tom hits the redial button on Brendon's phone and steps out of the bathroom, gesturing for Brendon to go on in. There's a balcony attached to the room, so Tom goes out onto it. Patting his pockets produces a pack of half-crushed cigarettes. He rolls one back into shape and places it between his lips, waiting for Spencer to answer. It goes straight to voicemail and the cigarette drops from Tom's lips to the pavement below. He sputters out "Spencer" before disconnecting the call. Not trusting himself not to drop the phone, Tom pockets it. He's only got another day here, another day where he has to face Spencer and not shake him and ask him what he has to do to fix this. He has some pride. Except for the times where he doesn't actually have any. Like today's bus ride, which he spends practically staring at Spencer while Spencer watches episodes of C.S.I. on the television with unwavering focus. He doesn't even answer his phone, probably because he might take his attention away from the episode and accidentally make eye contact with Tom. "Tom, you're staring," Jon tries to mutter casually. Only it comes out in the same voice Jon uses for everything. Brendon and Ryan start snickering to each other and look at Spencer, watching him turn red. "Okay, come on." Jon hauls Tom to the back lounge and closes the door. "Okay, you have to stop staring. Ryan is probably messaging me right now to ask if you're actually retarded. I keep having to tell him that you're not." "I'm not retarded." This distracts Tom long enough for him to look up at Jon, just in time to get slapped in the face. "Then stop mooning like a teenage girl about him! I swear to God, I feel like I'm going to look over at you writing Mrs. Tom Smith in the front cover of your purple unicorn notebook. Pull yourself together before I have to slap you with my dick." "It's not that bad." Tom really doesn't think he's been staring like that. Maybe he let his eyes linger, but it wasn't like he was about to sigh and burst into songs about the two of them being made for each other. "Tom, I love you, you're my best friend in the entire world. Right now, you're being a total idiot. If you want him, you tell him and you do whatever it takes to get him. If that means that you have to grovel, you grovel." "Wait a minute, if I'm your best friend in the entire world, why aren't you yelling at him to treat me better?" Tom catches the discrepancy in Jon's words. "Okay, hold on, I'm going to message Ryan and back and tell him I was wrong." Jon rolls his eyes and opens the door to the back lounge. "He's not the one who screwed this up, Tom. You and I both know that." * That night in the hotel room after the show, Jon's laughter is loose and easy, flowing at the same rate the wine is. "I'm gonna miss you, you know. It's not the same. I have my tiny, tiny boys, but I don't have the men." "Do you miss it, though?" Tom tries to think of any time he hasn't seen Jon completely happy on this tour. "I'd be lying if I said I really missed it. I have my own techs now. Maybe I would've finished school, maybe not, but this chance. Tom, that's one thing you have to learn to do. You have to take chances. That's the Tom I became friends with." Jon is just drunk enough to be soft around the edges he'd usually cover up with comments about his dick. "I take chances," Tom starts to protest. "Not anymore, man. Not really. I don't know what Mike did but it fucked you up. If you ever need to tell someone, you know I'm here for you and I'll listen but it really... Anyway, it fucked you up royally and turned you into this," Jon gestures up and down with his free hand before taking a sip of wine. "You don't take risks anymore, Tom. And that really sucks. Because when you bet big, yeah, you can lose big but you also at least have a chance to win big." "If you tell me to put it all on black, you won't wake up with the Captain still attached to you," Tom's too drunk to actually have a serious conversation where he gets told what to do with his life and his emotions. "If you cut off the Captain, Cass'll have words for you and I promise they won't be of the 'Oh, Tom, that shirt looks good on you' variety," Jon drains his wine glass and stretches before slipping off his jeans. Jon moves to turn down the covers on the large bed they were sharing for the evening. "Okay, come on, you have a flight to catch. I'll be the big spoon and I won't even try to stick it in and swish it around." "I'm never coming to visit you on a tour again." He looks at Jon, shaking his head before climbing into the bed with him. "That's a lie, Tom, and we both know it," Jon mutters before his breathing evens out and sleep overtakes the room. * The flight home is mercifully short and Tom sleeps through most of it. He remembers the seatbelt sign turning off, because that's his everything's okay sign, and then he remembers feeling the plane touch down at O'Hare. There's no one to get him and Tom doesn't feel like blowing money on a cab, so he hauls his bags through the transit system of his beloved city, and walks the last few blocks to his front door. For the first time in months, Tom doesn't want to be drunk. He thinks about the empty bottles in his apartment, the dregs of which are probably fermenting to create a super-alcohol. He doesn't want that in his system. Unfortunately, he doesn't know any other way to be at the moment. Tomorrow, he'll figure that out tomorrow, because right now, all he wants is to forget the way Spencer said goodbye to him. "Well, it's a shame to see you go, Tom." Insincere bastard couldn't even sound like he meant it. Ryan was definitely on Tom's shit list. He's had more than enough of Ryan's opinions swaying Spencer, pretending he was a perfect saint himself. "Yeah, but you'll get over it," Tom shrugged. He wanted to say goodbye to Jon in peace. Even Brendon, not normally a thorn in Tom's side, was grating and far too chipper. When Jon hugged Tom, he muttered, "just hug him. This is how he shows he's actually going to miss you, fuckwad." Tom took Jon's advice and was surprised at the tight grip Brendon had on him and the way he took a moment longer than he should have to let go. "Don't be a stranger, you're welcome on my doorstep any time, Tom." Then Tom turned to Spencer, who was busy tapping out messages on his cell phone to some unknown recipient. "Guys, we should get going. We're running off schedule." When he noticed Tom's shoulders slumped, he pocketed his phone. "Travel safe," he finally said before turning and heading back over to the door of the airport. Jon squeezed Tom's shoulder and tried to manage a smile. "Figure it out, dude. That's all I got for you. I'll see you when I get home." Tom doesn't want to think about Spencer's goodbye, so he focuses on what Jon had said. Jon had told him twice to figure it out. Tom knows this is his fault. That has never been in question. He knows that his reactions in the days after sleeping with Spencer were not the best reactions to have. He looks at himself in the mirror and rubs at his jaw. The conversation from the bathroom of the hotel comes back to him. Drinking. Tom looks at his cases of bottles and shakes his head. Those have to go. * A few days later, Jon calls Tom. "Holy shit, you're never going to guess where we're going after the New Year. Just guess. You won't, but you're going to have to anyway or I won't tell you." "You're going to Barbados," Tom throws out the first location that pops into his head. "I wish!" Tom recognizes the tone Jon uses, the one that says Jon is about to forget the point of his initial story and tell Tom about the many and varied things his dick could do in Barbados. Tom decides immediately to nip that in the bud. "So where are you off to, then?" "We're going to a cabin in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere to write the next album." Jon says it like it's the most incredible thing in the world, like he's actually really excited. Tom tries to muster up the same level of enthusiasm. "Are you sure they aren't taking you out there to kill you and dispose of the body?" "No, but what a way to go. If I don't get cell phone reception, I'll try to figure out how to get a telegraph to you that says I'm in danger." Tom smiles at Jon's words. "But the point is, I want you to come visit for a week or so. Get your head out of Chicago." Jon apparently knows without needing to be told that Tom is still hiding out in his apartment as if all of Chicago, not just his ex-bandmates, consider him persona non grata. "I don't know, I've got a lot going on here." It isn't a lie, not really. Tom has things that are going on. They just don't involve what used to go on for him. "You've got time to think about it, okay? I just." Jon cuts himself off, not letting himself say he's worried about Tom. The thought weighs more than the action to Tom. That's when he decides Jon deserves to know what's really going on. "It's just, I've got these meetings. And they're. I don't know, they seem like they're helping." Tom knows this part, he knows that he needs to admit to Jon he has a problem, but it almost doesn't seem like the conversation for it, miles and wires keeping them apart. "So, you admitted you had a problem?" Jon asks the question as casually as he would ask what Tom had for breakfast that morning. This draws another smile across Tom's face. He nods, even though Jon can't see it, before continuing. "Yeah, I admitted I have a problem." He's careful to use present tense, because if there's one thing he knows, it's that it's on-going and that a few meetings don't just fix it, no matter how much he'd like it to be that simple. "Generally this results in a huge spiritual awakening, Tombo, am I going to come home to a bible salesman for a best friend?" And just like that, Tom knows Jon is okay with it. He won't joke about something he doesn't feel comfortable about. "Yeah, you are. I'm going to drag your heathen ass to church and make you and the Captain repent of all your sins." "Hey, man is responsible for his own sins and not for the fall of Siska. I'm not responsible for the Captain's indulgences, as many and varied as they are. Should've paid better attention when you were studying to be an altar boy." "Fuck you! I was never an altar boy," Tom's voice gets shrill when he thinks about having to wear those robes and have to participate in mass. His knees ache just thinking about the hard wooden floors of his church. "Mmmm, right. Well, look, I'm being called away, but keep me up to date on this stuff, okay? I don't like feeling this out of the loop," Jon goes for indignant but it doesn't come out quite right. "You're the one who picked the harem over the stables, Jonny, just remember that." Tom disconnects the call before having to hear another comment about Jon's perception of religion. When he looks in the mirror, he notices that the smile is still there, even when his eyes travel down to the St. Christopher medal, hanging around his neck as heavy as a millstone. * When Tom decides to go to the cabin, it's because Jon thinks he might kill his bandmates otherwise. "I'm too pretty for prison, Tom. Even you said you'd sell me for cigarettes!" "I would, your ass would fetch a pretty penny," Tom clamps the phone between his ear and his shoulders as he tries to figure out how many pairs of underwear is too many. He hasn't packed for tour in forever and it's enough to have made him forget that the idea is to pack light. He knows he can just steal clothes from Jon if it comes down to it, but there's something comforting in packing clothes and removing them. It gives him a chance to forget about his nerves over seeing Spencer for the first time since starting his meetings. "So, I'm not supposed to say anything because I'm sworn to secrecy in the order of Panic, but it's come to my attention that a certain boy has been asking about when you'll be here." Tom drops his phone at the statement. Dropping a pair of socks and tripping as he scrambles for the phone, Tom manages to sputter, "What?" "Someone has been asking when you were getting here," Jon laughs and it sounds genuine. "No shit. Swear you're not yanking my chain." Tom sits on the floor and tries to think about how he can possibly convince Spencer that he isn't a person with diminished mental capacities. He needs to make that better impression. "Tom, of all the things to yank on you, your chain would be the last thing I'd pick. Brendon's been asking when your fine ass is coming." Jon apparently has no concept of what it means to cup the phone so the person on the other hand doesn't have to listen to him shout, "I'll be right there, Brendon! No, I'm coming, I'm just on the phone!" "The harem calls?" "Bitchy little harem girl wants to play Guitar Hero because he hasn't kicked my ass enough at it this week," Jon huffs and Tom guess it's time to let him go. "Call me when you get to the airport and I'll come get you. By myself, even." "Harems don't need protection in the woods?" "If they want them, they're welcome to them. Did you know Ryan started doing calisthenics at ass o'clock this morning? And then tried to make us join in with him! I don't even know, man. It's too weird here some days. Anyway, I'll talk to you later." Like that, Jon hangs up. The train ride to the airport isn't so bad, not really. It's not as familiar as it once was, but it's by no means terrible. People leave him alone and he boards his flight without thinking about whether or not they'll serve alcohol. His bank account is thanking him for the meetings, for the way it doesn't get drained to the bottom any longer. The flight seems shorter than it is as Tom flips through photos on his laptop, carefully edits some of them. It's only a few minutes, or so it seems, before the captain announces their decent and the local temperature. As promised, Jon is waiting at the airport for him with a sign that says "TOM!!!" and has a few stickers. "Brendon had shit leftover from when he went to go see his nephews. Said it would make you feel more welcome than just me," Jon explains when they've parted. "Well, it worked. Just you? Pfft, give me a sign with Spongebob on it." Tom hefts his bags and follows Jon to the rental car. "We also have to do a grocery run. We're completely out of Cheetos and Funyons. I don't even know who eats the Funyons." Jon is babbling a little nervously, so Tom knows something's up. "What happened? Did someone use someone else's last pair of clean socks?" Tom doesn't particularly want to walk into the middle of one of those fights. They're almost always about something bigger. Even if they aren't about anything bigger, they still get fucking vicious when you're cramped together in a small space. "It's just, I know you're doing really awesome with the meetings and stuff and there's. Well, there's drinking at the cabin." Jon keeps his hands at ten and two as he navigates the roads leading out of the airport. Tom laughs for a moment before he realizes that Jon is truly ill at ease. "Jon, I don't give two shits if you guys drink. It's really okay with me. It's not like I'll always be in situations where there isn't booze. This is real life." "Yeah, I know, I just don't want you to feel uncomfortable or that there's pressure to drink or anything. And if you want me to stay sober with you, I will." "Jesus, no. No way, this is your time to do whatever you need to do to write this next album. It's not like any of you guys are waking up in puddles of your own puke or blacking out and not remembering long sections of a day." Tom is inadvertently admitting to Jon what happened to him. "No, it's not like that. It's usually just a couple of beers while we watch a movie. I don't know. We go green more than anything else." "And that's something I can get on board with." Tom punches Jon's shoulder as lightly as he can. "Hope you remembered how to get back, because I'm not hitchhiking to the gas station when you run out and insist you can't be the hitchhiker because sexual predators would pick you up and I'd never hear from you again." "A valid concern when you look as good as I do. And now, we pick up food," Jon pulls into a convenience store parking lot and pulls his hood up. * The days at the cabin don't pass as quickly as the days on tour. There's no place to go when things get tense but up on the roof. That's where Tom ends up running Spencer most often. At first, Spencer just smokes his joint in silence while Tom puffs away on his own cigarette. The fourth time it happens, Spencer offers his joint to Tom and looks shocked when he turns it down. "Sorry, I'm trying to…" "Yeah, Jon explained it. Sort of." Spencer's voice sounds strained as he holds the smoke in. "I'm guessing that's why you don't drink any of the beer." "Well, that and the beer is Corona. If I'm going to get drunk, you better believe it'll be off something slightly better than that." Tom makes a face at the thought of the beer, thinking instead of the beer from Sam's, the place down the street from his apartment. "Oh, well, I'm sorry our beer isn't up to your refined palate." Spencer's smiling when he says it, so he knows it isn't meant to be mean. "It's okay, you can't be perfect." It slips out without Tom meaning it to. The silence it causes is louder than anything Tom has ever heard. "I mean." "Don't worry about it," Spencer cuts Tom off. "I just meant, you guys, not you in particular," Tom stammers, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks around at the surrounding woods. "Are we still not talking about that?" Tom freezes with the cigarette halfway to his lips. In all the months that had passed since their last real conversation, Tom had never guessed that Spencer had anything to say he hadn't already said. "I didn't realize there was anything left you wanted to say to me." "You never really asked." Spencer ashes carefully into the lid of a jam jar. "Oh. Well, is there anything left you wanted to say to me?" Tom looks at Spencer from the corner of his eye. "Yes. No. Yes." Spencer looks like he's considering things, judging by the emotions that pass over his face. "What you did really sucked, you know that. You do know that, right?" The tone isn't chastising, it's curious. "I know that." Tom does know. It's in his journal. There are things he needs to make amends for. The sad part is, Spencer is fairly low on that list. "I just don't really understand why you were such a d-bag. You never tried to explain anything to me. I know that part of it was Mike. I don't know what he did that fucked you up so bad, and I don't expect you to tell me. I guess I just want to know if that was what was keeping you back." Spencer doesn't make eye contact the entire time he's speaking. "Yes. No. Yes." Tom tries to remember everything he's spent the last few months sorting through. "I. I have problems. I've acknowledged them, but they're still problems." "I really wish you hadn't dragged me into the middle of them," Spencer mutters. "I wasn't trying to. Well, I was at first. But then I realized some shit and I realized I didn't want to drag you into it. And I," Tom takes a deep breath. He can't believe he's admitting this. "I was trying to protect myself." "Protect yourself?" "If you don't let anyone in, they can't hurt you." "It's a lonely life though." Spencer shifts over on the roof, reaching for Tom's cigarettes, lighting one for himself. "I've seen other people do that, Tom." "I know it's lonely. I was just trying to keep myself safe, the same way you were trying to." Tom's mouth quirks up at the thought of that conversation. "The difference there is that I wasn't hurting someone else to keep you safe. There wasn't really a reason for self-defense, to hurt me." "I know that now. Believe me, I know that." The breeze has turned cold outside and Tom wishes for the other half of Jon's bed, where the covers can be pulled up and the monsters can't get him. It worked when he was little, it should work now. "Maybe it's time to take that knowledge and turn it into action." Again, the words aren't condescending. It's the closest thing that he's had to an invitation from Spencer for a year, at least, and Tom doesn't intend to waste it. "Come visit me in Chicago." "Pardon me?" "I'm taking my knowledge, making it action. Come visit me in Chicago. You can see everything you haven't seen yet." Tom knows Spencer can take that however he wants to and he's praying as hard as he ever has in his life for Spencer to say yes. The only things he's ever prayed for as hard as this was getting out of his parents' house, was for his bands to make it. Those prayers weren't half as important as this one. "No, Tom." Spencer stands, not before pressing his cigarette into the jam jar lid. He doesn't waste a moment before climbing back into the window and leaving it open. Tom knows that he won't be in the room when he climbs back in, so he finishes the rest of his cigarette, trying to keep from putting it out on his palm to feel something. * The rest of the days at the cabin are quite without incident. Ryan breaks Brendon's lucky bong; Jon beats Tom at Guitar Hero; Spencer plays the acoustic guitar one night and Tom recognizes the chords of Kumbaya. The final night at the cabin, Jon decides to barbecue in honor of Tom's visit. There are beers passed around, and as usual Tom waves his off. It's more interesting to watch the dynamic of the group the more alcohol is introduced. "You're not impressing anyone, you know." Ryan has had enough pot to come over and seat himself next to Tom, stealing one of his potato wedges. "I'm not doing this to impress anyone. If that's what you think I'm doing this for, you're sorely mistaken." Tom is a little crabby, he can admit that. He didn't get enough sleep the night before and now he's wishing he could just be in bed, given his early flight out. "Oh, I didn't mean the sobriety. I meant this brooding artist shit you're pulling right now. You're. Well. To be honest, you're not fooling me. You're sure as hell not fooling Spencer." Ryan leans in, stealing another potato wedge. "He'll get over you, everyone does." "Ryan, I know you're trying to look out for your best friend right now. I respect that, I really do, I asked around about you guys when you wanted Jon for your own. Ultimately though, the decision was his. I would do the same thing if Jon decided to dump Cassie and date someone else. But ultimately, you need to remember that this decision isn't yours." Tom is trying as hard as he can not to drive a fist right through Ryan Ross' smirk. "If he does make the wrong decision and you do hurt him again, I'll kill you and they'll never find the body, Tom. Just remember that." Ryan claps Tom on the shoulder and stands up, leaving Tom to ponder whether he'd really just heard Ryan threaten him with bodily harm. Toward the end of the evening, it dwindles down to Jon and Tom passing a joint back and forth. "I'm thinking you got shit done while you were out here, right?" "Is that what you were hoping would happen?" "Fuck no, I just missed your ugly face." Jon shrugs and exhales a slow series of smoke rings. "Are we getting deep? If so, I'm going to need another joint." "No, we're not going to get deep. I got some shit figured out, so I guess we'll see. It's not like I'm not going to text you, whatever I do decide to do." Tom reaches for his cigarettes, anxious to get the taste of pot out of his mouth. "You better. I think you know what'll happen if you don't text me as soon as you get past security. I'm needy, Tom, I don't think you know." Jon throws an arm around Tom's shoulder and squeezes. Tom laughs and leans into Jon briefly. "You're like a phone that vibrates for no reason." "I'm an NRB, Tombo, no reason for me to be there, but I demand attention. Don't you forget it. But seriously, you figured your shit out with Spencer, right? He didn't look like he wanted to murder your ass." Jon steals Tom's cigarette, placing it between his own lips. "I guess you could say we figured it out," Tom thinks that's the right way to phrase their conversation. "Hey, don't worry so much, okay? He'll come around. He always does when it's something worth fighting for." * Tom returns to his apartment, phone pressed to his ear. "No, Sean, trust me, that's not the chord progression you want. No, we'll talk about it when you're done work. You have coffee to be serving." Without waiting for a response from his new bandmate, Tom hangs up his sidekick and tries to place what's off about his apartment. It seems warmer than it did when he left. It isn't that unusual during the spring. He has great windows but the place cooks on sunny days. Ordinarily he's good about closing the curtains, but in the two weeks he's had Jon back in Chicago with him, little things like that have been slipping. He's been attending his meetings, going to work, writing songs. He's been keeping busy so he doesn't have to think about exactly what is missing in his life. Spencer hadn't returned with Jon, nor had he called Tom since he'd been back. At this point, there was nothing Tom wanted more than to be able to write Spencer off as a lost cause, but he still couldn't let go of the memory of waking up next to him in the weak light of morning in a hotel room. Jon has done his best to keep Tom's mind off it, offering endless videogame championships. It isn't the same as falling asleep next to a warm body, but it's close enough. Companionship during the day is enough. Tom sets his bag on the kitchen floor and sets the kettle up to boil. Hot tea will calm him down and it'll help him sleep tonight when his thoughts start to drift. It occurs to him that there's a slight rustling coming from his bedroom and he prays he didn't just walk into a home invasion in progress. He doesn't even know what they would get. Then it occurs to him that his cameras are in there. Grabbing a baseball bat from the front entry, Tom begins to creep toward his bedroom. When he kicks open the unlatched door, bat raised high above his head, he nearly screams at what he sees. Spencer. Spencer stretched across his bed. His eyes are closed but the noise of the bat clattering to the floor opens them at once. He sits up, his hair flying in different directions. "Huh?" "Spencer?" Tom isn't sure this isn't a dream. If he's relapsed and is hallucinating from drinking too much, he'll take this hallucination. "Hi, Tom," Spencer sits up and looks down at the duvet cover on Tom's bed. "You. You're here." "Jon let me in, I hope that's okay. When you left, I started thinking. And I realized that was really putting yourself on the line. Since I made you take action, the least I could do was at least try to meet you half-way." Spencer smiles and Tom realizes he'll stop breathing if he doesn't start kissing him right now. It takes Tom a few attempts at separating from him before he finally manages to tip his forehead against Spencer's and murmur, "best thing he's ever brought into this apartment, and you can tell him that includes himself."