delicatale

The Nanny - JuddJones - Chapter 5

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 07:59:31 GMT

Title: The Nanny
Author: Ellie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: AU - Romance
Part: 5/?
Summary: Harry Judd, 25, was recently granted the custody of daughter Ella Judd, one and a bit, after his ex-wife moves to New-York. He thought he'd be fine, but quickly he's overwhelmed and he has to hire a full-time nanny to help with Ella, and around the house. But when he hires Danny Jones, qualified nanny, there's a lot more than a little help that comes his way.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. This is actually the second leg of my NaNo. More! I'm so sorry for the wait, life has been a bit crazy around here lately. I hope you enjoy anyway!
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Previous Chapters: One // Two // Three // Four

When he gets to the office in the morning on Monday, Harry's head is full of good memories from the weekend. After that eventful time at Gio and Tom's, they went back to their usual routine, and this weekend they mostly baked, cookies and Victoria sponge for Harry to teach Ella later, when she's older. It ended in an almost food fight, only stopped short by Ella's demanding cries to be changed.

Harry, as a result, spends a good big chunk of his Monday morning daydreaming about the feel of Danny's fingers on his cheek as he smeared flour there, or his smile as he tried to lick the jam off his own nose.

Harry's so deep into it's not even funny any more. Sighing, he sets himself to work at some point, deciding he wouldn't think about bloody Danny Jones any more today.

He manages for a good portion of the day, not even emailing Dougie to ask for opinions and advice, just working, working, letting his brain be flooded by numbers instead of pretty brown curls and glinting blue eyes.

But it's mid-afternoon when Harry gets an impromptu call, and it startles him a little, especially when he sees it's Danny, worry immediately settling in Harry's throat.

"Is Ella okay?"

"She is fine, yeah. I'm still calling for an emergency, though. I, um. I was ironing Ella's things in my room and she started crying so I went to change her, and I left the iron on her red dress and -"

Harry's stomach drops. He can feel himself blanching, sweat breaking on his brow.

"The fire fighters got there quickly so it's not too bad, it's only my room, half of it really, but. Oh, fuck, Harry, I don't know, I. Shit."

"Are you okay?"

Danny sounds so different than usual, worried, scared. He's probably in shock. Harry's already gathering his stuff.

"I'm fine, Ella's fine, but -"

"Don't worry about the room right now, Danny. I'll be on my way shortly."

"You're going to fire me, aren't you?"

That didn't even cross Harry's mind, to be honest. He might be biased, but Danny's a fucking good employee. He does more than he's paid for, and well, Harry cares for him. He'll just. He'll find a solution.

"What? No! Just wait, okay? I'll be right there."

**

When Harry walks into his house, he can smell the fire, cold remnants of smoke and ashes. Danny's in the living-room, holding Ella close to him as she sleeps, his face worried, his bottom lip swollen, bitten red. Harry doesn't even take his jacket or shoes off, just goes to sit by his side, looking down at Ella for a moment before looking up into Danny's eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Harry, I'm so, so sorry, you have no idea, God. How could I let this happen? Fuck, I just -"

"Calm down, okay? It's all right. You're fine, she's fine, it's what matters the most."

"I'll help pay for the repairs, I swear, even if you fire me I'll pay for it."

"I'm not firing you, Dan. Okay? It was a mistake. A big one, sure, but still, just a mistake. We'll see how much it costs and then go from here. Can you sleep in there?"

"No."

"Okay. We'll settle you here then while it's being redone."

"I called the fire people and then took Ella outside the house so she wouldn't inhale any smoke. They were here fast, luckily."

"Yeah, they're only a few minutes away. You need some rest, I think. Thank you for taking care of her."

Danny's biting his lip again, looking as if he's going to cry in a minute. Harry doesn't think, wrapping an arm around Danny's shoulder and bringing him close. Danny leans in, burying his face in Harry's neck, a sob escaping him.

"I'm so sorry. So sorry..."

"It's okay, Danny. It's okay. You get some rest, all right? I'll check the room and make a few calls."

Danny nods, tears wetting Harry's skin, the material of his jacket. He runs his fingers through the curls at the back of Danny's head, honestly unable to help himself, despite the circumstances, through it all. It still makes him want to moan, he still feels his stomach muscles tighten and Danny calms down, sighing softly against Harry's neck. Harry closes his eyes forcefully, before counting to five in his head and pulling back, restraining himself from brushing tears away from Danny's cheeks.

"Ella will be sleeping for a while longer, so you can just lie down here with her, yeah? I'll make dinner. Got time for once."

Danny nods gratefully, relief shining brightly in his eyes.

"Thank you."

**

The room is actually not as bad as Harry imagined it to be. It needs to be cleaned, cables have to be changed, painting has to be done, and furniture has to be bought, but overall, it's really not as catastrophic as Harry thought it would be at first. Nothing they can't overcome, definitely. Not worse than when Georgia left with half the furniture either.

Harry turns around in the bed for the umpteenth time tonight, unable to find sleep at all. He's wide awake, staring into the night and wondering if Danny is asleep himself. Harry has spent countless nights on that sofa Danny's on right now, he knows how uncomfortable it is. Plus, with the day he had, Harry feels terrible, thinking of Danny lying down on that battered couch with the lamp post shining in his eyes from outside.

He bites the inside of his lip again, tonguing at it after a moment, wincing a little at how raw and sensitive it feels. Fuck it, he'll just - yeah.

Getting out of bed, Harry tiptoes out of his bedroom and past Ella's, checking on her, if only because he can't help it, only to see she's still soundly sleeping, little fists clenched tight, thumb stuck in her mouth. Harry smiles, turning back and then going downstairs, as silently as he can, leaning down to try and see if Danny's sleeping. There's a movement, though, the sofa creaking, and Harry stops for a second.

"Harry?"

Not asleep, then. Harry gets to the bottom step, walking to Danny. He's lying down on the couch, but he's too broad for it and his limbs are just not sofa-sized, and he looks a bit ridiculous, in an adorable way, his eyes sleepy and pillow creases marking the side of face when he sits up.

"Something wrong, Harry? Did you change your mind? Are you firing me now?"

Harry sits on the coffee table, facing Danny, and rolls his eyes as Danny turns immediately panicked.

"No. I just thought - you're exhausted, and this couch is really not the most comfortable thing. And I can't really sleep, so I thought you should take my bed, and I'll settle here."

Danny's eyes turn suddenly serious, his face closed.

"No way."

"But -"

"No, Harry, you're not sleeping here because of me. I mean, I'd love an actual bed, but not at your expense."

Harry's heart starts beating faster at the sudden idea rushing through his brain. Is he actually going to ask that? What if Danny says no?

"Let's share, then."

Well, brain to mouth filter shut again, apparently. Harry definitely spends too much time talking to Dougie and Frankie. He feels himself flush as his eyes dart away from Danny's.

"You sure that wouldn't be a problem? My back is seizing up on this sofa."

God, he didn't say no. Oh God oh God oh God, are they actually going to sleep in the same bed? The mere idea makes Harry's skin tingle.

"My bed's big. And I'd rather you have a good night of sleep than you falling asleep on the job tomorrow. So really, I don't mind."

Danny seems to be thinking about it for a moment longer, before nodding, a faint smile appearing on his lips. It's the first one since the fire.

"Okay, then. Thank you, Harry."

"Hey, it's nothing. Come on."

The closer they get to the bedroom, the sweatier Harry's palms become, itching to grab onto Danny's hand, his brain on overload, the possibilities mixed with his own feelings, his lust making him feel almost light-headed. God, they're just going to sleep in the same bed. It's not meant to be anything else than this. He better get a grip.

"I sleep on the right side."

"Okay, cool. I don't mind."

Harry smiles, watching Danny slide under the covers, his breath a bit short. He really wants to say something funny, something to lighten up Danny's mood, but his tongue is tied, because Danny is in his bed, shirtless, only wearing boxers, and Harry can only mumble something before getting under the covers himself.

They move around a bit, adapting themselves to having someone else in bed with them, and Harry forces himself to stay turned away from Danny, not wanting to give in his body's urges. If he just - he jolts when he feels toes, cold, touching his leg, then retracting, almost immediately. Shit.

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. I'm just. I guess I'm just not used to have someone in my bed any more."

He scratches his throat after saying that, feeling himself blush again, and he rolls his eyes to himself, the intake of air he was taking suddenly turning short when he feels a hand curling around his shoulder, pulling him to turn around. He does, a bit reluctantly, able to see Danny's eyes in the darkness.

"Me neither. You're...warm."

Harry can't help the way he snorts. He's actually hot, sweating a little, his control over himself driving him slightly crazy. He's probably not going to get any sleep, but he doesn't even care in the slightest.

"Yeah, you could say that. Go to sleep, Danny."

"Just, before that - I want to tell you something."

"Okay?"

"You're the best boss I ever had."

It should make Harry feel good, to know that, but instead it just breaks his heart, a little bit, a piece exploding away from the rest, lodging itself in his lung, making it hard to breathe for a second. He doesn't want Danny to see him as his boss. But then again, what is he expecting? That's all he is.

"Thanks. I'm glad. You're a pretty awesome employee, too. Despite setting my house on fire."

"Oh, Harry, I'm so -"

Harry reaches out, sort of blindly clamping his hand over Danny's mouth.

"Don't you dare say it. Sleep."

Danny nods, and Harry takes his hand away, still feeling a bit short of breath. Damn Danny Jones.

The Nanny - JuddJones - Chapter 4

Tue, 01 Dec 2009 08:20:13 GMT

Title: The Nanny
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: AU - Romance
Part: 4/?
Summary: Harry Judd, 25, was recently granted the custody of daughter Ella Judd, one and a bit, after his ex-wife moves to New-York. He thought he'd be fine, but quickly he's overwhelmed and he has to hire a full-time nanny to help with Ella, and around the house. But when he hires Danny Jones, qualified nanny, there's a lot more than a little help that comes his way.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. This is actually the second leg of my NaNo. More now! Longer, too.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Previous Chapters: One // Two // Three

"What about?"

Oh, God, Harry really doesn't want Danny to play innocent, or as if he doesn't know what's going on, because that is just not going to help.

"This. Us, not spending any more time together. You, leaving every time I'm in the room. I can't remember what happened Friday night, but I guess I did something very foolish and you're mad at me because of it. So I'm sorry."

Danny starts talking, a sound coming out of his mouth before he stops, turning to look at Harry. Ella's almost asleep in his arms now. Guess she mostly needed Harry to be there to allow herself to fall asleep.

"You didn't do anything foolish. It's just me, I'm. I'm trying to stay professional here, Harry."

"But you were before, and the atmosphere in the house was way less tense."

Harry sits down at the kitchen table, looking up at Danny until he's sitting down too, hands folded in front of him on the table.

"I'm sorry. It's just that I'm growing attached to you guys, and that's a bit scary. I mean, it is part of the job, but I've been burnt before, and I don't want things to go to shit."

"We're growing attached to you too, Danny..."

Their eyes meet, but Harry quickly looks away, feeling himself blush. If this goes on for much longer he's going to admit he's got a fucking crush the size of Texas on Danny and that'd be the end of everything. He can't.

"Look, I'm really sorry I got drunk and came back late, and didn't call. I'm sorry if you had to take care of me, and whatever I said, I apologise for that too, because it probably was really stupid, and I probably didn't mean it. Can things go back to normal? I - I miss the way it was going on. I enjoyed having dinner with you, and learning to cook and stuff."

Danny doesn't answer for a moment, and Harry might have babbled all that quickly and in one long breath, but he's sure Danny got it. When Danny nods, Harry's heart flutters, but then, he talks.

"Okay, but I'll have a rule, then."

"Okay...I'm listening?"

"You call. If you're going to be five minutes late, you call. Let us know. Let me be prepared for it, if you're going to get drunk out of your mind."

"I don't plan on that happening again any time soon, but. I promise."

It's an easy promise, an easy rule. Harry can certainly do that. So long as it means getting his relationship with Danny back.

**

So it's a bit awkward for a while, but then they settle back into it. Frankie calls Harry one rainy Saturday to yell at him for ignoring Dougie, and the two of them talk it out and that's better, too.

The Saturday after that, it's really sunny, despite being cold as hell, and Harry really wants to take Ella out, but he also wants Danny there and Danny is getting ready to leave the house as usual. Harry wonders what he does.

He can't really blame Danny for wanting a bit of time out of the house, a little bit of time that he can call his own, but he also is really curious about what does Danny do, who does he see, that sort of stuff.

"Okay, I'm gonna get going now."

"Hey, hey, wait! You sure you don't want to come with Ella and I to the park?"

"Got things to do, Harry, sorry."

Harry tries not to let it show on his face that he's actually quite disappointed. Maybe Danny really does spend too much time with him and Ella.

"Okay."

"My best friend's wife has requested me for tea this afternoon and I can't really refuse her, or she'll kick my arse."

Harry nods, smiling, trying to hide his stupid, irrational disappointment as much as he can.

"It's fine. Plus you spend all your time with us, you need a bit of -"

"No, it's not really that, Harry, I can assure you. I like spending time with you guys. Makes me feel like I'm part of something."

Danny joins Harry on the sofa, from where he's been talking to Danny who was standing by the stairs, putting on his jacket. He sits next to him, his eyes glinting in the sun flooding through the windows.

"I feel useful, you know? I like that. I feel like I belong."

Harry wants to say it's because Danny does, but keeps himself from it, biting his lip. If he just starts blurting out everything he thinks and feels, then he'll just say something really stupid, and he can't afford that when they're just finding their footing again.

"I'm glad. Okay. Well, nevermind then, we can go for a walk around with you another time."

"Sure, we can. You know, if you wanted, you could come. To Tom's, I mean. With me."

Their shoulders brush and Harry tries not to let the knotting of his stomach keep him from giving an answer.

"We shouldn't. It's your time without us, some fresh air, don't want to be a bother."

Danny gives Harry a look, amused and exasperated at the same time.

"Don't be stupid. Every time I go over there anyway I'm mostly talking about you and Elle, so Gio now really wants to meet you both. She'd be very pleased, I'm sure! I'll give them a call, okay?"

Harry really wants to say yes, if only for the chance to see Danny interact with friends of his, but at the same time he really feels as if he's intruding on a part of Danny's life that he shouldn't intrude on.

"Err -"

Ella, who had been sleeping in her lounge chair until now, stirs then, crying softly for Harry, and he focuses on her for a minute, picking her up and soothing her, checking if she needs a change of nappies. By the time he turns back to Danny after she's wriggled out of Harry's lap to hobble around, he sees him standing, and on the phone. Well, shit.

"Okay, cool! We'll see you soon then, all right? Cheers, yeah. Bye!"

He hangs up and turns to Harry, a bright grin on his face. His eyes move from Harry to Ella and back up.

"Does she needs to be changed?"

"Yeah. I'll do that. You go ahead, you'll be late for tea."

Playing dumb sometimes work, really. Or maybe it doesn't, but that won't keep Harry from trying.

"You're coming along, so I'll be waiting."

Danny's still grinning, crossing his arms over his chest as if daring Harry to say no to that. But then he deflates, cocking his head to the side with a worried glint tainting the gorgeous blue of his eyes.

"I mean - if you want to? I just assumed, you never said. Let me call them again, never mind."

Harry stands up, holding a wriggling Ella up one-armed, using his free hand to touch Danny's forearm, hoping it'll be a calming touch and Danny won't be able to feel how clammy his palms are.

"We'll come. I'd be delighted to meet your friends."

Danny visibly relaxes, letting out a breath and then smiling again.

"Cool. Okay."

"I'll just get Ella ready, okay? We'll be right back."

**

On their way there, Danny gives Harry a briefing about Tom and Giovanna, all the while directing Harry as he drives to North London. Tom and Gio met ages ago, when they were kids, basically, dated for almost just as long, got married when they were 21, and bought the house they live in now when their first son was born. That's where Danny stayed when he moved down to London and was looking for a job, in the meantime taking care of Adam.

Now 25, Tom the designer and Giovanna the primary school teacher are apparently trying for another baby. It's a lot for Harry to take in, especially as Danny babbles on and on about random details that Harry forgets as soon as they're out of Danny's mouth.

But at the same time, it's entertaining, and Danny seems really excited about the prospect of Harry meeting them, making Harry quite excited, too. They sound like awesome people, to be honest.

"Take a left here, and we'll be on their street! So anyway, yeah, they decided they'd call the baby Adam because they're both big Disney fans and apparently there's one of the princes called Adam? Whatever, I wouldn't know, but that's why. They called their son after a Disney movie. What a bunch of geeks."

Danny has a smile in his voice as he says that, though, and Harry grins, leaning forward to try and read the number of the middle-sized houses bordering the road.

"I think it's cute. What's the number?"

"46. Over there."

Danny points to a house on the left-hand side, and Harry finds a close spot to park, Danny jumping out of the car to tend to Ella, who was happily gurgling and probably telling herself stories in her own baby talk in the backseat. Danny hands over Ella's pink woollen hat when he gets her out of the car, and Harry locks it up before putting the hat on his daughter's head, smiling at her smile and leaning in to kiss her cheek, taking her from Danny's arms when she leans into him.

"Ready? They're lovely, really."

"Yes, ready. Ready, Ella?"

Ella just lets out an excited sound, hands thrown in the hair before she wraps them around Harry's neck, holding onto his coat as they walk closer to Tom and Giovanna's house, looking neatly kept from the outside. But then again, they have a four year-old son, it has to be a bit less perfect on the inside. Or so, Harry really hopes.

Danny rings the doorbell and opens the door at the same time, yelling out that it's him - them, and walks in, motioning for Harry to follow, which he does, looking around, all the way up to the ceiling and back down the walls, observing pictures, the colour of the walls, the look of the staircase, a bit of everything. Then he busies himself with not allowing Ella to get too warm, tugging the hat off her head, chuckling when her hair stands all over her head. She laughs back as he smooths her wild hair, and Harry has a burst of pride rushing through his whole body as he looks down at his baby girl, looking this happy and well. He couldn't ask for anything else.

He's unzipping her coat when the rapid pitter-patter of footsteps is first heard from over their heads, sound soon accompanied by image as a little, blond, wavy-haired boy jogs down the stairs.

"Uncle Dan!"

"Don't run down the stairs, Adam! Told you a million times already!"

"Sorry, Mummy!"

Following the little boy, who's now laughing in Danny's arms comes a small, wavy-haired woman, looking unamused at her son for a second, before realising they're not alone.

"Oh, you must be Harry! Welcome! I'm Giovanna, but please, call me Gi. Adam, say hi, please."

"Who's that?"

Adam's face is half-buried in Danny's neck, but Danny forces him to move a little, smiling at him before stepping closer to Harry and Ella. Ella, poor thing, looks mildly scared. Harry holds her tighter.

"This is my friend Harry, 'Dam. And his little girl Ella. Say hi, come on."

"Hi, Harry. Hi, Ella. I'm Adam."

"Hey, Adam. Ella can't talk yet, and she's a little bit scared right now, but don't worry, she'll warm up to you soon."

"Do you need any help, Harry? I can hold her for a minute while you take your coat off. God, she's gorgeous!"

Harry nods gratefully, transferring Ella to Giovanna's arms, caressing her smooth cheek for a second, letting her know he's not going anywhere.

"Thank you for having us, Giovanna."

"Oh, please, I've been telling Danny for weeks to bring you. Tom will be with us shortly, he was at his Dad's for some kind of dalek costume making."

Danny and Harry exchange a look and a smile, warmth settling in Harry's stomach as it really feels as if they're talking without words. He looks away reluctantly, taking Ella's coat off before picking her up again.

"She is beautiful, Harry."

Harry is pretty sure he's beaming. Adam starts talking about some kind of Transformers toy to Danny, who starts walking away, probably towards the living-room, and Harry almost follows, before looking back at Giovanna.

"Thank you. She's got a lot of her mother, I'll admit. And Adam's gorgeous. That hair!"

"Thanks right back! C'mon, I'll make you some tea. The living-room is here, kitchen is there, bathroom that way. If you need anything, you ask, okay? I'm glad Danny got you to come here."

"I'm glad we're here."

They walk in the living-room, finding Adam and Danny in deep conversation, Adam sitting on Danny's lap, flailing about as he talks about robots and spaceships and rockets and bim, bam, booms! And Harry watches Danny listens intently, giving the correct facial expressions, surprise, anger, astonishment, excitement, and Harry wants him. He wants Danny so bad it makes his stomach twist painfully and his knees buckle.

Harry dry-swallows when he feels a hand on his arm, when he hears a worried tone of voice.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

"Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, zoned out."

Giovanna gives him a look, though, the kind of look that says she knows a lot more than she lets on, before she gives him a light push, getting him to go and sit down, which he does, slightly dazed. It's not really a sudden realisation, but it never hit him that hard, before. It never made him feel as if he's suddenly losing his grip on his life, losing his self-control. He wishes he could just walk into Danny's room at night and curl himself around Danny, crawl inside him and never leave, smell his skin, taste his body, run his hands through his hair, and so many other tiny things that he wants to do that it'd take him a lifetime to go through the list, and he wouldn't even mind.

"So, Harry - Danny never told us what you do?"

Harry blinks, shakes his head, and gives Giovanna a surprised look. He didn't realise he's been staring at Danny all that time, fuck. And now he's got a mug of steaming tea in front of him, which means he's really been staring for a while. Oh, dear. At least Ella's warmed up to these new people, though, already moving around the coffee table, looking up at everyone.

"Oh, well. I'm an accountant. Nothing exciting."

"Hey, I'm back! Is Jones here already?"

"Daddy!"

"Yes, I'm here, you impolite bastard!"

"Danny!"

"Sorry, Gi."

Irreverent, teasing, scolding, and sorry tones one after the other. Harry grins, something deep inside telling him he's going to like this Tom guy. He barges into the room with Adam wrapped around his leg, all blond and dimple-smiled, and Harry stands up.

"Oh, Harry, right? Hi, I'm Tom!"

"Hi. Pleased to meet you! This is my daughter, Ella."

Tom walks closer to Ella, who's standing next to Harry, hands clutched on the side of the chair Harry's been sitting on, and he makes a face at her after he crouches to her level. She giggles, reaching out with a hand. She grips at his hair and Tom grins.

"Hi, Ella. You're a very pretty lady."

"Ella doesn't talk, Daddy."

"No, I know. She's too little yet. How are you, big man?"

Adam launches himself into another story, for his dad this time, and Harry looks at Giovanna, biting his lip lightly.

"Is it okay if I use your kitchen for a moment? She's probably hungry."

"You want me to make it, Harry?"

Harry shakes his head at Danny, smiling fondly.

"Thanks, it's okay. It's your afternoon off."

Danny rolls his eyes.

"Please -"

"He said no thanks, Dan. Stay with Tom, now. Come on, Harry, I'll show you where everything is."

Giovanna leads Harry out after he takes a hold of Ella, who starts crying a bit, and he takes her bag on the way, pulling the formula out when they're in the kitchen. Giovanna helps him prepare everything and by the time he sits down with Ella on his lap, clutching her bottle, he can see Giovanna's been biting her tongue to say something. Laughter erupts from the other room, making Harry smile.

"You give her veggies and fruits already?"

"Bit, yeah. We're introducing it. She doesn't have many teeth yet though, so it's mostly purée."

"You like Danny, don't you?"

Huh. That's a bit out of the blue. Harry blinks, trying not to blush too hard.

"Huh, sure. He's good with Ella, he's doing his job really well."

"That's not what I meant, Harry."

"Then I don't know what you mean..."

She rolls her eyes, sitting next to him. He'd love for her to drop the topic, and luckily, she does, sighing softly.

"Fine. Never mind. I'm glad things are working, having a live-in nanny can be a bit hard."

"I'm glad, really. Really needed help, and he's good company."

"Yeah, he is indeed. Lovely man."

Giovanna smiles at him, a bit sad, for a reason that Harry doesn't understand. He's feeling a bit awkward, here, because he feels as if Giovanna is reading more into his every word. She can, because he means more with every word, but he doesn't want people to know, damn it.

"Thank you for the help with Ella."

"That's just natural. Should we go back?"

Harry nods, happy to go back to the other room where he won't have to face his thoughts quite as much. Standing up, he makes sure Ella is okay before turning around and going back to the living-room. Immediately he's asked to take part in a debate between Tom and Danny, and he forgets about the awkward moment in the kitchen that sort of put his nose down in his own shit, to focus on this, on being a part of Danny's life, and not only Danny being a part of his life. Harry likes it.

The Nanny - JuddJones - Chapter 3

Sat, 28 Nov 2009 17:47:49 GMT

Title: The Nanny
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: AU - Romance
Part: 3/?
Summary: Harry Judd, 25, was recently granted the custody of daughter Ella Judd, one and a bit, after his ex-wife moves to New-York. He thought he'd be fine, but quickly he's overwhelmed and he has to hire a full-time nanny to help with Ella, and around the house. But when he hires Danny Jones, qualified nanny, there's a lot more than a little help that comes his way.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. This is actually the second leg of my NaNo. More! Please don't hate me.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Days, and then weeks, come and go at the speed of light, making Harry almost dizzy when he thinks back over them. Every evening when he comes back from work, he gives Ella her dinner, and as soon as he's out of the kitchen with her for her bath, Danny's in, busying himself with dinner for the two of them, and when Ella's in bed, they eat together. Harry finds himself quickly finding a new rhythm, a better one, not so tired, the house clean, Ella happy, himself more relaxed.

At the weekends, Danny teaches Harry how to cook, starting with basic recipes and slowly inching his way towards meals that are a bit more elaborate. More often than not Danny disappears during Saturday afternoons, going God knows where for a few hours and coming back in time to say goodnight to Ella. Harry soon asked him to do so when he realised she fussed if Danny wasn't around after a week of him living there.

It's a good rhythm they've got, a good, solid partnership, turning slowly into friendship, even if Harry's crush is still raging inside, making him muffle moans in his pillow at night when he thinks of Danny's innocent touches, his smiles, how he's oblivious to the way he affects Harry. He can't let it taint this, the way they're learning to live their lives, the three of them together. He can't let this stupid crush ruin anything.

"So, how're you holding up? How long has it been now?"

Harry's having a pint with Dougie in a pub in Central London, as it's Friday and he left work early. He figures he can offer himself this. He'll be a bit late, but he doubts Danny will mind. He almost calls home to warn him, though, before shaking his head, needing to get Danny out of there for a while. Not that Dougie's helping in any way.

"What are you talking about?"

"Your crush, dude! My life's not exciting like yours since I settled down. Come on, tell me how it's going."

"It's going nowhere, as it should. And he's been living with us for three weeks, now. Or almost."

"And you haven't made a move? What are you waiting for?"

"Um, everything? I'm not making a move, Doug. He's Ella's nanny."

"So? Frank said he's got the hots for you."

"She did? Um, nevermind. Whatever, doesn't matter. For all I know he's straight, anyway."

"For all you know he's gay, too. That's the thing, you don't know! Maybe you have a chance."

"Doug, even if I did, I can't, What don't you get? He works for me! I'm pretty sure it's illegal! Sexual harassment and stuff."

Dougie rolls his eyes, giving Harry that unimpressed look that he has perfected over the years, especially for Harry.

"I'm pretty sure you're safe if he wants you back. I'm not telling you to rape him, dude."

"God, Dougie."

Harry would facepalm, but right now he mostly wants another beer. This is just too close for comfort and he needs a change of topic.

"What? I'm just -"

"Whatever, dude! Leave it, please? My round, want another?"

"Yeah, okay."

**

So, okay, maybe Harry's a bit drunk. Also, maybe he's a bit late. Just a tiny little bit. Just a tiiiiiiiiny bit. He giggles as he stumbles over a pair of shoes when he walks into the house, holding on to the door handle to keep from falling, his other hand clamped over his mouth as he laughs.

"The fuck? Harry!"

The furious whisper Harry hears just makes him giggle even more. Oh, oops. Also, he really needs to pee now.

"If you wake Ella up, I'll skin your fucking arse. Come on, move."

Harry finds himself shoved upstairs, and it's so hard not to miss a few steps. He almost falls flat on his face but rough hands keep him upright and going, until he's in his own bedroom, lying down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Oh, the world is moving. Dougie decided shots was a good idea after a few pints.

The door opens and then closes again, shuffling noises around the room before the bed dips and Harry sort of rolls around, giggling.

"You're lucky your daughter is a heavy sleeper. Why didn't you call, Harry? Fuck, I was worried sick!"

"Shhhhhh, Ella is sleeeeepiiiiing."

"Oh, don't you dare. Fuck, how much did you have to drink?"

"A lot."

Suddenly the unamused, worried tone of Danny's voice makes Harry want to cry. He worried him for nothing, he should have called. Turning on his side, Harry feels his way around until he finds himself clutching the material of Danny's shirt in his hand. A sob escapes him, his eyes burning with tears of shame. He's such a shit person, he ditched everything and got drunk and now he feels bad. Really, really baaaaaad.

"I'm sorry, Danny. I'm a shitty dad! I didn't even call!"

He can't really see Danny, or, well, he can, but he's seeing more than one of him, and he can't make out his features so well, even when Danny turns to look at him, sighing.

"You're not a shitty dad, don't be stupid. Come on, sit up, have a painkiller and some water."

Danny forces him to sit and to swallow a pill, to drink a bit of water, and Harry hiccups, closing his eyes. He doesn't feel sick, just completely smashed, and exhausted.

"Are you gonna be sick?"

"No... I just wanna sleep."

Harry leans his head on Danny's shoulder, burying his face in the warmth there, tasting the cotton of Danny's shirt on his lips when he kisses, his mind unable to keep control on his actions.

"Harry... Harry, what are you doing?"

"Hmm? Nothing..."

He's kissing his way up, now, sucking skin in his mouth, Danny's neck. Oh, it feels so good.

"Harry, stop. Let's get you ready for bed."

Harry can't stop, though, feeling stubble under his lips now, letting out a soft moan as he lets his tongue flick out against Danny's jaw. But then he's pushed away, suddenly short of breath as he flops back down on the bed.

He can feel hands pushing and pulling at his clothes, but he can't do anything to help, half asleep already, dreaming of big hands touching him, of lips against his. He feels something covering him and he snuggles into it, his brain offering him images of Danny, Danny, Danny.

"Danny..."

"Sleep, Harry."

**

Harry spends his weekend avoiding Danny. When he comes downstairs on Saturday morning, Danny's wearing a scarf and Harry can't fathom why his eyes look so sad, either. And Ella's being very demanding after spending a whole evening without him. So Harry doesn't try to talk to Danny, feeling as if he should make himself as small as possible, anyway.

Danny disappears before lunch and doesn't come before it's dark, just in time for Ella's bed time. He doesn't talk to Harry, going right to his room after he's done saying goodnight to Ella, and Harry isn't sure if it's because he's mad, or worse. He can't find it in himself to go to him, either.

Yes, he's a coward, but he can't help it, he's scared. Scared of what he did the night before, of what they told each other, because he can't remember it, and he's scared he made a big mistake.

On Sunday, Danny labels Tupperware in the fridge and leaves in the morning, barely five minutes after Harry is awake. Harry really doesn't want to think it's his fault, but he knows it is. He made a huge mistake that night when he was drunk, and even if he doesn't know what it is, it upset Danny big time, and it's up to Harry to make things better now. God, he hopes he didn't say something very stupid, or assault Danny, or something like that. Oh, this is so not good.

Danny comes back at the same time on Sunday evening, says goodnight to Ella, makes himself a sandwich and disappears upstairs again. Harry eats dinner alone, and for the first time in a month or so, falls asleep on the sofa again.

He doesn't see Monday go. He's unfocused at work, going from mistake to mistake, being very slow, to the point where he gets scolded by his boss when he screws up for the third time in a row during a meeting. He just can't get Danny out of his mind, the sad look on his face, and Harry can't remember what he did for the life of him.

And then he's on his way home, ignoring a phone call from Dougie, feeling slightly pissed at him for making him drink that much the other night, even if Harry followed along willingly. He likes to be able to blame someone else than himself for the state of things in his household.

He comes home to Ella crying loudly, and walks into the living-room to see Danny rocking her, pacing through the room - shirtless, beads of water dropping down his shoulder from his wet hair. Harry tries his hardest not to stare, all that expense of creamy pale skin spattered with freckles making his mouth water. Water hard. Oh, God, he wants Danny badly.

Shaking himself, Harry stands straighter and walks closer, frowning as Ella just keeps on crying.

"What's going on?"

"Can you try to calm her down? She has an upset stomach. I need to get dressed."

Danny doesn't even let Harry answer before he's passing Ella to Harry and jetting off upstairs. Harry tries to lull Ella, making soothing noises in her hair, humming softly, kissing her lightly. She's warm, but she doesn't have a temperature. She calms down, once in his arms, if only a little bit, and Harry dries her tears, looking down at her, pouting a little. Danny reappears, going to the kitchen, and Ella yawns. It always exhausts her to cry like this.

"What happened?"

"She got sick all over me after her nap. She fell asleep again so I took a quick shower but she started crying again, so I had to make it short. I'm sorry."

Harry frowns, not understanding why Danny is apologising. Harry might have sounded more annoyed than he feels, though.

"No, don't be, that's not – never mind. Is she okay?"

"She should be. She's been unwell all day, but I think she's just tired now, that's why she's still crying. What do you want for dinner? I'll make it for you and then I'll go watch some telly upstairs."

Harry doesn't want that. He's a bit fed up with that, really, with them living in the same house and not seeing each other.

"Danny - I think we need to talk."

The Nanny - JuddJones - Chapter 2

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 22:45:00 GMT

Title: The Nanny
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: AU - Romance
Part: 2/?
Summary: Harry Judd, 25, was recently granted the custody of daughter Ella Judd, one and a bit, after his ex-wife moves to New-York. He thought he'd be fine, but quickly he's overwhelmed and he has to hire a full-time nanny to help with Ella, and around the house. But when he hires Danny Jones, qualified nanny, there's a lot more than a little help that comes his way.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. This is actually the second leg of my NaNo. I'm probably not going to be able to post any more of this for a little while - a few days at least, so I thought, while Von and I were still awake and going, we could beta a second chapter to keep you guys going. Hope you enjoy =).
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Danny moving in doesn't take long, merely one moment of him ringing the doorbell like the first time and offering Harry a smile again, a bag heaved over his shoulder.

"Hey."

Harry lets him in without answering. Sometimes he wonders exactly why he made that particular choice, why Danny out of the seven nannies he interviewed. But then the answer comes easily. Danny is qualified, young, and doesn't remind Harry of his mother in any way. And well, Harry would much rather have a young man living with him than an old, grumpy lady. So yeah, here they are, the two of them standing in Harry's hallway, looking a bit awkward, and at the same time Harry is incredibly relieved for having found someone to help him.

"Where's Ella?"

"Sleeping. I'll show you to your room."

Danny nods, and follows Harry up the stairs to the guest room that isn't going to be one any more. Or that will have a permanent guest in it.

Danny drops his bag on the bed and then looks at Harry.

"So, what are the rules?"

"Huh?"

Harry didn't really think about rules. He knows what he wants Danny to do, but they talked over his job description over the phone before Harry really offered Danny the place.

Danny smiles, sitting on the bed next to his duffel.

"Rules, like, I don't know, don't feed you after midnight or don't pour water over Ella. You know, Gremlins?"

"Yeah, no, I know what you're getting at. But I didn't really think about it. I'm sure I'll think of something."

"You probably will. In the meantime I'll try not to step too much on your toes. Evenings are for you with Ella, right?"

"Yeah. Doesn't mean you can't be around, obviously. But I feed her and I bathe her and I read her a story. Even if she doesn't really care."

"Okay. I'll make you dinner in the meantime."

Harry stops, blinking. The job is about cleaning up the house and looking after Ella, not him. He's fine, he just needs some more sleep.

"You don't have to."

"I'm pretty sure I do. How many times a week do you have a full dinner?"

Danny's voice is soft, undemanding, and Harry doesn't want to feel attacked, but he does a little. It's not his fault he doesn't think about eating and stuff. He's just usually too tired to even bother.

"I have good lunches."

"That's not what I'm asking. But never mind. Doesn't matter. Tell me when you got a few rules, okay? I'll unpack now."

Harry has the strange sensation that he might have upset Danny, but he doesn't really know why. He still retreats, nodding mutely, and he's almost out of the door when he hears Danny shifting.

"Hey, Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Trust me, okay?"

That will take more than half an hour. Harry leaves the room, biting his lip worriedly, as he wonders if he really made the right choice.

**

Harry bites his lip when he sends an email from work to Dougie, keeping it short and simple. They often do that, communicate through emails because they don't get to see each other that often.

'Mate, life has gotten complicated.'

The answer doesn't take long, and makes Harry roll his eyes.

'Because it wasn't before? What happened dude? Met a chick?'

Why does Harry feel like that's kind of the problem? He hasn't met a woman, but the way his stomach felt funny when Danny smiled at him a bit sleepily over his morning coffee is exactly the same feeling that Harry had when he met Georgia, at a Uni party something like 7 years ago.

'No. I hired a live-in nanny for Elle, and to help around the house.'

'Then you met a chick!'

It's funny how Dougie can answer to his emails fast sometimes. Harry guesses he has to be very thankful predictive text exists, because Dougie always answers from his phone, which corrects his spelling catastrophes.

'Dude, it's a guy.'

The answer takes a bit longer, and Harry can't really blame Dougie. He's himself not so surprised that he's attracted to another guy, because it has happened in the past, but Dougie only met Harry after Uni and Georgia, and Harry's not really the kind to talk about the past experiences and various relationships he's been in.

'I'm confused. Why is it complicated then?'

Oh, dear, bless Dougie. Harry takes a deep breath.

'He's my age and he's kind of overbearing and he babbles and he's hot and I might have the beginnings of a tiny crush on him. But I'm paying him to take care of my daughter, it's not right. And he's been working for me for like three days and I'm already stressing over it.'

It really is stupid, because Harry is an adult and he should be able to keep himself in check. Especially since Danny has been nothing but professional, but Harry has been alone for a long time and suddenly living with a handsome man isn't really helping him. He feels as if he didn't really think things through.

'Chill out, dude. I didn't know you liked guys.'

'Yeah well, you've only known me with Georgia, that's why. But I do. Is it weird?'

He can imagine Dougie rolling his eyes. Next thing he knows, his phone is ringing, Dougie's number showing on the caller ID.

"Yes?"

"It's not weird, mate. Now, tell me more."

"There's not much else to say, really. He's great with Ella, and he's very professional and I'm just being stupid."

"You've been alone for a while, makes sense that you'd latch onto the first person that shows interest."

"I'm not 'latching' onto him, Doug. And he's not showing interest, he works for me!"

"Whatever, he's there. And you are latching onto him. If he's only been there three days and you're already head over heels, then you're latching onto him."

"Oh, fuck off, I'm not head over heels."

"If you say so. What are you gonna do?"

"Nothing? I'm not going to do anything."

Dougie makes a noise on the other end of the phone, making Harry roll his eyes. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell Dougie anything, but then again Harry doesn't have many friends, and he really needed to say something. But Dougie's really not much help. Damn him.

"Okay then. Then you'll get over it and things will be all right. How's Elle?"

"She's fine. Growing up too fast, as always. You and Frankie should come over for dinner at the weekend."

"Yeah? I'll ask her if we've got plans, I'll let you know. Can meet the crush that way."

Harry bites down on a groan, not really amused by Dougie's teasing tone.

"Just leave me alone, arsehole."

"Love you too. Gotta get back to work."

"Me too. Cheers, Doug."

"Bye."

Harry hangs up, letting his head drop in his hands. It's not too late for him to get over it, really. He has to, anyway. Yeah. He'll manage.

**

Harry wakes up the next Saturday to the sound of - silence. This is strange. Usually Ella wakes him up with her cries of hunger, but he can't hear a single thing right now, and when he checks the clock it's already half past nine and he should have been up for a solid hour by now. This is not exactly reassuring.

Throwing the covers off his body, Harry pulls on sweatpants, scratching his bare stomach before he stands up and stretches, yawning loudly. He leaves his bedroom, slightly bleary-eyed, only to see Ella's room is bathed in sunlight and she's not in there. Then he walks past the guest room, and the door is open and - oh. Harry actually completely forgot about Danny.

As he reaches the stairs, he can hear the unmistakable sounds of Ella's giggling, and humming. He walks down slowly, eyeing the living-room as it comes into view, clean, no clothes thrown haphazardly anywhere, no plates or glasses on the coffee table. It's almost too foreign for Harry to realise he's still very much in his own house.

The smell of food is overpowering, and Harry's mouth is watering by the time he gets to the bottom of the stairs, turning to be graced with the view of Ella in her high chair with a bottle in her hands, and Danny cooking.

"Hey, hi! I made breakfast. Bacon and eggs, you want some toast? I'll make you tea, just you wait. Come on, come sit down!"

Harry trudges closer, rubbing his eyes, feeling a bit as if he's in a dream. He hasn't had bacon and eggs for breakfast in around three years. Georgia always said the smell of food in the morning made her feel sick. And then she was pregnant and only ever ate melon and then she fell out of love with him and left him when Ella was barely a few weeks old and Harry's always been a shit cook.

"Hey, baby."

He kisses Ella softly, running his fingers through her fine hair, smiling at her as she looks up at him, giggles some more, her bottle dropping to the ground as she flails her arms about for a minute. He grabs it and gives it back to her before sitting down heavily at the kitchen table.

"You didn't have to, Danny."

"I wanted to. Plus. I'm hungry, and why make breakfast only for one when I can make it for two? It's almost ready. You didn't tell me if you wanted toast? Do you want some beans, too? Ella and I went grocery shopping the other day and I got some."

"Yes, please. Toast and beans, yes."

Harry can't even find it in himself to say no. He feels a tiny bit like a king. Ella reaches out, grabbing the ends of his hair, making Harry turn towards her, giving her a look before reaching out himself and tickling her, making her giggle loudly, squirming, filling the kitchen with happy sounds, making Harry grin. She only calms down when she drops her bottle again and Harry gives it back to her, kissing her temple.

"Careful now, beautiful."

"Here you go."

A plate is put down in front of him, smelling delicious, along with a mug of tea, and Harry licks his lips, looking at the plate with a little bit of wonder in his eyes.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Enjoy it while it's warm."

Danny starts dishing up another plate, leaving it on the table as he cleans up around the cooker, and Harry bites his lip, words spilling out of his mouth before he can help it.

"Come sit and eat, Danny. We can clean up after. You enjoy it while it's warm too."

Danny stops, looking at Harry, as if pondering something, making a pros and cons list in his head, before nodding and sitting himself down in front of Harry.

"Thank you for taking care of Ella this morning."

"Hey, it's my job. And since the house was clean yesterday, I got to nap at the same time as she did, so it's fine."

Danny smiles at him, telling Harry without words that really, it's not a hassle for him.

"You really love your job, don't you?"

"I love kids, so yeah. It's something that just comes easy to me? I'm not saying I won't break a few of your plates while doing the dishes, or make the microwave short-circuit, but most of the time it's just. I don't know, loads of people would be bored spending their days with children that are not even old enough to talk, but I always find something to do, with them or just around the house. I'm, shamelessly, a housewife, basically. Like in 'Who's The Boss?', only without a kid of my own, and a bit clumsier."

Harry knows how 'Who's the Boss' finishes, though, his Mum used to be a big fan. Oh, dear, that's not really helping. Harry stops, a forkful of beans halfway to his mouth, and as his movement suddenly comes to a halt, the food falls from the fork, dropping on his chest, making him gasp. The food's hot, and shit, he's still not wearing a shirt, and Ella's giggling as he pushes his chair back, grabbing the food and biting down a groan. Way to make a fool of himself.

Danny's on his feet immediately, looking worriedly at Harry as he stands himself and goes to drop the beans in the bin, trying to hide his flushed face from Danny as he washes his hand.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, sorry. Dunno what happened, had a moment of absence."

A hand curls around his shoulder, and Harry clenches his jaw, dry-swallowing. It's now that he has to realise that nobody has touched his bare skin besides Ella and his GP - which is a 60 years-old man - in like, a year.

"Are you burnt? Can I see?"

"I'm okay, really."

"Let me see, Harry? Please. C'mon, turn around."

Harry takes a deep breath as he does, even if he's really fine. They both look down at his stomach, a faint red mark there, barely noticeable. Danny traces his finger over it, his eyes moving up to scan Harry's face, who tries his best not to wince. Instead, he smiles, a bit uneasy, hoping Danny cannot feel Harry's stomach muscles clenching under Danny's touch.

"I checked your medicine cabinet, you got some cooling cream in there, you want me to go get it?"

"Nah, it's okay. Really. It's nothing. Come on, let's finish breakfast."

He sits back at the table, forcing himself away from Danny's touch, feeling as if he's been burnt twice. Danny follows along, still looking at Harry worriedly, but Harry just smiles at him, this time completely genuine, feeling suddenly very lucky that he chose Danny. He keeps on changing his mind about this, but right now, Harry truly thinks Danny might be an actual blessing.

"Are your friends still coming tonight?"

"Yeah. I was thinking we could order pizza."

"What? No, no way. I'm going to teach you how to cook a mean stir-fry, Harry."

Danny's face, look, and tone of voice don't leave any room for protest, Harry can see it from there. Even Ella fell silent, letting out one tiny questioning noise, her hand twisted in her bib. They're all finished with their breakfast by then, and Harry doesn't know what to say besides the only word he lets out.

"...okay."

"Settled, then. I'll clean up around here, you go spend some quality time with your girl, okay? I'll be out of your hair this afternoon, going to see a mate. I'll be back to make a start on dinner."

Again, Harry is a bit baffled. It seems that Danny has all the answers before Harry even thinks the questions. He can only think of one thing to answer as he picks Ella up.

"Thanks."

The Nanny - JuddJones - Chapter 1

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 22:52:16 GMT

Title: The Nanny
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: AU - Romance
Part: 1/?
Summary: Harry Judd, 25, was recently granted the custody of daughter Ella Judd, one and a bit, after his ex-wife moves to New-York. He thought he'd be fine, but quickly he's overwhelmed and he has to hire a full-time nanny to help with Ella, and around the house. But when he hires Danny Jones, qualified nanny, there's a lot more than a little help that comes his way.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. This is actually the second leg of my NaNo. I gave up the first story I've been working on and started on this. And I'm stupidly excited about it and I know already that I will finish it, so yeah. Have it! I hope you like it!
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

"Oh, baby, baby, please calm down? Ella, love, please calm down..."

Harry is this close to breaking into tears himself. Ella banged her head on her high chair when she squirmed to get out of it and he hadn't attached her well enough, because she did manage to get off, and now this. God, this is not good. He's got a meeting in two hours, needs to get showered and dressed, but the daytime nanny is only getting here in an hour and he just can't leave Ella if she's like this, crying her little head off. He's such a terrible, terrible father.

"Oh God, Elle, darling, please, please calm down, yeah? Daddy got this important thing he needs to get ready for, and he can't focus when you're crying like this..."

He can feel his own eyes stinging, the stress of his upcoming presentation and Ella's cries putting him very much on edge. Oh, he's not built for this, he's not strong enough to take care of her on his own! Why did Georgia decide to leave, really? Abandon her daughter and her life to go live the high life in New York, who would do that?

Harry would have, to be honest, if he had been in Georgia's shoes. But instead he's here, in a not so high-paying job struggling a little to make ends meet because of Georgia's recommended expensive nanny, and a house that looks like a bomb site, nappies and baby clothes everywhere, a week's worth of dishes piling up in the sink, a week and a half of laundry waiting by the washing machine.

And he hates it, he really, really does, because he's a bloody cleaning freak himself and seeing his house in this state makes his stomach heave, but he doesn't. Have. Time. When he comes back in the evening, the nanny soon has Ella in his arms and she's out of the door, so Harry bathes her, feeds her, puts her to sleep. Then he gets some food, maybe, if he finds the strength, and then he crashes, more often than not directly on the sofa, where there's now a blanket for him to wrap around himself and sleep.

But let's not get it wrong - he wouldn't really have it any other way. He loves Ella with everything he's got, and if Georgia had taken her to New York with her, Harry would have been probably even more devastated. Right now he's just tired, and he needs - he needs something new to happen. He needs some help. The nanny only ever takes care of Ella, never does anything around the house, and Harry needs more than just entertaining Ella when she's not sleeping.

It's decided - he's going to put up an ad in the papers for a full-time, live-in Nanny. He's got a guest room but he never gets any guests, as people are mostly scared of coming in his house these days. He can offer food and a roof and money against a full-time nanny, helping out with Ella, and food, and doing the dishes and laundry. It wouldn't be more expensive than this bloody nanny that Georgia thrust upon Harry, as if he can actually pay her extra-expensive wages.

All this thought process ends when Ella calms down herself, and finally lets Harry get a good look at her forehead. He brushes her brown hair back, inspecting her, making sure there's no skin broken, no blood, and no, it's only a tiny bump that he kisses softly, Ella looking up at him with her face red and her eyes huge, sniffling a little before she sticks two fingers in her mouth.

"Thank you, baby. Wanna help Daddy get dressed?"

Ella shifts around, closer to him, and you know what? Fuck the shower.

**

It's the third old lady of the day. He wouldn't have too many problems with living with an old lady in his house, taking care of his daughter and his laundry, but if he's moved to London - away from his Mum - it's also partly because having her fussing about all the time drove him a bit crazy. Of course, those old ladies are not his own mother, but he tends to be a bit wary they'll stick their nose in anything and everything, even what doesn't concern them.

And she's looking around the house with a look of disdain and he doesn't really like that. That's exactly why he's hiring a nanny, okay?

"I'm a fully qualified nanny, Mr. Judd, I hope you understand that doesn't include doing your dirty dishes."

"Um. But I specifically put in the ad -"

Ella is writhing over his lap, playing with her dummy and sticking it in her mouth, chewing, yet she's also frowning at Mrs Williamson, sitting on the other sofa in front of them, when she sees Harry frowning at her, too.

"I know, Mr. Judd. But I need work."

"I'm sorry, I need someone that helps me with everyday chores. That's exactly why I'm hiring someone, Mrs Williamson."

"I can give you more time without Ella to tend to said chores, though."

"Yes, but no. I want to be able to spend time with my daughter, too. We have our rituals."

"I'm sorry to ask, but - where is the mother?"

Harry stands up, smiling tensely, Ella over his hip. She squeals a bit at the sudden move, but then quickly settles, leaning against him with a sigh.

"Her mother is otherwise occupied, which is why I have full custody. Now, excuse me, I have more candidates coming, Mrs Williamson."

She huffs a little, because the interview barely lasted ten minutes before Harry's strong dislike for the woman took over and kept him from being open and agreeable. He leads her to the door, thanking her for coming and letting out a loud sigh when he closes the door after her.

"Not that one, Ella. Wonder if we'll ever find one that is suitable."

Ella pats Harry's cheek with her small pudgy fingers, as if trying to make him feel better, but she only ends up tugging at his collar. It does work though, the feeling better, despite it all, because he finds himself grinning at her. Saturdays are definitely his favourite. They both usually manage to sleep in, and Harry can always sneak in a nap with his girl after lunch, allowing himself a few hours of much needed sleep. Plus they get to spend the whole day together, which is generally awesome. On Sundays he tries to catch up on dirty dishes and laundry, leaving her in his eyesight as he busies himself around the house.

In the meantime, when he next checks his watch, he realises that his next candidate is late. Danielle Jones, he remembers the name. Harry tries not to be too ticked off already. Let's give the girl a chance.

When finally the doorbell rings, Harry takes hold of Ella again and goes to answer, stopping dead in his tracks when he realises Danielle is actually a Daniel.

A boy. A man, actually, smiling a bright grin at him, a bit sheepish, too. He's wringing his beanie between his large fingers, and Harry wonders for a second if it's not a big joke.

"Harry? Harry Judd? And Ella? I'm Danny. Danny Jones."

"I thought you were a girl."

Danny grins even bigger, probably at Harry's apparent lack of brain to mouth filter. He should add that the dude is hot. Seriously so, even. Bright blue eyes covered by messy brown curls, and this smile - this smile is to die for.

"People usually assume and I let them do so. Girls have more chances to get those jobs than boys. Can I come in? Or are we doing the interview on the front porch? Hey, gorgeous."

He's not looking at Harry any more, but at Ella, who grins back at him, claps her hands happily. Oh, dear, she's already taken with him. It's the first of the day, but at least it's something.

"Of course, come on in, I'm sorry. I was just a bit surprised, I hope you can understand why."

Harry lets Danny walk in, motioning towards the living-room.

"Yeah, I can understand why. But believe me, I'm good at my job. And I think you seriously need a hand here."

Danny looks around, taking his jacket off and putting his beanie on top of it, on a chair, before immediately going to the open kitchen, hands on his hips, sort of looking like a very masculine version of Mary Poppins.

Harry follows, if only a tiny bit afraid. This guy seems to know what he wants, and Harry's not sure he'd take no for an answer.

"You'd be willing to do the dishes? And the laundry?"

"Sure. Once you're back to a certain level of cleanliness, it's easy to keep up."

Danny turns around, smiling at Ella again.

"Can I? She has to like me, if we're ever to work together."

Harry nods, passing Ella along to Danny, but keeping a close eye on the two of them. Danny introduces himself, and then asks Ella to take him on a tour of the house, which she only does by writhing around and pointing at different, random objects while squealing as Danny walks about. But Danny walks everywhere she points to, going back in his steps several times, oohing and aahing at everything she shows, even if she probably doesn't realise what's going on. She might, though, Harry is sure she's a genius.

When Danny offers Ella back to Harry, he kisses the top of her head and smiles, looking at Danny seriously. This guy is his age, seems to really get it, get Ella, gets the job, but there are questions to be asked.

"So you're willing to help out, which is good, and I've seen your references, but I need to know - why us?"

They both sit across each other, Ella wriggling off Harry's lap to crawl around. Danny shrugs, still smiling. It's like, he's always smiling. It's adorable and scary at the same time.

"Well, I saw the ad, and we're almost the same age, I'm looking to move in London and you know how expensive it is, so if I get the whole package at once - a room and a job, well, it's perfect really. And I've got a diploma in home-based childcare, so I'm qualified for this."

Harry wonders if Danny is kind of a babbler. To be honest, he wouldn't mind the company. Even if Ella is amazing, she can't yet talk so really, since Georgia left, Harry's been quite lonely.

"And you look like you could use having someone your age around you."

"Um."

Danny bites his lip, shrugging lightly as he looks away for a moment, eyes scanning the wall of pictures and posters. The pictures are mostly of Ella. There are a few of Dougie and Frankie, though. Dougie's Harry's best friend, as weird as it sounds for a lot of people. They don't have much in common, but they just. Work, sort of. It used to be enough to fill the void in Harry's life, but now Dougie's got Frankie and he and Harry see each other so much less than before it's not even funny any more.

"Sorry, didn't mean to overstep anything, I was just -"

"Nevermind, it's fine. And true."

Danny smiles again, looking at Harry with those sparkling blue eyes that are slightly distracting. He also looks quite confident, now, and Harry would really like to put his foot down and get some of his ground back, but he's really not sure he can manage against such a smile.

"So do I get the job?"

"I, uh. I've got other candidates coming."

"Okay. You have my email anyway, drop me one and tell me if I've got it then. Or I can give you my number."

"Yeah, do that. I'll call when I'm done with the interviews."

Danny grabs the notepad on the coffee table and scribbles his number on it, standing up afterwards and going to his stuff. Harry almost doesn't want him to leave, but he can't say anything - they just met, after all, it would be just that tiny bit weird. Plus he needs to give Ella her lunch.

"Okay, well, I hope I'll see you both soon."

Danny doesn't even wait for Harry to walk him to the door that he's gone, a little bit like a gust of wind. Harry doesn't really want any other interviews now.

The Lead-Up - Standalone - Danny/Ant

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 18:26:53 GMT

Title: The Lead-Up
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Danny/Ant
Genre: Fluff
Part: 1/1
Summary: Best thing about it is the lead-up, says Ant. Danny doesn't agree.
A/N: Beta'd by my favourite armillarysphere. Written for feelingscanshow and because of this manip. Done quickly, and I'm quite sick, so it's not my best, but I like them, and I like this, so. Hope you enjoy! Only 864 words!
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

“You know what matters? The lead-up to it.”

Danny raises an eyebrow, looking up from the chicken he's cooking, into Ant's eyes, leaning against the kitchen bar, a smile on his lips.

“Huh?”

“Saw that in How I Met Your Mother, dude.”

“What are you on about, though? The lead-up to what?”

The heat from the pan is making him sweat a little. He still doesn't understand what Antony wants to say, but he likes the happy, convinced smile on his face. He hopes his chicken will get him to earn that smile, too.

“A kiss!”

“Hmm. Okay.”

Danny's not sure he agrees with this. Kissing is way too awesome to think the lead-up to it is better. After all, a kiss is a lead-up to something even more awesome! So yeah. Turning off the heat from under the pan, Danny pokes his chicken, leaving it be for a second as he turns around fully, leaning back against the counter. Ant's still smiling, still looking stupidly happy, as if he just discovered the secret for life and love and everything else, or whatever they say in that book that Tom talked about the other day – the Galactic Hitch Hiker or something.

“But seriously, I mean, it's true. You get all those fluffy feelings in your stomach and you switch between looking at lips and looking into eyes and you can't wait yet time stops a little... It's perfect!”

“You should write songs.”

Ant snorts, that dimpled smile making Danny grin.

“Come on, let's eat. And tonight when you try to pull, you can use that lead-up thing. I'm sure it'll work on chicks.”

**

They're in yet another club, grinding away, a flock of really good looking girls with them, vodka and Champagne on the table. It's their last night out before Danny goes on tour, so he wants to make it a good one.

But despite the girls asking for attention, Danny and Ant are focused on each other, talking about their plans after the tour, what they're going to do during the winter, and other projects. It doesn't matter that they've talked about it already, or that they will talk about it again on the phone while Danny's off and away.

They dance with the girls and drink more alcohol than they should, hop in the back of a taxi to go home when it's so late Danny has lost track of time entirely. They giggle together as the taxi takes them back home, singing songs about pies and boobs, leaning into each other, making the driver laugh.

When they get home, they stumble out, and Danny's ready to get in and sleep forever when Ant stops him, pulls him along, on the front garden, and Danny has this urge to take his sneakers off and feel the wetness of the grass they're walking on. He's still slightly sweaty, turning his striped white shirt a bit see-through. The skin of Ant's neck is glistening with sweat too, Danny can see it in the artificial light of the lamp post, and it makes Danny lick his lips involuntarily.

“What you doin', Ant?”

“Nothing. Look at the stars.”

Danny looks up when Ant does, but last time he checked, they still live in London, and it's not the best place to see stars at night.

“Um.”

“'M gonna miss ya, mate.”

Danny smiles, looking back at Ant, nodding. He reaches out, curling his fingers around Ant's arm, feeling the dampness of the air, and the heat of his skin at the same time.

“Yeah, me too. Hey, it's only a few weeks.”

“I know. Still.”

Danny nods, feeling the shift in the atmosphere just then. Neither of them has brought anyone home, they stuck by each other all night, and now, here they are, in their front garden, looking into each other's eyes, and Danny doesn't care about anything else, tonight, right now, the stars are shining in Ant's eyes. Whatever how cheesy that sounds, even in his head.

Ant moves closer, Danny's fingers slipping from his biceps to his forearm, and Danny would frown if he didn't want it, if he didn't want Ant against him, there, just there. Danny exhales, the cold air of the night making his breath visible, twirling up into the sky. Ant is close, his eyes shifting between Danny's, and Danny's lips.

“The lead-up, huh, Ant?”

“Yeah.”

Ant smiles, nodding. Their foreheads touch, Danny turned towards Ant, Ant just closing in, the two of them waiting for it, now, and it's true – time stops, in all its clichéd glory. And when their lips meet, finally, it's stupidly short and unsatisfying, just a brush of warm lips against warm lips, and it makes Danny frown. He'd expected something explosive and crazy, stomach-churning and Earth-shattering.

“All that lead-up for that? No way.”

He curls his hand into Ant's shirt, and as Danny pulls him into their home, Ant laughs, as if he'd planned it all along. He very well might have, but Danny doesn't care. He wants his Earth shattered.

Another kink meme...

Thu, 27 Aug 2009 07:02:37 GMT

I decided to start with this as it's easy enough, and fun! I'll have a talk with the other mods about more challenges/a request post. In the meantime, do enjoy this and participate as much as you'd like!

The McFly Kink Meme!

¤ This is a kinkmeme for McFly
¤ Request anonymously (very important!!) with whatever you want + kink(s).
¤ BOLD the pairing on your request.
¤ Responses should be made anonymously and can be anything, from a drabble to a novel; G rating to NC-17 (it is about kinks, after all).
¤ Request as well response (if you can/want to!)! Keep the meme going!!
¤ More than one response to a kink? AWESOME ♥
¤ Have a suggestion? Feel free.

I cannot stress enough the anonymous part of this. It's allows anyone and everyone, even people who could a bit embarrassed about some things they want to see written, to come and ask for it. IP logging is off and you'll just have to either be logged out, or replying as anonymous. For both requesting and answering. And also! keep anonymous if you comment on someone's drabble/fic/art!

And now, let's have fun! \o/

eta: to those who don't know how to bold in HTML, easy as pie: put the text you want to bold in between the < b > and < /b > tags, without the spaces.

Doom - OT4 - 1/1

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 20:56:13 GMT

Title: Doom
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: R
Pairing: OT4
Genre: AU, drama
Part: 1/1
Summary: It starts good, and then. What will the boys become once the Machines take over the world?
A/N: Beta'd by my lovelies kellykins11 and armillarysphere. This is my Terminator crossover, for the crossover challenge (found here). It's not so much a crossover than an AU - the same world, basically, but while the Connors where in America, our boys are and stay in the UK. Please, do enjoy. That icon is slightly ironic, hm.
This is also for the 50foryou community!
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

I.Pleurisy

Tom asks – are you all right? – and Danny just nods - they all know it's because, primarily, of the smoke from the bomb in Central London - hiding the wince of pain when Dougie touches him lightly, fingertips dancing over his back, feather-like, tentative, and Danny’s grateful, even if it hurts a little, because in the end, it feels a bit as if he can finally breathe again.

II. Bungalow

It’s just a bungalow they get for the four of them in Chile and it hasn't got any A/C but Dougie strips naked the second he walks in and suddenly it doesn’t really matter anymore that they don’t have a mini-bar or only two beds – they end up pushing them together in the middle of the bedroom, anyway – there’s a tiny jacuzzi just outside and that reminds Dougie of home, so he doesn’t complain once, even if the jacuzzi isn't working anymore.

III. Absurd

Danny’s slightly short of breath when Tom opens the door, looking at him with a raised eyebrow and a question on the tip of his tongue, because it’s not unusual for Danny to show up unexpected, but right now there’s something more in Danny’s eyes, and then he’s asking – Tom, Tom Tom I got this song, Tom, what rhymes with ‘absurd’? – and Tom is laughing, because he’s fairly sure Danny doesn’t even know what absurd means, but he’s got that cute pleading look that means he wants more than a rhyme, and Tom can’t not give in.

IV. Helsinki

They’re in Helsinki for a gig and it’s cold, it’s really bloody cold and Harry’s complaining and Danny can’t feel his fingers during sound-check and Dougie is just subdued, hiding in layers and layers and layers, so Tom decides to take action, do something to make them all happy - even himself - and it’s not hard, it just requires a few sledges, hot cocoa with marshmallows floating in it and some hot, sweaty, dirty sex - and they’re all fucking grinning like loons when they get on stage that night, even if they're stopped mid-show by the Machines who close the place down.

V. Scintillate

It really does look like a scintillating sky, from where they can see it, hidden in the bunker with only that slit to allow light in, four faces pressed against the double glazed window, probably even more than double glazed even, but they don't really think about that as they watch in horror, the bombs dropping, the explosions in the sky; surreal, so fucking surreal they don't quite believe it's really happening, even if it is.

VI. Medicinal

It's supposed to help, they're medicinal herbs, Harry says, and Dougie might not completely trust him because the pain in his side is fucking sharp and he's bleeding and he's pretty sure that it's not a few bloody herbs that will help him, but still, he lets Tom's delicate hands coat the wound with them after they boil them and make some sort of weird looking, weird smelling paste, and he curses that bloody war and these bloody robots again just two seconds before he passes out.

VII. Womb

In the house they're in, there's also this heavily pregnant girl - she can't be over 17 - who spends her days crying, clutching her belly and crying - it drives Harry crazy, not that he can say or do much about it, because he's not going to push her out - she'd have nowhere to go and she can't run and robots have been roaming the streets at all times, so really, it'd kill her and he's not that insensitive; he just wonders if she'll finally stop crying once she's given birth, so maybe he can get a little bit of sleep.

VIII. Transmogrification

The sound of Dougie's laugh is rare enough these days that it sort of startles Tom, makes him alert, and in the same time melts something hardened in his heart - it feels good, and when he looks over at Dougie, he sees him with a battered and used copy of Calvin&Hobbes, but he's looking at Tom, smiling, crinkles around his eyes when he talks about transmogrification and how awesome is that word, Tom, we should use it in a song - and then he stops, frowns, looks out the small greasy window, and Tom sighs with defeat.

IX. In

They go on a hunt for food, find some in a broken off-license - canned goods, enough to last them a while - but they have to wonder how long they're going to survive like this, and then there's this guy, coming from the other side of the street, as dirty as them, face half-hidden in a scarf, telling them to go in, in, now, just before a machine appears and they have to run for their lives in a maze of tiny, dirty streets, the loud, slow steps of the robot following them until the guy with the scarf trips and falls and the steps stop, replaced quickly by the deafening and horrifying sound of a machine gun - Danny wants to scream, but Harry clamps a hand over his mouth, and they start running again.

X. Frisson

The first time Danny gets handed a gun - the kind that is semi-automatic and works on robots if you insist long enough - a frisson runs through him, and although it's not fear, it's not really excitement either, it's just really strange, a mix of everything; keeping his friends alive, doing something for the human race, helping out, anything to make him feel useful, even if Dougie asked him not to and Harry told him to wait a few days so he can join him (he's broken his ankle - nothing major, but it was a close call) - Tom said nothing, just nodded solemnly and then hugged Danny through the night.

XI. Backwards

It all started a while ago and none of them had the slightest idea, too busy being rockstars and touring the world to see that people were conceiving smarter and smarter machines until it was too late and the world got blown up - Tom has never been power-hungry, only, you know, wanting love and devotion and fans and music, so he doesn't get it, he doesn't realize any of it until it's too late and they're living in the basement of a decrepit house and fighting for their lives - he feels it's too late for anything else anymore, and with every new day without his guitar, he dies a little more inside.

XII. Antique

They find the shop one night even though they shouldn't be out and they know it, and the four of them almost cry at the beauty of the sight - a baby grand piano, almost intact, usable guitars, at the back of an antiques store, hidden behind ugly lampshades and dusty chairs and one broken in the middle dining room table; Tom sits at the piano and gets a few notes out, off key but it doesn't really matter, he can deal with that, it's just - music, they've been dreaming about it, and Tom's certain that, if they're careful enough, they can get that piece of themselves back, even in this new, broken world.

XIII. Supernova

It's as blinding as an exploding star, just like they've seen in telly shows about space, or in Star Trek - it's blinding and Dougie tries to cover his eyes but it's too late, the bomb going off too close and they don't really have time to do much but keep themselves from most physical harm, which isn't enough because Dougie can't look away and then everything goes black around him and he screams when the aftermath of the explosion is this insane silence - he can't see, he can't see.

XIV. Zoology

They find a cat, lost in the city, and they would keep him, but the cat gets stolen by the guy that lives on the ground floor of the house who's basement they're squatting in for now, and they know because they see him with the cat, look at it with crazy eyes, claiming he's a zoologist and he needs to keep doing work, it's not because it's the end of the world that he shouldn't keep on doing his job - Tom thinks he just wants to eat it, and Harry gets the cat back when the guy goes out one day for food.

XV. Sobriquet

Some guy, from the Rebellion, starts giving Dougie a nickname - NoEyes, he says, and then chuckles, and Dougie sort of wants to cry but he can't and he won't, so instead he squares his shoulders and turns around, leaves the Intel room for a break, a hand on the wall, helping him along - he finds Tom and Danny in their quarters (just one room with a big bed and a sink, but it's enough for the four of them), and lets them try and make him smile again.

XVI. Breaking

Nothing could have prepared them for this, nothing, nothing ever - it was too sudden, too in their faces, too much happening just before their eyes, and they were helpless, helpless, just like - just like watching little Scott (barely twelve, oh God) run towards that TX and die, die right there, right in front of their eyes, helpless, helpless - Danny cries that night, curled into a ball with Harry's arms around him and Tom's hand clutched in his, and he wishes for an end, an end to all this, for another world where he wouldn't be that helpless - helpless.

XVII. Stalactite

It's so cold, it's so cold the water that is leaking from the only sink they can use turns into a stalactite after a while, after a few nights, and the only way they've found to keep themselves warm at night, under the really thin blanket they own is, obviously, sex - and they have a lot of it, a sweaty tangle of limbs, to the point where they don't really know where one starts and the other ends, but it feels good and secure and warm, just warm, and when Harry licks cum off Tom's chest it's warm in his mouth, too, and well, that's all they need right now.

XVIII. Fine

Dougie smiles when Harry touches his cheek, when he feels Danny's hand on his back - he can recognize their touches now, sometimes even better than their voices (when they're shouting, when they're crying), and well, he's not exactly fine, because he still can't see, and that's pretty shitty if you ask him, but he's got something to do and he's got his three best friends, lovers, companions, to help him through the storm and that's more than most people in this shitty world have, so, he's all right.

XIX. Albatross

Danny's on top of the building, keeping guard of the street, has been here for three hours and has four more to take before he'll be relieved, and the roof smells of death and piss and vomit - some of those smells are his own, he has to admit, when he sees the bird - gigantic and beautiful and scaring the Hell out of him, because if it gets him seen by a Machine, it could be the end, and Danny's not ready to die - but the albatross (Danny thinks it's one, anyway) flies away quickly, loudly, and Danny watches it go, free as he doubts they, as humans, will ever be again.

XX. Archaic

The radio Harry's trying to make work is really, really archaic, looking as if it belongs more in the 1950's than in their modern world - too modern a world, now falling upside down over their heads - but he's got hope in his eyes, and Danny clings to that, that glint in Harry's irises, because they're both only hidden by the carcass of a dead helicopter in the middle of the wasteland that is East London now, hours from their base, and if he doesn't get it working - Danny just clings to the hope.

XXI. Ephemeral

It's late January when it snows for the first time again after the beginning of the war against the Machines, and they all know it's not going to last, it's just a few seconds, minutes, hours of awe and of that sensation of peace, that nothing can get to them while they open their mouths to the sky and spread their angel wings on the roof, but it feels so ethereal and amazing that none of them says a word about it.

XXII. Murmur

They're sleeping when it happens, and it's nothing more than a whisper, a murmur that goes through walls and ears, wakes them all up, forces them all to pack their bags, fast, faster, because the Machines are coming, that's what the few alerting words said - machines, machines are coming! evacuate! - and it's enough for everyone, even Dougie, without his eyes but with a newfound courage, to just slide out of the building in the night and silently pray they'll find another one soon, before day.

XXIII. Despair

When Danny gets shot, Tom doesn't know how to hope anymore, he doesn't see how it could ever get better, how they could ever win, even if Danny's smiling at him, a smile that reaches his eyes, glazed over with pain and, soon enough, medication, even if Danny's holding on tight to his hand, even if Harry's there, too, dirt in the creases of his forehead as he whispers to Danny he'll be okay, to Tom, too, kissing him at the corner of his mouth as he runs a hand through Tom's now always dirty hair (too long, ragged, almost turning into dreadlocks like Dougie's) - Tom lets himself be manhandled by Harry after that, when Danny is wheeled into a surgery room, and he clings to him, to Dougie who wraps himself around Tom, and he tries not to cry.

XXIV. Botulism

The epidemic starts in the nursery, alarmingly enough; soon everyone infected is quarantined, and Dougie is aware of every one of his moves, keeping one of the others always by his side, which is fairly easy as Danny is still recovering from his wound - and Tom is asked to act as nurse, too, because he helped with so many gunshot wounds and with the kids, too, wanting to make himself useful but not able to use a gun that well (panicking in the field, scared for himself and Harry and Danny too much); Harry's gone for a few weeks on a recon mission, so Danny and Dougie help as much as they can, even if Dougie would rather hide and wait for the epidemic to be gone - he's not allowed, they need everyone, even the small blind ones.

XXV. Petrichor

They stay outside one night, Danny's eyes always careful, making sure no one is around, and they sit on the dirty ground and let the rain fall upon them like millions of drops of fresh, clean (even if it isn't), cleansing water, letting them get rid of their thoughts for a moment as the smell of rain fills their nostrils, makes them breathe in deeply, something other than oil and grease and dirt and blood and sweat and fear; the smell stays with them when they go back inside and dry each other thoroughly, ending up in another tangle of limbs on their bed (a mattress on the floor), happy, if only for just a moment.

XXVI. Chimerical

They walk across the deserted landscape at night, hiding wherever they can during the day, fighting when they need to, don't have any other choice - they're looking for Brighton, they've been told the headquarters of the Rebellion are there, but it's all kind of a big dream, an image in their heads, like that image that Harry described to Dougie, from a book he found in the carcass of a house - eagle's head, lion's body, a Chimaera, he said it was called.

XXVII. Birdseed

Food has gotten so scarce they're reduced to anything they can; it's not healthy and it's disgusting most of the time (that night Harry got them a rat, Tom will never forget), and then it's seeds, birdseeds - they just pray they'll get to Brighton soon and some shops somewhere, or at least meet someone that would give them some food, in exchange for whatever they can do to help - worst comes to worst, they'll battle it out with their fists, it wouldn't be a first - because really, this is getting ridiculous, and they're hungry.

XXVIII. Someday

Someday, they'll see an end to this - or maybe their children, or at least, the children of their generation, because they're probably not ever having any, too focused on each other and the tangle of feelings and touches that is their relationship (Tom wondered, before, can you love more than one person at once, and now he's got his answer, yes, yes you indeed can, because he does) to even think about seeking a woman and keeping humans going, but maybe, maybe they'll have to.

XXIX. Meal

The headquarters in Brighton are bigger than they expected, but really, the only thing they care about when they're finally let in and accepted and allowed to stay and given a room is the food they're given, a full, warm meal of potatoes in gravy, with green beans and even pieces of chicken (or at least, they tell themselves it's chicken) and some white bread, and it feels so good the four of them give back immaculate plates, while Danny wipes a smudge of sauce off Dougie's chin.

XXX. Darkness

If anyone asked Harry what darkness was to him, he'd answer simply, just a few words: look into the eyes of a Machine, and you'll know.

XXXI. Renaissance

The headquarters in Brighton are all lodged in the Pavilion, every level used as sleeping quarters, food stocks, conference rooms, intelligence gathering, everything and anything under the sun to keep a community alive, and a war going; there are still paintings left too, in some rooms, and Tom describes them to Dougie, as Danny reads the small words about them, Renaissance, Manet, Abstract, Picasso, Still-life, XIXth Century.

XXXII. Memory

Dougie grabs the guitar they found in that antique store (it feels like such a long time ago), and presses his fingers to the strings, feeling them, sliding along them for a while, not strumming yet, just remembering the texture and turning them into images in his head - when he starts playing, it's all by memory, his eyes useless now, not working anymore, but the music is still the same despite that, it's not wrong or out of tune, and when he starts singing (in only a whisper) - Ann Boleyn she kept a tin - it feels so good Dougie feels a tear running down his cheek.

XXXIII. Inordinate

The number of Machines on that battlefield is in excess of a thousand, an inordinate number, that guy on the radio said, even if Danny didn't understand what it meant until he's there, now, watching them from their position, weapons ready in their shaking hands - Danny and Harry share a look, then a kiss, a little desperate, fingers clinging for a few seconds before they let go, both of them sending a prayer to be able to see Tom and Dougie again.

XXXIV. There

There's no yesterday, and there's no tomorrow, in their world - it's only now, wherever they are, be it here or there, there's nothing after, nothing behind, nothing in between.

XXXV. Syzygy

Sometimes, Dougie feels as if he can see through Harry, or Danny, or Tom's eyes, because it's just - he's seen it all before, and he's seen them, and he knows them and knows how they are, know them so well they're part of him, he's part of them, all of them having crawled under each other's skin until they couldn't be differentiated anymore, and yeah, sometimes, when Danny's hand is largely spread over his back, when Harry's smile is hidden in his neck, when Tom's mouth is tight around his cock, Dougie can see.

XXXVI. Sparkle

It's Tom's birthday, even if it doesn't mean much anymore, but Danny wants to do something special, and he found those sparklers, like small fireworks, and he puts them on the cupcake he managed to get the kitchen people to make for him and he gives it to Tom, a grin on his face - the smile and the look he gets in response mean the world to him, mean that something is still going right.

XXXVII. Welcome

Harry doesn't know, he's not sure - how they're going to be welcomed, his soldiers and himself (he'd been promoted to Lieutenant two weeks ago, under his command he's got five men, now) when they arrive in Eastbourne; it could be either with big effusions of joy, or big effusions of blood, and it ends up being a mix between both when they manage to fight off the two Machines guarding the small prison block they find in lieu of the City Hall; he loses one man, but saves fifteen others.

XXXVIII. Waste

His fingers in the bullet wound of a soldier, Tom thinks they're all going to waste, somehow, they're all withering, depressing, killing and dying, and it's not going to change anytime soon.

XXXIX. Fuck

It's all they can do to forget for a while, forget themselves in touches and caresses and whispered promises of forever in between shoulder blades, sticky fingers gripping and pulling, wet lips kissing and teeth biting, it's all they can do to show they're there for each other as long as they're alive, express their twisted love in a world that doesn't have much space for anything else than fighting, it's all they can do, it's all they fight for themselves, to be able to go back to this, to curly hair and bright blue eyes and chest hair and tattoos and cherished moments between four men that no one else can ever begin to try and understand.

XL. Downpour

It feels like the end of the world, ironically enough, the rain coming down so hard you can't even see two feet in front of you, and the usual patrols don't even come out, which is dangerous but they up the number of guards at every entrance and nobody goes in, nobody goes out, they all watch the rain from wherever they can (the kitchen has tiny slits that are used as aerations), and Dougie just smells it, encased in Danny's arms, and he feels safe.

XLI. Tranquil

Danny knows it's all a scam, to make them release the pressure, make some kind of mistake - he won't make it, and he won't let anyone around him make it, either, not when he knows there is a line of Machines waiting on the other side of the building - it's not because it's all gone quiet and calm, only the wind rumbling up dust around their feet, that they're not here anymore, they're just waiting, just like Danny is.

XLII. Brouhaha

That's why Dougie loves being in the kitchen, all its noise and hustle and bustle makes him feel so alive, so alive.

XLIII. Rain

It hasn't rained in four months, and they're in the UK so they know something is wrong - after a recon and intel mission they discover why; the Machines are definitely fucking up with the weather and shit, shit that's not good, that's really not good.

XLIV. Existentialism

Dougie says - I found this, read it to me - and Danny is a little dumbfounded when he sees the book, but the cover is grainy and red, dust having smoothed it, embedded in so deep it mixes with the red and turns it a little bit golden, and the texture is fantastic, so in the end he's not that surprised; it's Sartre's L'existentialisme est un humanisme, but inside it's in English and Danny doesn't understand half of what he reads, and Dougie probably doesn't either, but it's soothing and calm and drowns out the explosions going on around them outside a little.

XLV. Velleity

Harry wants to see the sun, but he's encased in Danny's arms and Tom's breaths are even and soft against his collarbones and yeah, no, he can't be arsed to move, because seeing the sun means this, their own moment for themselves, is done and over with and they'll have to wake up and go to work and help the wounded and seek intel on the radio waves and go fight and, okay, Harry wants to see the sun, but not that much.

XLVI. Phantasmagoria

It's just a shadow over a wall, a big, bulky machine, but it's enough to make Danny shudder, raise his gun, walk as silently as he can to cover; in the end he doesn't see anything and doesn't fight anything, but he knows he'll have nightmares of it.

XLVII. Ennui

Danny would like to stop fighting and have enough time to live to let himself think oh, I'm bored.

XLVIII. Mellifluous

It's whispers, sweet as honey and hot as lava down their bodies as they tangle, it's the complete opposite of the burning of a bullet wound, completely different from the cold metal grasp of a T1000, it's them and it's their only solace.

XLIX. Chubby

Harry's on the operating table when he looks at Tom with glazed eyes and smiles, grips Tom's arm, fingers bloodied and sticky, and he says - hey, I would like it better if you were still chubby before he passes out from the two bullets lodged in his body, and Tom goes back to work, even more determined to get Harry back - his, theirs.

L. Echelon

The last day Danny remembers of the war, they're all there, all of them, in echelons on the dirty soil that sticks to their boots and their hair, too, when it flies up in the wind, and they're all ready to battle, they're all ready to die, even Dougie, his backpack full of explosives that he's ready to send all over the Machines, even Tom, who's afraid of shooting another human every time he's got a gun in his hand - they're all there and for a while, they hold hands, for a while they huddle together and they hug and they kiss and they cry a little, and then they get back in line and - it's Danny's last day.

Dogsitting - Danny/Ant - 1/1

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 18:44:22 GMT

Title: Dogsitting
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Danny/Ant
Genre: Fluff, crack
Part: 1/1
Summary: When Ant wakes up, Danny's nowhere to be seen, and suddenly he's got a new dog to look after...
A/N: This title is so, so lame I'm sorry. Anyway, I really wanted to write something today and I couldn't find an idea and I had people prompt me but in the end I watched Marley and Me this morning and I ended up writing this. Beta'ed by armillarysphere, although there might be a few mistakes left because I kept on changing things, so. Feel free to point them out! Concrit is very welcome, especially since is a piece of crack, where Danny is a puppy.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

One...two...three - open one eye, two, oh, God, the sun's up already. Why is he alone in bed?

Yap!

What the hell? Bruce doesn't sound like that. And what is this curly haired puppy doing, sitting on his stomach? He can't be older than a few months, and seriously, Danny hasn't bought a new dog while on tour, that Ant's sure of. So, what is this dog doing here? Not that he's not cute, with his curls everywhere and blue eyes and pink muzzle, spattered with brown specks and -

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck no way. That can't be, right? He's dreaming, or something.

The puppy climbs up over him then, and, oh, fuck, that hurts, its paw right between Ant's ribs, there, but then he's licking his face, quite conscientiously, and yeah, no, Ant's not dreaming. He scrunches up his nose, pushing the dog away, sputtering when it yaps again, looking disappointed not to be all over Ant's face again when Ant sits up, looking back down at the puppy, who's now sitting on the bed, right in the middle of Danny's spot, looking up at him a little quizzically.

Oh, whatever.

"...Danny?"

Yap!

Tail waggling, the puppy's up, jumping over Ant again, and no, nononononono, no way,
HolyfuckingshithowamIgoingtoexplainthistoTom.

"What. The fuck. What did you do, Dan? Did you get someone to curse you or something?"

He knows it's stupid to talk to a dog, but, the fuck, what is he supposed to do? And now a phone is ringing and it's not his and it's Danny's and oh, it just fell from the nightstand and Ant scrambles to get it, answering without looking at the caller id.

"Yeah?"

"Yo, Brant! Where's Danny? He was supposed to show up at the studio this afternoon."

"Fuck, Dougie, he's been huh - he can't come right now."

"Oh, you're doing the dirty again, aren't you? C'mon, there's this song I wanted him to hear!"

"Later, okay? Seriously, he can't right now. Later!"

He hangs up, feeling something like panic, a whole lot of panic bubbling in his chest, tightening in his lungs, as he looks at Danny the Dog - isn't that a movie? - still there on the bed, still looking blissfully ignorant, because, well, duh. He's a puppy.

"Fuck fuck what am I gonna do!"

He grabs the puppy's - Danny's - face, looking into his eyes, seeing nothing there. Usually there isn't much already, but right now it's worse than ever, and Ant sighs, defeated, petting the dog when he puts his head over Ant's thigh, letting out a small, whiny sound.

There's absolutely nothing he can do, and they're going back on the road in a day or so, and he only had Danny for those few moments, and it seemed too little already, but now Danny is a dog and, yeah. Just great.

When he gets up to put on some pants, leaning down and searching the area, Danny's still on the bed, and it's not long before Ant can hear sniffling sounds, and a nose pushing against his arse, and oh, fuck, no, really, Danny. Plus, his muzzle is really bloody cold.

"Danny! Oh, my God, you do not smell people's arses."

Ant stops, thinking about that for a second. Usually he doesn't mind, when Danny's face is close to his arse, but right now, seriously, no way. He can't really let that happen, and fucking hell, his boyfriend is a dog and that sucksucksucks.

"Well, not when you're a dog and I'm not. You can smell Bruce's arse, if you want, though. I won't be jealous."

Danny looks at him with his tongue out and a look so blank Ant just sighs again, pulling on the boxers he's found, pretty sure they're Danny's. He doesn't think he'll manage to get anything through this dog's head.

When Bruce appears - when Ant is attempting to make himself breakfast, it all goes downhill. Danny turns excited as hell, and Bruce has always been a very social, friendly dog, and then Ant's dayis reduced to running after them and cleaning up after them, too, because Bruce might be trained but Danny definitely isn't, and he's an overexcited dog, and oh, God, when he's back to his human form - if he ever is, but Ant's totally not thinking about that - he's so going to be pissed off that himself ruined his new rug. No way Ant's letting him put that on Bruce's head.

The two dogs play, fight, dribble all over each other, jump, break one lamp, knock a number of chairs and a small bookcase down, and manage to turn on the gas on the oven - Ant still doesn't know how - before he's just too exhausted and he grabs them both, one under each arm, and shuts Bruce in the kitchen, keeps Danny with him in the bedroom.

Danny's not really all that happy about that, apparently, because in retaliation he pees all over Ant's Prada dress shoes, just being there and pretty in the closet, and he's sure Danny did it on purpose because he knows they're Ant's favourites.

When he's done, he looks up at Ant defiantly, the smell making Ant's stomach turn over itself. Danny looks incredibly proud of himself, sitting down and - what the fuck, is he licking at his own balls? That's insolence if Ant has ever seen it.

"Fucking Hell, Danny! You're so buying me a new pair, I'm not even kidding. I know where your credit card is."

He grabs the shoes, Danny following him around as he leaves them, upturned, out on the porch, and then grabs Danny by the neck, where puppy's skin still stretches, putting the two of them at eye level.

"You'd never let that pass with Bruce, Danny. Don't be a dick, even if you're a dog."

Ant's so pissed off after that he pushes Danny off the bed every time he tries to climb in, until Danny stays at the foot of the bed, letting out plaintive sounds regularly, and Ant just can't take it anymore, grabbing him by the neck again and pulling him on his stomach, hugging him close.

"I'm still not happy with you, you know that."

Yap.

At least it doesn't sound as excited as before, and Danny licks at the back of his hand after, as if he's apologising. Ant sighs, looking down at Danny, seeing the big eyes, the freckled muzzle, the brown curls, everywhere. He makes an absolutely adorable little dog.

But Ant wants Danny back, the real Danny, the one with the too long limbs and stupid ideas and contagious laugh and freckles all over. A puppy, as cute is he is, isn't Danny, and Ant feels this close to throwing a temper tantrum, now.

He ends up falling asleep with Danny sprawled over his stomach, snoring softly, his breathing even, slow, just like human Danny. He ends up falling asleep with a hand on Danny's head, between his ears.

He wakes up with a mouth against his hipbones and a little bit of drool wetting the elastic of his underwear, and slow breathing, even, soft snoring, too. He wakes up with a hand in curls, between ears. But this time, all of this is human.

"Fucking - yes!"

Danny wakes up with a start, making a loud, unflattering noise as he sits up, looking towards Ant with his eyes still closed.

"The fuck, mate?"

"You're -"

"I was having a brilliant dream. You suck."

Danny falls back onto the bed, rubbing his eye, but Ant's seriously so, so happy that Danny's human and that he won't have to say anything to Tom and that, well, he doesn't really care that Danny's pissed off at him for waking him up. He surges forward, wrapping himself around Danny, kissing everywhere he can, until Danny squirms a little, sounding more awake when he talks next.

"What is up with you, Ant?"

Ant grins, looking at Danny, frowning at him. Ant's not even pissed off about his shoes at all anymore.

"Nothing. Nothing. You know what? I think we should get a dog, you and I."

Nothing else - but this - Ant/Danny - 1/1

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 05:22:02 GMT

Title: Nothing else - but this.
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: R
Pairing: Danny/Ant (Brantonny, as would say oh_mumble XD)
Genre: Fluff, I'd say.
Part: 1/1
Summary: A small collection of small bits and pieces of a life lived together.
A/N: Ahhh, written on a whim, mostly this morning (I do not decide when my Muse strikes, apparently), and isn't beta'ed. Not long, either, it's not even 500 words! But - felt nice to write it, so I hope you'll enjoy it.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Cold, against his cheek. Breathing warm, but wet cold. Danny groans, frowns, tries to move. His legs are trapped under something, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes. If he opens his eyes, the walls will move and the world will feel very less stable than it is, right now. Danny smiles at the sing-song tone of his voice in his head.

“Mate.”

Oh, then, that’s the heavy thing. It breathes and it moves and it pokes Danny’s not-wet cheek, pushing his face further into the wet thing. Hmmmm.

“Dannyyyyyyy.”

“Urghl.”

“Danny Danny Danny, Bruce is sleeping on your head.”

They might be lying down on the floor, then. It’s hard underneath him, after all. There’s more wet, now – at his neck, but the first wet doesn’t move so Danny guesses it’s not the same thing. Ah, yeah, no, this one got a tongue.

“’m drunk.”

A giggle rumbles up along the column of his neck, and, oh, that feels kinda nice. That’s – that’s why he keeps Ant around.

::

“So what do you think?”

He looks so proud. Hands on his hips, upper chest pushed forward, chin tilted up. Danny wants to laugh, but also wants to applaud how much of a poser Ant can be. This is all sorts of hilarious.

“You look like a ‘Little House In The Prairie’ reject.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. I love it. Let’s go rock that boat.”

::

Danny giggles breathlessly as he finds himself stuck to the dirty wall of some restroom in some club, a couple making out against the same wall, on the other end of the mirror, there.

“Oh, that’s so romantic.”

“Hey, you’ve seen nothing.”

Ant grins that grin of his, the one with the dimple and the cheekiness, and Danny licks his lips, raising an eyebrow. Ant pulls him inside one of the stalls before dropping to his knees, and Danny throws his head back, the sound of his head banging against the wall – he can feel a hole against his bumcheek, it’s kinda really disgusting – drowned into the music of the club.

::

“Fucking hell, was a long day.”

“I made dinner.”

And this, this is why it’s all worth it. The flat smells of pasta and cream sauce, of roasted chicken, and it’s making Danny’s mouth water. Within seconds, beers are opened, and this is definitely why – there’s no need to ask, there’s no reason to judge, it’s this, fun and pasta and small moments that build up a life. That’s it.

Just unzip and slip your grip - Junes - 1/1

Tue, 17 Feb 2009 22:04:43 GMT

Title: Just unzip and slip your grip
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: Mostly porn.
Part: 1/1
Summary: In which Harry wears polka dots.
Warnings: Cross-dressing.
A/N: My love and thankfulness goes to armillarysphere, again, as always. ♥. At first I wrote the first scene of this. Mostly touches and acts. I didn't plan on going on - posted it to my private lj, but that was it. And then today, I don't know. The second scene happened. At work. Um. Maddy, you're still very welcome to write it your way. Manu, I hope you're still on yours (ahahah, yeah.). ♥!
I hope you enjoy this.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

It’s when Harry presses his mouth against Danny’s neck that he wakes up. It’s a warm feeling, breath whispering across his skin, but he was sleeping.

“Bzuh?”

“You snore, you know that?”

Danny frowns, his eyes still closed, because he does not snore, thanks very much. He’s had congested sinuses recently, that’s all. Harry plants a kiss to Danny’s jaw then, chuckling softly, hot puffs of air against him.

“Don’t make that face. It’s not becoming.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure you do. You sound like a little swine.”

“Oi.”

Danny pokes Harry’s side, even though he still hasn’t opened his eyes. He’s calculating from Harry’s voice where his breathing is coming from. He actually gets it right, too. Because he’s so good at this game.

“Stop being mean, go and make me coffee.”

“I am not your maid, Mister.”

Danny finally opens his eyes, rolling them over so that he’s on top. Harry’s all sleepy looking, eyes crinkled, and glinting in the dusty morning light, hair this way and that. He’s warm, too, when Danny leans his cheek against Harry’s, eyes falling shut again. Harry runs his hands over Danny’s back, down and up, their legs tangling.

“You’d make a sexy maid, though. Oh, I can so see the apron and the tight black skirt over your skinny legs. Mmm.”

“Is this another kink of yours, or should I punch you now?”

Danny grins, pulling back to look at Harry, who’s narrowing his eyes at him.

“No, seriously, I mean. You know I still want you to wear girls' knickers. Polka dotted. Black. With a little bit of lace.”

“Wow, you've really thought this through, haven’t you?”

Danny runs a hand through Harry’s hair, eyes following the movements of his fingers. He enjoys how Harry purrs.

“Not really. I saw some like that in a shop the other day, that’s all. Made me think of you.”

Harry lets a sound out, coming from the back of his throat, and Danny watches – his closed eyes and content look. He looks happy. That’s good.

“Will you ever do it?”

“Doubt it, Dan. You know how roleplaying isn’t really our style. We always laugh at each other.”

“Don’t have to be roleplaying. Just – wear them for a day, don’t tell anyone. And I’ll discover it at night.”

This is a good talk to have in the morning. Harry’s more pliant in the morning. He still has his hands over Harry’s face, looking at him with his eyes and his fingertips.

“Hmm. And you think I’ll survive wearing those a whole day?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it. I want them to smell like you.”

“God, you’re kinky.”

Danny grins again, pecking Harry’s lips quickly. His hands are pressing against Harry’s ribs now, feeling the muscles under the skin.

“I know. You enjoy it.”

“If it doesn’t involve me wearing girls' underwear, I do.”

“Seriously, Harry, just try it. It feels nice. It’s – soft and comfy.”

“Do you mean –”

Danny nods, kissing under Harry’s jaw, quick, just a brush of his lips. Harry squirms under him.

“You’re thinking about it, about me wearing them, aren’t you?’

“Fuck, Danny, it’s – it’s kinda hot.”

Harry’s eyes are travelling all over Danny’s face, as his hands slide down, over the curve of his back, to his arse, pushing lightly with the heels of his palms, cocks coming in contact more firmly. Neither is hard, but it wouldn't take long.

“Told you.”

“Really feels nice?”

“Yeah, quite. I was hard all day long though. Or, well. Almost.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I wanted to?”

“Weirdo.”

Danny shrugs, rolling off Harry, making a face. Soon Harry’s on top of him again, though, and he licks a stripe up Danny’s cheek, like a dog. He could almost be wagging his tail. Danny makes a disgusted noise, and Harry just laughs.

“Maybe I’ll do it, Danny. You won’t know until it happens.”

“That’s half of the fun.

*

It’s just a flash, in the dressing room, as Harry buttons up his jeans when he walks back from the shower. It’s just a flash, so Danny puts it down as a hallucination, something he wanted to see.

Only when he opens the curtain of his bunk that night, after a heavy session of Fifa, his feet almost slip from the edge of Tom’s bunk, because – they're there, on his pillow. He looks around sharply, but Harry’s nowhere to be seen, the curtain of his own bunk drawn. He said he’d crash early.

Danny slides into the small space that his is ‘bedroom’, quickly drawing the curtain shut, enclosing himself in darkness. He can’t quite sit up, so he lies on his side, a bit awkwardly, head propped up on his hand as he turns on the light, eyes falling on them, just resting on his pillow.

A black, polka-dotted pair of knickers.

Danny licks his lips, not quite daring to touch yet. He knows, though, he knows they're Harry’s, and that he did this for him. The fucking tease.

They're flimsy, boycut, with white dots over the black material, and black lace around the waistband. Exactly how Danny described them to Harry.

And – oh, fuck. Danny bites into his knuckle when he peers closer, the smell – God, the smell – already tempting him to just bury his face in. But what catches his eye is a stain, small, but. Danny knows, and images of Harry hard and leaking into his knickers make Danny turn onto his back, looking at the ceiling of his bunk. Tom’s just under him, damn it.

Danny, though, he still presses the heel of his palm against his rapidly hardening cock, taking the pair of knickers in his other hand. They're still a little sticky, and Danny can’t help himself. He brings them to his face, burying his nose in as he closes his eyes.

It smells dirty and forbidden, one of those things that shouldn’t leave the bedroom. It smells of Harry, of Harry being hard and excited about doing this. It smells fucking hot, the polka dots and teasing lace.

He’s fast to shed his jeans, hearing them slide off the bunk, hitting the ground. Fuck, he’s really hard, and they always said they wouldn’t beat off in the bunks, especially not with the others around.

But he can’t help himself. Harry – Harry wore girls' underwear, for the whole day, and then left them for Danny to find, and do. Whatever he wants with them. Danny bites down on a moan, echoing around his mouth and in his head. God, there’s nothing he wants more than to jerk off – or maybe to fuck Harry through the mattress. He turns around, lying on his stomach, trapping the knickers in between the pillow and his face as he grinds his hips down onto the sheets, unable to help himself.

He remembers the flash, the hint of lace over Harry’s skin when he buttoned up his trousers earlier, and Danny wonders, how it’d have felt if he got to run his finger over the waistband of the knickers, when Harry was still wearing them. He imagines, solid muscle and delicate lace, mixing and match in the most sensual way possible. He thinks of tanned skin against polka dots. Flimsy material stretched by a hard, leaking cock.

It’s after he moans, low and as muffled as he can make it, that his phone vibrates. It’s beside the pillow, and Danny can’t breathe, choking on feelings and that smell.

He turns his head, taking a good deep breath, his bunk feeling stuffy and wet and too hot. He keeps on rubbing against the sheets as he grabs his phone, hand trembling a little, vision blurry when he opens the text.

“I’m listening.”

Danny bites into the flesh of his hand as he groans at the idea of Harry intently listening to his every sound, barely kept at bay by his own slipping control and the curtain of the bunk. The noise he makes next sounds high pitched and desperate. He thrusts, as if the sheets and mattress were Harry's tight – so fucking tight – arse, starting to move his hips as if he’s actually fucking Harry.

He’s not able to think anymore when he turns head the other way, unfocused eyes barely recognizing the knickers, still lying on his pillow. He’s definitely not thinking when he leans closer and licks at the material. Soon his mouth is full of cotton, sticking to his tongue as he laps at Harry’s taste, his hips going at a crazy, urgent, violent pace. He knows he’s not really muffling his sounds anymore, but it still comes as a surprise when –

“Danny, you jerk.”

Dougie’s voice is softened by the curtains between them, but still annoyed, and Danny stills, the knickers against his lips. He tries not to move, his arse a little way up, his cock leaking on the inside of his boxers, but it’s too late now, he has to finish before he dies. His phone vibrates again.

“Open the curtain.”

Danny manages to muffle his moan then, turning his head, the pair of knickers now gripped tight in his hand, and he pushes open the curtain a little way, just enough so that his head shows to Harry, on the other side of the walkway. He’s on the top bunk, too, and he’s got his own curtain completely drawn open, and he’s naked, and hard, and fuckfuckholyJesusfuckshityes.

Harry makes a little motion with his hand, and Danny opens the curtain the rest of the way. He hears Harry’s gasp, it reverberates through his head, making his jaw clench, along with his own moan of desperation. He tilts his head back in relief when he pushes his hips down, just – he can’t not.

He starts moving again properly, because he’s fucking close and there’s still Harry’s smell in his nose, and his taste on his lips, and his eyes, now, burning his skin, and he can’t hold it anymore, he needs to come, very, very hard, and very, very soon. He bites, on his fingers and the knickers wrapped around them, overwhelming as he grinds against the sheets, a damp patch under his cock.

He’s as silent as he can be, which is asking for all his focus because it’s really bloody difficult not to curse and cry out Harry’s name, and fuck, this is all his fault. But when Danny turns and sees Harry watching him, a hand wrapped around his own cock, jerking fast and hard, struggling to be quiet too – Danny sees it in way his chest heaves, and how he sweats – Danny can’t be mad. He can’t, anyway, because Harry wore girls' underwear for him, and – just. Fuck. Danny just buries his nose in them again, teeth tearing at the material as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, faster and faster until it’s here, his orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave as he comes all over his boxers.

He presses his cheek against the cool wall of the bunk, watching through heavy-lidded eyes Harry’s hand moving even faster now. And it’s only a second later that he comes, gasping and biting his pillow, and Danny watches, enthralled, and he wants to lick the cum off Harry’s stomach, he really, really does. He’s still short of breath, too hot, the knickers in his hand, clutching them tight. He closes his eyes, swallowing thickly, trying to find his breathing again.

His phone vibrates.

“Your turn now.”

Like they have any right to criticize - Tom/Gio/Danny - 1/1

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 23:01:28 GMT

Title: Like they have any right to criticize
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: R
Pairing: Fletcher/Falcone/Jones
Genre: Drama - Romance
Part: 1/1
Summary: You can try and pretend to understand, but you just won't.
A/N: My love and thankfulness goes to armillarysphere, again, as always. ♥. So, yeah, do not feel obligated to read, this came up to me during the ride home from work and it's pretty pointless, maybe it doesn't make a lot of sense, and mostly, it involves a love triangle with Gio, so if you don't like that, don't read. If you do like it, though, yay! I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

The first time Giovanna lets her dress fall down to the ground, the first time she steps out of it, Danny grips Tom’s forearm and dry-swallows. She’s – she’s gorgeous, and it’s exciting and scary, and Danny doesn’t really know what to do, doesn’t really know what to say, what’s expected of him. He thinks – it’s a one-off, it’s just them, wanting to. Spice things up. He doesn’t think it’ll happen again.

It does. Time and time again, it does. They don’t talk about it, not to the others, for a while. It’s not something that’s easy to talk about, really (I am currently involved in a love triangle with my best friend and his girlfriend). Too many questions Danny would be unable to answer, the why’s and how’s and when’s.

You’d think it would be easy, to determine the when. But it’s not, not with his past with Tom. Not with that hotel room and the broken air conditioning and sweaty skin sliding against sweaty skin, lips sliding over cocks, hands tangled in unkempt curls and pressed to tender flesh. Danny, he just. Can’t say, when it all started.

Because Giovanna knew, all along, so the timeline is blurry. Danny doesn’t know either when Tom and Giovanna talked about it, he can’t remember when they talked to him about it. He just remembers, the first time Tom kissed him, hot and wet and messy, and the first time Giovanna straddled his lap, naked and glorious, there on their bed, in Tom’s house.

He thinks, for a while, it’s just sex. Very hot sex, but still only sex. And he’s fine with it, the implications of more are frightening, he’s not really a relationship guy, even less if it’s to be in a relationship with two people that are already in one together. He doesn’t really know when it does morph into something more, though. It might be after Giovanna shows up on his doorstep at three in the morning and sleeps with him, curled against his chest. It might be when Tom joins them at four, just in his pj’s, shivering on Danny’s doorstep. Danny sleeps in between them, and doesn’t ask what happened.

And when they take him along to a road trip to Scotland, he doesn’t ask why, either. He just stretches in the back seat until it’s his time to drive, and gets drunk on whiskey and sucks a mark on Tom’s stomach during the night, the perfect shape of his mouth, viciously red.

He knows, he knows it’s weird, unexplainable, he knows. He and Tom, they try, though, in a clumsy way, to tell Dougie and Harry. They don’t pretend to try and understand, and both he and Tom give up quickly after they’re assured neither of them is going to bail out from the band because this is just a little too weird. Dougie doesn’t talk to Danny for a while, and at first he thinks it’s because Dougie’s jealous, only to realise – because Harry told him – that it’s because he thinks Danny is fucking Gio and Tom up. The perfect, golden couple, screwed up by the Northern retard.

It makes Danny angry, but he understands. He can’t help it, though, he can’t. He tries, but whenever he pushes, they pull, and he’s powerless to resist. Delicate fingers pressed against the side of his neck, tentative lips over his biceps, soft words spoken in the night, and he needs, he needs it like they say they need it, too.

So maybe it’s all a lie, maybe he’s living out a fantasy, maybe this is really as fucked up as it seems to be, but in the end, he’s getting it, their undivided attention, their smiles and their words, Tom’s lyrics and Giovanna’s laughter. He’s getting them, and after a while, he stops wondering, he stops trying to find an answer to a question he can’t quite formulate anyway. This is what it is, this is what they are. He’s just an added element, he knows, but he feels important, he feels necessary, to them.

Sometimes, he asks himself if they wouldn’t crumble without him in the middle. Sometimes, when Giovanna cries in his arms after a fight with Tom, another one of those where he lost his temper, he’s not sure they would manage. When Tom slides in his bunk during nights on the road because he can’t sleep alone, because he can’t sleep without Danny, he thinks they might need him just as much as he needs them.

It makes things okay. For him, anyway, it’s okay. And the next time Giovanna steps out of her dress, naked in the moonlit bedroom, Danny stops thinking about it all, and just opens his arms.

Everything you know is wrong (well, almost) - The Cab - 1/1

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 12:11:48 GMT

Title: Everything you know is wrong (well, almost)
Author: evolia
Pairing: Gen - mostly. Side Marshall/Johnson
Rating: R (for a few sex-related things)
Summary: Ian is in quest to understand exactly why and how her panties are disappearing one by one.
Warnings: Genderswap (girl!Ian) - crossdressing
Author's notes: I wrote this a while back, for the cabfic's fic exchange. I didn't get round to posting it until now...figures. armillarysphere beta'ed it for me, as always, and Lizzie helped a whole lot, too. I hope you enjoy!

The first pair of Ian’s panties that disappear are actually one of her very favourites. She doesn’t bother with a lot of frilly stuff, because it’s more itchy than comfy when she’s on stage, but these ones are frilly and comfy. Overall a winning combo, those boy-cut panties, and she has lost them.

It makes her rather angry, and the boys are not helpful. Not like she’s going to tell them she’s lost a pair of panties, no way, she wouldn’t hear the end of it. But their incessant banter and innuendos, right now, are really, really not what she’s looking for.

When she joined the band, she had some reservations. The idea of going through the country in a van, sleeping in it, with four boys her age being one of them (a big one). In the end, it was quite okay. She thought it would be much more awkward than it ended up being, despite seeing them naked more times than she really wanted to, and having to remind them she’s not one of the guys a few times a week (last was when Singer tried to make her join in a game of strip poker. No, just no), they’re snuggly and they’d probably punch anyone that looked at her wrong.

It’s definitely better than being in a band with a bunch of other girls wanting to kill each other all the time.

“Get the fuck over here, Singer! Those Doritos are mine!”

But right now, yeah, not very helpful. Cash is lying halfway on top of her, elbowing her in the ribs, as he tries to get to Singer, in the back of the van and happily munching on some Doritos he stole from Cash’s bag earlier.

The second Cash plants a hand on her face, she pushes him off her unceremoniously, watching him get stuck in between the driver’s seat and the bench with a sick satisfied feeling.

“Get the fuck off me, ass!”

Cash groans and gets back on the bench beside her, Johnson sniggering behind the wheel. She can feel Singer approaching, hooking his chin on her shoulder. He’s pouting, and giving her his best Bambi look. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. Boys.

“Cranky, Anya?”

“Ian. Don’t make me smack you.”

“Aw, you love me.”

“You’re lucky I do. Now fuck off, and give Cash his Doritos back before he starts crying. I wanna sleep before we get to the venue.”

::

Marshall’s being quiet. He has been for a few days, and Ian wonders if he’s going down with something. She wiggles her toes on his thigh as they’re all in their dressing room, Singer straightening his hair, Cash being an idiot and Johnson reading some old magazine left there before they got to the venue.

“Marsh, Marshall, Marshie, what’s wrong?”

He grabs her foot (he got stealth, she didn’t see it coming) and tickles the sole of it, making her writhe back quickly, few breathless chuckles before she punches his arm lightly. He leans into her, his head on her shoulder, and she blows a breath against his forehead, brushing hair off.

“Seriously, Marshall.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“Just tired.”

::

When another pair of panties disappears, she totally blames Cash. Because, well, he’s Cash, dedicated perv, and she really wouldn’t put it past him. Now, how do you corner one of your bandmates to ask if they stole your underwear without sounding just a little off your axle? Especially if it’s not actually him.

But, really, it’s probably him. She can’t believe she would just have lost two pairs of panties in one week, it’s just not her. So someone’s going through her stuff, and who else but Cash? After all, he’s the only one who ever tried to get it on with Ian.

Granted, Cash’d been drunk, and he’s handsy when he’s drunk (even with the other boys). But the offer of getting Ian out of her pants and to make her sing, well, that has been more than just handsy. Ian just brushed him off and wiped his brow later on when he puked his guts out. He spent a week apologising, but she never really held it against him.

But still, it makes him her primary suspect.

::

The day her third pair of boy-cut disappears, Ian muffles a scream in her pillow, and gets out of her hotel room with only her key card, the clothes she has on her, and her credit card.

“Okay, this is enough.”

She goes to Singer and Cash’s door, not surprised when there’s apparently no one to answer (would they be having monkey sex in the shower, she wouldn’t be surprised either). Luckily, Johnson and Marshall are there when she goes to their room, and the way she plants her hands on her hips as Johnson look at her curiously leave no place for a discussion, and he knows it.

“Let’s go shopping.”

“What? But I was –”

He looks like he’s naked, really, half hiding behind the door, so really, she doesn’t want to know what he was doing. Isn’t Marshall around? This is weird.

“Let’s go shopping.”

“Okay, okay. Just – sec.”

The door closes and opens again a minute later, both boys standing in front of her. Marshall looks sorta flushed, and it makes Ian tilt her head to the side.

Johnson heaves a sigh, but pulls his hair up in a ponytail and walks out of the room. Marshall just follows silently, watching Johnson with a slight smile that makes Ian want to elbow him, only, weirdly enough, she doesn’t dare. That smile, it’s – oh, she doesn’t want to think about that.

::

Cash called, in the middle of Ian’s shopping spree, as she’d been inside a lingerie shop, and the guys had been waiting outside. They told her once she got out that Cash and Singer had been invited to some club for some party, and that they all wanted to go, apparently.

So now, Ian’s watching her own reflection in her hotel room mirror, wondering if she did the right thing here. The dress she bought is short, a little bit too short for her to feel completely comfortable, but it flatters her. She’s that kind of girl with good boobs but large hips, too, smallish legs, but toned. Finding something to wear that would compliment that wasn’t easy. Found it in some empire-waisted (the saleswoman in the shop called it that, Ian wouldn’t have known) green dress that showed her legs up to mid-thigh. She figures, if she doesn’t sit down, she’ll be all right.

Her hair’s still a bit wild, but it’s the way she wants it. Some of her hair is in a messy bun on top of her head, while the rest is still blurrily cascading down her shoulders. It’s in these moments she misses her girl friends from back home, because it’s not like those boys can be of any help (well, maybe Singer could be, a little).

In the end, she puts on some makeup (she only has a few essentials anyway) and waits, because she’s always ready before them, besides Johnson. But it’s Cash who knocks on her door a second later, surprisingly enough. She doesn’t question it, though, sometimes Cash will think about his outfit all day long, so will be ready when the time comes. Sometimes.

Ian slips into her Converses (because really, heels? She’s not going through that kind of pain) after she opens the door, half hidden by it, but when she straightens up, his breath catches a little, and she frowns, looking down at herself.

“What?”

“Um. You, um. Nothing. Ready to go?”

She doesn’t know what he means to say, but she knows that’s not it. She just squares her shoulders, and nods, grabbing her purse (surprisingly, she has one of those).

“Yeah.”

::

So, she suspected Cash was the panties-snatcher, but now, right now, she knows who is, and she’s frozen and she kinda wants to hide and she kinda wants to confront him and she kinda wants to lock herself in a stall and bring herself off.

The panties-snatcher isn’t Cash. It’s Marshall, and he’s wearing her underwear.

This joint Singer and Cash have brought them to? Is actually a gay club, and apparently doesn’t have any girls’ toilets. Yeah, go figure. So Ian had two choices. Pee herself, or go to the boys’.

And here is Marshall, his pants a little down his hips, with boxers that she doesn’t think twice of at first. But the stalls are all taken so she has to wait, and well, she can’t really help herself, she kinda has to stare, and – and.

That pattern, she knows it. The white spirals over the midnight blue cotton – the second pair of panties she lost. Got stolen.

A stall opens and she slides in there before he can see her, and she thumps her head against the divider wall, and she closes her eyes and it’s there, the image, the soft cotton against Marshall’s skin and fuck. What is he doing, wearing it? What kind of kink is that?

God. Marshall has a kink involving her underwear.

::

Later that night, she grabs Singer’s hand and leads him to the dancefloor, dancing close to him and losing herself a little in the music, needing something to clear her mind. She doesn’t want a stranger’s hands on her body, either, and, well, Singer loves to dance and isn’t as sleazy as Cash can be, so, it’s all right.

They actually have a good laugh on the dancefloor, trying their best to re-enact Michael Jackson’s Thriller choreography when it comes on, along with a few other people, and Ian’s glad to find herself much, much more relaxed when they return to their cocktails later on. She doesn’t even blush when Marshall looks at her, but she’s flushed anyway.

Johnson grumbles about wanting to go sleep because he has to drive tomorrow, Cash grumbles because he’s drunk, and, well, he gets grumpy when he’s drunk and there’s no girl to chat up, so Singer grabs him by the wrist and directs him to the bar, looking for a few ladies to talk to, cheer him up.

Johnson leaves only a little while later, tiredness claiming him, and he tells them he’s going to sleep in the back of the van and wait for them to finish. So that leaves Marshall and Ian, and, well, the images flashing through her mind.

“You, um. You look great tonight, Ian.”

“Thanks, Marsh.”

The words are just there, on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t get them out, not here, not now, not like this. She has this twisted need to understand why.

“Something wrong?”

She turns back to him, his fucking earnest face and those huge eyes, and she almost could slap him. Of course there’s something wrong, he’s stealing her underwear, and totally acting like nothing is happening! Ugh, men.

“Nah, I’m fine. Gonna go grab another drink.”

“Well, I – um. Gonna go back to the van, too. Feel pretty tired.”

Ian nods, but she doesn’t miss the guilty look that crosses Marshall’s features.

::

They have a photoshoot a few days later. Ian threatens the stylist with body harm when she offers her a range of dresses, because they have to play fight and be ninjas in this bloody shoot. A dress? What are they on, for fuck’s sake. She ends up in one of the pair of jeans they chose for Singer, but anyway, he wears girl’s clothes, so they fit quite nicely, she’s comfy.

The shoot is fun enough, the guys being just the dorks they are and having a blast, with her in the middle, as always, making the most of it too. She can’t not, not when Cash is holding her up in a secure hold around her waist and Johnson comes forward, all ‘yataaa’ and arms flailing, wanting to save her.

They end up all sending kameameas to each other, running around goofily, and Ian feels lighter than she has in a while, the images of Marshall in her underwear disappearing a little when he laughs at her, tying a scarf over his brow in a desperate attempt to look more like a ninja.

It doesn’t last, though. She doesn’t want to stumble onto Marshall getting dressed into his own – or hers – clothes after the shoot. She’s just out of the shower and the door is open and she'd thought the boys would be gone – or dressed, at least.

But it’s only Marshall and he's pulling his jeans up over another pair of her underwear and, fuck, fuck. She dry-swallows, hard, and takes a step back, going back to the small bathroom and looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She can wait. She can wait until he’s done.

She’ll confront him, she has to, some kind of need coursing through her veins, but not now. Not like this. She doesn’t know when nor how, but she just knows this isn’t the right moment.

It’s not the best moment to slip a hand between her legs and brings herself off, either, but she still does it.

::

“What is up with you, Anya?”

“Fuck off, don’t call me that.”

Ian sits back on her bed, frowning and pouting a little, arms crossed over her chest. They have a day off, they’re in hotel rooms, and she’s still in her PJs. Didn’t plan on getting dressed, and didn’t plan on seeing anyone, either.

Cash is dressed, though, and she doesn’t understand why she opened the door when he knocked, but she did, and now she’s got to deal with him.

“You’ve been biting everybody’s heads off for two weeks, Ian. It’s not. Usual. So what’s up?”

He sits beside her, and she hates, she hates when he turns into that Cash. The friend, the one that makes her want to talk to him.

“Nothing, Cash. I’m just tired.”

“Well then sleep for 20 hours, because you’re getting Johnson antsy. Johnson.”

“I was planning on that, but, oh, look, you’re here.”

He rolls his eyes, and she doesn’t even feel offended. Okay, right, so what if she’s lying.

“You know what you need? You need to get laid.”

Ian laughs at that, pushing at Cash’s shoulder when he chuckles, making him stand and take a few steps towards the door of the room.

“Oh, get the fuck out, Colligan.”

He stops at the door, hand on the handle, and turns back to her, a genuine smile on his lips.

“You do, though. I wasn’t saying with me, although, you know, if you want…”

She barks with laughter, kneeling on her bed and throwing a pillow against the door as Cash slips out. She doesn’t stop laughing for at least ten minutes, and then orders a bottle of red wine from room service.

::

Ian feels nicely drunk. Free and a little bit floating, maybe. Whatever Bill put in that cocktail she is drinking, well, it’s amazing.

Okay, so she’s on her way to being completely smashed, they’re in Pete’s house for some FBR party, and she lost her bandmates somewhere around an hour ago, actually, when Gabe gave her a first tequila shot. It was followed by a few others with Sisky and The Butcher, and, well, now, Bill’s cocktail, and she really would like to know if the boys didn’t leave without her, because, well. That’d suck a little.

The walk upstairs is pretty risky, but she manages it, and on the landing, there is Marshall. Marshall, who she falls onto, pressing him against the wall as she giggles and regains her balance. He’s helping, though, warm hands around her elbows.

“Whoa.”

“Hey, Marsh! I might be drunk.”

“You let William give you a drink again, didn’t you?”

Marshall, well, he smells nice. And Ian, well, she doesn’t feel like she can resist that smell at all, so she leans closer, her nose in the crook of his neck, and she smells. He smells like lilies and like outside, like. Sand and wind.

“Come on, you wanna go and lie down, Ian?”

“I’m go-good here.”

She can feel the way his voice rumbles up his throat as he talks, and that’s nice, too. She can also feel the way his fingers are carding through her curls, down her back, and – and. It just feels so nice.

“Do you wear my panties because they feel nice?”

“Wh-what?”

Ian looks up, at the side of Marshall’s face, and she can’t see much because of his hair, but she can see his cheeks flushing and his skin is turning hot against hers.

“Oh, I know it’s you who stole them. I saw you.”

“Anya…”

“I-”

Oh, she’s dizzy. She backs away, leaning against the opposite wall and puts a hand to her forehead, willing the room to stop spinning for a second. There are cool hands on her arms, and then she’s moving, but she doesn’t know where. She sits. It’s cool under her, and when her eyes focus a little, she sees a sink.

“Marshall?”

“Yes. If you need to puke –”

“No, I’m a-all right. I wanna sleep.”

It’s a whine, long and drawn-out and probably very annoying, but there’s no answer before she’s pulled up again and then, then there’s a bed, and, God, it feels like Heaven.

“I’m sorry, Ian.”

She doesn’t know why, but she snuggles in the bedcovers and forgets about it.

::

She finds her three missing pair of underwear at the top of her bag a few days later, and, somehow, she doesn’t feel happy in the slightest about it. After they’re checked in their hotel rooms, she doesn’t waste more than five minutes to get out of hers and directly to the one Marshall is sharing with Singer.

He opens up, and she yanks him out, making him the door close behind him and he opens his mouth, looking just like a fish, as he turns to the door, and then back to her.

“Ian!”

“Whatever, Singer’s in there. Marsh, you really think I want those panties back? Not that I don’t like you and all, and I’ve probably wore your boxers more than once, but. You know.”

Marshall blinks, and then bites his lip, looking down. Fuck, Ian would almost feel bad.

“It’s just – you knew, so I –”

“Marsh, I don’t. Well, it’s not that I don’t care, but I just. Want to know why, I guess.”

“Alex?”

Johnson just opens his door and take a peek outside the hallway, stopping the second his eyes fall on Ian. Which is weird. And his tone of voice was really, really soft, and it’s not so much like Johnson, despite what people say about him being a stealthy ninja and all. He’s a drummer after all.

“Hey, Ian.”

She raises an eyebrow, because she’s fairly certain there’s a blush creeping up his cheeks, and he’s looking down now, and, fuck, okay, there is something she is missing here. She points to Marshall, and then her hotel room. She’s going to understand, damn it.

“You, get in there.”

::

"What the fuck just happened, Marshall?"

"Uh."

He's sitting on her bed and she can't get the look on Johnson's face out of her head. Why can't she shake the feeling that, well, something really weird just happened? Something she probably wasn't supposed to witness. She blinks, before deflating, and going to sit by Marshall's side, bringing her legs up and resting her cheek on her knees, circling her legs with her arms.

Neither of them talk for the longest time, Ian looking at Marshall looking at his fingers, picking at his nails. She sighs regularly, filling the silence in the room sometimes, until he looks up, his eyes huge and almost watery.

"Johnson and I...Well. You know."

"Seriously?"

So, she might have suspected it, but, still. Marshall admitting it, that's something new. He nods, looking down at his hands again, and Ian reaches out, grabbing one of his thumbs to make him look at her. She won't judge. It's not because she doesn't want any of them (anymore) that they can't have their fun together if they want to. To be honest, the images are pretty hot.

She closes her eyes for a second, willing said images to just disappear right now, because it's not really what she needs.

"It’s…serious, or something?”

“I don’t really know, Ian. That’s – I didn’t want to keep it a secret, or I mean, it wasn’t planned. Just, we don’t know where we’re going, so.”

“Yeah.”

“And that thing about your underwear, that’s another –”

Ian raises an eyebrow, but Marshall snaps his mouth shut, a deep blush creeping up his cheeks. He starts biting his lip, and Ian tugs him a little towards her.

“Come on, you started, might as well finish.”

“It’s just – he likes it.”

It’s blurted out quickly, and Ian can feel a smile starting to appear on her face and, okay, that is a little bit mean, because she really wants to laugh and now the images aren’t so hot than they are ridiculous. She bites her lip, hard, trying not to laugh, and Marshall narrows his eyes at her.

“Don’t you even dare.”

She bursts out laughing, and doesn’t stop, even when he pushes her onto the bed and starts trying to smother her with a pillow, that she pushes away when she finally calms down, her eyes glinting up into his. He’s smiling.

“Sorry! Sorry. It’s just – all right, okay.”

“If you ever talk about it, Ian, seriously –”

“I won’t. Now, maybe you should go talk to him. Tell him you told me, at least. He might be pretty worried and start trying ninja stealth tricks on my door. And lock us in, or something.”

Marshall’s smile grows a little, and he nods, leaning down to kiss her forehead. He doesn’t say anything else, though, and leaves the room quietly.

She sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks.

::

The next time she goes shopping, she takes Marshall with her, and this time, he doesn’t wait outside when she walks in a lingerie shop. He ends up leaving the mall with four new pairs of panties, and Ian buys a new shirt in the male department of H&M.

Demolition Lovers (a.k.a 5 (no - 6) persons Nathan and Jack have in common) - Eureka

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 19:29:26 GMT

Title: Demolition Lovers (a.k.a 5 (no - 6) persons Nathan and Jack have in common)
Author: evolia
Pairing: Stark/Carter
Rating: R (for a quick sexual ref)
Category: Angst
Summary: They probably think they don't have much in common. But they have at least 5, wait, no. 6 persons in common.
Warnings: A little bit of sexual reference.
Author's notes: Hai! This is my first Eureka fic ever, and it's very short, only a series of 5 drabbles. So it's 500 words. My bff armillarysphere read it over for me and checked it was suitable to be read. I hope you enjoy!

I. Allison

They had to save Allison, together. This was the only reason, it could only ever be the only reason for them to team up, to accept being into each other’s space for long enough to develop something else than mutual dislike (and envy). It didn’t develop very much further, just into a bit of mutual respect, acceptance. If they wanted to, they could have realised how silly it was, for both of them to be envious of the same thing – the way Allison looked at each of them. Because she looked at the two of them in the same way.

II. Vincent

Carter liked his coffee a little strong, but a little sweet, the right amount of sugar to counterbalance the bitterness. He thought it took Vincent maybe two seconds looking at him to guess it, and (on first try) it was perfect. Just absolutely perfect. It didn’t take much longer for Vincent to guess Stark drank his coffee straight up black (no sugar, no milk), no distractions from the direct surge of caffeine shooting down his system. They always ended up entering Café Diem one after the other in the morning, and. Once, they sat down and drank side by side.

III. Henry

Nathan really, (really) disliked pheromone-based projects. He disliked them more than he disliked idiots. And he really didn’t like idiots, so that’s saying something. Carter, he disliked pheromones too. He especially hated them when they were affecting him and they were affecting Stark and Henry had no idea what to do. Stark and Carter, well, for once, they agreed. They both hated Henry for locking them up in Carter’s house while they were going hormone crazy. They ended up fucking (on the couch and in the shower), and the bite mark on Carter’s jaw didn’t wear off for a week.

IV. S.A.R.A.H.

After the whole B.R.A.D. incident, Stark liked to come over and check on S.A.R.A.H. in between Fargo’s updates. It was for his own peace of mind more than anything else, because he wouldn’t admit to a house that he enjoyed its company. He always told her not to tell Carter, but she always ended up telling Carter anyway, as if she thought they should talk. Carter always acted like he didn’t care, because he didn’t (so he said). Zoë always wondered out loud (and falsely innocently) why her father was weird when Stark was mentioned, since the whole pheromones accident.

V. Stark and Carter

“Just go check in Section 4. Allison should be there.”

“Thanks. One last thing, Stark?” Stark – he sighed.

“Yes, Sheriff?”

“We never talked. About the – pheromones thing.”

“What is there to say? A project gone wrong. Whatever.”

“So it wasn’t us? At all.”

“No, it wasn’t. We weren’t ourselves.”

“Okay, good. Because, you know, I didn’t feel. I mean –” Carter took a step forward.

“Don’t. Carter, just don’t.” Stark shivered. Full length body shiver. Carter averted his eyes.

“Okay, yeah. You’re right. We weren’t ourselves.”

“Allison’s waiting for you.”

“Yeah, I’m going to go, now.”

“Report back later.”

“Sure.”

I only wanted to be wonderful - Pones - 1/1

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 12:24:08 GMT

Title: I only wanted to be wonderful
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: R
Pairing: PoynterJones
Genre: Drama - Romance / AU
Warning: Death
Part: 1/1
Summary: Dougie meets Danny in the Tube. He falls in a minute. Danny's sick.
A/N: Thank you, piratemoggy for your beta work and opinion on this! Thank you to everyone one who helped and pushed me to go on with this. So, yes, this is a fic where Danny has AIDS. It's, um. It's a sensitive subject, and I hope I wrote it delicately enough. I didn't want to put angst as a genre, despite the fic containing death, because to me, it's not about angst, it's about hope.
Anyway, I hope you read and enjoy this.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Dougie meets Danny in the Tube. Danny looks at him, grins, and pulls his earbud out of his left ear. Dougie can't help but do the same.

"Wanna trade?"

"What?"

"The music. You listen to mine, I listen to yours. For the length of our journey side by side."

Dougie thinks he could fall in love with that guy.

::

He goes to work at the music shop with a crumpled piece of paper in his pocket. On it, Danny's number is scrawled messily. Dougie tunes in guitars for customers and thinks about listening to Bruce Springsteen and The Who.

::

"Can't make it, Dougs, sorry."

They don't really date, they just hang out. But they had planned on going for drinks and pool tonight, and the tone of Danny's voice is soft and tired over the phone. Dougie shivers with how wrong it is, Danny usually so energetic.

"Oh."

"I'll make it up to you, alright?"

"Hey, why? Something wrong, Dan?"

Danny sighs, and it's a sound that Dougie associates with fear. He really, really doesn't like it. He clutches his phone tighter, sniffling. Weather is slowly slipping into autumn, and he's got a cold.

"Nah, I'm fine. I just got tied up."

Dougie's not mad. He's just - concerned. He keeps on frowning, and he hopes Danny can't hear it in his voice.

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

::

They kiss four times. The first time, it's six months after meet, and it's after a long night of drinking and dancing, with Danny's friends, in some club in North London. They share a cab ride back and Danny walks Dougie to his door. They kiss here, in the middle of the door, half into Dougie's flat and half out. His hands are curled on the front of Danny's jacket, and when they move, he feels Danny's fingers, cold yet hot on his cheeks.

Dougie wants to pull Danny in, but Danny smiles against Dougie's lips, cards his fingers through the hair, at the back of his head, and kisses the tip of Dougie's nose.

"Night, Doug."

::

Dougie’s eyes narrow, and his fists clench, and he really wants not to be upset, he really doesn’t. It’s kind of too late.

“So you were just fucking with me?”

“No, no! I really – I really want us to be friends.”

Dougie rolls his eyes, and he can’t really help the sarcasm seeping in with his next words.

“Great. Just great.”

::

Their fourth kiss is a little desperate. Danny pushes Dougie away after a while, pain in his eyes. It’s almost comical, how Dougie feels he’s the only one hurting in this, but it’s still there, clear as day in Danny’s irises. Dougie’s the rejected one.

“Sorry, Doug.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

::

"I-I- Why didn't you tell me?"

Danny's pale, so pale. Dougie's heart is breaking, it's breaking hard, and for the first time, for the first time in his life, he wants to have hope, so much more hope than he can muster. He draws in a shaky breath, and Danny smiles.

"How did you-"

"I called. I called your mum. I wanted to know where you were."

Danny chuckles, eyes turned back towards the ceiling. It's been more than a year, already, that they met. Dougie can't believe they're here. Can't believe this is real. He can't believe he didn't know before.

"I brought your guitar."

Dougie holds it up, and Danny sighs. Dougie wants to cry.

"I didn't tell you - I didn't want you to worry."

"Is that why you never let us - go further?"

Four kisses, in the span of a year. Dougie's helplessly in love and he knows it, but - this.

"It's not safe. I'm not safe."

Dougie's legs are trembling. He takes a few wobbly steps closer, until he can grab Danny's hand. His skin so cold, so pale, the freckles standing out so much.

"You should have told me. You should have, because how am I supposed to help if I don't know, Danny? I can't - have you always been alone in here?"

"No, my family. They come."

"But they're in Bolton, Dan. I'm here. You shouldn't have - pushed me away."

Danny dry-swallows. He’s still looking at the ceiling.

"I know."

"As for the sex, it's just. Technicalities."

Danny turns to him, their eyes finally meeting, and he shakes his head, looking almost angry. His hand suddenly grips Dougie's tighter, on the verge on being painful. Dougie feels his eyes blurring.

"I have AIDS, Doug. It's not just technicalities."

"We, w-we can. Make it work, right? I want to, Danny, I don't want - to leave you."

"I don't want you to leave me either."

Dougie nods, and when he climbs onto the hospital bed, Danny just lets him.

::

Danny takes a step back, shaking his head forcefully. His cheeks are coloured with anger.

"Fuck you, Doug! I'm not - fragile."

Dougie's arms fall back to his sides, lips slightly parted. Okay, so maybe -

"You want to be with me? You say you want to be with me. But if it's to treat me like a porcelain doll, I'd rather. Be alone."

"You don't mean that."

"Oh, you watch me."

There's venom in Danny's words, tone of voice. Anger, pain, too, and Dougie knows - he might have gone too far. He just wants Danny to be in good health. Maybe - maybe, he's feeling a little overprotective.

"Danny -"

But he's already on his way out, slamming the door after him with much more strength than necessary. Dougie jams a fist in between his teeth, and bites down.

::

The first time they have sex, it's just hands and touches and kisses. Danny doesn't let it go further than that, doesn't let Dougie kiss his way down his chest, as much as he tries, as much as he wants. He turns away as he comes, too, and Dougie - he wonders if they'll ever manage to make it work, this way.

He likes it, being this close to Danny, being this intimate, but it's not enough, it's not. Danny turning away from him, he doesn't want that, not in that situation. He doesn't want it at all. Danny gives him an apologetic look, and he almost says something, but Dougie shuts him up with a kiss. It's still - a step forward.

He falls asleep with his head on Danny's chest and doesn't say anything.

::

"I'm - fine, Doug, it's just a small infection."

Dougie clenches his jaw, because no, no, it's not fine, it's not okay, it's not alright, it's not anything. Danny's losing weight, visibly, his cheekbones more pronounced and his jeans sliding down his hips. He's in one of those hospital paper dress right now, and he just looks - so pale.

He takes a step back, and he doesn't want to, honestly, he wants to stay by Danny's side. But Danny's fucking denial, it's. Driving Dougie crazy. How can he accept that it's real, if Danny doesn't. He wants Danny to fight, that's not the point, he just. He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't feel strong enough.

"Dougie -"

"I'm sorry, Danny. I'm so fucking sorry. I'll - come back. Tomorrow."

Danny turns his eyes away, but Dougie can't miss the flash of anguish in them.

"Yeah. Whatever."

::

Dougie comes back. He sits by Danny's bed, leans his hands on his knees, grips at them, a little, and then looks into Danny's eyes.

"How did it happen?"

It's not so much a question than it's an order, Dougie needing to know. He needs to know, to fight better - make it better. He hasn't slept, not really, not in days. Just moments, fleeting, between the nightmares. Not of Danny dying, no, just. Danny withering.

"Um."

There's more colour on Danny's face. He's getting better, the worst is past him. This time around. That's the bit that Dougie can't quite wrap his head around.

"Tell me, Danny."

Danny sighs, defeat in the tone, and nods, looking up at the ceiling, in the way he does when he can't quite face Dougie. When he's losing strength. Almost two years - Dougie knows, by now.

"Few years ago, I met this guy, Charlie, at Uni. We were - careful. We were. But one night, we were drunk and I didn't care, I was careless. I loved him, he couldn't deal with what he did to me - what he let himself do to me, so he left me."

Danny's skipping parts, smoothing over the hurt he knows his words are etching on Dougie's whole being. It's not that he ever thought he would be the first, it's not like he even could think such a thing, but - still. Danny never told Dougie he loved him. They just - never told each other. Dougie stands up, moves closer. Forces Danny to look at him.

"It got worse - it became AIDS, a few months after you and I met."

Dougie shivers visibly, and Danny reaches out, brushing his thumb against Dougie's cheek. Dougie closes his eyes, a gasped breath leaving him, and he turns his head, nuzzling Danny's palm, lips dragging over his skin.

"You wanted to know."

"I know - I know."

"Charlie died, last year."

"I love you."

They talk at the same time, their words tangled, and Dougie feels powerless, the fucking - whatever it is, karma, destiny, God, what-thefuck-ever, he just wants. To rip it all apart. He wants more time than he's going to get. He wants forever.

Danny chuckles, and it sounds strangled, and painful, and there are tears in his eyes and - he looks away.

::

They try again. Not often, but Dougie wants it, he wants it. He has to go on, and he wants to go on with Danny, and he wants to be close, he wants them to be intimate. He wants Danny’s cock – inside him, has wanted it for two years.

He sees the condoms are latex, so he checks that lube is water-based. He checks that there are clean sheets and he checks that Danny’s in a good mood. He’s been feeling well, lately. They’ve been going out, seeing friends. They’ve cuddled at night. Danny has whispered apologies in the dead of night, when he thought Dougie was asleep.

The way Dougie kisses Danny is completely desperate, and he knows it, he knows, but he doesn’t care, not anymore. He needs this, he needs Danny’s skin against his and he wants Danny to want him, to want him like he wants to be alive. And Danny kisses back, just as hard, and it’s. To Dougie, it tastes like triumph.

The sex is good, the sex is awesome. Danny’s wary, at first, but Dougie looks into his eyes and smiles, and it’s alright. He’s not scared, not of this, not of being with Danny like this. And when Danny comes, buried inside Dougie, he cries out and clings, and Dougie’s heart is finding back a missing piece.

::

Danny’s knuckles are white over the tabletop, he has curled his hand around the edge so tight that Dougie wonders if it’s not going to break under the pressure. He takes a step forward, but Danny turns his eyes to him, and there’s danger flashing in them.

“Don’t. Fucking don’t.”

“It’s alright, Dan, just let me see –”

“Dougie, don’t.”

The knife is on the table, and there are drops of blood, falling from Danny’s finger, from the hand he’s holding up, looking at with almost fierce anger in his eyes. Dougie – he doesn’t know what to do.

“Do you need the hospital?”

“It’s only a cut, Doug.”

Yeah, but. He knows why Danny’s keeping him away, he knows. Danny’s scared, so scared, of him doing what’s been done to him. And he’s scared – of so much more.

“Just. I’ll go clean up. Don’t – touch anything.”

::

It’s been four years, and Dougie wants to celebrate. Celebrate the anniversary, not anything else. There’s no way he’s counting days, months, years he has with Danny, because this is still forever, this is it – there’s nothing else behind. Not now.

He buys flavoured condoms, and Danny laughs. It’s his obnoxious laugh, the one Dougie likes most – he has categories, Danny has around ten different laughs. It’s the raucous one, the one that says Danny’s carefree, just enough.

The condom cuts Danny’s taste, and Dougie knows he doesn’t have much more of a choice, but he takes as long as he can kissing Danny afterwards, finding him again.

::

“Maybe. Maybe you should go – for a while.”

“Go where?”

Dougie plays dumb and averts his eyes, suppresses the shiver that runs through him. Danny’s been withdrawn, lately, when it’s been the two of them. Dougie doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t know what to do, either. It’s been almost a month since they kissed. Not that Dougie would be counting.

“Back to your place. To see your family. I don’t know, just. Away.”

“What about no, Dan? What about you stop fucking pushing me away, for a change?”

Dougie cries, that night. He can’t help it, and he hates it, because he refuses to cry, he refuses to cry when Danny’s around. Someone’s gotta keep it together, and it doesn’t have to be Danny.

The bed creaks and then arms are encircling him, and Dougie grabs at the large fingers on top of his a little helplessly. Danny’s breathing is heavy on the back of Dougie’s neck.

“We’ll be alright, Dougs. We – I’m sorry. I want you to stay.”

Dougie doesn’t know anymore which of them needs the other the most. He turns in Danny’s arms and presses himself as close as he can. Their legs tangle together, with the bedsheets too, and Danny kisses Dougie’s forehead before Dougie kisses Danny’s chin.

::

He can’t even stand up. He’s too tired, too tired – the pills do that, sometimes, but this is something else. He’s coughing violently, wheezing, can’t breathe, tries to, too hard. And when Dougie sees blood – he panics.

He doesn’t remember the phone number, he can’t remember it. Danny’s skin is hot yet cold and clammy under Dougie’s fingers, pushed up under the fringe of curls over Danny’s forehead. The number, what’s the fucking number.

He rides in the back of the ambulance with Danny, cheek against the back of Danny’s hand, hair falling a little flatly over his wrist, fingers squeezing his, and Danny’s breathing through a mask, eyes glinting violently in the electrical light, looking at Dougie, as if he wants to say he’s sorry.

Dougie turns his head, presses his lips against Danny’s skin, hard. So cold. He knows it’s pneumonia, it has to be. He’s read up on these things.

“It’s alright. It’s fine.”

::

“It’s been a year since – the last time. You said once a year. You have to do it, Doug.”

Dougie nods, he knows. This is all he can do, to settle Danny’s mind. And he’d do anything to see Danny smile, even if it’s only relief. It’s just hard to think he can’t ask Danny to come with him.

“I know. I’ll make an appointment to get tested tomorrow.”

::

Danny smiles, his features tight, his skin too pale and pulled too hard over his bones. He looks – fragile, in a way Dougie doesn’t like. He sits on the hospital bed, leans against Danny, careful. Breathes Danny in, nose against the skin, there, down the curve where neck meets shoulder. The paper dress sticks to his bottom lip, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t like that Danny doesn’t have to move over a little for Dougie to have enough space.

“You’re tiny, Dougie.”

“No, you’re the tiny one.”

Those words, they’ve been saying for ages and ages, since they met, Danny poking Dougie lightly, sticking his tongue out. Dougie retaliating, just as fast, quick fire answers that ended up with Dougie most often panting under Danny after a thorough tickling session. After a while, it was followed by making out.

But now, now Danny just smiles, turns his head and brushes strands of dirty blond hair away from Dougie’s forehead with his nose, kissing the skin, lightly. He’s so cold, all the time.

“My CD4 count dropped again.”

“What makes you happy, Danny?”

He doesn’t want Danny to think about the bad, about the more sickness and more days in the hospital and more death – he can’t, he can’t take it, the dejected tone in Danny’s voice. He wants happy, he needs happy.

“You. And being able to breathe by myself.”

That’s always something.

::

There’s this light in Danny’s eyes, the same as the first day the met, when Dougie pulls him in through the door and he sees the Christmas tree. He’s still a kid inside, sometimes.

::

Time feels just. Too precious and running out, burning through their fingers as they watch telly on the couch, side by side. Dougie wants to travel the world. He wants them to see everything, before it’s too late. It feels too late already, but starting late is better than not starting at all.

He buys tickets to go to Italy, and they spend New Year’s Eve in Rome. They spend Easter in Croatia, and they get madly drunk and sick on Dzhibrova and Baklavas. They should have spent Christmas in Thailand, but Danny’s sick, so they reschedule. They go the next summer.

Dougie watches Danny lying in the water, letting the tiny waves move him around, his arms spread wide, his eyes closed. It’s late at night, but the water’s still hot, so hot, like in a bathtub. Dougie still shivers when he goes to stand by Danny’s side.

His fingers press, soft, against Danny’s ribs, just for the contact. He doesn’t want to see the bones under the skin. He used to not see them. Danny’s hand curls around Dougie’s bicep, his thumb stroking the tattoo there, and their eyes meet.

“This isn’t how I imagined my life would be. Mum would have loved grandchildren.”

Drops of water roll down from Danny’s fingers along Dougie’s arm, and Dougie leans down, licking the salt off Danny’s collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, his lips lingering on the spot.

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, and he holds Danny through the night, when Danny cries.

::

“Don’t tell me to be fucking careful, Dougs, okay? I’m sick and tired of being careful. I’m dying, Dougie. I’m fucking dying, and you better get it through your bloody thick skull, because it’s happening, and you better get it now and get going once it’s upon us, because you’re not screwing up the rest of your life because of me.”

::

Dougie, he hates the rain. It makes the pavement too slick to skate to work and it makes the ends of his hair curl, in a way he hates. But the worst is that it forces Danny to stay inside, because rain, rain – in England. It’s cold and treacherous and it could give him pneumonia again or something worse, maybe – maybe. Despite everything he says, Danny’s not willing to risk it.

There’s a bath running for him when he gets home, drenched from head to toe, and Danny sits by his side as he slides in the water, sighing gratefully. It’s perfectly hot enough, and Dougie closes his eyes, lets his muscles relax, lets Danny play with his fingers, on the edge of the bathtub.

“I sold a Fender today.”

“Oh, you did?”

“A Strat’. American Standard, a ’57. Surf Green. I wish he took the Sunburst, though. He looked more like a Sunburst guy.”

“Rough yet polished?”

Dougie chuckles, opening his eyes and looking into Danny’s smile. Danny doesn’t play so much himself. He has moments, though. Nights where he’ll write two songs and play them to a sleepy Dougie, that will yawn through them, a cup of coffee in hand, but in the end, he’ll always find them awesome. Because they are.

They talk about freedom and finding one’s path, they talk about love in a simple way, in a way where the words aren’t necessary. They talk about them, about Dougie on his own, Danny, on his own. They talk about family and memories. They never talk about death.

“Sing me a song, Dan.”

::

Dougie hates sleeping alone. The bed’s too big for him to be alone in it. And Danny’s too alone, too, all the way over there, in his hospital bed, trying to sleep in foreign sheets, with tubes hooked on his arm and hand and nose, a puppet on strings.

Almost eight years. They never told Dougie, the doctors – they never said how long they gave Danny. But tonight, tonight they told him they didn’t think he’d be able to get out again. He’s too weak, too tired. He almost couldn’t talk, his voice broken, flat, everything it usually isn’t.

He tells Dougie he loves him, the next day, when Dougie comes in and sneaks bagels into Danny’s room, even though he knows he’s not supposed to. It’s the first time Danny says the words, and Dougie can’t quite breathe for a second, because it feels – overwhelming. He didn’t expect it.

He doesn’t say the words back, because Danny is asleep by the time he got a grip, and Dougie just sighs, drops a kiss on Danny’s forehead, and goes to work.

::

Danny dies when Dougie’s in the middle of selling a Music Man bass, his favourites. He dies on a day that is sunny yet not too much, with a touch of wind. The kind of days Danny likes most. He dies and Dougie waits until he’s home to cry.

::

Dougie – he’s no good, to talk in public. Danny knew it, he knew very well how Dougie just had this tendency to say the wrong things. But still, he asked. He asked, so Dougie does it. He writes about Danny, about himself, about them, together, living with this, going through this. His voice cracks as he talks, and he doesn’t look at anyone, he just looks at the sheet of paper in his hands, trembling slightly as he forces himself not to break down, not like this, not in front of these people.

“So I gave him all, and he gave me all. He taught me how to be a man, even if it sounds cliché. He made me a better guitarist, a better composer. He made me a better friend, a better lover, a better brother and a better son. He wasn’t scared of telling me how wrong I was sometimes. He wasn’t scared of life, living the way he thought was right, despite everything. That’s what he taught me, and I hope I can teach someone else, too, someday.”

There are a million more words on this letter Dougie wrote in the middle of the night, two days ago, but those words. They’re just for Danny to read. He folds the letter and drops it on the closed coffin, along with the rose petals Danny’s mother insisted on, even if Danny always found they were stereotypes.

On the stone is written Danny’s name, the dates. It feels enough, it feels too much, already.

::

Their next scheduled destination was Morocco. Dougie goes alone, and he takes a million pictures, meets a million different people, all amazing in their own right. Sometimes he wants to cry, sometimes – often.

But he goes on. He doesn’t let his life go to waste. And he falls in love again. And every time he visits Danny’s grave – he hears him laugh.

::

Dougie goes home for a while. Spends time with his family, because, well. It matters. And he goes home by bus, because since – he likes long rides, now. And there’s this guy, sitting beside him, listening to music on his iPod and reading a book Dougie can’t decipher the cover of.

And his heart is hammering in his chest when he pulls an earbud out and turns to the guy. He’s blond and he’s got soft features. He’s nothing, nothing like – yeah, no. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

The guy raises an eyebrow at Dougie, before taking an earbud off, too. He’s got big brown eyes - they’re warm.

“You want something?”

“Want to trade?”

“What do you mean?”

“Our music. You plug in my iPod, I plug in yours. And we trade music for the length of our journey together.”

::

Don't be afraid to care - Pudd - 1/1

Sun, 07 Dec 2008 21:24:10 GMT

Title: Don't be afraid to care.
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG
Pairing: PoynterJudd
Genre: Angst
Part: 1/1
Summary: "Either way, Dougie doesn’t deserve it. Harry’s just in a mood."
A/N: Thanks goes to armillarysphere, as always. I just. Felt the need to write some Pudd. So I did. I hope you enjoy it.
Giving me concrit and comments is basically making my life, so don't be afraid ^^.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

The music is blaring, from his sound-system, right into his ears, his heart, his veins, changing the rate of the beat inside him. The cigarette goes from his fingers to his mouth, red cherry burning hard when he inhales, smoke filling up his lungs, and he feels like singing, maybe – or crying. He’s not really sure, he doesn’t really know what he feels.

It’s one of those nights, when he’s alone at home, and the music fills up the space. Sometimes, he just doesn’t want it any other way. Sometimes he wants exactly the opposite. People talking instead of singers singing. Laughter, alcohol. Sometimes it’s just good to be alone and relax. Sometimes it’s not. He doesn’t really know. He’s stopped questioning it.

“Harry?”

A voice that breaks the peace inside Harry, and he turns around, raising an eyebrow. Dougie walks into the kitchen and sits, cross-legged, on the table, his trainers off. His toes wiggle in his socks, and his fingers pull on threads at the sleeve of his hoodie. He’s looking down, not at Harry. Harry, he – he looks away.

“What are you doing here, Dougs?”

“You’re gonna catch a cold, staying at the window like that.”

Harry doesn’t move. He doesn’t want Dougie – to see, the look in his eyes. He’s not sure it’s desperate need or intense lack of care. Either way, Dougie doesn’t deserve it. Harry’s just in a mood.

“You need something?”

“Haven’t seen you in five days.”

“We’re on holidays.”

“So? You could have been dead.”

Dougie’s right. This isn't like them. They go away, go someplace on their own, but they still call. Harry’s been holed up in here for days, and hasn’t called anybody. He’s been here, ordering takeaway and watching tv, cricket highlights at three in the morning, music videos at five in the afternoon. He hasn’t been sleeping much, either. He isn’t sure he felt the need. Right now, he’s tired, though. Wants to crawl inside Dougie’s warmth, the worried tone of his voice, for a little while, curl up and sleep.

“I’m fine.”

“We had a fight, Harry. It happens.”

“I know. I’m fine.”

“Are you still mad?”

Dougie’s voice has gone from slightly annoyed to frightened, sounds coming off higher than they should, barely heard over the music. Harry heaves a sigh, taking a step back and closing the window. He turns around, his eyes falling on Dougie – small, but with a fiery glow in his eyes, almost feverish. He got so much stronger than in the early days. Doesn’t really – need Harry anymore.

Now it’s Harry that needs, more often than not and it’s. It’s scary. A bit. He doesn’t know, how to make sense of what’s right and what’s wrong, when it comes to Dougie. What’s friendship and what’s more. What he should and shouldn’t do. What he wants and what he shouldn’t want.

Sometimes – only sometimes – he wants to cut the bloody wings that grew out of Dougie’s back. He wants to stop the growing up, wants to keep them here, now, before even. When Dougie was easy to read and needed something out of Harry. Always did, be it comfort or laughs or eggs, be it a little poking and tickling, or a nice kick in the arse.

“No, Doug, I’m not.”

Dougie looks up, and Harry breathes in slowly, moving to stand in front of Dougie. They don’t touch, they don’t as much anymore, it doesn’t feel as necessary. Only sometimes, but it’s never premeditated, not like when Dougie came crawling into Harry’s bed when they were living together. Harry doesn’t know whether to miss it or not, because now it’s natural, but it’s just. Rare.

“Got a weird way of showing it.”

He’s sure Dougie sees right through him, sees the bad mood and the dark feelings, sees the remaining anger that was kept alive by him staying here for days, alone. He wants to talk it out, he does, he has been wanting to since they fought, as they usually do, but then the tour was over and they were planning on holidays and spending some time with family, girlfriends, friends, outside of the band a little, and Harry – he didn’t have the strength.

And he didn’t want Dougie to hate him, he doesn’t want that, could never live with it. He needs Dougie to love him, if only just a little bit. And letting go of a fight that happened more than a week ago, it might. Be the best way to get forgiving.

Or so he thought, but it’s apparent he doesn’t know Dougie as well as he used to. Because Dougie isn’t having any of it, right now.

“Yeah, well, that tour was exhausting. I’m just. Relaxing. Sleeping a lot. Chilling at home. Feels good.”

He’s lying, he knows he is, and he knows Dougie knows, too. He knows Dougie can read him, much better than Harry can read Dougie nowadays, he can see the dark circles under his eyes, probably. The way he talks slow, carefully, thinking every one of his words. Dougie jumps off the table and – again, Harry couldn’t see this coming, didn’t think Dougie would be suddenly so much closer.

His fingers are cold but soft, small against Harry’s cheek as he looks like he’s inspecting him, his face, his lies, his truths. It makes Harry dry-swallow. Then Dougie’s wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist, and that’s. Even more unexpected than anything else. Harry feels like he could cry, the tension, the lying, the tiredness. He just sighs and holds Dougie, Dougie who’s hiding his face in his hoodie, now, nose pressed between the ‘B’ and the ‘U’ of Incubus.

When he next talks, it’s as if he reads Harry’s mind, and it’s muffled in the dark material of Harry’s clothes, and it makes Harry drop, break, slump. He doesn’t like being the fragile one, he’s not the fragile one. Dougie is. Dougie was. But Harry needs, now.

“I need you, Harry.”

“Thank you.”

A Day In the Life Of Dr. Fletcher. - 1/1 - FletcherJones

Sun, 21 Sep 2008 17:40:40 GMT

Title: A Day In the Life Of Dr. Fletcher.
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: FletcherJones [with a buttload of background pairings]
Genre: Humour (hopefully) - AU - crossover with Bandom.
Part: 1/1
Summary: Title is self-explanatory. Dr. Tom Fletcher is a doctor in the Paediatrics ward of the Central Hospital. this is a day in his life.
A/N: This is for mcflyslash Fic-A-Thon. Thanks goes to armillarysphere, as always. Giving me concrit and comments is basically making my life, so don't be afraid ^^.
Words: 6 026
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

So, Tom’s life is kinda hard. To be honest, he doesn’t have that much of a life, really. Hospital, sleep, hospital, sleep, food when he can, sex with Danny when he’s seriously lucky.

His life is basically the Paediatrics ward of the Central Hospital. And the Paediatrics ward at the Central Hospital is a world on its own. It has Dougie, the desk clerk, who’s in love with every doctor that crosses his path, but Tom thinks it’s mostly because of the scrubs. There’s Dr. Jon, who’s always so laid-back Tom isn’t sure he’s not stoned all the time. There’s Brendon, one of the interns, so fucking bouncy all the time he makes Tom even dizzier than Dougie does, and Dougie’s high on sugar all the time, so that says a lot. Also, there’s Danny. He’s one of the nurses, good at his job and always trying to corner Tom in a broom closet.

Sometimes, he succeeds.

“Dan, wait, not now. Brendon fucked up on Beckett’s medication; I need to make sure the kid isn’t in a crapload of pain. Or overdosing.”

A bottle of detergent falls as Danny presses Tom against a shelf, and Danny chuckles. There’s harsh breathing, Danny’s hand spread wide over Tom’s hip, his lips at Tom’s jaw.

“Bren always fucks up, that’s part of his job. Jon will do it if it can’t wait.”

He kisses Tom to keep him from protesting, and, yeah, it works, because Tom’s knees buckle and his mind goes weak under the power of Danny’s lips and tongue, making him kiss back and slide his hands into Danny’s hair. Oh, because Danny’s got those luscious brown curls that are so soft all the fucking time. Tom sometimes wonders if Amanda, the ward sister, makes it a requirement, because the three male nurses on staff got that kind of hair. Ray’s hair is fun, but seriously, Ian’s pretty much wins it all. It’s so big. Just probably not as amazing as Danny’s, but Tom really shouldn’t judge, because he only grabs at Danny’s in broom closets. Ian wouldn’t let him anyway, there’s already this blonde intern from Cardio that keeps coming up to give him coffees and sweet looks, and Tom thinks they’re probably shagging.

So anyway, Danny’s hair is a bit addictive, like his lips and his taste and his ginormous hands and, and, and.

“Dan, Danny, stop.”

“Do you ever take breaks?”

Danny’s panting against Tom’s mouth, and it seriously sounds like sin to Tom’s ears, the tone of his voice, low and slightly husky, the look of him, bright-eyed in the darkness, lips just there, there, making it so much harder for Tom to keep some control over himself, because he actually can’t even remember the last time they had sex. The last time Danny spent the night at his place is even further away.

“I just took one right now.”

“Two minutes doesn’t count as a break.”

He doesn’t really have time for much more, though. When it’s not rounds, it’s a new admission, or an urgency, or a fuck-up of some sort he has to correct. Work, all the time, consuming but so bloody rewarding, too, Tom wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“Tom…”

It’s a whine, but Tom’s used to whining from his patients so it totally doesn’t work. He’s immune.

“Danny, stop it. By the way, Belinda, the girl in room 4, needs a new IV.”

“Belinda. What were her parents on?”

“Disco? Come on, let’s go.”

Danny snorts, and sneaks out first, stealing one last kiss before going, strutting his stuff only to frustrate Tom further. He takes a few seconds to readjust himself, running a hand through his hair as he trots towards Dougie.

“Did you get stalked in a cupboard again, Doc? You look flushed.”

“Shut up and give me the Beckett file.”

“Oh, antsy, are we?”

He is a bit, yeah, as always after a little romp with Danny. He just. Always wants more, and can never get it. It’s basically unfair and really, really frustrating. He shrugs at Dougie as he hands him the file.

“You know, whatever.”

So, that’s Tom’s life for you. Seeing kids all the time, having none. Helping those makes it worth it, though, just like the people he works with. But yeah, it’s not exactly easy all the time. He doesn’t know how Dr. Walker manages a healthy relationship with Dr. Smith, one of the doctors in Orthopaedics, because even if he tries, he always feels like he’s completely failing his own. And he’s not even dating another doctor. Not that Danny has any kind of a loose schedule, but you know.

“It’s easy, mate. Just have to make some time.”

It’s lunch time, and Tom’s stealing chips from Jon’s plate randomly as he eats his own tuna and tomato sandwich.

“Do you sleep sometimes?”

Jon snorts, slapping Tom’s hand away from his food.

“Of course I sleep, I wouldn’t be such an amazing doctor if I didn’t.”

Tom rolls his eyes, and Jon motions at them in the cafeteria.

“Why isn’t he here anyway?”

“Has to cover Ian’s shift. He’ll have lunch later. And I can’t have lunch later, because I’ve got a scan to supervise.”

Jon makes a noise at the back of his throat, patting Tom’s hand lightly, as if he has any compassion, and that’s when Dr. Smith gets there to join them. Dr. Smith has an awesome beard and awesome arms that he uses to snap bones back in place. Tom finds it a bit gross, but Dr. Spencer Smith is super classy, and who is he to say that, he puts his hands on babies barely out of their mother’s vaginas.

Oh, also, Dr. Smith is totally in love with Dr. Walker. Tom thinks it’s a bit unfair that it’s so obviously written on his face the way it is, but that’s just probably because he wants the same kind of looks Spencer gives Jon from Danny, and he’s so not getting them.

“There’s a new guy in surgery, did you know? Stump came over for a patient earlier and he told me. Some kind of blue-eyed hunk, apparently.”

Spencer sits and takes a bite of Jon’s burger, and Jon doesn’t slap him away, which makes Tom let out some sort of indignant noise. Spencer smiles.

“Hey, the day you blow him in your office, you’ll get to steal his food without retaliation.”

“I don’t even – have an office.”

Jon bursts out laughing as Tom obviously deflates, because that wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. He pushes his plate towards Tom, leaning against Spencer’s shoulder lightly, and Tom’s annoyed at how simple it all looks for them.

“Here, before you offer to do it in the break room.”

He turns back to Spencer, raising an eyebrow.

“So who’s the guy?”

Spencer shrugs, unwrapping his sandwich. Tom’s staring at his hair, it’s shiny. He wonders if he’s developing a fetish.

“Dunno really, haven’t met him. He's come from St. Mark's. He’s quite talented, from what Stump said. Neurosurgery.”

Tom perks up, and sees Jon doing exactly the same. Weeks they’ve been waiting for a neuro opinion on one of their kids with a brain clot. Jon nods.

“I’ll ask for him to come down.”

And just like that, they get back to work.

Angelica Saporta-Asher is eight and awesome. She’s snarky and smart for her age, reads comics and plays the piano. Her parents are batshit crazy, though.

“Hey Angie! Got a new book?”

“It’s not a book, it’s a comic. Duh.”

Tom bites back his laughter, holding his hands up in apology as he walks towards her. She’s consciously chewing on a piece of her own hair, sitting cross-legged on her hospital bed.

“It’s boring. Daddy got it for me.”

As if on cue, her father, Gabriel Saporta, stalks in the room. Yes, stalks, because Gabe Saporta doesn’t walk. Sometimes, he sneaks, too. Tom has learnt that the guy thinks of himself as some sort of snake. He’s not surprised by anything anymore.

“Why, hello Dr. Fletcher.”

From anyone else, this would sound completely normal, but from Gabe Saporta it sounds almost dirty, the way he pronounces words. It’s unsettling at first, but then you get used to it.

“Oh, Mr. Saporta, I wanted to talk to you. Is your wife around?”

“Talk to me.”

Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes, but goes with it, waving at Angie, even if she’s too deep in her hair and her comics to see it, and leads her father out of the room.

“So, we have a new surgeon at the hospital, and he specializes in neurosurgery. So I asked for him to come down today and check Angelica’s file and status. He’ll run some tests, and maybe will be able to do something about the clot, that we’ve been unable to do until now!”

Saporta blinks, scratching his ear, and then nods.

“Okay, cool.”

Tom’s really not going to be startled by how unaffected Angie’s father looks. He knows better.

“I think you’d like to know that you have two of your guys making out in a broom closet, by the way.”

“What?”

Saporta’s face breaks into one of those slightly creepy huge grins, and he points over Tom’s shoulder, waggling his eyebrows.

“They should know there’s a windowpane on the door.”

He stalks back into Angie’s room, and Tom turns around, his eyes growing huge as he sees what he recognises as the back of Brendon’s head pressed against the small windowpane. He strides forward, opening the door without fucking caring, and Brendon goes tumbling down, looking up sheepishly. There’s bloody Dougie between his legs.

“Hey, you do it too!”

“No, I don’t, for fuck’s sakes, there are kids around, get dressed!”

Seriously, he’s not going to laugh. He’s not, it’s not funny, okay? It’s really not, they’re fucking idiots and he doesn’t even know how he can work with them. Brendon tugs himself back into his scrubs as Dougie scrambles back to his feet, obviously looking almost ready to burst out laughing, and, God, how did Tom end up with such morons?

“Tom!”

That’s Jon, and he’s calling from the stairs, followed by two guys, and Tom guesses it’s Dr. Judd and his intern, Ross. Spencer, when he came down to the Paediatrics for a check-up on one of his patients, told them everything he knew about this new surgeon, and that Ryan Ross was one of his friends and very excited about working with Dr. Judd, who was so renowned.

Tom momentarily forgets about the two idiots as he walks towards them, earning himself a smile from Danny when he passes him in the hallway.

Dr. Judd isn’t very tall, but he’s got striking blue eyes and a slight stubble that makes him older than he probably is. He’s ruggedly handsome, Tom’s not going to deny it. Ryan Ross, looks a bit like a lost puppy, and he’s totally wearing a scarf over his scrubs. Tom tilts his head in wonder when he looks at him, he seriously can’t help himself.

They shake hands and niceties before Tom explains Angie’s case, leading them to her room. He stops when he’s got a hand on the handle of the door, holding up a finger.

“Oh, before I forget. Her parents. They are completely insane. Today only her dad is here, but that’s lucky. Her mum plays her the keytar when she comes.”

It’s obvious that Dr. Harry Judd is trying not to laugh, and Tom opens the door for him, letting him in as he sees Dougie from the corner of his eye, looking on before striding forward to him, tugging on his sleeve.

“Oh, my God, Tom, who is he? He looks so good oh, my God, Tom, you have to tell me!”

Yeah, Dougie talks fast. Tom motions for Jon to follow in on the tests Judd is going to do and all but pulls Dougie back to his station, sitting him behind the desk.

“You, do your bloody work. He’s no one, just another surgeon you won’t shag, Dougs.”

“You’re so cruel, Thomas Fletcher.”

“I know, that’s why you love me.”

Tom pats Dougie’s shoulder, leaving him at his desk, before going to the break room, feeling like needing a break, for just five minutes, okay? Some silence, please. But of course, in the room is Ian and his blonde Cardio intern, talking over a plastic salad bowl.

“Oh, hey, Doc. Want some?”

Oh, yes, he does want some, but. God, today’s just bad for his hormones, seriously. Tom’s like, boiling from inside, and can’t show anything. People would freak, seriously.

“I, uh. No, thanks.”

“Hi, Dr. Fletcher! I’m, um, Marshall. I’ll be with you for my next rotation.”

So, the blonde Ian’s shagging has a name and also a Colgate extra-watt smile. And Tom’s seriously not going to even think about the guy’s hair, because whoa, he’s really jealous. That's a serious fringe.

“Well great then! Hope you’ll be more serious than Brendon.”

“Did you find him with Dougie again?”

Ian’s trying not to laugh. Tom’s trying not to tug on one of his curls. Hard.

He doubts Marshall will be better anyway, it’s just the guy giving him head in a cupboard that is going to change. And Tom really shouldn’t be thinking about this. Cue groan.

“Yeah, well, you know. You seen Danny?”

He just can’t take it anymore.

“He was going in Room 2. Pear was throwing a fit, and you know he’s the only one that can calm her down.”

Tom nods and smiles, because that’s so true it’s kind of frightening. Pear Wentz is a diva, and Danny absolutely loves her. Tom was wary at first, seeing Danny so enamoured of a leukaemia patient, but once you meet Pear, you just understand. And then you fall too, and then it’s impossible to go back.

“Okay, thanks. Enjoy the rest of your lunch. Marshall, I’ll see you!”

Tom leaves the break room, going over to the room where Danny’s supposed to be in, passing Dougie in full blown flirt mode with Dr. Judd in the hallway.

“Dr. Fletcher!”

“Yeah?”

He stops as Judd turns to him, and, damn, he really has gorgeous blue eyes. Fuck, Tom really needs to find Danny. Like, five minutes ago.

“How did it go with Angie?”

Dougie’s looking at Dr. Judd with serious hearts in his eyes, and yeah, Tom’s not even surprised. Dougie falls for every new intern and every new surgeon, shags them or doesn’t, and then goes on. Tom wonders if someday he’ll find one that will stay.

Judd smiles, and yeah, even Tom can see why Doug would fall for this one in particular. Not that he cares, really. The guy doesn’t have enough hair, anyway. Um.

“She’s an awesome little girl, very strong. I might be able to help her. I ran a scan, the clot should be removable, it’s not blocking too many vital parts. I’m going to run a few more tests to make sure we won’t damage anything if we do surgery.”

Tom can’t help himself. The relief is so strong he surges forward, grabbing Harry’s hands in his, making Dougie chuckle behind him.

“You. You are amazing.”

Harry raises an eyebrow before laughing, squeezing Tom’s hands lightly.

“Nothing’s done yet, but I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you. I’ve got to go, but. Thank you.”

Tom nods, releasing Dr. Judd’s hands and starting back to Pear’s room.

“I’ll beep you when I have more!”

Tom’s day is definitely getting better, just with those news. Because he really likes Angie and she really likes her comics and the clot is pressing down on her occipital lobe and could make her go blind if it develops further. Tom resists doing a little dance in the hallways as he almost runs to Room 2.

Because now all he needs is a little bit of a Danny fix, to really brighten things up. Because the man’s definitely a drug, and Tom’s addicted. Plus, people have been talking or having sex all day long, and really, really, Tom needs to get laid. Not that it’s going to happen now, but, still.

His life, so hard.

He knocks lightly on Pear’s door, walking in and stopping at the doorframe, watching on as Danny softly sings to the little girl, lying in her bed, her eyes drooping. He’s caressing the back of her hand and they’re looking at each other, lost in their own little world of unicorns and rainbows.

Oh, Tom’s totally in love.

When Pear finally falls asleep, Danny turns to look at Tom, his smile bright and easy. Yes, totally in love, fuck it, he’s not going to deny it.

“Oh, hey.”

“She okay?”

Danny stands, nodding as he gives her one last look before pining Tom against the door.

“She’s fine. Threw a right tantrum because her telly didn’t work.”

“Ahh. Got a minute?”

“Got even more than that for you.”

Tom grins in Danny’s own large smile, and leads him out of the room, to the lifts. He pushes Danny in an empty one, hitting a random number and then the emergency stop button. Danny has the decency to give him a stern look.

“Tom.”

“There’s other lifts. Just for a few minutes! We can’t have privacy anywhere here.”

“Broom closet?”

Danny giggles, he actually does, and Tom rolls his eyes as he crowds him against the wall, shaking his head.

“Considering I caught Doug and Brendon red-handed in one, I don’t think they’re safe.”

“Hmm.”

Tom doesn’t let Danny say more, just leans against the length of Danny’s body, touching everywhere, and kisses the breath out of him, moaning when his hands slide in Danny’s hair, because it’s so soft and silky, God.

He presses his tongue against the corner of Danny’s mouth, pushing it in between his lips when Danny finally kisses him back, opening up for him. Danny’s hands grab at Tom’s hips, fingers digging in over his scrubs.

Tom’s body goes soft under Danny’s touch, pulling Tom into him more, groins in contact through the rather flimsy material of their scrubs, and Tom can feel himself growing warmer by the second. Fuck, he wants so much more, and it makes it so much harder to break the kiss off, panting against Danny’s lips, trying his best to ignore the way Danny whimpers lightly.

“We need to give each other more time.”

“I want to fuck you so bad, Tom.”

Tom groans, dropping his forehead on Danny’s shoulders, because he’s not against the idea, not at all, really. If he had anything on him right now, he seriously wouldn’t mind just getting out of his pants and letting Danny have his wicked way with him. But, yeah, you know, having lube in your pocket on the ward he’s working in is basically screaming to be caught and teased mercilessly, and, well, you know. Tom’s got a reputation to maintain.

Danny cards his fingers through the hair at the base of Tom’s head, and it takes all that Tom has in self-control not to mewl. That says a lot.

“What time do you get off tonight, Dr. Fletcher?”

Danny’s lips are a warm whisper against the skin of Tom’s neck, and fuck, this is really, really unfair. Why can everybody else on his floor get laid, but him?

“I don’t. I’m on tonight.”

“You’ve been taking double shifts much too often lately, Tom. It’s barely helping, you know.”

“I know, I know. I promise I’ll stop. I really – I want more of you.”

Tom can feel a smile forming on Danny’s face against his skin, and his heart flutters a little. Damn, he’s really in deep with Danny. He can barely realise it, didn’t think he would at all, when they first started dating. Danny’s loud and a little dumb at times, asked Tom out in the middle of the Paediatrics ward entryway, and offered him a flower he’d picked in the flowerbeds of the hospital’s parking lot. No, really, he was ridiculous and Tom said yes because Danny always has been hot, and now, look at him. So into Danny it’s not even funny anymore to try and deny it to his staff.

“I’m glad. Now, shall we make out a bit more before we get back?”

Danny grins up at Tom, waggling his eyebrows, and Tom can’t help but laugh, although it’s soon cut off, because Danny’s already leaning in, kissing Tom deep, his hands moving under Tom’s scrubs. His fingers are teasing at Tom’s waistband, making them both moan in each other’s mouth. Fuck, Tom wishes Danny could just yank them down.

Danny pushes Tom against the door of the lift, and that’s when Tom’s beeper goes off.

“Damn it.”

Danny pulls the emergency stop button again, starting the lift back, and Tom checks his beeper.

“It’s Judd.”

“Is he gonna work on Angie?”

“I hope so, I’m probably going to find out now.”

They go up to the floor Tom pushed the button for earlier, before immediately going back down, giggling like schoolgirls when the doors of the lift close in front of the faces of some irritated looking doctors, and they use the few seconds they have left to fool around a bit more.

Yep, schoolgirls, indeed.

“You all right, Dr. Fletcher?”

When they get our of the lift, Dr. Judd is there, smiling at how flushed Tom probably looks, large and bright. Danny chuckles when Tom stutters a bit, squeezing his shoulder before leaving quickly.

“I'm fine. What's the news?”

“We’ll get Angie up to the surgery ward tomorrow. I’m planning to scrub in later this week. She should be fine.”

“Great! That’s great. Will Walker scrub in with you?”

Harry nods. Dr. Jon Walker loves scrubbing in, in surgeries, while Tom hates it. Guts of his kids spilled over an operation table gives him the creeps. He’s sensitive! Plus, it’d be her brain. Oh, no way. No, no way. At all.

“I think he will. Hey, um. Would you mind, errm. Telling your desk clerk that I’m off at 9 tonight?”

Tom’s face breaks into a grin. Yay, leverage for future bribing! That’s always useful.

This hospital is full of horny teens, and Tom really doesn’t know how they can be trusted as good doctors, really.

“Oh, I sure will, Dr. Judd.”

Judd rolls his eyes, but has the decency to blush lightly, making Tom giggle ungracefully as Judd slides in a lift. That man doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.

Tom finds himself with a minute left on his moment of peace, and goes to the break room, finding Jon and Brendon there. Okay, so no doctor covering the ward, seriously, what is this place?

“Hey, did you talk to Judd?”

“Yeah. Great news!”

Jon nods enthusiastically, grinning at Tom as he points towards the coffee maker. Brendon’s sprawled over a table, his books open in front of him, and Tom wonders if it’s not the first time he’s seen him studying.

“I made some coffee.”

“Guys, I’m in love!”

Dougie barges in, falling onto the couch next to Jon, sighing dreamily as he does. Jon chuckles as he pushes Dougie’s legs off his own, poking his shoulder with his free hand.

“You’re in love every week with a new guy.”

“But this is different! I’m sure he's my soul mate.”

“Why would you think that, Dougs? Oh, he told me to tell you he’s off at9, by the way.”

Dougie grins, rubbing his hands together, and Tom can’t help the images of Dougie’s head on Dr. Evil in Austin Powers, laughing maniacally. He tries not to laugh.

“He’s just. Better. So smart! And those eyes, fuck me, that’s hot.”

“What makes you think he’s actually smarter than the last few idiots you’ve been shagging, Doug?”

Brendon looks up at that, with a wounded look on his face, resembling some kind of dying deer.

“Hey! I’m taking offence to that!”

Jon grins as Tom pats Brendon’s shoulder affectionately, because really, he likes the guy. He’s awesome and likes Disney just as Tom does, that’s rare enough to be a bond of some sort.

“I think you can, Bren.”

“Good thing Dr. Iero has been making doe eyes at me, then, because it seems like Dougie’s not going to put out anymore.”

Brendon sighs dramatically, and Tom laughs whole-heartedly, ruffling Brendon’s hair. He’s really an overbearing mother to those people, seriously. And Jon’s like, a cool dad. So unfair.

Ray Toro walks into the room then, crazy wild hair flying over his head as he looks at Jon and Tom in turns.

“The Way kid is having a seizure!”

And again, Tom’s life turns into a whirlwind.

The sun has set when he gets a minute for himself again. The Way boy is stabilized, back to sleeping peacefully. Tom doesn’t like to think luck or fate have anything to do with his job, but he still thinks that the fact that the kid’s older brother was calling out for him from the adjacent bed helped a lot to get him to come back. It makes Tom want to call his little sister.

“I’m off, Tom. Going to get laid by a surgeon!”

Tom nods tiredly as Dougie bounces to him, beanie on his hair and hands shoved into gloves. It’s Winter, and Tom almost forgot about it.

“Okay. Have fun, mate. See you tomorrow.”

Dougie squeezes Tom’s forearm, nodding a tiny bit more seriously.

“You need sleep, dude.”

“I do. Now go!”

Tom pushes Dougie towards the exit of the ward, walking past the desk to see Adam Siska in place of Dougie. The guy’s completely the opposite of Dougie, up to a point Tom wonders how they haven’t fall in love and gotten married yet. Maybe Dougie’s addiction to hot doctors doesn’t help, um.

Tom greets people that just came in for their night shift as he walks around the ward, like Nurse Trohman, another member of the curly hair clan. Seriously, it has to be a requirement or Tom just doesn’t get it. He also meets Cash, another intern that is so sleazy he makes Brendon look angelic. He also has the worst tattoos Tom has ever seen, but the kids love them, much to Tom’s amusement when Cash goes red because one of the youngsters mocks him.

Another bit of staff, more crazy. Tom knows Brendon, Jon and Danny are on for another few hours, and he dreads the moment Brendon will give Cash an overall look of the day, telling him of the new developments, because he knows it’s just going to end up in lame arse-related jokes, weird handshakes, and probably Cash climbing over Brendon at some point.

Tom has seriously ridiculous co-workers.

When he walks into the break room to grab a coffee and a few minutes to compose himself and try to look slightly less tired, Jon’s there with Dr. Frank Iero, giggling together. They stop as soon as Tom gets in, making him give them suspicious looks. Dr. Iero is a general doctor in the Neonatal ward, and he likes to pull serious pranks. He’s also very tiny, heavily tattooed, and jumps basically anything with a pulse. Mostly interns. Because they’re easy.

“You know Spence will kill you if you pull any tricks, Jon.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

Tom smirks as he pours himself a coffee, falling on a chair ungracefully, as Frank bounces around, greeting Tom with a weird hug around his head.

“Did you let him have sugar again? You know he’s not allowed. Or if he is, he shouldn’t.”

“He’s not a Gremlin, Tom.”

“I’m not actually all that sure.”

Iero cackles, giving Tom a crazy look, leaning over the table to look at him.

“Wanna know what my mini-me’s burst out of when I’m given anything after midnight, Tommy Tom?”

“Damn, you’re so gross.”

Tom pushes Frank out of his face, laughing as he imagines an army of mini-Ieros running around the hospital and make it completely implode.

Jon and Frank are in the middle of a tickling war when Tom finishes his coffee, standing up just as Danny walks in.

“Oh, no, nuh-uh. Sit.”

“Danny, got to go back to work.”

Danny puts his hands on Tom’s shoulders, forcing him back in the chair. Tom totally ignores how Jon and Frank observe them, snickering behind their hands a little, because, you know, Danny’s hands are kneading at his shoulders, and, fuck, this is amazing. Danny leans close, his breaths brushing against the shell of Tom’s ear, and he seriously has to grip the arms of the chair not to give a visible shiver.

“It can wait. You’re so fucking tense, Tom.”

“The doctor all obedient to the nurse, it could make for a grand Harlequin story.”

“Oh, shush, you. Don’t you have little babies to help, Iero?”

“Oh, Jones, you wound my romantic heart by keeping me from witnessing this scene.”

“Just go, dumbarse.”

Frank just chuckles, but leads Jon out of the room, giving Tom and Danny a few seconds of privacy. One of Danny’s hands leaves Tom’s shoulder and Tom guesses he’s just waving at Jon, before it’s back, the door closing and silence settling as Danny’s thumbs slide under Tom’s scrubs, warm and dry. They push at the skin of his neck, pressing against knots, and God, Tom could have an orgasm.

He moans, low, coming from the back of his throat, when Danny’s hands slide further under his clothing, stroking the skin, soft but firm touches, making Tom melt completely, his chin hanging on his chest and his eyes closed. He just allows himself to be manhandled by Danny, because, yeah, seriously, those hands. How they can be so large and clumsy at times, letting glasses out of his grasp after having just picked them up, Tom wonders, because they’re really delicate and caring whenever Danny’s at work.

“Fuck, this feels so good, Dan.”

Danny leans closer again, this time letting his tongue flick out to touch the side of Tom’s neck, and Tom doesn’t repress the shiver that runs through him. God, he wants Danny so bad.

“I still want to fuck you a lot, you know, Tom.”

Tom groans, the massage combined with Danny’s words making it very hard not to. Fuck, life is really, really unfair.

“I wish I could tell you to just do it.”

Danny presses a kiss to Tom’s temple, swiftly, a move that makes Tom open his eyes in wonder, because that’s typically not Danny-like.

“We should go away.”

“Go away?”

“Take a week off, go to someplace sunny.”

Tom stills, because um, that’s something new. They've barely ever spent a weekend together without work, and now this? It’s only been a few months they’ve been dating. What makes Tom sure Danny’s not going to kill him with an axe while in an holiday resort in the Bahamas?

Yeah, right. They spend most of their days here together; Tom wouldn’t fool anyone with those arguments. He’s so lame sometimes, no wonder why he fits so well in the Paediatrics ward. He’s certain Jon would find counter-arguments even faster than Tom can count to one in his head. Jon’s good at that, despite the laid-back attitude and all that jazz.

“Tom?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Someplace sunny, you said?”

“Yeah, like Spain or something.”

Tom stands up, Danny’s hands falling off his shoulders, and he feels wonderfully relaxed as he turns to look at Danny, watching him bite his lip in worry. Tom smiles, tugging Danny’s lip off from between his teeth.

“I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

The surprise in Danny’s eyes and tone would almost make Tom wince, because, yeah. Work work work, whine, but he’s forgotten how he’s actually supposed to be committed to something else, someone else.

He answers Danny with a smiling kiss, promising himself to really allow more time for Danny. Because he really wants to be fucked again. A lot. He wouldn’t mind if it was in Spain, either.

The door swings open harshly and they spring apart, Brendon looking excitedly worried as he bounces on the balls of his feet.

“Tom, come on, come on. There was an accident. Two kids are down in the E.R.”

Tom flies off with Brendon, leaving Danny there, and he’d feel bad if this wasn’t really important. His job is important, saving lives, it counts. It makes him feel a bit useful.

So he spends the next hour and a half with his hands buried in a boy’s chest, while Jon’s on the other one. They’re not out of danger zone when they’re stabilized, but it’s still better than if nothing had been done. They can help more, later, there’s nothing more to do right now.

Back upstairs, the ward is blissfully calm and doesn’t smell of blood, just mostly of baby powder and cough medicine. It’s such a relief Tom doesn’t wonder anymore why he never chose to work in the E.R.

He goes to check on the children, seeing that Pear and Angie are asleep, the Way brothers curled together on Mikey’s bed, Gerard telling stories to a still resting Mikey under his breath, one hand on his brother’s chest, as if checking the steady rise and fall. Tim Beckett’s sleeping too, his leg propped up. The babies that came up from Neonatal ward are all quite calm as well, nurses moving in between the cots to check on them regularly.

It’s a split second of everything quiet and going well that makes Tom lean against a wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, hoping it will last, for a minute, for ten minutes, before something just explodes.

“Tom! I was looking for you.”

Fuck. Ten seconds, probably, not more. Tom opens his eyes to find himself looking at Jon, and he can’t help but smile at the tired grin on Walker’s features.

“Yeah?”

“Come on.”

Jon drags Tom all the way to the locker room, making Tom raise an eyebrow in question, because it looks a bit suspicious.

“Hey, dude, what I said during lunch was just a joke; I don’t want to blow you to get free food, I swear, Spence would kill me.”

Jon chuckles and shakes his head, opening the locker room door and letting the two of them inside, before closing it back behind him. Frank is there with Brendon, apparently playing thumb wars or something, Brendon’s things spread out at his feet, and Danny’s there too, putting on his coat. Tom checks his watch, and, ah, yeah.

“Grab your things, Tom.”

“Um, what?”

“You’re off. You’re going to go out and grab dinner with your boyfriend, have a real night of sleep, or more, I’m taking over your shift with Frank. He’s off in Neonatal, he can help out here. You’re not scheduled to come into work before the day after tomorrow, at ten.”

Tom turns to look at Jon, watching his smile, genuine, and he blinks a little, not having expected that at all. Seriously, not at all.

“…What?”

Tom feels large hands fall on his shoulders, and breathing that tickles his cheek a second after.

“Come on, Tom, I’ll treat you to sushi. And then, you know.”

“Go on, Tommy Tom! Go have sex! God knows you need it.”

“Fuck you, Iero. I, just. Seriously?”

“Yeah! Let us take care of you for once. We checked with the authorities, you’re good to go. So do it!”

Without kidding, Tom could cry, right then. He finally nods, his face breaking into a smile as he all but dissolves into Danny’s body against his back. It’s been exactly twenty-five days since he’s had more than five hours of sleep in a row, and well, much more since he’s had sex.

He ends up turning into Danny’s arms when he opens his eyes again, only the two of them in the room now, and he grins, biting the corner of his bottom lip.

“Let’s skip the sushi.”

Epithymia - JuddJones - 1/1

Sat, 26 Jul 2008 15:33:29 GMT

Title: Epithymia
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: JuddJones
Genre: Angst
Part: 1/1
Summary: Lust: An overwhelming desire or craving.
A/N: This is for mcflyslash Seven Deadly Sins challenge. Thanks goes to armillarysphere, as always. Short, but, you know, comments and crit are like a chocolate-covered Danny Jones on top of me.
Words: 1 050
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

The air is white hot and sticky around him as he sits there, directly on the ground, no lights whatsoever pushing the night away from him. The constant strum of his guitar against his chest connects with the beating of his heart, connects with the pain in his fingers, his whole body shivering when he works the strings harder.

He thought it would calm him down, tame the beast inside, soften the raging growls that sets his blood on fire and makes his mind dizzy with want, need. He’s not sure it’s working completely, but it’s soothing the feelings curling around his spine, making him sit up straighter, they’re calmed down, a little. Just a little.

“How did you get here?”

The music stops, the silence stutters around Danny as he looks up and there’s a shadow in the moonlight streaming through the window. He knows it, that shadow, he knows it better than he should maybe, maybe. Maybe he doesn’t know it enough.

“I took a car and drove, like you did.”

Harry sits on the couch, at Danny’s side, and his naked shin grazes Danny’s naked arm. Danny suppresses a shiver, tries to suppress every feeling, every memory. He wants to be numb, cold blood beating in his veins. It would be much easier.

“Danny.”

Toes press against Danny’s ribs and he squirms away, turning his head around, sliding on the floor, away, just enough not to be able to look, to feel. He doesn’t want to look at those eyes and see pity, annoyance, or worse, worry. The beast inside is waking up now.

“You didn’t have to come.”

There’s a sigh, drawn-out, and the sound of shuffling before a forearm falls onto Danny’s back, the skin tacky with sweat. Danny can feel every beat under Harry’s wrist, making his blood move in the tangle of veins there. Danny wants to know how that feels.

Stubble grazes Danny’s shoulder, as Harry leans his chin there, humid breaths exhaled just under Danny’s jaw, brushing curls away from Danny’s neck. It should be soothing, it’s unnerving. Danny tries not to twitch as his fingers start again on the guitar, desperately trying to find a rhythm that breaks the one Harry’s breaths is creating. Danny wants discordance, wants chaos, like it is in his head, in his stomach.

“Danny. Danny. Dan.”

“Don’t.”

“Tell me why, Dan.”

Danny wants to rip the soft words to pieces, wants them gone, as he tries his hardest to resist what’s inside, because they said this was done with, they wouldn’t do this again. Danny is playing by the book, but Harry’s cheating, not being fair, as he pushes closer, his nose pressing just under Danny’s ear now.

Danny tries to be upset and push away, yell at Harry for mocking feelings and want, need. They push away and deny, every day, every time they’re alone in a room together. They shake their heads and go on with their life, with their band, with their music. They don’t look back, usually.

Tonight is a moment of weakness for Danny, and Harry’s not playing fair.

“You tell me why.”

“God, Danny. You think I sleep at night? I’m just. I’m only human, Dan. This isn’t exactly easy.”

Danny’s fingers hurt from the strength with which he pushes them on the strings, wanting the hurt, needing that sharp reality, against the warmth of Harry’s body and Harry’s words. He’s alone in this. He’s alone in his want, desire roaring through his limbs. He’s had it, before it was ripped away from him, guilt, denial, the band, the music. It’s more important than this, than them.

“Why are you even here?”

“I heard you leave. I. I was worried.”

“That I’d do something drastic? I’m not that dumb, Harry.”

Another sigh, shorter this time. Danny knows Harry hates when he says that, because it bites, harder for Harry than for Danny. Danny’s used to it, but Harry hates having his own teasing thrown back at him. It makes him realise, sometimes.

“You are infuriating.”

“Says the one plastered against me after telling me, every time he can, that this, us, it can’t be happening.”

He wants the words to hurt, but his voice breaks, and he tries to move away, but Harry’s arm falls to his waist, fingers pushing into Danny’s ribs, almost hard enough to make Danny squirm in any other circumstance.

“I wish –”

“No. No, Harry, you have no right.”

Danny doesn’t know why he turns his head, to look into Harry’s eyes, because he knows it’s only going to make matters worse. It’s only going to make the want, need, burst inside, seep through every vein and explode in every muscle, every nerve-ending.

Harry bumps his nose with Danny’s, leans his forehead against Danny’s, sweat mingling over their skin, and they close their eyes, breathing into each other’s mouths, powerless to resist, attraction too evident, too undeniable, humming in their bodies like a restless musician. Danny wants to smother it, strangle the notes, stop it all, before it’s too late and he can’t go back, before he releases the monster inside.

But then Harry kisses him, surging forward and crashing their lips together over Danny’s shoulder, desperately clingy and feeling like farewell and rebirth all at once. Danny’s hand leaves the body of his guitar and lets it falls to the ground in front of them as he curls his fingers in the collar of Harry’s shirt, skin grazing Harry’s collarbone, keeping him close. He wants to crawl inside and die there; wrapped up in wrongs and rights they’re not strong enough to divide.

They break away, time stopping in between them as Danny’s temple rests against Harry’s, veins beating wildly under their skin. Danny opens his mouth to talk, eyes forcefully closed and heart hazy, and words won’t come out. His breathing crashes against Harry’s skin as he focuses on calming down every feeling throwing daggers through his body, leaning his weight on his arm, fingers spread on the carpet.

“I’m not going through this again, Harry.”

Lips press under his jaw, against his pulse point, making him shiver. He would move away, he really would, but he feels spineless, weak. Harry entwines their fingers and closes his hand over Danny’s.

“Me neither.”

I think I was blind before I met you - 2/2

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 17:38:22 GMT

Part I

“So, little Nate, I heard you got some action? Tonsil-hockey kind of action?”

Chloe’s happily being busy with herself in her crib, and Nate is trying to catch up on some sleep when Gabe saunters in the lounge area, and, dear fuck, what it is with people trying to fuck up his sleep all the time?

“I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about, Gabe. Also, I was sleeping.”

“You’re talking to me, you’re obviously not sleeping right now, so you should tell me everything about you and the tiny Brendon Urie.”

“He’s not that tiny.”

“It’s not because he’s taller than you that he’s not tiny, Nate.”

“Fuck off.”

Gabe shoves Nate a little, forcing him to sit up, and then settles him down on him, hand curling protectively around Nate’s shoulder as he lets him lean against his chest. Nate closes his eyes. Gabe’s scent is comforting. Maybe he’s a creep sometimes, but he’s still. One of Nate’s best friends.

“Come on. I’m pretty sure you haven’t talked of this to anyone and you want to.”

“How do you even know?”

“Brendon babbled to his band mates. Ryan had revenge to take or something like that, he told Beckett. So, I think everybody knows you made out against the side of our bus while baby was sleeping. So very naughty of you.”

He should have known. Brendon’s kind of a big-mouthed guy, even when he doesn’t mean it. Nate’s surprised to realize he doesn’t mind all that much. He just shrugs at the look Gabe gives him, sitting back up on the couch, cross-legged.

“It just happened. I freaked out and he babbled and I did the first thing that crossed my mind to shut him up.”

Gabe smiles, turns to Chloe’s crib, and his arm is long enough to grab at the edge of it, pull her closer to him. She laughs, nonsensical and happy, bubbly, like a baby. Nate’s heart swells in his chest when Gabe lets her grab his hand and play with his fingers.

“The question is, do you want it to happen again? Because one time, it can pass for a ‘just happened’ thing, but not if you want it again, Nate. So, do you have it bad for the tiny Urie, or do you not?”

Nate makes a movement with his hands, letting them fall back in his lap afterwards, listening to Chloe’s content little noises.

“I always thought I wasn’t really into guys.”

“That’s not answering anything. That’s not important, Nate. Who you want, it’s who you want.”

Nate sometimes hates when Gabe is being all smart and wise on his ass. He likes his Gabe silly and stupid and making Blue Steel faces and getting high and drunk and licking chocolate off people’s stomachs.

He sighs.

“Yeah.”

He knows it’s not an answer, but he can’t admit troubling, too-decisive truths.

+

The making out happens again. Nate knows there’s no talking on Brendon’s side this time, because he doesn’t hear about it at all, from anyone.

It happens after a show, between crates of equipment; on the side of the bus again; in the toilets of the gas station they stopped at. It just happens, randomly, because Nate craves it. They don’t talk about it, though, not really, and Nate withdraws every time Brendon slips his hand inside his pants.

One time, it slips past that. Nate’s back is sticking to the wall divider between two stalls in some diner, sweat pooling at the small of his back as Brendon sucks kisses along his jaw, making Nate hiss and claw at Brendon’s shirt, fisting it harshly in his hands.

Their cocks are hard, lined up as they press and push, pull, rough denim sending sparks all over Nate’s skin, making his head swim. He kind of wants to resist, kind of wants to stop it all right now, but at the same time, god, so good, so fucking good and sleek and hot and sweat is blurring his vision and Brendon plants a soft kiss just there, below Nate’s earlobe, and he’s pretty much gone.

His nails rake down Brendon’s back, fingers going to fumble with Brendon’s belt, but he just goes limp when one of Brendon’s thumbs pushes against his hipbone, under his shirt, hard, and he forces Nate against the wall harder with a firm thrust of his hips against Nate’s.

Nate sees stars and fucking unicorns as they dry-hump each other, hot and hard. Nate comes in his boxers, messy and rough, and Brendon follows suit, mouth open damp and warm over Nate’s collarbone.

When they get out of the bathroom, Nate still has some faint shapes of Brendon’s lips around the neck of his shirt, but he ignores that, as much as he ignores the looks he gets.

They just don’t talk about it, nothing that matters is happening. It’s just a little bit of fun, to forget a little bit about Chloe. Just before he starts to freak out, really badly.

Fucked up; this is really, really fucked up.

+

One evening, during a gig, Sisky takes Chloe, puts headphones on her and they go together to catch the Cobra show. Nate knows this, because he sees them, and he can’t help the grin that spreads over his lips as he sees her, with the oversized pink headphones over her ears.

They get off stage quickly after that, Gabe throwing a careless arm around his shoulders as they walk off. They’re sweaty and spent, but satisfied. It’s a good night.

“I think she loved it, dude!”

Nate can’t help the face he makes at Adam, taking the towel he’s given by an assistant gratefully.

“Dude, I’m not sure our music is fit for her.”

Sisky rolls his eyes, dancing a little with Chloe on his hip, his thumb stuck between both her hands. Nate takes the headphones off her ears as they walk back to the bus, where the noise is much more bearable.

“Stop being a pussy, Nate. She doesn’t get that Gabe was talking about whores and drugs.”

Nate knows. He knows, yet he can’t help feeling irritated. It’s past her bedtime, it’s past every boundary Nate tried to set in his head between Chloe and his job. He knows that what happens now won’t have consequences on her later, but still, he can’t help it. He can’t help the creepy feeling that Emily would be pissed if she knew about this. He can’t help his own anger, really.

“And you thought putting her in a pit was a smart move, too, Sisky? Next time, make her crowd surf, too. I’m sure she’d love that.”

Sisky blanches a little, not used to Nate being vicious, and Nate’s not used to it, either. It makes his own hands shake a little, and he wishes he hadn’t thrown his drumsticks to the audience, because he could do with something to break, right now.
Fuck, he’s so overreacting.

“Man, I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He wants to say he’s sorry, too, he wants to, and he probably will, later, when the adrenaline pumping in his veins isn’t turning into anger with every beat of his heart. Chloe yawns and Nate grabs her from Sisky’s arms, walking into the Cobra bus quickly.

He’ll say he’s sorry later.

+

He doesn’t really apologize to Adam, but it seems like they all get past it, and Sisky’s just the same with Nate and Chloe. It just takes a few days of Nate fidgeting around him for Siska to offer him a beer and just shake his head.

So it’s okay, it’s alright. Not everything’s settled in Nate’s life, obviously, but tonight he’s off Chloe duty, Alex sleeping with her in the Cobra bus, and Nate is off to have a few drinks. It’s raining outside as Nate watches Gabe and Ryland dance to some old Queen song, again.

“They do that a lot, don’t they?”

Nate suppresses a shiver when Brendon’s voice runs up along his spine, breath warm at Nate’s back. He’s close, crowding Nate against the kitchen counter. He’d just been looking out the window for a second! Man, either his observance skills are bad, or Brendon’s a ninja. But considering how loud he is, chances are small, really.
So, yeah, bad skills, Nate, bad.

“And you, you tend to sneak up on me a lot, don’t you?”

He turns around, noticing the way Brendon’s hands are spread on the counter on either side of him, trapping Nate in between Brendon’s arms. He tilts his head, bending a little backwards, putting just enough space between them to be able to see Brendon’s entire face, and that smirk, appearing on his lips.

“I like the way you shiver.”

“It's. It’s because of the beer.”

Brendon throws his head back and laughs, loud and obnoxious, making Ryan turn to look at them with slightly bored eyes for a second, before he’s back to chatting with The Butcher about. About whatever, really. Nate doesn’t really want to think past Brendon right now.

Whoa. That’s kind of an overwhelming thought, just when he’d decided to stay in denial, because denial, yep, it’s a good place to be. He doesn’t want Brendon that much, no, definitely not. It’s just the beer. The fucking beer.

Brendon leans closer, and Nate looks down, looks at those fingers spread out against the grey plastic faux-marble of the countertop, looks at the veins and the sharpness of the knuckles against the roughness of the tips, kinda enthralled, when Brendon whispers in his ear and Nate tries not to act like an asshole, or a teenager with a crush.

“Want to get out of here?”

And, dear fuck, Nate really, really wants to. He wants, simply, stripped of anything else but the mere sensation burning at his insides. His eyes meet Brendon’s, dark pools of feelings Nate cannot completely read, and he takes a deep breath, dry-swallows a few times. Brendon’s not smiling anymore, all seriousness and Nate wants, wants too much, fuck, fuck.

“I. I would, I. Yeah, I can’t. Chloe. She’s probably. I mean, the milk, the latest can is empty, and Alex probably doesn’t know where the full one is. I. I would. I can’t.”

He pushes off Brendon, gently, finding no resistance, and he runs off the bus, letting the drops of cold water extinguish the burning of his skin.

+

Chloe gets sick, and Nate gets crankier. He doesn’t sleep for three days, all of the others fitting themselves in small parts of either the Panic or the TAI bus, because they can’t take the cries for that long, really. Nate doesn’t blame them, but it doesn’t help his mood.

They finally get an appointment to a pediatrician, and Nate tries his hardest to squelch his worry, slowly bubbling into panic that he really broke her or something, as he sits out the doctor’s office, Victoria by his side.

In the end, it’s only, only, they say, an ear infection, and Nate feels something a little like hysteria rising goose bumps on his skin when they make it back to the bus, antibiotics and stuff in hand.

Nate still doesn’t sleep for a week, the circles under his eyes dark and heavy. Ryland tries to force him down in the Panic bus, but there’s no way he’s stepping in there, not with the possibility of walking into Brendon and having to talk things out with him.

Because, yeah, he’s pretty sure Brendon has tried a few times already to corner him in the venues, to try and understand why Nate is pushing him away. Nate knows, he knows. He’s the one that kissed him first, okay? He’s the one that almost always instigated the making out and all that. He knows.

That doesn’t mean he accepts it, and that means even less that he wants to talks about it. He actually likes his denial; it’s warm and safe.

In the end, he fucks up a lot during one show, and Chloe’s doing better, so Gabe forces him to curl up in Chiz’s bunk and forces Beckett to stand guard in front of it, making sure Nate sleeps for at least ten hours, which is the length of the drive to the next venue.

So Nate sleeps, and doesn’t fuck up during the next show—not more than usual anyway, not more than anyone else. Chloe is sleeping peacefully for the first time in about a week when he comes back to the bus.

"You know it's Bren who has been looking after her during our shows, don't you?"
Vicky-T's voice is sharp, cutting through Nate's every barrier when she walks up to him, sitting on the edge of his bunk as he lies down. No, Nate didn't know, and. Fuck. This isn't making things much better.

"He's the only that would stay with her through the fits."

"I'll make sure to thank him."

He keeps his voice as neutral as possible as he turns around, showing Victoria his back, purposefully ending the conversation. She sighs and stands up, pulling the curtain shut after her. The darkness is almost overwhelming.

It’s been a week, and he hasn’t talked to Brendon. All is good, and no, he so doesn’t fucking miss him. At all.

+

“So guess what? Tour’s wrapping up in a week.”

Fuck. Nate dry-swallows hard, turning around to see Brendon standing in front of the lounge area door, trapping him in. Fuck, fuck, he almost got it. Almost.

“Brendon,” It’s a tone of warning, slow, careful. Damn, he knows about the tour, yeah, “Chloe.”

That’s when Alex pushes past Brendon, smiling, hard, a little tense, fake, at Nate. Like this is all part of a fucking plan, or a huge joke, and Nate’s totally the butt of it.

“I’ll take Chloe for a walk. Actually, I think we are all going to go along.”

He picks her up gently and coos at her for a second before slipping past Brendon again. Nate can hear mumbled words, then silence. Utter, utter silence, and Brendon’s eyes.

“Why have you been avoiding me, Nate?”

“I haven’t been –”

He sighs, falling on one of the couches heavily, looking away, a peek of sunlight filtering between the curtain and the window.

“Jesus, it was just fooling around.”

“Yeah, and you’re the one making a big deal out of it. I didn’t push you away and then avoid you carefully for two weeks.”

Brendon crosses his arms over his chest and Nate would like it if he could please stop looking so good, just please. He hasn’t got his contact lenses in, red-rimmed glasses making his eyes even more of a striking feature.

Nate knows he’s been overreacting all over again, about all sorts of things, blowing things out of proportion when there was no need for it. He could just have told Brendon it was nothing, that first time, just a way to make him shut up, he could have, only he didn’t, and it happened again, and Nate doesn’t want to think about the why.

He doesn’t want to think, doesn’t know what to think, so he leans his elbows on his knees, grabs at his hair, and yells silently. It echoes in the depths of his brain, desperate cry to make his muddled thoughts clearer, but it does nothing, it does nothing.

Fuck sake’s, he a dad. He’s a dad with a crush on a guy, and god, this is all so wrong and how exactly did his life become so, so fucked up?

“You know, I’m usually the melodramatic one.”

“And you can fuck off, too.”

Brendon heaves a sigh, going to sit by Nate’s side. They’re not touching, but Nate can see him from the corner of his eye, moving a little, knee bouncing, up, down, up, down, fast rhythm that makes Nate a little bit dizzy. He wants to reach out, he does, but. Fuck.

“Look, it’s not because this happened that we shouldn’t be able to be friends. It’s not that big of a deal, okay?”

Only it is, because Nate isn’t that kind of guy and seriously, what the hell is going on with him. He refuses to look up, trying to understand what he wants to say, what he can say. He knows an apology would be nice, if only it didn’t feel like it would choke him.

“It is.”

Fuck, that is not what he wanted to say. But then he’s started, and he can’t seem to be able to stop.

“It is, Brendon, because I’m a dad and you’re a guy, and you’re the first guy, and it’s just so fucking confusing and I don’t know where I stand anymore and fuck, fuck, I’m a dad.”

He expects Brendon to tell him that’s beside the point, but no. He can only feel the fleeting warmth of Brendon’s hand, almost touching his back before withdrawing. Then he slides to his knees in front of Nate, forces their eyes to meet. He likes that, to look at people directly in the eye. It’s unnerving.

“Is that what it’s all about? Chloe? You’re freaking out.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Probably, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not a dad, or not that I know of, so I’m okay and I can’t really imagine what you’re going through, but honestly, Nate, in what way did you think making out with me in closets would make things better?”

Nate can’t even snort, at that point. He shakes his head, feeling his defenses melt against Brendon’s wall of earnest and honest. He doesn’t feel as scared and tense as before right now, like he can actually, maybe, make sense of what’s going on in his head.

“I don’t. I don’t know what I was thinking, Bren. I just. I wanted. But in the back of my head, there was like. Like I was doing her wrong.”

“By wanting a guy?”

“Maybe.”

Brendon sits on the floor in front of Nate and Nate gives him a little leeway, pushing his hair out of his eyes and his hands away from the sides of his face so they can really look at each other. Brendon’s got a focused, serious look on his face, and Nate’s not so sure he likes it.

“Okay, so. Let me call on your bullshit now, because, um, Nate. One, enjoying yourself? Not doing your daughter wrong. I swear, she doesn’t care who you fuck. Especially now. Maybe she will, someday, but you can worry about that then. In, like, fifteen years, dude. Second, fooling around with me doesn’t make you gay. Could be a sign, could mean nothing. You know, just. Experimenting.”

Brendon doesn’t even try to school his features into nonchalance, clearly showing all over his face and his eyes how much he hopes Nate isn’t using him. It makes Nate’s stomach clench, badly.

“God, Brendon, no. No, it’s not like that. See, I really. I really like you. I was just. Fuck, it’s overwhelming, you know? Everything seems so much more important now she’s here. I feel like I need to do everything for her before I do things for me.”

Brendon gestures to the two of them with three fingers, his other hand sprawled on the floor. Nate licks his lip.

“This. This, us, whatever. It’s the only thing you should do for yourself.”

“Is there. Is there an us?”

“You tell me.”

Brendon leans closer, tilting his head as he props his chin on his fingers, looking intently at Nate. It’s his choice, right now, right now. And, fuck, it’s there, it’s still there, the want, the raging feeling in Nate’s stomach. It’s so there.

It engulfs him fully as he discards everything else then, knowing that, in the end, it will be alright, because it’s Brendon, and Nate might be still straight, but just a little Bren-sexual. Or whatever, really, but what he knows right now is that the flips of his stomach are because of Brendon’s eyes and not because of what Chloe would think, or what Emily would think.

So he makes a decision and he slides off the couch, pushing Brendon’s arms away and straddling his legs, sitting himself on Brendon’s lap.

“I don’t know if there’s a us, Bren, but. Fuck, I want you.”

Brendon can only grin against Nate’s lips as he kisses him then, fingers fitting at Nate’s hips, keeping him firmly in place over him as Nate cards his own through the hair at the back of Brendon’s head, slightly tilted upward. It’s wild and wet, open, a bit messy but really slick and hot, and Nate really isn’t used to growing aroused that quickly.

There’s thunder in his brain as the kiss grows heavier, slower, and Nate’s stomach does somersaults because, damn, Brendon’s got those lips and he knows how to use them, and those thick, thick fingers that are raking up and down Nate’s spine, under his shirt, collecting sweat that is starting to make Nate feel like they have way too many clothes on.

Shirts go flying quickly, and they break off the kissing just long enough to take those off, really. Brendon moves onto his back on the carpet, between the couch and the table, and Nate can’t help but wince a little, can’t help but think.

“Carpet burns, dude.”

Brendon looks like he can’t care less for a second, before something lights up in his eyes, and Nate raises an eyebrow, their lips and noses grazing.

“Yeah. Move, move. Up, on the couch. Sit.”

Nate doesn’t really want to try and think about what Brendon wants to do, doesn’t know much about the logistics of the whole having sex with another guy. So he obeys, sitting down on the couch, just that side of tense again. Brendon smirks, grabs the back of Nate’s knees and spreads his legs, tugs him forward a little, so that Nate is in a more relaxed position, and he slips himself in between his open knees.

Brendon cups Nate’s erection through his jeans and Nate hisses, fireworks exploding behind his eyelids as he closes them forcefully, hands gripping the couch. Fuck, fuck, this little shouldn’t feel this good.

“Are you freaking out?”

Nate opens his eyes, watching Brendon watching him, and he shakes his head, pushing his hips off the couch, into Brendon’s palm, unconsciously. He bites his lip hard, before leaning forward, hand snaking to the back of Brendon’s head and pulling him closer, lips meeting in a hard, short kiss. Brendon breaks away fast, and Nate tries to contain his growl of disappointment a bit unsuccessfully, which makes Brendon chuckle low in his throat.

“Nah, if you’re not freaking out, I should take advantage.”

Nate doesn’t really know what Brendon is talking about until he’s pushed back to lean against the couch and Brendon works his jeans open. Oh, okay. Okay, Nate’s on board with that. He even lifts his hips to help Brendon push the offending material off, kicking it off to the side. His boxers follow, and Nate tries not to think about how he’s naked and Brendon’s not.

Anyway, he can’t think about that a lot, because, well, Brendon is licking his cock, and, whoa, whoa, that was unexpected. Nate grips the arm of the couch with one hand and digs the blunt nails of the other in his thigh, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood if he’s not careful, and, fuck, he’s beyond careful now because this feels so fucking good and Brendon is fucking taking his erection in his mouth and sucking, hard, cheeks hollowed and dear God, Nate cannot think straight anymore.

He throws his head back and tries his hardest not to jerk up. Brendon’s fingers tangle with his over his skin, sliding up his sweat to fit in the dip of his hip, pressing down a little, keeping him there, in place, firm yet soft.

“Fuck, Brendon.”

This feels fantastic, and nothing like it does with girls. Right now it’s ten times fucking better and Nate’s mind is overloaded with sparks of heat exploding all over his skin, nerve-endings bursting with every lick and nip, every kiss, every swirl of Brendon’s tongue. It coils at the top of Nate’s spine and it’s making his body grow harder and harder, heels digging in the carpet and head pushing against the cushions as it takes every ounce of his willpower not to fuck Brendon’s mouth with everything he has. Inarticulate sounds leave his mouth, guttural groans that he didn’t know he had in him.

He comes hard, without even managing anything other than a squeak of warning, but Brendon swallows, he actually swallows around him, and Nate never had anyone swallow, not even Emily, because she thought it was disgusting and he never said anything, but, fuck, fuck, this is so hot.

Brendon, he’s so hot, licking his lips and smiling lazily up at Nate, breath short and fingers still caressing Nate’s over his hip.

“C’mere, come on.”

Nate tugs him up, feeling a bit spineless then when Brendon crashes over his body, jean-clad. His hands immediately go to Brendon’s belt, pushing the fabric off Brendon’s hips faster than he probably ever managed to in the past, and Nate’s feeling oddly satisfied—and not surprised—that Brendon is going commando.

“Oh, should have known.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything, just giggles against Nate’s mouth as they kiss again, one hand holding Brendon up over Nate a little, braced over the back of the couch. Nate fits his hand around Brendon’s cock, not used to the angle but it’s alright, it’s alright because Brendon is fucking his hand, rough and hard, brow furrowed when he leans it against Nate’s, hips snapping faster and faster. Nate catches some pre-come over the tip, smears it around unconsciously, making the movement even slicker and better, and, god, he shouldn’t find this whole thing all that amazing, but, honestly, it is.

Brendon looks perfect, cheeks flushed, lips parted as he pants against Nate’s lips, brow creased in concentration, and this dire need for a release making his muscles tremble and twitch under Nate’s touch. Nate doesn’t want it to end, ever.
But it ends, Brendon coming over their stomachs with hard, uneven jerks of his hips, and he falls over Nate, sweat and come making them stick together. Brendon sighs, damp and amazing, against Nate’s ear, and, whoa. Honestly, Nate hasn’t felt this good in. Well, a long while.

Brendon chuckles.

“How freaked out will you be if I tell you that baby wipes are great to clean up?”
“Bastard.”

Nate punches Brendon in the arm, but still laughs.

+

Chloe whines when Nate lets go of her after her bath, before a show, during the last week. She starts to cry when she slides in either Brendon or Jon’s arms, the Cobra security much too happy to let them take care of her while Nate’s on stage.

Nate doesn’t want to think that it’s probably because she feels his own anxiousness at knowing the tour is almost over and they’re all going home for a while. He doesn’t want to, honestly. There’s like, a ton of stuff he has to think over before that, and time’s totally lacking.

Chloe, for starters. So maybe he’s finally admitted to himself that he really fell for her and now it’s harder to think it’s almost finished, their time together. Seriously, it sucks to see her smile and feel his gut clench; it shouldn’t be like that and he didn’t plan on loving her this much. But then she yawns against his shoulder and starts to snore and he wonders how exactly he is supposed not to fall.

There’s also Brendon, and conflicted feelings about where they are, what they do, and all that jazz. They keep on fucking around and having fun but they don’t talk again about feelings and stuff, about the us left hanging in the air the last time as they were too busy ripping off each other’s clothes.

So, yeah, is there a them, is there not, Nate doesn’t really have a clue and he doesn’t know when he’ll see Brendon next and yeah. There’s a lot, a huge number of questions in his head and drumming doesn’t ease his mind like it usually does. But at least he doesn’t fuck up as much as he did at some point, and Gabe cuddles him when they’re through their set because he’s proud. Gabe’s a cuddler, of the weird kind, but Nate is used to him.

It feels too fast, to Nate. Every day a new venue, a blur of people, coffee, a little time with his baby, maybe some with Brendon, too, if he’s lucky. Every night a new show, and Nate will give every new crowd his everything, the way he knows how to do it, like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Sometimes it feels like it is.

That Wednesday, Gabe forces all the members of his band to stay in their bus, not going out to party with the others. It’s their night, for them, to share what they all lived through this leg of the tour, share secrets they haven’t said yet, share stories, share each other. They always do it, just them, one night in the middle of the last week.

“He was so trashed, dude. I think he puked all over Sisky’s bunk.”

Ryland and Gabe bark with laughter, making Victoria look at them with a warning in her eyes as Chloe sleeps in her arms, but Nate puts a hand on her arm, motioning to the other areas of the bus.

“I think we can put her in the front lounge. We have baby monitors.”

She nods at him, because it’s true, they do, and then smiles at the softness of his tone, running the back of her hand over his cheek softly. He scrunches up his nose affectionately as she stands up and goes to put Chloe to bed as the others keep on talking about some trick Beckett played on a group of fans.

“He seriously did. He pulled on his best smile and said he’d let her suck him if she let him suck her boyfriend.”

Nate howls with laughter.

+

Last night. It’s the last night of the tour, it’s a hotel night. Figured they all deserved it or something like that. Nate can’t really disagree, but. But he knows most people are looking forward to their own beds. He is, too, a little, his worn sheets and the old Ninja Turtle shirt he left behind.

He is not looking forward to leaving Chloe, though, so now she’s currently asleep in his arms as he’s lying on his bed and he doesn’t want to let go. Not even when there’s a knock on the door and it’s insistent. He still takes her with him, careful not to wake her as he opens up to reveal Brendon.

He hasn’t seen him since Tuesday; it feels like a while, and Nate’s skin immediately kind of tingles. Brendon smiles his huge smile, the one that makes the corners of Nate’s mouth come up unconsciously, and Nate lets him in. He turns back to the bed as Brendon closes the door behind himself and then joins him, running a finger over Chloe’s cheek softly, as a way of greeting.

Then he talks.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So. Last night.”

“Yep.”

“Going back to New York?”

Nate just nods. Brendon bites his lip, looking down at the stretch of bedding between their bodies. Then he moves a little, sitting cross-legged in front of Nate, and pulls out a paper from his back pocket.

“So, look, um. I know it’s probably not my place and all that, but I just. I can’t quite stop thinking about you, and about you and Chloe, and about all those fears you’ve got and stuff, and well. I thought, maybe, maybe you’re that scared because you think you maybe won’t see her again? I mean, it’s just a theory, okay, I don’t want to overstep or something.”

Nate wonders since when did Brendon give a damn about boundaries, but he just smiles at the ramble, his stomach clenching a little at the mention of Brendon thinking a lot about him, clenching harder at the mention of Nate not seeing Chloe again. He’s the one biting his lip, now, watching her in his arms, sleeping peacefully, thumb stuck in her mouth. The monkey teddy Ryland has found for her in some city, Nate really can’t remember, is lying on the bed, by the pillows. She doesn’t care much about it when she’s sleeping, anyway.

“Yeah, you could be onto something.”

Nate clears his throat and Brendon leans forward a little, free hand curling around Nate’s forearm. It’s warm and reassuring, making Nate relax a little, almost against his own will.

“Well, then, I did some research. I mean, I was bored and Ryan had left his computer booted on, so, I mean, what the hell. It seems like it’s fairly easy to claim paternity, you know? It’s called ‘voluntary paternity acknowledgement’. If Emily agrees to it…you can have, like, legal rights to her.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll get to see her again.”

Brendon makes a face, puts the paper where Nate can see his messy handwriting away on the nightstand, and scoots closer, almost trapping Chloe between their bodies.

“Well, no. If Emily’s being difficult, that is. But it allows you to file a lawsuit for custody stuff. Or maybe just, like, visits? I don’t know, I didn’t have a lot of time, but –”

It’s the second time Nate shuts Brendon up with a kiss, the second time it feels that meaningful. This kiss is much different from their first one, though, careful, a little bit chaste, this side of timid. Nate pulls away and smiles, nods slowly before standing up to put Chloe in her crib, standing by the bed.

“Thanks, Brendon. Means a lot.”

Brendon stands as well, sliding his arms around Nate’s waist from behind, pressing his nose into Nate’s neck, laying kisses all over his shoulder, through the material of his soft cotton shirt, wetting it a little.

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you. Do you want to stay here, tonight? I mean, obviously not for sex, but.”

Nate doesn’t want to say he’ll miss Brendon, because he can’t deal with the feelings that losing both Chloe and Brendon at once stirs in him. It’s too hard and makes him panic a little, so he doesn’t say it and pushes the thoughts away. Brendon just nods against Nate’s hair.

“Yeah.”

+

“Are you sure you both want to do this? You’re aware of what it means?”

Nate smiles and nods, looking down at Chloe in the carrier Emily’s holding close to her, then up at Emily herself, their eyes meeting and twinkling in unison for a second, reminding Nate of a time where things weren’t so jaded between them.

“Yeah, we’re sure.”

The social worker shrugs then and turns a paper towards Nate, and then a pen. It’s been quite easy, really, Brendon was right. Meeting up with Emily, seeing her, handing her Chloe back, honestly, that had been the hardest part of it all.

But then the talking began and it was like. He somehow turned into Brendon himself, because he talked about mostly everything he wanted to with Emily, and it was madly freeing and Nate feels like he can understand Brendon and his rambling a bit better nowadays because of that.

Emily has been down with him keeping on seeing Chloe from the get-go, basically, and relief had flooded through Nate’s veins. He hadn’t felt relief like that since the day Gabe told him Cobra Starship wasn’t a game, they were in for real and none of them would let go of him.

Emily herself, she was doing better. Her dad was improving and her relationship was on the upside and her new guy had accepted the fact that she had Chloe, apparently. Or would, once Chloe would be back with them. Nate just hoped that would be true.

And now he’s signing papers making him officially, legally bound to Chloe and her well-being. He’s tying himself to the little girl he’s grown to love in the span of two months in the vicinity of a tour bus with her, because he can’t quite imagine his life without her.

Both Nate and Emily go through another speech after the papers are signed, as if they have not read everything millions of times already and as if it isn’t clear that they’re her parents and they have responsibilities and they can’t break this and blah blah blah. Nate resists the urge to roll his eyes.

When they’re outside, finally, the sun is bright and Nate slips on sunglasses, turning to Chloe and kissing her forehead softly, crouching to her level.

“’Kay, princess. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

He straightens back up and smiles at Emily, who’s biting her lip a little, worrying it between her teeth. Nate wonders if she’ll have a change of heart, but then she smiles, brightly, and curls her free hand around his forearm.

“I’ll bring her to your place next week, yeah? When are you leaving to record?”

“Three weeks.”

Emily nods and squeezes his arm lightly, tugging him into a hug that he easily, eagerly, gives back.

“Thanks for doing this, Nate.”

+

They’re having a celebratory drink at Nate’s place. Ryland even has popped a bottle of Champagne. Things are merry when Gabe sits besides Nate on his cream-colored couch.

“So, where are we going to record, Nasty Nate?”

Nate chuckles, shaking his head and frowning affectionately at Gabe.

“You’re the boss, Gabe.”

“Vegas, baby!”

Nate freezes a little at Vicky-T’s shout, because, whoa. Brendon’s in Vegas, Nate knows. Nate knows because Brendon calls him basically every day and tells him everything about getting high in Ryan’s backyard and going swimming with Spencer’s sisters and not doing a lot on the album yet.

“Guess what’s in Vegas, too?”

Gabe beams and Nate knows it’s all for him. He doesn’t feel awkward or ashamed to jump into Gabe’s arms.

I think I was blind before I met you - 1/2 - Nate/Brendon

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 17:35:50 GMT

Title: I think I was blind before I met you
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Nate Novarro (Panic at the Disco/Cobra Starship)
Genre: AU (where Panic and CS and TAI tour together). Daddyfic.
Part: 1/2
Summary: But when it starts crying, that’s when everything kind of crumbles. Because, well, he might biologically be its father (and he’s not even sure about that, really), but practically talking, he sucks at babies. He usually doesn’t touch them, and loves the fact that his band is not that family-friendly, because, really, no.
A/N: So, yeah. It turned into a monster. Thanks to soapbox_queen, simplemitosis and mostly xhrkbhrl for all the beta help and concrit. Also, thanks to armillarysphere for answering my questions about babies.
This is my Daddy!Nate fic! Enjoy it!
Words: 12 069
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

When the doorbell rings, Nate’s pretty sure it’s, like, ass o’ clock in the morning and that he shouldn’t be awake. Really, he was having an awesome dream, he only has three days of break at home before going back to touring and, yeah, no. He wants to sleep, damn it. He’s not on with being up right now. This sucks.

He crawls out of bed when he realizes he just can’t fall asleep again, scratching his stomach just over the waistband of his boxers, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. He gives the door his best evil eye before pulling it open, revealing…no one.

Um. What? He didn’t dream it, okay. There was someone there just a second ago. Alright, so maybe not a second, because he probably took, like, ten just to get out of bed, but still. They could have waited that tiny bit longer.

Grumbling under his breath, Nate’s closing the door when a soft cry startles him. He sticks his head through the doorway, surveying the dark hallway, the closed doors of his neighbors. And then, only then, does he look down.

He freezes.

Down there, on his used, battered—mostly by Victoria’s high heels and her habit of standing just outside his door to smoke when they’re partying at his place—doorstep, there, just there, lies a basket. With a baby in it.

Nate can’t help but pinch himself, wondering if he’s still dreaming, if he’s landed in some kind of weird movie trope, because this? Is really, really fucking cliché. A baby in a basket? He’s no church, his place doesn't look even remotely like one. Does he look like a priest?

There’s a letter tucked on the side of the basket and the baby makes another gargling noise when Nate picks it up, hands shaking like fuck as he opens the folded piece of paper.

Since this is not, despite all appearances, actually a movie, he doesn’t read it aloud, just scans the words, eyes growing more and more blurred as he nears the end. When he’s finished reading, his eyes move between the letter he’s holding with two fingers and the baby, seemingly asleep.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

+

He tries her cell countless times. After a while, he’s pissed off as all hell and doesn’t hang up when her voicemail clicks on.

“Hi, Emily. It’s Nate. Your ex. And apparently, the father of the child you kind of totally forgot to tell me about?”

He stops for a second, breathing hard in the phone, clutching it so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“I’m going a bit mad right now because you left a month-old baby on my fucking doorstep and ran, Em. With the lamest explanation ever in a fucking goddamned letter. I don’t care that you have trouble with your new boy-toy because of 'my' baby, and I’m sure you can hear the fucking quotation marks. I don’t care that your dad is sick. For fuck’s sake. You get your ass back here-”

The voicemail cuts on him and Nate doesn’t feel a smudge better.

+

So, yeah, Nate has a few problems right now. The whole holding baby up thing, he thinks he’s got down, you just hold the head and the rest settles alright. That’s okay.

But when it starts crying, that’s when everything kind of crumbles. Because, well, he might biologically be its father (and he’s not even sure about that, really), but practically talking, he sucks at babies. He usually doesn’t touch them, and loves the fact that his band is not that family-friendly, because, really, no.

What he basically knows is that, if it’s crying, it’s probably either because it’s dirty or it’s hungry. For now, he hasn’t smelled anything out of the ordinary, so it’s probably that it wants food.

Food. For babies. Does beer work? Probably not. Um.

Then he recalls the bag of stuff Emily left, - and thank fuck for that, or he’d be really lost -, and goes to retrieve it, leaving the baby on his couch, settled on a mountain of pillows he made for it earlier. He almost rips the bag open, sending a bottle flying across his living-room, but he doesn’t pay attention to that as he takes everything out, lining the items up in front of him.

Nappies. Right, he knows the use of those. He doesn’t - okay, no, let’s not think about actually putting them on just yet. Another bottle, right, he knows the meaning behind that, too. A health card, and, yeah, that could be interesting, at least to know its name and gender because he’s definitely not taking a peek. A can of...something. Dehydrated milk?

Dehydrated milk for 0 to 3 months old says the label, and he figures that pretty much has to be baby food. And since the baby won’t shut up, Nate also figures that he should seriously get a move on, before it splits his skull open with its shrieking.

He follows the instructions, biting his lip harshly as he waits for the water to heat, a million questions and thoughts racing through his mind; the hows and whens and whats and ,dear fuck, how is he going to deal with Gabe and going back on tour in three days?

He picks the health card up again and reads it over, learning that it’s a she and her name is Chloe. Not bad for a name; he probably would have chosen worse. Something like Lila or Sherazade. So Chloe, it’s okay.

When he goes back to the living room, bottle in hand (duly checked for temperature, thank you, instructions), he settles close to Chloe, still crying, although now it’s more like long, drawn-out whining. He picks her up and cradles her in his arms, giving her the teat and watching, part mesmerized and part terrified, the way she closes her eyes and starts suckling.

+

When the bell rings again, Chloe is sleeping and Nate. Nate has been awake for, like, two hours and he’s already thoroughly exhausted. He winces when she moves around on his bed, wondering exactly how bad it is that she’s sleeping on his bed and not in a crib. Could it break her back or something?

He’s trying not to think about Chloe getting bedsores and hating him for the rest of her life when the doorbell rings again and he runs to answer it, narrowing his eyes at whoever's on the other side of the thick wood.

It happens to be Gabe, looking much too awake and bouncy for Nate’s taste.

“Friend. Comrade! You are alive.”

Nate cringes, opening the door wider but gripping Gabe’s arm when he makes his way inside the small apartment.

“Gabe, just. Silently, okay?”

“Hung over? You didn’t even go out with us yesterday.”

“No, look, I’ll show you, but seriously, volume. I finally got her to sleep and it’s been hard enough.”

Gabe’s face lights up, no kidding, it fucking lights up, eyebrows rising and eyes twinkling and all the shit that usually only happens in books.

“Oh, a girl, Nasty Nate? Finally?”

“Shut up. Also, fuck you.”

Nate tugs Gabe toward his bedroom, light filtering in between the curtains on their side. Their shadows obscure the way, so Nate moves and motions towards the bed.

“A girl, yeah. But not what you think.”

“Why is there a baby on your bed, dude?”

Gabe has the decency to keep his voice down, but Nate still drags him out, closing the door halfway. She could start crying. Again.

But he still doesn’t know how to make heads or tails of the situation, and he’s supposed to explain it to Gabe? Who will ask a fucking million questions, on top of Nate’s own? Damnit, damnit, damnit. So not, not on, not not not.

Nate kind of wishes he just hadn’t rolled out of bed at all.

“Emily.”

“What? Emily your ex? Emily’s a baby? Last time I saw her she was definitely more grown up than that, you cradle-robber.”

“Gabe, seriously.”

Nate can feel the headache coming back. Full force.

“She came over this morning, okay? Well. She rang and I opened and there was a baby and no Emily. A baby in a fucking basket, with a letter from Em saying that she can’t handle the pressure of trying to have a new relationship with the baby there and her father is sick and blah blah blah, so since I’m the dad it’s kind of my responsibility, too.”

During Nate’s ramble, Gabe sits on the arm of the couch, arms crossed over his chest as he listens, head tilted. His gold chain dangles off his arm, Justin Timberlake practically mocking Nate.

Nate himself just falls onto the couch and tears at his hair, elbows on his knees, eyes wide open, focused on the coffee stain in his carpet.

“You’re a dad. You, young Nathaniel.”

“I didn’t even know. She never told me. Fuck, Gabe, I don’t know. Emily’s not answering her phone and I’m like. Freaking out, okay?”

Sometimes, being honest is the best fucking answer, and when he feels one of Gabe’s enormous paws clap down on his shoulder, warm reassurance that he’s there and Nate’s not alone, Nate feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

“Okay. You’re okay.”

+

Before he has even time to think, Alex, Ryland and Vicky-T are there. Gabe called an emergency meeting, and Nate finds himself having to explain what he doesn’t even understand himself all over again.

“Do you know when Emily will be back?”

Victoria.

“What’s her name?”

Alex.

“Are you taking her with us?”

Ryland.

They all talk at the same time and it’s kind of confusing, kind of overwhelming. Nate puts a hand on his forehead, under the hair, covering his eyes for a minute. Silence settles again.

“Her name’s Chloe. I don’t know when or even if Emily will be back.”

The last question’s answer catches in his throat a little, and he looks up at Ryland with big, kind of damp eyes. Ryland manages a smile, despite the obvious tension in the set of his shoulders.

“If Emily’s not back by then, we won’t dump the baby in a garbage bin, don’t worry.”

Vicky-T smiles, drapes an arm around Gabe’s shoulders and leans closer to Nate, her hair tickling his arm a little.

“Hey, could be fun to have her in the bus. And when she’s older and out of rehab, she can write a book about how life was on a tour with us.”

Gabe barks with laughter, and Ryland chuckles, in that classy yet kind of dirty way of his, which makes Nate smile and breathe a little better. Okay, okay, he’s not alone in this. Even if he really feels kind of like he totally is.

Cries break their laughter and lame jokes, and Nate heaves a sigh, going to stand, feeling like his head is on the verge of exploding. He starts to move but Alex beats him to it, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You know what? You have some essentials to get. I’ll stay, you and Gabe go get stuff for her, you know, like bottles and a crib and a baby carrier, stuff like that. We’ll take care of her.”

Nate knows that there probably are stars in his eyes as he looks up at Alex, who smiles at him in his knowing, charming way, the one that breaks so many hearts. Victoria stands, too, grabbing her coat and announcing she’s coming too, otherwise Nate will let Gabe buy Chloe a neon bed bath, and she doesn’t want the baby blind before she can even see clearly.

“Are you—I mean, I can stay, they can go do it.”

Ryland shakes his head and pulls Nate to his feet.

“You need the break, dude. Take the chance now, not sure there’ll be loads more.”

+

Finally, the night before they’re set to go off on tour again, Emily calls.

“So, um, hi.”

Nate doesn’t think niceties and the likes are in order. He had to fucking model a baby sling while Gabe laughed at him, seriously.

“Are you planning on taking Chloe back?”

Emily’s voice is barely there when she speaks next, making Nate soften a little. She’s not a bad person, he knows that; he wouldn’t have stayed that long with her if she was. The break-up was his fault, too, but it’d been hard and not very pretty. Talking to her right now isn’t easy.

“I’m sorry, Nate, I really am. When I discovered about her, it was too late already, and then. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t-”

Her voice dies in her throat, and, to Nate, it doesn’t make much more sense to him now than it did two days ago, but, yeah, he’s having a hard time being truly angry right now. Not with that tone of voice and what he knows are tears in her throat when she talks. No, he can’t. He can’t bring himself to be anything more than hurt, scared. So scared.

He steels his resolve a little, fisting his hand by his side. In the carrier in front of him, Chloe sucks on her own fingers, like it’s the most fascinating thing to do ever.

“Okay, but still. Doesn’t answer my question, Em. When are you taking her back?”

“In-in a few weeks, maybe?”

He blinks, sensing the hesitation in her words, and he coughs, then, startling a little cry out of Chloe.

“Emily. I’m leaving tomorrow. I’ll be off for two months.”

She makes a noise at the back of her throat that sounds terribly like a whimper, and Nate feels his heart clench hard. He wants to understand this so much better, wants to do more. He knows, he knows he can’t stay here, wait for her to come back. He simply can’t, but. At the same time, what else can he do?

“Look, she. I talked about it with the guys. I can. Take her with me, for the second leg of the tour. And when we get back, you can just. You know. Take her back.”

It seems like Chloe is looking at him with those big, slightly unfocused eyes of hers, and Nate almost feels guilty under her gaze, until she turns back to her own hand and he’s glad for her attention span. Even shorter than Gabe’s, and that’s saying something.

“Okay. I mean, it’s the best way, isn’t it? I can’t take care of her right now. But you promise me, Nate. Promise me you’ll treat her right, okay?”

“My daughter’s not turning in a coke addict because of me, I promise you.”

+

Nate loves this tour. They’re with the Academy, they’re with Panic, they’re with guys they enjoy being around, and it’s just full of laughter, the whole time. Nate also manages to get time for himself, so that’s good, too.

Gabe’s too busy fucking around with William to be annoyingly all over Nate with the Cobra, anyway. If one’s around, the other’s close, if not completely wrapped around the first.

Nate doesn’t care too much. He loves the TAI boys, really a lot, a fondness that grew with the years, despite the heartache and the obstacles they all went through, and he’s grown attached to the Panic boys, too, their antics calmer and more subdued than what Nate is used to. He likes the change.

Quickly, and to Nate’s surprise, Gabe makes it very clear that the Cobra bus is no longer to be assaulted without notice. It happens twice, both Beckett, both on the same day, both on the first day back on the road, both at different gas stations. The second time, him jumping up into the lounge startles Chloe awake and she starts wailing. Beckett blanches.

Yeah, they didn’t really tell the others. Surprisingly enough, though, William slides into the room and eyes every member of Cobra with a raised eyebrow, long finger pointed at each in turn.

“You do know touring isn’t, like, the best environment for experiences with babies.”

“It’s just Gabe’s lunch.”

Nate growls at Ryland’s words, unable to help himself even though he has a smile on his face. Gabe chuckles loudly, as he always does, and wiggles his eyebrows at Nate. William walks closer to the baby carrier and tilts his head when Chloe looks up at him.

“Seriously, what the fuck?”

“She’s mine. And it’s only because we didn’t have a better fucking solution, okay?”

“Okay.”

Beckett seems a little startled by Nate’s tone, because, okay, he’s not really a spiteful guy, he’s pretty chill usually, so, yeah, it’s surprising to see him that defensive. Beckett, after a minute, shrugs it off, and grins.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, dude.”

The tension is eased with a loud ‘fuck off’, and things go back to as normal as they can be.

+

After that, it gets pretty clear that the bus where they party is the Academy’s. Most people don’t ask why and don’t care as long as the booze flows and the jokes are still dirty and lame.

One by one, though, they end up discovering about Chloe. It starts with Beckett, but soon enough it’s Sisky, coming in for coffee with Vicky-T. He plays with her and coos, totally enthralled by the time Nate comes back from his shower. Then all the others feel the need to see her, so they do.

The first of the Panic boys to meet her is Brendon.

Nate can’t help thinking Brendon is all sorts of awesome in his very own dorky ways. He likes that Brendon’s bouncy without being as obnoxious as Gabe is most of the time, and he likes that he has so much to talk about. The guy’s bright, and yeah, Nate really kind of loves that.

Nate is spending the evening alone on the bus, all the others off to drink their weight in cheap vodka and priceless tequila when he hears a knock and then the soft swoosh of the bus door opening. He whips his head around, watches Brendon walk up the stairs quickly, a slightly worried look on his face.

Chloe’s in the lounge area.

“Hey!”

“Hey, Brendon.”

Brendon fidgets a little, as always, and Nate motions for the coffee he’s making, offering some to him. Brendon shakes his head forcefully, smiling big and bright.

“Ryan will have my balls on a platter if I drink coffee this late.”

Nate chuckles, nods, ducks his head a little. He’s afraid of the baby monitor going off right now, because, yeah, not a good time. But when he checks his watch and sees that it’s eleven, he knows Chloe’s going to sleep for a few more hours.

“So, um, I came around because I was a bit worried?”

“You were? Why?”

Brendon fidgets a little more before moving past Nate, sitting on the countertop next to him.

“Well, before the break you were always out with us, and it’s been, like, a week since we got back on the road and I haven’t seen you once.”

Nate can’t help his teasing smile.

“Aw, are you missing me, Brendon Urie?”

He has the decency to ignore the blush creeping on Brendon’s cheeks, and the way he looks away. Oh, whoa.

“Might be? I mean.”

Nate feels like there’s more to that, but Brendon stops, freezes a little and blushes harder. Nate just bites the inside of his cheek, because this, this is damn adorable and no, no way, he is so not falling for it.

Nate curls his fingers around Brendon’s wrist, tugging him off the counter and to the lounge area. He stops them at the door.

“Now, if you talk too loud, I’m the one who will have your balls on a platter.”

Brendon looks half worried, half surprised, but doesn’t answer as Nate opens the door softly, stepping into the dark lounge, the window curtains closed and falling heavily behind the couches.

“Meet Chloe.”

Brendon doesn’t even try to muffle his ‘aww’ as he steps closer to Chloe, who’s asleep in the travel crib Ryland found the day before they left, and Nate can’t hide his smile. He sits on the couch and just watches as Brendon gazes at his daughter.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty lady?”

He’s whispering, words featherlike in the room but deafening to Nate. They can’t quite muffle the sound of his heartbeat, though, wild in his ribcage. He’s discovered every new person meeting Chloe gets to him that way, but right now it’s even worse.

Brendon turns to him, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“She yours?”

“Yeah.”

Brendon nods and doesn’t say anything else, just steps away from the crib and motions towards the front area, and Nate follows obediently, a bit out of it. Between shows and night wake-up calls, he’s pretty beat.

After a while, he realizes Brendon’s poured him another cup of coffee and they’re sitting around the kitchen area table.

“Want to talk about it?”

Nate shrugs one shoulder.

“Not much to say. I didn’t know; she appeared on my doorstep during the break.”

“You know the mother?”

It’s an understandable question, but it still makes Nate glare at Brendon. It’s the world of music, it’s the business that wants them to be so cold and unaffected, sometimes, so wary of people who aren’t in it. It makes relationships so complicated.

“My ex. We were together for ages, it just fell apart. She has…she’s been having trouble, so. I don’t really know the whys and even less the hows, but this is how fucking cliché my life has turned out to be in the last week and a half.”

Brendon nods, and his hand closes the gap between them on the table, settling on Nate’s. It’s oddly comforting, warmth spreading through Nate’s body like small sparks.

“Hey, if you want, you can. Go ahead and get some sleep. I can take care of her.”

Nate raises a doubtful eyebrow. He doesn’t know how to do that himself. Brendon chuckles.

“I’m good with kids. Have a ton of nephews and nieces, and babysitting was common in the community when I was younger. How old is she? Like, ten, twelve weeks?”

Nate can’t help his surprise at how accurate Brendon’s estimation is. He finds himself squeezing his fingers back, a little.

“Nine weeks.”

“Yeah, not a hassle then. Seriously, Nate. Go ahead. I’ll make sure little Chloe is still alive and fed and happy when you get up.”

+

It’s hard for Nate to get some time off, to get time where he doesn’t have to watch over Chloe or his drums. He hardly ever gets to party until one night Vicky-T and Ryland push him off the Cobra bus unceremoniously.

“We got her. You go and get trashed. Or at least have a laugh, dude, I can’t remember what your smile looks like.”

It’s said as a joke, but Nate can hear the hints of worry and sadness in Ryland’s voice, covering Victoria’s humming as she holds Chloe close to her. Nate doesn’t answer as he steps off the bus, just looks up at Ryland and nods, squeezing his hand in thanks.

The Academy bus is practically bouncing from the outside when Nate punches in the door code, not surprised that nobody hears him walk in. There are cheers and hollers, though, once he’s made his presence known, and beer thrown into his hand.

Soon he’s back into the groove of things, the habit of the alcohol-induced buzz in his brain, pleasant, sweet. He’s laughing at a story Beckett is telling loudly, beer sloshing over the sides of his cup and across his fingers.

“So this guy, you know, he’s like, challenging me with Guitar Hero-”

“Hey, I’m glad you managed a night out.”

Nate’s sitting on one of the bunks—Chislett’s, he thinks—listening half-heartedly to Beckett, who’s standing in the doorway to the lounge area, when another voice startles him, making him turn around.

Brendon sits down beside him, so close that their fingers touch on the edge of the bunk, smile large. Nate’s heart stops for a second, because, well, Brendon’s kind of gorgeous and his eyes are shining in that really honest, interested way.

“Feels nice. Feels like I’m a bit of myself again.”

Brendon nods, doesn’t say anything about the meaning behind Nate’s words. Nate doesn’t know if he understands, but he doesn’t really care to explain, so it’s okay. He likes that Brendon seems to get that.

“She’s good?”

Nate can’t help the smile spreading over his lips. He grins into his beer cup, taking a good long sip before nodding.

“Yeah. Ryland reads her the news at night, it makes her sleep. When Alex puts her on a couch next to him and plays the bass, it works, too. I don’t even know.”

“So overall, it’s good.”

Nate’s surprised to say it is, but it’s true. It’s one of those wonderful things in life, that the others adapted so well to having Chloe around. The bus is not quiet, but it’s quieter than it had been. Sometimes Gabe falls asleep in front of the TV with Chloe tucked in his arms. It’s just a bunch of little things that happen, one after the other, and that makes Nate think they’ll be fine in the end.

“Yeah, it is.”

Brendon just smiles, pushes some hair from Nate’s forehead, and nods before he’s gone.

+

“Hey, sleepy-head.”

It’s a week later, maybe a little more; Nate gets lost in time when they’re touring. He loses track between the steady stretch of road and the steady sound of his drums at night, between feet shuffling on linoleum and coffees grabbed at gas stations, bumpy nights and days off.

He sits up as Alex hands him a coffee, the faint trace of chocolate in the smell making Nate close his eyes with delight. He’s not awake, yet, not enough, definitely not enough. Chloe’d been hard that night.

She’s in Alex’s arms right now, babbling softly into his chest as Nate practically inhales the coffee, one finger caressing down her cheek with a slight frown on his face, the kind he can’t quite help when she’s been this difficult.

“You, young lady, need to learn that nights are made to sleep.”

He can’t really wrap his head around how quickly he’s become addicted to that baby, how fast her smiles made his heart beat stronger, better. How easy it’s been for her to twist him around her pinkie. He realizes he doesn’t really want to let go.

“You know our girl made me find a new bass line? I had her with me and I played this riff I had in my head and she giggled so loudly, dude. Knew it was a winner.”

Wait. There is something Nate can’t quite get in this sentence. Alex swaps Nate’s empty coffee mug with Chloe, a secret smile on his face, and pushes his glasses up. Nate looks down at his daughter, then back up.

“Wait. Our girl?”

Alex shrugs, winks at Nate before standing up, throwing his head back and holding his tongue out to the last few drops of Nate’s coffee.

“You know, we’re taking care of her as much as you do. So maybe she’s from your sperm, but we love her, too.”

Oh, yeah. Obviously.

+

Nate, luckily, is exempt from sound check on most days. On days it doesn’t rain, causing his drums not to sound exactly like they should. On days a tech didn’t drop the case of one of his toms and he had to hum to his kit for, like, an hour to feel satisfied with it.

It’s best, really, that he doesn’t have to be there on most days, because sound check is Chloe’s bath time, and it’s probably his favorite moment with her. It’s just before a show—he’s buzzing and she can probably feel it. She’s always obedient and sweet and he can allow himself to blow raspberries over her stomach after drying her off without having any of his bandmates laughing at him.

She smells like baby powder and peaches and watermelon after her bath, always, and Nate always spends a good while with his nose buried against her cheek or the crook of her neck, taking her in, fitting her, so small, in his hands. Remembering everything about her as she was, tiny and fragile, still relying on him for everything.

He doesn’t think about when the tour ends and Emily comes back. He doesn’t think about what the others think; in those moments, it’s just him and her, bonding, learning to love each other. She’ll look up at him with those huge eyes of hers and hold out a hand. She’ll pick at his nose ring when he leans closer, making him wince and growl. He’ll still kiss her belly softly, making her laugh.

He can still remember the first time he tried to clean her up, the water everywhere and his frustration, the pounding headache and the hurt, the incomprehensible fear spreading through every limb.

He understands, now, the hurt and the pain, but won’t talk about it, to anyone; doesn’t want to see pity in their eyes, or have them try and understand it, make him call Emily, make him talk more about it.

Chloe is his burden, sometimes his joy, sometimes his pride. She’s here, now, and Nate doesn’t want to think beyond that.

+

Two days later, they’re in Ottawa and it’s cold. Nate walks back into the bus to a singing voice he knows fairly well but can’t place. The song he recognizes, too, but.

Is that Disney?

Bar the voice, the bus is empty, and it’s not really all that reassuring to Nate. What the fuck?

He walks into the lounge area to find Brendon, back to him, singing softly, low—which is why Nate didn’t place him immediately—some song that sounds awfully like a Disney tune. He’s looking down, shoulders hunched, and Chloe is nowhere to be seen, so Nate guesses she’s in his arms.

He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t want to disturb the peace and, well, the song’s not finished. It goes high in a tirade about the blue sky and carpets and Nate thinks it has to be Aladdin.

The Panic set is before the Cobra one, around an hour earlier, so it’s not surprising that Brendon managed to slip in unnoticed by Nate. But, still. He’s not sure he ought to be okay with this.

The song ends and Brendon lays Chloe back in her crib delicately, turning to watch Nate at the door, a bit startled, apparently. His mouth opens, but Nate shakes his head, holds his hand out. Brendon takes it and lets himself be led out of the bus. The baby monitor is secure in Nate’s other hand.

So Brendon lets him drag him off to the side of the bus and he also lets Nate put a hand against his chest, pushing him against the steel and the cold. Their breaths escape them in white puffs, melting in the space between their mouths, mixing together.

“I shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. This isn’t supposed to happen.”

Brendon’s voice is soft, searching, when Nate ducks his head, his fingers lightly fisting in Brendon’s hoodie.

“What isn’t?”

“You, all of you, any of you. Falling for her.”

He remembers Alex’ words, Sisky’s smile when he threw her a short way in the air the afternoon before, relishing in her giggling, and the soft look on Gabe’s face that morning as he fed Chloe, the most surprising of them all, and the way Brendon sung, just then.

There are fingers at his cheek, then, soft, humid breathing against his forehead, pulling him to look up, to look into Brendon’s eyes. He hadn’t realized until then how close they’re actually pressed together, one of Nate’s legs in between Brendon’s.

“Are you scared of the way you are falling for her, Nate?”

Nate stills, overwhelming rush of so many questions and answers coursing through him, and he closes his eyes, throwing his head back.

“Fuck.”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, it’s fine. Can’t expect you to be all fine about this all. For us, Nate, it’s easier. She’s not ours. Your place in all this, it’s got to be harder. But you’re doing good, Nate. You’re doing great.”

He palms the side of Nate’s neck, soft if a bit clammy, his words wrapping around Nate’s upturned stomach, and he feels like he’s going to throw up all over Brendon’s shiny shoes. His fingers close tighter around the material of Brendon’s sweatshirt, like he’s barely holding on and, honestly, he feels like he is.

When he kisses Brendon, he’s halfway to being totally desperate and he doesn’t even understand why he does it besides thinking that this is the best way to tell Brendon he might be right but that shutting up would be nice right now.

But the thing is, Brendon kisses him back. He pries the baby monitor from Nate’s hand before he can drop it and leaves it in the pocket of his hoodie before gripping Nate’s hips, pulling him into his body. A shiver starts at the base of Nate’s spine and ends at Brendon’s, tongues clashing as it’s all too much, as Nate feels a bit feverish, a bit dizzy.

He slams a hand against the bus, like a wall keeping them upright, at the side of Brendon’s hand, and it’s like he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, besides mouth, besides more, and teeth pull at his bottom lip, insistent but soft. A nose grazes against his and Nate dives right back, kissing Brendon with all that he’s worth, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of Brendon’s head.

When they break apart, he wants it again, he wants it more.

Part II

Here is a place to hide - 1/1 - Brendon/Nate (Panic/Cobra)

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 21:33:05 GMT

Title: Here is a place to hide (in my wings, in my heart)
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG-15, just because of tiny sexy bit and violent bit
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Nate Novarro (Panic at the Disco/Cobra Starship)
Genre: AU (where Panic and CS tour together). Wingfic!
Part: 1/1
Summary: He manages to turn, looking down at Nate, at his smile. He seems unfazed, he seems okay, not startled, not anything. Brendon feels suddenly fucking glad that this time, they’re touring with the Cobras.
A/N: My love goes to armillarysphere and figletofvenice for the beta work. I just had this image of Brendon with wings and it turned into a drabble at first and then i had much more ideas and I couldn't stop and this happened. I really like this pairing? Rarepairings, yay! I hope you enjoy it.
Words: 4 836
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

He'll only spread them, alone, on the roof of the tour bus. Zack would skin him alive if he knew, but Brendon, he doesn't. He can't care. Not when they're open, wide, red and brown and black and white, mixed together, a blur of muted Fall colors. Not when they're free from the harness he has to wear on stage and especially not when the wind blows through them like that, ruffling feathers in a way that makes Brendon shiver.

Brendon wishes he didn’t have to hide them, because they’re beautiful. He wishes someone would tell him, yeah. He’s beautiful.

+

So, they’re touring with the Cobras. Brendon’s kind of okay with this, really, because as creepy as Gabe can seem, they’re all kind of really awesome. Brendon really realizes this a few nights in the tour, when they’re all hanging out in Alex’s room, drinking and playing poker.

Ryan and Gabe keep on teasing each other and Brendon’s just being himself, despite the wings clasped tight against his back, like an invisible weight. He doesn’t feel awkward so much, he just feels good.

Spencer is sitting beside him, drinking white wine directly from the bottle, while he himself is nursing a beer. Which is finished, he realizes.

“Want a refill, Brendon?”

Nate’s voice is smiling when Brendon turns to him, watching him perched up on the bed while Brendon is sitting on the floor. He’s holding a bottle of beer in his hand, head tilted sideways.

“Thanks. Thanks!”

Brendon lets go of his empty bottle to hold out both hands towards Nate, making him laugh heartily as he passes it over. He raises an eyebrow at Spencer, just over Brendon’s head. It makes Brendon turn between the two of them.

“Is he always like that? I mean, I’ve seen it during parties and stuff, but just. Up close, it’s impressive.”

Spencer snorts, and Brendon smacks him upside the head, lightly, harmless. It just makes Spencer snort louder.

“You have seen nothing.”

Brendon can’t help the way he blushes when Nate smiles at him then.

“I can’t wait.”

+

They get surprisingly close, surprisingly fast. Brendon doesn’t ask about it, doesn’t question it, just embraces the blooming friendship he has with Nate. Vicky-T and Spencer are barely separable themselves, going shoe-shopping, and other things Brendon doesn’t want to think about so much. Ryan and Gabe, well, it goes a long way, between them. Jon’s so easy-going, seriously, it’s like breathing for him, to get used to the Cobras.

Nate and him, it’s different. It’s just. Nice. They talk about music and traveling and Nate enjoys Brendon’s babbling. Sometimes it soothes him to sleep, and Brendon’s not even mad.

+

“They’re beautiful.”

Brendon’s breath catches in his throat, his fingers halt on his waistband, and he’s frozen. Frozen there, by the voice, the words, the thoughts going on in his mind. He knows who’s there, he knows, but he cannot move, cannot understand. One of his eyes twitches as he listens to the movements, to the door clicking shut.

“Brendon.”

“This is not. You weren’t supposed to see this.”

He manages to turn, looking down at Nate, at his smile. He seems unfazed, he seems okay, not startled, not anything. Brendon feels suddenly fucking glad that this time, they’re touring with the Cobras.

“Funny, to see you tongue-tied.”

Brendon wants to say fuck, fuck you, even, but he can’t. His shoulders are slumped as he tries to make the wings as small as he can, out of habit. Nate raises a hand, but Brendon moves away, shaking his head.

“Okay. Okay.”

That’s when Nate takes his shirt off, and turns around. The harness is tight, but Nate doesn’t seem in pain. Brendon’s jaw clenches. It lasts only a second, to Brendon, before the shirt is back over them, hiding them from his view again.

“Spence saw them the other day. He told me, about you. I hope. I hope you don’t mind. If you ever want to talk, you know, now.”

+

The others, they don’t mind. When he discovered his secret, Zack grew even more protective of him, of them, but overall, they don’t mind. Spencer likes to nap with his nose buried in the feathers and he keeps on saying they smell like nature, like outside, like home.

Brent, in the past, used to run a hand through them before shows, for luck, he used to say. Ryan’s somewhat fascinated, and they inspire him, Brendon knows it. Ryan never touches them, and when Jon replaces Brent, when he discovers the wings one night, he doesn’t either. Brendon doesn’t push.

+

“Yours are smaller. Like, much smaller.”

Nate smiles, raising a hand to run it through his hair, ending up at the bone structure of his left wing, and he nods. They’re sitting in the lounge area of the panic bus, somewhere between San Diego and Sacramento. The bumps in the road don’t seem to bother them so much.

“Yours are fucking big compared to your tiny body, Bren.”

“You’re one to talk about tiny.”

“I’d still drink you under the table.”

“And you make a point how?”

Nate just chuckles, doesn’t answer anything, but holds a hand out, and Brendon closes his eyes when Nate’s fingers fit through his feathers, separating red from black and going down into white.

“When did they?”

Brendon opens his eyes when Nate backs away, and he motions to those on Nate’s back, vibrant yellows and oranges and blues mixing together in a blinding, but beautiful rainbow. Nate brings the tip of one to rest into his palm, and he plays with it, looking down.

“Forever. My mom said I was a few months old. They were white, at first. The colors came with puberty.”

“Mine came with puberty.”

Nate winces, and Brendon wishes he hadn’t said that. He doesn’t want pity. But when Nate looks back up, there’s none of that on his features, just understanding.

“Tough.”

+

Home. Home, Brendon doesn’t know where it is anymore. He used to have one, nice place with devout parents, but, still, love and all that. Then the wings appeared. He was sixteen, and fucking terrified at first.

His brother found him in the bathroom, once, trying to cut them off, yanking on blood-stained feathers, pulling at bones, muffling his pain in a towel. Brendon’d turned teary eyes to him, but his brother just took a step back.

Called him a demon. Brendon packed as much stuff as he could that night, in his small duffel bag, and never came back.

+

They’re lying down on the roof of the Panic bus, the Cobra bus in view. They’re alone, heads at each other’s feet, wings out of the way. They’re in Lincoln, leaving in a few hours, and they’re talking randomly, about tonight’s show, about what the shape of this or that constellation made they think of, of the latest DecayDance party Pete held.

“Nate, I never got to. I mean, I really want to thank you. I thought, you know, I thought I was alone, and the guys, they don’t mind, but they don’t get it. I thought I wouldn’t ever meet someone that would, and it’s just. Thanks.”

Nate sits up, wings spreading wide behind him, but still around half the size of Brendon’s, and he shuffles closer, until his knee is pressing in Brendon’s bare chest and he can lay one hand against Brendon’s skin, palm just over Brendon’s fast beating heart.

“It’s not like I’ve known a lot of people like us, Bren, so you know. You’re welcome.”

Brendon just nods and grabs Nate’s pinkie finger over his chest, twirling his own, bigger, around it.

+

A few weeks after he’s accepted as their permanent new bass player, Jon asks Brendon if he can take a picture. Just one, if he’s okay, and he’ll never show, never, anyone. Brendon agrees, reluctantly, watching the way Jon’s eyes scan over the feathers, the colors, the rays of setting sunlight catching in. The brown in Jon’s irises is golden to Brendon then, and he feels less reluctant.

Jon takes a series of pictures, never when Brendon’s aware, and they turn out beautiful. He prints them out for Brendon, without him even asking. Brendon keeps them in a small box.

+

It’s a TV show day. They’re in New York, with the tour, and the whole DecayDance family has a MTV thing. Brendon’s nervous, he never enjoys TV stuff. He always feels so fucking awkward, and he just wants the questions to go away.

He’s in the Panic dressing room, alone, Ryan and Jon off with Beckett to the TAI… dressing room, and Brendon has seen Spencer having some afternoon snack with Travis downstairs in catering.

So he’s alone, with his harness. And he can’t quite put it on alone. And that sucks, because he hates feeling helpless, and this is just fucking unfair, he shouldn’t have to do this, and and.

His train of angry thoughts is broken by a light knock on the door and Nate slipping in, fully dressed, small, soft around the edges, and Brendon can’t help himself, he smiles.

“I saw the others around and didn’t see you. Figured, maybe. You’d need help.”

Brendon could have tried to keep up a front, but the way his hands grip the harness and the way he visibly breathes with relief at Nate’s presence in the room are pretty much giving him away, and he doesn’t even have to answer that Nate is already crowding his space, pushing him towards the couch, so he can stand on it.

He takes the harness from Brendon’s hands and starts putting it on, sliding straps over Brendon’s arms and securing the wings over Brendon’s back, quick, swift. When he’s done, he presses a palm on the curved bone, that would barely stick out and barely be visible.

“Too tight?”

“Perfect.”

Brendon wants to say thanks again, wants to manage to convey how glad he is, but he can’t quite find the words, cursing himself for a second. He can write songs, yet he can’t thank a friend. Nate hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder and looks at him in the mirror in front of them, oblivious to Brendon’s thoughts.

“I wish you didn’t have to do it.”

“I wish you didn’t either.”

Nate scrunches up his nose, his reflection smiling cheekily at Brendon. His hands are warm, curled around Brendon’s biceps.

“I’m used to it.”

“Me too.”

“You’re stubborn, Brendon Urie.”

“You’ll never win, Nate Novarro.”

+

They get a few days off when they play Las Vegas, but Brendon mostly stays in his room. He visits Spencer’s parents once, because he loves them and they’ve been asking for him, but he doesn’t go to see his own. He knows what will come out of it, and he can’t bear to take it.

He’s okay, he’s fine. Jon stays a lot in, too, complaining about the heat, and even if Brendon knows it’s a lie, he is glad to have company. They play video games and eat a ton of food from the delicious, expensive room service.

+

“Bren?”

His answer comes muffled from the confines of his bunk, not wanting to move. They’re back on the road, like they have been for what seems decades to Brendon. Sometimes, it weighs heavy on his shoulders, on the way his wings curl a little around him. Mostly, really, he loves it. There’s nothing comparable to what the fans give them, every night. Nothing, not even taking the harness off.

“Can I?”

Nate’s voice is just outside his bunk, and Brendon turns around, flattens himself as much as he can against the bunk wall, wings curled around him in a way that doesn’t hurt.

“Yeah, sure.”

Small fingers push the curtain open, eyes meet, and Brendon watches Nate assess the situation, before he fits himself in the bunk, body fitting along Brendon’s, and twists his arm a little to close the curtain again behind him.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Just. Jon took those pictures, the other day? Like, when I wasn’t watching and stuff. He’s a sneaky bastard when he wants to, despite looking like a fucking teddy bear. Anyway, I, I was just checking them out. They’re pretty cool.”

Nate raises an eyebrow, and he doesn’t even ask as Brendon is already passing them over. The first, the first, it’s Brendon’s favourite. He was standing in the lounge area, and Jon was lying down on the couch. The focus is on the tip of Brendon’s right wing, and it runs all the way up to Brendon’s shoulder. His face is blurred. One of the feathers is ruffled, sticking out, and it’s a deep, brilliant red. It looks real yet not, like a fantasy, blurred around the edges, insignificant details being the main focus.

“Wow. Those are. Those are really great.”

“Yeah. Jon’s good at this whole photography thing.”

Nate goes through the other pictures, before putting them down, in between them, and their breathing fans out over the glossy side of the top one, the last, the one of Brendon’s back as he spread arms and wings, up on the roof.

“I never let Ryland take pictures of mine. He asked, but. I don’t know. It’s strange, but it’s like, they’ll be less real.”

“Didn’t know you were a romantic.”

Nate rolls his eyes, smiles and punches Brendon’s arm lightly. His fist goes through the feathers, but stops there, softly caressing, as if it’s his own. Brendon would mind, if it were anyone else. But, here, now, he just closes his eyes and. As Nate’s hand follows the curve of his elbow, Brendon purrs.

It’s soft, almost inaudible, but he hears it, and automatically opens his eyes, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks as the look on Nate’s face is unreadable.

“Um, I, err. Fuck.”

Brendon’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, but Nate reaches out, fingers leaving the feathers to free Brendon’s lip. He runs his thumb over it afterwards, shaking his head.

Brendon wants Nate to reach over, close the gap between them, he wants it ridiculously much, so much he’s the one doing it, in the end. He pushes the pictures under his pillow and leans his forehead against Nate’s.

“I don’t really know –”

“Me neither, Bren.”

Brendon nods at that, the whisper warm against his mouth, and he just stops thinking, brushing his nose against Nate’s, feeling the cold metal of his nose ring, and presses his lips against Nate’s, feeling him answer to the kiss, slow, soft.

A hand snakes to the back of Brendon’s neck, keeping him there as the kiss deepens, a hot touch of tongues as Nate raises himself on one elbow, pushing Brendon down a little, pushing him into the mattress. It’s not demanding, it’s not asking for more.

It feels more like release than pressure.

+

During the shows, Brendon almost completely forgets about them. They’re strapped along his back and they don’t move, can’t move. They’re good there, safe. He’s safe, Brendon. He gives his heart and soul to the audience, to his band mates, and he loves every second of it.

Once, Ryan asks him if he wouldn’t like it better with them spread out. Brendon thinks about it for a long while, but in the end, he answers no. He doesn’t want Panic to be about his wings. It’s about their music. He’s not a joke, won’t be seen as one. Ryan agrees.

+

They’re in Los Angeles. Staying at a hotel in Huntington Beach, and during the day, before the show, all the others go for a swim. The day is remarkably sunny and hot, it makes Brendon long to go along, but he can’t. Can’t deal with sitting in the sand, unable to do better.

So he stays inside, watches the way Spencer’s hair is still wet with salt-water when he gets back to their room later on. Spencer doesn’t pity Brendon, none of his band mates do, and for that, Brendon’s glad. Spencer’s always known him with the wings, too. They’re part of Brendon, for him.

When he walks out of the shower, Brendon’s sitting at the window, and it’s dark out. He sputters when Spencer throws him a wet towel.

“Dude!”

“Come on, Bren. Nate had an idea earlier, I think you’re going to like it.”

Spencer then throws Brendon his swimming shorts, and Brendon doesn’t even ask as he puts them on, knowing he won’t have any sort of answer. He’s feeling just that bit wary, but if it’s an idea of Nate’s. Maybe it will be all right. Still safe.

Spencer leads him out of the hotel room when he’s changed, meeting with Victoria, Gabe and Nate outside their rooms. Vicky-T only has a short skirt over a one-piece bathing suit when she walks towards them, Ryan by his side, sunglasses pushed up over his nose. Gabe still has a cap on, despite having no shirt, and it makes Brendon chuckle lightly, receiving a slap at the back of his head when they all walk into the elevator. Jon is there, too, toes wiggling in his flip-flops.

“Alex and Ryland?”

“They’re tired. Pussies.”

Nate shoulders Brendon lightly, the two of them pressed against the mirror in the elevator, and Brendon smiles, feeling the knots of anxiety loosen in his stomach. This will be fine.

“What are we... What are we doing, guys?”

“You need to have a swim, Brendon. We’re just helping out.”

Victoria looks at him seriously, face soft, and Brendon resists the urge to push the hair out of her eyes, and he just looks down, scratching his neck. Nate’s fingers are a featherlike presence in the hollow of his hip, and he stops feeling anxious entirely. These people, they care. About him.

They pack themselves up in a small rented van and Gabe drives them to a secluded beach, ten minutes away from the hotel. Nobody’s there, absolutely no one. Just them, running towards the water, sparkling under the moon like a diamond under the sun.

They are all in the water when Brendon finally takes a deep breath and tugs his shirt and the harness off. They stop for a little moment they silly dunking and childlike laughter as he walks in the water, shivering when the tips of his wings come in contact with it.

“C’mon. You’ll feel lighter, I swear. Come on.”

It’s Nate’s voice, and soon, Ryan’s joins in the come on, smiles spreading over their faces when Brendon lets out a chuckle, loud and free, cracking in the air like a whip, and he dives in the water, his wings heavy over his back, but strong, helping him swim further, faster.

It feels fucking fantastic.

+

They’re on tour for another month, something like that. Brendon tends to forget, and he doesn’t want it to end, he’ll just get restless, once they’re done. Although Ryan said he wants to start on their new album, which. Could be good, should be.

Brendon enjoys the whole writing process, sitting down and just focusing on music, on creating new music. Playing the guitar, finding new chords until his fingers bleed. Playing the piano like a demented man, wings flailing around.

It’s more than a passion, it’s his whole life, everything that he is. It’s his balance in his insanity.

+

When Brendon knocks on Nate’s hotel room door, one night, he has to do it loudly, because he can hear laughter from inside, cling and clatter, too, like bodies, pushed around. It’s Alex that opens the door, cheeks red, short of breath. Brendon would have laughed at the view, the pillow in his hand a proof of what is going on inside, but he can’t, he can’t. His stomach is twisting so badly, he can’t.

“I need. I need to see Nate, please, it’s urgent, I mean, Alex, please, I –”

“Bren?”

Silence is now covering the inside of the room, that Brendon still can’t see, but Alex is looking down at him with worry in his eyes, and Nate pushes Alex’ elbow out of his way, standing in the doorway of his room, the tips of his wings touching the walls.

He takes in the wild look in Brendon’s eyes, and that’s all it takes for him to grab his arm and yank him inside, ushering Vicky-T and Alex out, whispering reassurances to them as they keep on casting anxious glances towards Brendon.

Brendon barely ever walks around without his harness on.

“What’s up, Brendon?”

Brendon opens the hand he has kept closed for a while, now, blunt nails digging in his skin, and feathers fall to the ground, a lot of them. Brendon lets out a shaky breath as Nate sits down on his bed, eyes on his palm.

“Every. Every fucking time I run my fingers through them, Nate. They fall by handfuls. I don’t. I don’t know why.”

He always shed feathers. It’s normal, it’s like losing your hair and stuff. It grows back. But that much. That much, it has never happened. Brendon, for the first time since he got his wings, is scared for them.

Nate tugs a finger in Brendon’s belt loops, forcing him down, until Brendon is kneeling between Nate’s legs. When he talks, his voice is unbelievably soft and serious.

“When I first joined Cobra, I was so stressed out by it all, by Gabe’s reaction to the wings and all, I almost lost all of my feathers.”

Brendon probably has forgotten how to breathe, then. Nate’s hand falls to the side of his neck, thumb stroking over his pulse point, and it’s soothing, it makes Brendon nod as he shuffles that tiny bit closer.

“What’s wearing you down? What is stressing you that much, Bren?”

A blush creeps up Brendon’s cheeks, and he looks down, between Nate’s spread knees. They never talked about the kiss, it never happened again. But it’s just weird. Always at the back of Brendon’s mind, a fleeting memory of Nate’s touch. He feels silly, wrong to be driving himself crazy with this. He can’t really help it, and he knows when Nate understands.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, I didn’t –”

Nate cuts him off by cupping Brendon’s chin with a hand, bringing his face up and closer to his own, a smile playing on his lips as he kisses Brendon, slightly harder than the first time. He brings Brendon with him as he lies back down on the bed, Brendon over him. His wings are casting a shadow over Nate’s face when he pulls away, watching swollen lips with desire flaring in his body.

“Does this ease your mind, Brendon?”

Nate’s thigh slides in between Brendon’s legs, pressing against Brendon’s groin, making him hiss and close his eyes for a second, feeling the need to focus as a smile he can’t quite suppress appears on his lips.

“I’m not really sure…Maybe we should, you know. Go on.”

“On board with that plan.”

The kiss that follows is very much more passionate than any of the others they shared, and Brendon can’t help but feel quite glad for the wings, because they are already shirtless and when Brendon slips his mouth around Nate’s cock, Nate grips the bone sticking out from Brendon’s shoulder as he moans loudly, and, man, it reverberates all along Brendon’s spine.

Before, Brendon managed to have mostly quickies in back alleys and bathrooms, never a steady girl or guy, and he never, never took his shirt off.

So Brendon discovers there, that the wings, they’re actually pretty fucking awesome during sex.

+

Brendon catches a cold, and Jon tells him jokingly that it’s all he deserves, for going on the roof at night, shirtless and all. Ryan makes him soup, though, and Spencer leaves boxes of tissues everywhere on the bus.

They all know he’s not going to stop his ritual because of a stuffy nose and a bad cough. They know he can’t. But one night, his three band mates follow him on the roof and huddle close to him.

They close a blanket around the four of them, Jon’s beard soft against Brendon’s neck. He closes the wings around them.

+

“Hey, look.”

Nate doesn’t bother asking for permission anymore, just opens the curtains of Brendon’s bunk and slides in, sitting on the edge, legs still outside. He drops a picture on Brendon’s pillow, making him raise his eyebrows as he picks it up.

“You let him?”

“Yeah.”

Nate shrugs, moving around and kicking his shoes off to lie down beside Brendon. He leaves the curtain open, though. The light catches on the picture, of Nate’s back, small wings spread on the Cobra bus lounge area. It’s dimly lit, and Gabe is there, one hand burrowed in the feathers, reds and blues clashing against his tan. He’s laughing, and Nate has his head thrown back as he laughs too, the column of his neck visible.

“He said he only took that one.”

“It’s a really amazing one, though, Nate.”

Nate is biting his lip, in very much the same fashion Brendon did when he showed the pictures of his own wings to Nate, at the beginning. He smiles, curling a hand around Nate’s hip, pulling him closer.

“They are beautiful, you know.”

“They are like a bird’s.”

Nate shrugs, pulling his left wing up a little, over his head, and he watches it, the colors, the feathers. Brendon reaches out to smooth them, almost unconsciously.

“They are like you.”

Nate raises an eyebrow at Brendon, a smirk appearing on his lips.

“I am a bird?”

“You’re. Vibrant. Passionate.”

They can’t help the chuckles escaping them, and Nate leans closer, kissing Brendon almost chastely, just a brush of lips. His fingers are pressed against Brendon’s shoulder blade, between skin and bone.

“And you’re a walking cliché.”

“Indeed I am. But an honest one.”

++

It’s coming to an end, they all know it, but it’s all right. Brendon doesn’t feel wrong or sad. He’s excited about writing, excited about the future. He’s feeling better about his life and the person he is. He feels good.

He knows it’s not really finished, anyway. It can’t, not like that, not with what they share. It will always go on, in his heart and in his wings, in the way he wakes up in the morning and the way he can, now, almost put on the harness by himself.

He smiles when he thinks about it all, anyway.

++

They’re still sticky, sweaty from playing, the last one, last show of the tour. They’re in Chicago, because it was decided like that. Jon’s family is there, Spencer’s, too. They disappear to join them just after the show, and Ryan follows, because Spencer’s family is basically his own.

Brendon doesn’t join them yet. He needs to let the whole adrenaline thing go on for just that while longer, needs to feel it in his every limb. Needs to feel it in his wings.

He walks in their dressing room and strips off his shirt. Taking the harness off takes him just the while longer, but once he’s done, he spreads the wings as wide as he can, throws his head back, and moans with delight. Despite it all, the harness puts a strain on his muscles, pulled taut for two hours every night, and he’s aching all over by the end of every show.

“Hey, Bren. Great one tonight.”

“Thanks.”

He left the door open, in case Nate would be around, and he smiles, eyes still closed, when he feels Nate’s hand grab his, when he feels feathers caressing his own. Nate’s head falls onto his shoulder, Nate’s wings fitting over Brendon’s. The tip of Nate’s right one tickles the nape of Brendon’s neck, and it’s perfect. It feels perfect.

“So, this is it. Last night.”

“Yeah. We’re going back to Vegas for our next album. What are your plans?”

“We have videos to shoot, promos, stuff like that. Warped again, maybe. Not sure, I don’t deal so much with that stuff. I go with the flow.”

Brendon nods, opening his eyes and turning his head to look at Nate, smiling, large and fulfilled.

“Thanks, Nate Novarro. For everything.”

“Thank you too, Brendon Urie.”

When they hug, the tips of their wings touch.

+

They leave a few days later, back to their backyards in Vegas, home, where Ryan and Brendon found more inspiration than ever. Where they pulled a second album they loved.

It doesn’t take them long to settle again, Brendon walking around with his wings trailing behind him at all times. He knows the others wouldn’t want it any other way.

A few days later, Brendon gets an e-mail, from Nate. It says nothing, just has a picture attached. It’s the two of them in the dressing room, fingers and wings tangled together.

It only ends if you want it to.

Our arms are open for the thing we want - Panic!GSF

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 20:19:04 GMT

Title: Our arms are open for the thing we want
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Panic!GSF
Genre: pwp
Part: 1/1
Summary: He’s not one to get really high that much, but honestly, the heat is beating them down and they could use not feeling anything until the sun’s setting.
A/N: My love goes to armillarysphere for the beta work. Prompt given by rytosis and I'm pretty sure this isn't what she expected, but, still. I just had an urge, guys. So have my ot4 porn.
Words: Just under 2 000.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

Jon has been rummaging through his bags for what seems like a fucking eternity, and Brendon’s growing impatient. It’s hot, summer in Vegas, it’s really hot, and Brendon’s agitated. Ryan’s half asleep, notebook on his lap and head on Spencer’s shoulder.

“Come on, Jon!”

Brendon’s loud yell makes Ryan jump and narrow his eyes, and if Brendon didn’t know better, he’d almost try and look apologetic. But Jon’s voice comes back muffled, and Brendon taps his foot against the floor.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it, keep your panties on.”

Brendon would snort, but then Jon reappears, finally, fucking finally, a shit-eating grin firmly in place as he holds the bong over his head. Brendon can’t help but clap, sliding down to the ground, feeling a bit like liquid. Spencer and Ryan join him on the soft carpet, turning themselves around until they’re in a circle, Jon leaving the bong in the middle as he prepares the hits.

“Strong or mild?”

“Strong.”

It’s Ryan that answers, surprising Brendon slightly. He’s not one to get really high that much, but honestly, the heat is beating them down and they could use not feeling anything until the sun’s setting. Damn Vegas, they should have gone to spend a few weeks in Alaska. Ryan looks at Brendon through thick layers of hair and shrugs.

Jon puts a hand on Brendon’s back, pushing him to make the circle a smaller one, and he obeys silently, watching Spencer and Ryan shuffle closer as well. Their knees brush and their fingers touch occasionally as Jon lights up the bong, taking a good, long hit, before holding it out to Ryan, exhaling heavy grey smoke above their heads. Brendon watches for a second, the swirls dissipating, and he smiles in anticipation.

Soon he’s the one taking a hit, feeling the pressure ease off his chest a bit as the heady taste filters through his veins, filling him completely, slowly, cell by cell, as he keeps the smoke inside for as long as he can before exhaling. He can feel eyes on him as he throws his head back and lets it out, the muscles in his neck tensing as he licks his lips afterwards, tasting the pot on them.

The bong goes from hand to hand, and the fog enters Brendon’s mind gradually, small tendrils grabbing at his neurons and shutting them off, one by one, until he’s sprawled on the carpet, head in Spencer’s lap as fingers thread through his hair. He doesn’t know who’s doing it; he doesn’t mind and doesn’t care.

His own hand is held out for Jon’s when he sees him through the smoke that isn’t yet dissipated, and he smiles when Jon moves, leaning over him, leaning closer and closer, until their mouths are almost touching, and Brendon closes his eyes when more drugs come rushing down from Jon’s slightly parted lips, into Brendon’s, through his system and he’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven. His whole body feels light, made of cotton, soft. Jon moves away a little and Brendon’s fingers curl around Ryan’s thigh when he hears him shuffle on the carpet, but they’re pried away. Brendon groans, until he sees Ryan’s face, at level with his as he settles on Spencer’s lap too.

“Guys, ‘m not a fucking pillow.”

Brendon grins and snuggles, burying his nose in the denim covering Spencer’s leg.

“But you’re so comfy.”

Ryan giggles, which is slightly unusual for him, and when Brendon moves again to look at him, Jon’s head is resting against his hip, body spooning Ryan’s, and Brendon bites his lip, reaching out to play with Jon’s hair. They’re all so close, slightly damp, but he’s so comfortable, he doesn’t think he can move, ever again.

The burn in his body is still there, only different, pleasant now, melting his bones and muscles, making him feel limp yet solid. His movements are slow, a sharp contrast to the way he usually is. Jon leans into his touch, closing his eyes and nuzzling his nose against Brendon’s palm.

Through heavy-lidded eyes, Brendon watches Spencer’s fingers trail paths over Ryan’s cheek, watches Ryan’s eyes flutter close. He hears him purr and feels him scoot closer, probably unconsciously.

Brendon’s own eyelids fall shut when Jon lays a kiss over Brendon’s palm, his own fingers keeping it open. He tugs a little and Brendon falls forward, finding himself nose to nose with Ryan, Spencer’s hand coming from one to the other, a caressing, fleeting touch that makes Brendon’s skin tingle.

It’s Ryan that, surprisingly, moves forward, capturing Brendon’s lips with his own, soft and slow, hazy. He tastes like Coke and pot, Brendon thinks, and he presses his tongue against Ryan’s lips, wanting more. He can hear Spencer’s groan pierce through his ears, and he reaches out, fingers grabbing those of Spencer’s as he kisses Ryan harder. He pulls on the hand he’s got a hold of, rolling on top of Ryan when Spencer moves to lie at their side, and Brendon finally breaks away from Ryan, looking down at his face with a grin when he sees that it takes a few seconds for Ryan to open his eyes. His lips are shiny and swollen, and it makes Brendon so fucking hungry for more.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

They don’t do this. Usually, they really don’t, but right now, Brendon doesn’t have it in himself to care. Jon leaves for a split second, coming back with the bong, and Brendon rolls off Ryan to let him take another hit, watching his throat tighten and his eyes close, mouth fitted tight over the mouthpiece, and Brendon grins. Spencer gets a hold of the bong after Ryan’s done, taking a long hit himself, and Brendon sits up, looking at Spencer looking at him. They lean closer, unconsciously on Brendon’s part, it seems, and the kiss is full of smoke, invading Brendon’s every sense, almost choking him in a delicious way. His muscles are lax, every part of his body going soft as suddenly, there’s hands on his hips, tugging his shirt up. He doesn’t leave Spencer’s lips yet, only when the fingers grow insistent.

Brendon is more than enough in a daze not to care who’s touching him, only to hope they all will at some point, because he wants, he wants so much right now. He keeps his eyes trained on the way Spencer’s gulp when the fingers – Jon’s, so it seems – peel Brendon’s shirt away from his body, and then he turns, watching Ryan lose his shirt, too, all sharp angles and bones sticking out. Brendon’s mouth is immediately on him as he feels Jon leaning over his back and he hears Spencer’s moan muffled by what he knows is Jon’s lips.

Brendon focuses on Ryan’s collarbones for a while, not in a determined pattern, just going where his head brings him, and he ends up at Ryan’s hipbones, Ryan lying down under him. When Brendon looks up, he can see his closed eyes and his teeth, biting down on his bottom lip. It’s fucking hot, so fucking hot.

And it turns all the way more when Brendon feels Spencer’s hand wrap around his own hip as he fits himself against Brendon’s back, and Jon moves around so he’s lying on Ryan’s other side, tongue tracing the still wet path Brendon’s lips took a second earlier. The grin Jon’s sporting makes Brendon groan with want, and he realises then that Spencer’s grinding into him, and he’s grinding into Ryan’s leg. He’s heavy with lust, brain buzzing, trying to register feelings and sensations.

He kisses Jon over Ryan’s hip, who tastes of drugs and of something so typically Jon – sweat, spice, musk, something indefinably manly – that Brendon’s brain struggles even more with trying to grasp at it all. He’s high, so high, on pot and desire for these guys, that he feels like he’s going to burst.

He can’t talk, even after Jon moves away, fingers on the buttons of Ryan’s pants, because Spencer’s fingers are on his and Brendon pushes back against Spencer’s distinct hard-on, throwing his head back as Spencer licks at his neck, tongue flicking against veins, making Brendon shiver. He cannot control the moves of his body, and knows he won’t get anywhere himself, so he tugs on the waistband of Spencer’s pants uselessly. His shirt is gone, as is Jon’s, too, probably thrown somewhere earlier on.

“Off. These. Off.”

Spencer’s answer is a grunt, and Brendon feels the material move away from his fingers, leaving only skin under the calloused tips of his fingers. He doesn’t see, can’t see Spencer, only sees Jon laying kisses all over Ryan’s erection, one arm holding his hips in place. Spencer tugs on Brendon’s pants then, tugging slim hips and smooth, pale skin out of the skinny jeans and Brendon kicks them off, unconsciously, mind clouded by so much lust he feels like he’s swimming in it, drowning in it.

His arm is twisted awkwardly but the heaviness in his limbs makes him hardly realise it as his hand finds Spencer’s cock, who’s immediately thrusting up against him, making Brendon groan harshly, teeth sinking in Ryan’s lower belly. Brendon tries to hear everything, understand everything, but Ryan’s fingers tangle in his hair and push him a little towards his cock. Brendon looks up, through half-closed, blurry eyes, to see Ryan’s back is arched off the carpet, and his mouth is open.

Brendon smiles through the haze, and licks up Ryan’s erection, his lips touching Jon’s over the length, mouths meeting in a messy kiss, before they’re turning back to Ryan. It’s not very focused, not very controlled, Brendon’s body jerking against Spencer’s, his hand still wrapped around Spencer’s hard-on and Spencer is returning the favour, his knuckles grazing Ryan’s knees. Jon moves around, turning so Ryan can tug his jeans open and start some sort of dirty, frenzied handjob that leaves Jon slightly breathless at times.

Brendon feels like he’s getting it all, every lick, every move, every breath, it’s all over him, mind hazy and damp with every sensation that washes over him as Spencer’s hand turns rougher and Ryan’s hips jerk off the floor when Jon’s arm can’t seem to hold them steady anymore. Spencer is fucking himself into Brendon’s hand and the dip of Brendon’s lower back, moving faster and faster. Brendon ignores the burn he starts to feel in his arm, as it’s all too good, too good not to ignore it.

It’s Ryan that comes first, the combination of the drugs, and both Jon’s and Brendon’s mouths on his cock making him moan loudly, drawn-out, over the rest of their sounds, of their pants, and Brendon licks at Ryan’s skin, his taste salty and fucking intoxicating, even more than the pot, even more than everything else.

“C’mon, Jon, c’mon.”

It’s Ryan who talks to Jon, but it’s Brendon that hits it then, falling forward, forehead against the dip of Ryan’s hip as he comes over the carpet and Ryan’s thigh, closely followed by Jon. Brendon watches as Ryan swallows around Jon and his muscles twitch slightly as he bites his lip, feeling Spencer’s fingers grip his hip, pulling Brendon against his chest harshly as he comes over Brendon’s back. What should be words but that Brendon cannot understand leave Spencer’s lips at an incredibly fast rhythm as he jerks against Brendon.

“Oh, dear fuck.”

None of them move, none of them probably can move. Brendon feels like he’s humming, his whole body singing with satisfaction. He’s buzzing and his head still feels heavy yet weightless. He kind of wants to stay like this forever. His muscles are relaxed and he can’t feel most of his limbs, but Ryan’s comfy, Jon’s hand is caressing Brendon’s forehead and Spencer’s laying kisses over the nape of his neck.

“Guys, I think I got carpet burn.”

Brendon can only laugh at Ryan’s words.

if the wind blew me in the right direction - Panic!fic - Jon/Brendon (2/2)

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 23:37:08 GMT

Continued from part one

“You’ve seen Bren’s tattoos, haven’t you?”

Jon raises an eyebrow in Ryan’s general direction, because, well, duh. It’s not a secret, what’s going on between Brendon and him, so, yeah. Even if it had been on Brendon’s ass, Jon would have seen it, and Ryan knows.

“Just saying, because they’re pretty ugly, and yet you trusted him in choosing yours.”

They both look down at the inside of Jon’s forearm, the Mandala dark against his skin, swirling around his veins, unstoppable pattern that never fails to make Jon feels a bit dizzy every time he looks down at it. Dizzy, yet. Glad. Content. It fits.

“Yeah, well, doesn’t it look good?”

Ryan shrugs, non-committal, and Jon has to smile, looking back at the magazine spread in front of the two of them, an article about some tour wrapping up in the US. Jon tries not to be interested, it tugs a little too much at the edges of still open wounds. He focuses on his notebook instead, open besides the magazine.

“You know, I know of a few guys, at college, that are like. Looking for musicians. They want to go on the road for the summer, and just, try.”

“Um, okay.”

Jon shifts, turning to look at Ryan, Ryan who’s focused on the words in front of him, focused on not looking at Jon, probably. Brendon’s laugh reverberates from the room next to theirs, the tattoo room, where he’s currently working on some girl that walked in two hours ago.

“I’m just saying, because Brendon told me you played bass and stuff, and that you could be looking into joining a band, so I’m just. Saying.”

Jon has a vague feeling that he should be pissed at Brendon for just talking about his life to Ryan, but honestly, he’s not. He can’t explain why, but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t feel like a secret. It’s not one of those things he’s said in the middle of the night, one of those things he has said when he thought Brendon was still sleeping. So he just nods, a slow smile appearing on his lips.

“Okay. Thanks.”

++

One night, they get mind-blowingly drunk. Jon has been around for a while now, maybe three, four months? He can’t remember, because his brain is swimming with alcohol and Brendon’s body is wrapped around his, warm, sticky, and he doesn’t want to think about home.

Brendon’s quite horny when he’s drunk and Jon doesn’t complain, because he’s hard and he wants this, too, wants Brendon, all the fucking time. His brain is drowning in vodka and beer. Usually the feelings aren’t that strong and demanding, usually it’s more subdued, quieter.

But right now Jon wants, claims. He’s drunk and Brendon won’t leave his head, not even for a second, not even for a heartbeat. Brendon’s everywhere, everything at once, especially right now, now. Now he’s his fingertips across Jon’s skin, he’s his lips against Jon’s, he’s his tongue, flicking against a nipple. He’s his teeth, dragging along ribs, he’s his eyes, flicking up and down Jon’s body, he’s his breath, damp and humid against Jon’s forearm.

Jon has never been that raw during sex before. He can’t recall wanting so much, needing so much. But Brendon accepts it and takes it and it looks like he even enjoys it. He moans louder than Jon remembers and he doesn't talk through sex like he usually does.

In the morning, Jon has moon-shaped creases around his hips and the biggest love bite he has ever seen, just under his jaw. Through the daze of his hangover, it makes him smile.

++

Ryan sets Jon to meet with those guys, looking for band members, at the Starbucks he works at. Apparently, they are Michael and William, and they kind of are a weird duo, but cool enough.

Michael walks in the coffee shop barefoot, still wet from what Jon suspects was a surfing session, and goes straight to the counter, giving Ryan a one armed hug from over it. Ryan’s fast to point toward Jon, sitting in a booth, steaming cup of coffee in front of him.

“Hey. You must be Jon.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Michael. You can call me Chiz, if you want. Bill should be here any minute now.”

Jon just nods, and Michael sits. Ryan brings him a coffee, and snorts, unappealingly, making Jon smile.

“Man, if the leather is ruined because of the salt still dripping from your shorts, I’ll kick you out myself next time.”

Chiz dismisses it with a wave of his hand, and a large smile, and Ryan just rolls his eyes, going back to work.

“He’s a bitch.”

It makes Jon laugh, relax a little. Yeah, Ryan can be that. He’s a lot of other things, too, Jon has learned, over time.

William gets there and it’s still comfortable. He’s long and lanky, all limbs and curly hair. Jon can’t not think of the curves of Brendon’s body, how he likes that better. It makes his fingers itch, and he thinks he really needs to focus.

They chat about music and their influences, the sound they have, what they’re looking for. They talk for a long while, until Ryan ushers them out – the café’s closing and he’s got to meet Spencer at the bay.

Michael and Bill probably like Jon, because Bill calls him two days later, and they arrange for another meeting.

++

Sometimes, when he thinks Brendon is asleep, Jon will talk. Talk about nonsensical stuff, the things that don’t matter. He talks about how he misses his mom, a bit, and how he’s not used to not having Dylan messing up his hair in the morning. He whispers things, tiny, unimportant, but it feels good.

One night, his lips and nose are in Brendon’s hair, and he smells of strawberries and sex and sweat, and it’s an awesome combination, to Jon. He’s half-sprawled over Jon’s chest, and Jon thinks he’s safe.

“I think Tom would love you. He’d be freaked out, at first, you know, because, well. You talk a lot, Bren. But he’d adore you.”

Brendon shifts, and Jon’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat. He didn’t mean for Brendon to be awake, fuck. But when Brendon looks up at him, eyes heavy-lidded, sleepy, that lazy smile spreading over his lips, it feels okay.

“He would. I’m awesome.”

Jon chuckles, shaking his head before he looks up to the ceiling, hoping for his cheeks not to color. His voice is tinted slightly sarcasm, but in the end, he means it, what he says.

“Yeah, you are. Also, you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“What’s the point in telling me if I don’t hear it?”

“I wasn’t really telling you. I was just…saying it.”

Brendon’s fingers skip down to Jon’s sides, slide over ribs, soft. His palm presses against Jon’s skin.

“You never talk about that. About, you know. What you think. Of me. I mean, I was the one coming onto you, but you know, I could have gotten mixed signals or something. It happened before, so I don’t see why it couldn’t happen now.”

It’s kind of a ramble, but Jon lets him get it out. He flattens a hand against one of Brendon’s shoulder-blades when it’s finished, and smiles.

“It’s been what, now? Three months? Bren, if I didn’t want this, I wouldn’t be there.”

Brendon breathes in, shaky, and nods against Jon’s chest. Jon feels it more than he actually sees it.

“I just wonder, sometimes, about what you feel.”

It’s almost strange, how subdued Brendon is, how soft and slow his voice is, how unsure. It’s not what Jon is used to, and it’s just. Strange. He rolls to his side, bringing Brendon with him, and he moves down a little, so they’re facing each other. Brendon’s eyes glint in the darkness.

“I feel. I feel like I want Tom to meet you, and I feel good when I’m with you. I feel like I’m going to miss you.”

Brendon looks down, chewing on his bottom lip forcefully, and Jon tries to ignore the flip of his stomach when Brendon scoots closer, laying a kiss on his chest, featherlike.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

Jon kinda wants Brendon to ask him to stay.

++

He has drinks with Bill and Chiz on a night Brendon’s playing at the pub, and despite them being there, he can’t help becoming enthralled. They don’t blame him; their eyes are shining, too.

He goes surfing with Chiz, once, and he gets laughed at, a lot, but it’s actually nice, and he’s not scared of being kind of a asshole to Michael himself, either. Afterward, they sit in the sand and let it stick to their wetsuits as they share a smoke.

“So, you and Brendon…”

Chiz shrugs, turns to look at Jon coyly. It makes Jon smile.

“Maybe.”

“That’s cool. I mean, he’s a good guy. Only know him from Ryan, but, you know.”

Jon bites his lip for a split second before looking back at the ocean, leaning on his hands and crossing his ankles in front of him. His heels dig in the cold sand and that is one of the best feelings, ever.

“Yeah. He’s pretty great.”

The first try for a rehearsal happens a few days later, and it’s nice, relaxed, slightly goofy. Jon plays his bass with his soul, bare feet shuffling on the carpet of William’s basement. Bill sings with his heart and Michael plays the guitar with his guts. It goes well, for a first time.

++

Jon walks in Scum one morning, early, with two coffees. Brendon’s there, pulling on his shirt with one hand and trying to tame his bed head with the other. Jon can’t help but grin.

“Morning, sleepy. You opened, and then got dressed, or what?”

“Something like that, yeah. Just can’t be late at opening!”

Brendon’s not really a morning person, and right now, he’s squinting at Jon with a gruff look. He smiles, though, genuine, when Jon hands him one of the coffees. He nods in thanks and buries his nose in the smell for a second.

Jon takes a deep breath. His stomach is slightly knotted.

“So, um, I wondered. You want to look at flats with me today? Like, this afternoon?”

Brendon looks up at him, nose still invisible, hidden between the edge of the cup and the white plastic lid.

Then he says, simple and effective, “No.”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No, and you’re not moving into a flat, Jon. No way. Nothing steady, remember?”

In any other circumstances, Jon probably would have enjoyed the hard edge of Brendon’s voice, the way it feels like an order. But in this case, Jon just sighs, shoulders slumping a little. He knows this, he knows, but.

“I’ve been paying for an hotel room for nearly five months, Bren. And there’s still no drummer, could be a while before we get to leave.”

Jon started giving a few guitar lessons, here and there, mostly to kids Brendon and Spencer know. It helps, but it’s not really enough. Brendon’s jaw is set, it’s different. A bit unsettling.

“No, Jon, really, no. there’s no way you’re settling here, ok? A flat means signing papers and buying furniture and fucking no. If you can’t stand to live in that hotel room anymore, just move your suitcase here. It’s not like you don’t spend most of your time here anyway.”

There’s a pause, and Jon’s mouth falls open. He hasn’t been expecting that. Of course. His fingers shake around the coffee cup.

“Wait. What?”

Brendon rolls his eyes, smiles over his coffee. He takes a step towards Jon, slightly frozen in the middle of the room. Brendon keeps on surprising him, and to be honest, Jon doesn’t mind the flip of his stomach that much, right now.

“Come on. It makes sense. It’s temporary, and it’s. You’re losing money for nothing. Yesterday was the first time in a week you slept at the hotel.”

Two of his fingers hook into one of Jon’s belt loops, and he tugs Jon’s hips forward, softly, just like that, for no reason.

He makes a good point, and Jon just wants to say, no way, no way. Too dangerous to do this, too dangerous to be so close. Too dangerous when Brendon is already under his fucking skin.

“I’d like it. You, here. Just so you know.”

Those words, they break through Jon. Those words, they work. It’s strange, how simple they are, how softly Brendon says them, but how much they mean.

“Oh. Okay.”

++

“I can secure us a few dates around, a few gigs. But, guys, we need a drummer.”

Chiz throws his head back after he talks, stretching over the couch, legs over William who doesn’t seem to mind a lot. Jon’s sitting directly on the floor, bass on his lap, and he nods. As much as he wants to stay, as much as he doesn’t want to think of being without Brendon, he wants to leave. He wants to be on the road and play music he now knows by heart, the tips of his fingers dancing over the strings of his bass easily when they rehearse. He wants to sleep in the back of a van and just forget he ever had any other sort of life, ever.

++

Surprisingly enough, the whole Jon and Brendon combo, living together? It works. It works better than Jon would have thought, because well, he cooks, and Brendon’s so used to cleaning the tattoo parlor that he does it upstairs, too, fast and well.

Brendon sings in the shower and Jon plays the piano when it’s late and they don’t go out. He lulls Brendon to sleep, sometimes, with old classical pieces. He likes that, watching Brendon’s eyes flutter close and his hands rest on his chest. He looks as young as he should in those moments.

Jon can’t help but think of routine, but it’s not that, because Brendon, Brendon makes every day interesting. Some mornings Jon wakes to Brendon humming in his ear, low in his throat, lips closed around Jon’s earlobe. It leads to sex, of course, and that’s not. Routine.

Sometimes he catches Brendon using his toothbrush and he raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms over his chest. Brendon sticks a white tongue out and giggles like a kid. It leads to tickling, to wrestling matches involving shaving cream. It leads to kisses, slow and lazy, or raw and urgent.

Every day with Brendon, it leads to something new, and nothing’s usual. Jon lives his life a little bit blindly, and it’s his choice.
++

Nate coming to one of the many parties Bill organizes just seems like a gift of God of some sort, because he and Chiz hit it off right away and Nate. Nate is a drummer. And he loves the idea of road-tripping for a summer, and playing music with them, and overall he’s totally in, from the get-go, and it’s just awesome.

He comes to the next rehearsal and Jon meets him and they get along fine. Nate is hilarious and tiny; he doesn’t talk a lot and that’s mostly fine with Jon because he doesn’t talk so much either. He has learned, recently, to let Brendon do the talking. Easier that way.

Jon and Nate share a cigarette outside the rehearsal basement that day.

“So, you’re into Muse, huh? Heard you singing it earlier, in the bathroom.”

Jon shrugs, looks down at the guy beside him. Nate is playing with his nose ring, pinkie finger toying with it absent-mindedly.

“Yeah. You?”

“My taste is eclectic. I might even have some classical stuff, somewhere.”

“Use it as paperweight?”

Jon smiles as he passes the cigarette back to Nate, and it makes Nate laugh and make a face, that comment.

“Yeah. Probably.”

++

When Tom calls to tell him he’s coming to Australia too, that he’s fed up with being in Chicago and that he needs some sun, that he needs a vacation, and well, really, he needs Jon, Jon feels blinded by the smile on Brendon’s face. Because he’d been picking clothes to wear that evening and had his phone on speakerphone and Brendon heard every word of Tom’s rant and it’s seriously blinding.

After he hangs up, Brendon tackles him on the bed and straddles his hips and brushes Jon’s nose with his and that smile, that smile, it’s beautiful.

Jon feels his own facial muscles start to hurt because Tom is coming here, Tom is coming over to be here with him and that’s just perfect. It feels like a freaking rainbow burst in his chest because he has a band and he has Brendon and soon, soon he’ll have Tom, too.

“Still think he’s going to love me?”

Jon rolls them over, pining Brendon’s hands over his head. His thigh slides in between Brendon’s and he licks Brendon’s bottom lip, quickly. He likes watching Brendon’s eyes close and his body move under his.

“Definitely.”

++

Brendon pleads, and Spencer crumbles under the heavy weight of Brendon’s dark puppy dog eyes. He finally agrees to a show out of the usual show nights, even if the boss will probably throw a fit, because Tom will be there and will want to see it. Will want to see Brendon play, after everything Jon’s told him about on the phone.

Brendon doesn’t let Jon argue a lot about the whole sleeping thing. He has a couch in his living-room, it will be perfect. Jon kind of wonders about their privacy and the thickness of the walls, because honestly, Brendon is loud and Jon doesn’t want to have to keep his hands to himself just because Tom is around, but Brendon just shrugs, looks at Jon, and smiles, kind of dirtily.

“I’ll just have to bite a pillow. Or your shoulder.”

Jon just shivers.

++

They are supposed to be rehearsing, but Bill calls Jon an hour before and tells him to come to Ryan’s café instead, because he has something to show them all and it can’t wait. It makes Jon’s palms a bit sweaty, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

He gets there early and chats for a while with Ryan because he can, for once, before the sound of honking makes him turn around. Parked there in front of the café is a minivan, the kind of vans bands use to road-trip. The kind of vans in which you can sleep, curled around your bandmates.

William steps out of it with the biggest smile Jon has ever seen on his face.

++

Jon is there to pick Tom up at the airport. Tom tackles him in the middle of everybody’s way, and they go tumbling on the floor, limbs and flip flops and laughs mixing together.

When Tom finally releases Jon enough that they can stand back up, he holds him at arm’s length and raises an eyebrow, high.

“You’re so tan.”

Jon rolls his eyes and chuckles, nodding. He pushes his glasses down over his eyes and grabs Tom’s wrist, firm. He wants to feel Tom’s pulse under his fingertips, make sure this is real.

“Let’s go. We have a show to attend to.”

++

Brendon’s intent on giving it his best tonight and Jon knows it. It shows in the tilt of his head and the glint in his eyes, in the way his fingers run more forcefully over the keyboard. It shows in his sweat, in the sound of his breath, in his words, in everything he does and is at that moment, there, on that small stage, shedding his skin to the audience and spilling his guts.

Jon couldn’t be prouder. Tom, at some point, grabs Jon’s forearm, tight, and his jaw is clenched tight. Jon nods, smiling.

Then William is there, half drunk and already over-familiar with Tom, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and yelling in his ear something about body shots, and Tom grins at Jon, gigantic smile that is so rare on that face, Jon knows.

“I think I’m going to love this place, Jonny!”

Jon can only laugh. Hard.

++

Tom really enjoys William, Jon can tell. He also adores Brendon and his sometimes hyperactive ways. He loves trying to piss Ryan off and he appreciates talking about music with Spencer. He likes eating from Nate’s take out box, just to see the dark look Nate sends his way. He loves being able to only wear flip-flops, too.

One afternoon, he’s hanging out with them during rehearsals. Chiz leaves his guitar to the side of the couch Tom is leaning on and Tom picks it up. His eyes meet Jon and it’s not long before they’re both gone, together, in unison, playing music for each other and for themselves.

They don’t realise silence has fallen upon the basement until they’re done, and Jon looks up from his bass, looking around, a bit startled.

“Um, what?”

William just smiles that secret smile of his, the one that means ‘I know something you don’t, but I just won’t tell you’, and shrugs Jon’s question off.

“Let’s rehearse, guys!”

++

"You're leaving soon, aren't you?"

Brendon is playing the piano and Jon is sitting on the couch, half buried in Tom's covers and dirty jeans. He looks up, eyes falling in Brendon's. He has stopped playing.

"Probably, yeah."

Brendon sighs, and Jon sees feelings in his eyes he can't quite decipher, describe. As ever, he thinks he doesn't know half the things there are to know about Brendon Urie, and usually he doesn't mind, usually he enjoys that. Right now, he just wishes he could get it, and tell him everything will be fine. Even if it's probably a lie.

Brendon moves and pushes a pillow to the ground so he can sit beside Jon. His hand grazes Jon's knee.

"I just wish it wasn't so definite. Because you have to do this. You do, seriously, you want to and I want you to. But it just...you're leaving. You're leaving me."

Jon's stomach flips and his heart clenches at all the emotions, the conflict written all over Brendon's face. Jon's hand seeks Brendon's, squeezes tight. He doesn't think he can speak.

"Because, you know. I think I'm kind of, like. In love with you."

The words are said softly, but sure and clear and fucking stunning. Jon's not even taken aback, he's just amazed, blinded, bursting at the seams.

He kisses Brendon on the couch, in the mess of Tom's clothes, and he thinks he might be, too, kind of in love.

++

They rehearse every day, meeting up in William’s basement, and sometimes, Tom is there even before Jon appears. He’s always there, taking pictures of them and when there’s a guitar lying around on its own.

Once, Jon walks in the room to Nate and Tom playing music together, laughing when a wrong note strings out, when a beat goes wrong. It sounds natural and their eyes are shining happily.

Chiz follows Jon into the room and bumps shoulders with him, motioning to Tom with his chin, and Jon nods, grinning. He grabs Tom’s camera, left on the couch, and takes a picture as Nate throws his head back, laughing loudly.

“I think it’s time we asked, isn’t it, Bill?”

“Yeah.”

William answers from his place on the couch before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Silence settles over the room, as something important is obviously going on.

“Tom, We talked about this a fair bit, and we wondered. Wanna come along for the ride? You play good, and we could always use a second guitar. It’s just. Yeah, we think it could be a great idea. If you’re in.”

Jon’s jaw probably falls to the ground, but then a grin spreads over his lips. He’s fast to take a picture of the way Tom grins as he talks.

“Hell, yeah I’m in.”

++

Brendon smells like vanilla. Jon likes it, it makes him nip at Brendon’s skin, like he’s actually trying to eat him whole, like he can keep a part of Brendon with him through that.

One night, his mouth is open over Brendon’s shoulder, and he’s just tasting. It makes Brendon look down at him.

“What are you doing?”

Jon shrugs, licking Brendon’s skin one last time before looking up, smiling a bit cheekily.

“I like your smell. The way you taste.”

“It’s vanilla yogurt. It’s written on the shower gel.”

Brendon’s tone is amused, and it makes Jon chuckle, nodding as he buries his nose in the crook of Brendon’s neck, breathing him deeply. It’s Brendon that talks again next, in a whisper against Jon’s forehead.

“You smell like milk, you know?”

Jon frowns lightly, propping his chin on Brendon’s collarbones. Brendon is looking up at the ceiling, an immense grin on his face.

“I do?”

“Yeah. I love it.”

“You can keep my shower gel then, when I go.”

++

William lays out a map on the dusty table, pushing empty beer bottles and pizza boxes to the floor, and grins. There’s a red line on it travelling between Melbourne and Cairns. Michael makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, index on the tiny dot that is Sydney on the map.

“So basically, we go all the way up and then go back down and end up in Melbourne? Because ending up in Sydney, you know, home, Bill, would be nice.”

William shakes his head, curls bouncing over his face. Jon thinks that sometimes, Bill is too pretty for his own good. Lucky he’s kind of tough, really.

“I was thinking of going to Melbourne first, and then come back up. I mean, we have to go to Melbourne and Canberra. We have to. On the way up, we can even go around Sydney, go through Orange.”

“I wouldn’t mind, going back through Sydney.”

Jon curses himself inwardly as soon as the words leave his mouth, coming out without any kind of warning, and Tom snorts, loudly, unappealing. Jon wants not to care, but he’s pretty sure he’s blushing.

“Man, you’re so in love.”

Nate pokes his side and chuckles as William barks out in laughter at Tom’s words. Jon rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“Fuck off.”

++

They eat Chinese take-out on the beach, just the four of them, Spencer, Ryan, Brendon, and Jon. Tom’s at Bill’s again getting trashed, probably. Jon doesn’t mind; he likes the change of atmosphere.

“So we’re going down, Melbourne and Canberra and maybe Adelaide, and then we’re going back. And up, all the way to Cairns.”

“You have a lot of dates set up?”

Jon shrugs, his shoulder touching Brendon’s, and he actually feels warmer.

“Chiz has contacts with a ton of guys from random bars up the coast. And there are quite a load of open-mics all over. We’ll be alright. Or at least we’ll have free beer.”

Ryan just nods, and the silence unsettles Brendon, as always, so he launches on a tirade about the latest tattoo that he had to do, that was ugly, truly, in his opinion. He throws himself into telling them every details of the bloody skull of the garter-belt wearing Succubus he had to ink over the back of some biker dude, and Jon leans into the touch when Brendon’s hand finds the small of his back.

++

Before they are set to leave for their ‘nonfamoustour’, as Nate calls it, and yes, he talks fast enough that the words pretty much sound attached to each other like that, Tom and Jon go out for a drink, just the two of them.

And Tom strikes up a conversation in a rather unconventional way.

“Did you tell him?”

“Tell who what?”

Spencer gives them their beers and they go to a table in a corner, lights dim and shadows everywhere. Jon kind of feel like this would make for an awesome picture.

“Brendon. About how you feel about him.”

“Oh, dude, not only is that none of your business, but also, um, what?”

Tom rolls his eyes, like Jon could actually think for a second that he’s not obvious to the whole world.

“Come on, not to me. Want me to ask Spence, to make sure?”

“Fuck off.”

“So I take it you haven’t said anything.”

Jon runs his index over the rim of his glass, looking down at the table, frowning. Sometimes, he really hates how well Tom knows him.

“I. I showed him? I think?”

“You know that’s not gonna cut it, right? You can fuck him all you want, Jon, but in the end, he’s still one of those guys that write songs. Words. They matter.”

Jon wants to snort, mock Tom and his stupid way of saying things, but it’s also so much the truth that Jon has to fight with the lump in his throat for a moment, because he can’t talk.

“What’s the point, though? We’re leaving.”

Tom shrugs and finishes his beer in three clean gulps, as Jon watches the way his Adam’s apple moves under his skin.

“We’re musicians. If people can do the whole tortured souls thing, it’s us.”

++

Brendon cracks his knuckles and grabs the tattoo machine, looking into Jon’s eyes before turning it on. It makes Jon smile.

“You sure? Because I can show you the design, or explain it to you now, you know. It’s not. It’s not fucking around, this. This is permanent, and if you don’t agree, I’m going t-”

Jon silences Brendon by cupping his jaw with his free hand, the hand that isn’t rhythmically closing around an anti-stress ball, and his smile grows bigger. He nods, after a while.

“I trust you, okay?”

It’s maybe not like saying I love you, not really, not exactly, but still, to Jon, it’s pretty fucking essential, and Brendon feels it, because his face breaks into one of those slightly childlike grins, and Jon breathes easier.

“Okay.”

He turns the tattoo machine on, and Jon tries to relax, as much as he can. He squeezes the bright red ball Brendon pressed into his palm earlier on as he gets his forearm disinfected, cleaned up. It’s going to be just under the Mandala, just there, like an extension of it.

Funny thing is that, since he got it, he likes to think the Mandala is kind of an extension of his soul, embedded in his skin. Showing a bit of what is inside.

Brendon gets to work, focused, glasses over his nose. Jon watches him, enthralled by the process, so much he almost doesn’t feel the pain, assimilates it to better memories, to moments that are already escaping his mind. He doesn’t want to forget, he wants it, there, tattooed in his heart.

When Brendon takes the needle away from his skin for a moment, wiping the reddened skin and checking the precision of his drawing, Jon takes a deep breath.

“Bren, Bren, hey.”

Brendon looks up, blinking a few times, obviously lost in his own world, in his work, and Jon has to smile at the innocent look on his face, the grin that spreads there when he realises it’s Jon, there, still, always.

“You know. You know I love you, right?”

It’s funny how he feels his voice trembling, almost breaking, under the strength of the words, so terribly different from the way Brendon said it. He’s expecting loudness and cheers, but all he gets is Brendon, leaning close, and kissing him, soft, almost chaste, before pulling away.

“Yeah. I think I knew before you.”

Once again, Jon’s discovering a new part of Brendon. But then, Brendon turns back to the tattoo, and starts talking, a million and one words smashed together at the light of speed.

“So, let me explain. I’m doing the leaf of a Bodhi Tree, and it’s starting at the base of the Mandala because well, the Bodhi Tree is kinda the place where Buddha got, like, enlightened? So it’s associated with enlightenment and I think, seeing what you went through over the last few months, it’s just perfectly fitting. Really, it’s exactly what you need.”

Jon cannot disagree.

++

William is already behind the wheel when Jon arrives to the rendezvous point, actually just in front of the café Ryan works at. Ryan himself is outside chatting with Nate, head slightly bowed because Nate’s so much shorter than Ryan.

Spencer is there, too, leaning casually against the van and inspecting their instruments. He shaved, Jon notices.

Brendon is walking by Jon’s side, a few steps behind Tom, and he’s kind of quiet. Jon can’t blame him, really, it’s not easy, not for anyone. It’s probably hardest for the two of them, because it feels so rushed, so too soon, so much like they have the rest of their lives together to explore and that’s. Well, that’s not happening.

Tom grabs Jon’s suitcase and bass case and piles them in the back of the van, hollering at Chiz, asleep in the passenger seat. It spurs William on, and he starts tickling his favourite guitarist into waking up and barking insults at them loudly.

“So, yeah.”

“I hate saying goodbye, Jon.”

Jon makes a face, scrunching up his nose at Brendon, because, well, he doesn’t like it very much either.

“You’re coming back, anyway. In a few weeks, yeah? Before going up north.”

“Yeah, yes, yes. Definitely.”

Brendon steps closer to Jon, one finger slipping under the waistband of Jon’s jeans, head bowed down. Jon’s nose meets Brendon’s, their exhales mix in the damp air around them.

“Remember that night? Where you told me you’ll miss me and I told you the same?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll miss you more than that, really.”

“Bren…”

It’s hard, it’s incredibly hard, and Jon hates to have to make that choice. He is where he belongs and he’s back to being the guy he loves to be, but this, here, this fucking choice here. That’s the one he wishes he didn’t have to make.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m just making this harder.”

“You could. I mean, you could come along for the ride, for a while, at some point. I mean, if you want.”

Brendon smiles, looks into Jon’s eyes, and there’s sincerity there, so much that Jon grins despite it all.

“I’d love that.”

He takes a breath, a long one, lips against Jon but not really kissing, just there.

“Go on, go live your dream, Jon Walker.”

Jon waits a little more, though, ignoring the loud calls from William and the honking, because he knows it’s good-natured and it stops, anyway, when Jon slides a hand to the back of Brendon’s head and kisses him, hard, forceful. Brendon’s fingers curl around one of Jon’s hips as he gives back just as much, every single cell of them electrified with sensations, feelings.

It’s nothing like a sweet goodbye kiss, but it’s a promise of more to come, in Jon’s head. It’s a promise. His hands release Brendon and he whispers against his cheek before letting go.

“It’s not over, Brendon.”

Jon hugs Spencer and Ryan, making them promise to take care of Brendon, and then climbs into the van, closing the door behind him.

And he can’t help but think that it will never really be over.

if the wind blew me in the right direction - Panic!fic - Jon/Brendon (1/2)

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 23:34:34 GMT

Title: if the wind blew me in the right direction
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: Jon/Brendon
Genre: Au
Part: 1/2
Summary: "He’s just used to going through the motions - work, home, sleep, work."
A/N: Many many thanks to figletofvenice for the whole beta work and concrit, you are so much better than me. Any mistake is mine. Also, thanks to skyfalling and rytosis for the help with this. First Panic fic! I am nervous yet excited, and I hope you like it. Title stolen from an incubus song.
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's...weird.

It's another one of those days. It's cold, wind biting, but Jon doesn't mind that so much, it's the way Chicago is. It's alright. He's walking, walking back because it's late, he's been working late, and his car broke down a mile or so before he got home. He buries his hands in his pockets and tries not to think at the song he could make of his day.

He realises he forgot his house keys in his car when he's on his doorstep, and it makes him lean his forehead against the door, it makes him throw a punch in it, hard, splinters burying themselves under his skin. It’s not the first time he’s forgotten his keys somewhere. Last time it was the deli round the corner when he went to grab diner with his brother. Before it's been work, or the pub down the road. It's like he's trying to force a change in his life by doing something stupid like that. Forgetting his keys. For fuck's sakes.

After a while, he just gives up and calls Tom.

"Did you lock yourself out again?"

"My car broke, and I walked home, and my house keys are in the car and it's a mile down the road and I'm cold and -"

"Okay, okay, calm down. I'm coming, okay? Give me ten."

++

Jon takes a sip of his drink and watches Tom on the other side of the table. Raises an eyebrow when Tom sighs dramatically.

“Okay, spill.”

“I just. I may have found a bassist.”

Jon’s heart stops for a second, and he sets his drink back on the wooden tabletop, fingers sliding in a small puddle of water there. Tom smiles, big, so fucking big and happy, hopeful, and Jon has to smile back. But it’s still. It hurts.

“Well. Cool.”

“Dude, you know –”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Jon waves his hand in Tom’s direction, dismissing the apology, the you know I want you to do this with me on the tip of Tom’s tongue, because he can’t hear it, he can’t do this.

“How long has it been since you played anything, J?”

Jon dry-swallows around the lump in his throat. His guitar, his piano, even his bass are gathering dust back home. Untouched, for months. There, but not really. He can’t bring himself to do it.

“A while.”

“You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t let it go to waste.”

“I think it’s too late.”

++

He not happy, here, but. He’s not unhappy either. He’s just used to going through the motions - work, home, sleep, work. Friday drinks with Tom. Life. Routine. Sometimes sex breaks it, for one night or two.

He can’t do this anymore.

He realises it, one afternoon at work, when he’s managed to take his shoes off for once, in his own office. One of his colleagues, Kyle, not even his boss, walks in and he only takes one look at Jon, from head to toes, and he snorts.

“You know you’re not on vacation, right? Straighten that tie, dude. And shoes.”

It makes Jon fume, but he keeps it inside. As always.

He goes home, back in his small apartment, and he looks at the walls, white and bare, he looks at the furniture, cold and uninviting, he looks inside his fridge, almost empty. He remembers a time where he lived with Tom in a dump place, but it was warm and cool and they had fun. He’s not having fun, here.

He lets out a cry a frustration, and throws his perfectly black mug against the perfectly white wall, and watches the perfectly brown coffee explode everywhere. He leaves the coffee stain to drip along the wall. It’s sickeningly fascinating.

He thinks he has money, a safety blanket, to cover him for months. Months.

He takes a sabbatical leave two days later.

++

“I need to get away.”

He says those words a few days later, sitting in the pub with Tom by his side. He props his chin on his hand and looks at him curiously, wondering. Jon says nothing more than that and Tom doesn’t answer for a while. In the end, he sighs.

“Okay.”

So Tom drives him to the airport. He hugs and kisses Jon goodbye. He makes him promise to call, and to come back, soon, please. He doesn’t know his life without his best friend that well and Jon isn’t really sure he knows his life without Tom either, but he has to. Has to try, has to put his foot down. He’s not himself anymore.

+

Australia is gorgeous. It’s blindingly bright and feels new, colour bursting before his eyes and he’s like a child going to Disneyland for the first time. He drinks it in, walks for hours, wanders mindlessly through the streets of Sydney. He doesn’t care, he has time, he has all the time in the world. He sleeps in a hotel, maybe, but it’s the best sleep he had in ages.

He writes a lot, notebook open on his thigh and his pen taps against it as he sits in the sand, or leaves it open in front of him on a café’s table.

He walks into shops that intrigue him, orders food that he has never heard of before. He sits on the beach and watches the sun set over the ocean, burning through it to the other side of the Earth, to his family, his friends. He doesn’t miss them, not really.

+

When he walks in down a dodgy looking street one afternoon, he doesn’t know what to expect. He sees ‘Scum’ and thinks he has never read such an unappealing name for a shop, and it makes him walk in.

Inside it’s surprisingly clean and bright. An old Smashing Pumpkins song is blaring through a used stereo, and a young man is sitting on the floor, the notebook open on his lap filled with crawling drawings, blackening the pages as he goes through them.

“You need something?”

Jon ignores the question, looking with wonder at the walls, covered with pictures and more drawings, and he understands he just walked into a tattoo shop. His skin immediately starts to tingle, and he bites his lip, walking closer to one design that caught his eye.

“It’s a Mandala. In the Buddhist religion, they represent the universe in all its complexity.”

When the guy talks, it's with a soft, if not seemingly restrained tone. Like he doesn't want to, somehow, startle Jon away. Jon just shrugs.

“I’m not Buddhist.”

He hears movement and turns around, watching the guy stand up, closes his sketchbook, walk closer. He raises a finger to the drawing on the wall, tracing contours before grabbing Jon’s wrist, tugging him closer unexpectedly. His thumb caresses Jon’s skin, featherlike, surprising. His eyes are dark and they're shining in the dim light. Jon thinks he should stop noticing stupid stuff like that.

“You don’t need to be.”

“That’s blasphemy.”

Jon kind of wishes he’d kept the words in, because really, it's not like he should care about that.

“Nobody has to care, but you.”

Jon shrugs.

“And God. But I’m not religious either.”

The guy laughs, high-pitched and youthful, showing Jon something. It feels like sharing, that laugh.

“You look younger when you laugh.”

“And you look older than you should.”

+

That night, Jon sits up in bed with his bass and his notebook, the slightly battered one he carries around, and he writes, bits and pieces of a melody, a song, something, he doesn’t quite know.

It talks of pace and walking along a road, and Jon likes it.

+

He fists his free hand, forearm laid out before him and he looks away, looks at the walls, dark, covered with symbols he doesn’t necessarily get. The needle pierces his skin and he hisses.

“I’m – fine.”

“Are you sure?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounds far, unknown, foreign almost, and yet, it’s the person that knows Jon best. Always will.

“I am. I promise.”

“Okay.”

She knows better than to protest, to push. He knows she wants to ask him to come back, but she doesn’t. She respects his choice.

“I’ll call you back. Later.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Me too.”

He hangs up and Brendon, the guy from the tattoo shop, the one who gave him the idea of getting himself a tattoo, doesn’t even look up once from Jon’s forearm, focused on the artwork, and, despite the pain, Jon finds the buzz of the machine strangely relaxing.

“Your girl?”

Brendon’s voice almost sounds uninterested, just conversational. Jon hears the hint, though. The Mandala is being written under his skin with ink and tiny beads of blood, and Jon closes his fist for a second.

“My mother.”

“Okay. We all have one.”

Jon almost laughs at the obvious, only the needle’s still in his arm and he doesn’t dare, really. He just mumbles a ‘yeah’, and the tattoo machine stops, an inch from his skin. He could whimper at the loss, surprisingly.

“I’m playing tonight, in a bar nearby. Wanna come?”

Jon looks up at Brendon, blinks a few times. Unexpected. Everything about the guy is unexpected, apparently.

“Yeah, sure.”

++

You have to walk down a flight of stairs to get in the bar Brendon has given Jon the address to. It smells of beer, smoke and sweat inside, and Jon feels immediately at home, despite thinking for a split second that maybe he should have put on real shoes instead of his used flip-flops.

He lets his fingers graze the bandage on the inside of his forearm as he leans against the bar, waiting to be acknowledged by the barman. The guy’s alone behind the bar, and also, he looks about twelve, but Jon doesn’t mind much. His eyes are pretty much focused on the small stage against the farthest wall.

There are movements, but he can’t see much, the area draped in darkness.

“Want a drink?”

“Beer. On tap, whichever, I don’t really care. The one you like most.”

“I could just give you the most expensive we got.”

“You could.”

The barman smirks, and Jon doesn’t feel like the guy’s twelve anymore. He sits on a stool, facing the stage completely, and he doesn’t understand why he feels so enthralled, nervous excitement coursing through his veins. Maybe it’s because he discovered Brendon’s a musician, too.

He doesn’t really know.

++

The show Brendon puts on turns Jon inside out. It makes his skin burn and his eyes water. It makes his legs feel like jelly and it makes his fingers curl around the edge of the bar when he feels like he’s going to fall from the sheer strength of Brendon’s voice. Just like that.

The bar is full and religiously silent, and by the fourth song, Jon moves to see the stage better. Beer spills over his hand when he claps, at some point, so into it he even forgot about his drink.

Brendon sings of family and hurt and sex, sings of life in crazy metaphors. He does one cover, from Third Eye Blind, Slow Motion. It makes the hairs on Jon’s body stands and he shivers.

At the end of the gig, Brendon stands and bows, and Jon claps and cheers.

++

“You came!”

“Told you I would.”

The way Brendon smiles, though, is kind of enthralling, his sweaty hair matted to his forehead and the shining of his eyes in the darkness of the pub. Jon feels like he has to smile back, so he does.

“You liked it?”

Jon doesn’t trust his voice, words, to speak about what he felt when Brendon was singing. He just grins bigger. Softer.

“Hey, Bren. You were awesome, tonight. Did something change?”

Brendon looks at the barman, and Jon thinks they probably know each other from outside here, from outside work hours. Something like that, because they just look that familiar. Especially when the barman slides a rum and coke in Brendon’s palm, without him even asking.

“I dunno. I mean, no, I guess not, Spence. Just in a good mood tonight.”

Brendon kind of shrugs at the question, and Jon kind of wonders what changed. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but it doesn’t matter so much. It’s good, not to be in control, in this case. He likes to feel he is the one making the choice to let his control slip. Not like before, like back home.

“You, I don’t know. You want to get out of here? Go walk on the beach, or something.”

Jon knows he’s being pretty fucking cliché, but the smile Brendon gives him makes him not care so much. He ignores the snort the barman, Spence? Spencer, maybe, gives them, when Brendon nods, fingers already wrapping lightly around Jon’s wrist.

“Yeah.”

Jon slaps some money down on the counter and follows Brendon out, smirking at the way Spencer laughs.

++

“So, why did you come here?”

The question is kind of blunt, like the wind swirling around the two of them. The sand is making walking difficult so Jon takes his flip flops off, leaves them dangling on a finger as he buries his free hand in his pocket, looking at the ocean. Considers his answer.

“Australia’s just kind of fascinating, I guess.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Jon knows it wasn’t, but he just shrugs, feeling uncomfortable. Uneasy. He doesn’t feel like he knows himself why he left, so he doesn’t know if he can explain it.

“I left because my family are Mormons and I. That wasn’t what I was looking for? I didn’t believe in that anymore. I tried for a while, though, but it just didn’t work out. I had nowhere to go for a while. Slept where I could through my last year of high school. Saved money. Worked a lot. Bought myself keys, and then. Came here. The real owner of Scum died last summer. The shop’s his daughter’s, but she lets me manage it. She doesn’t care so much, and she likes me, so.”

It sounds like a confession, like a shared secret, breathed in the wind, whispering against Jon’s skin. They curl around him, Brendon’s words, and he turns around, looks at him. The moon is making a halo around Brendon’s head and Jon knows he’s dragging through another cliché there, but whoa. In that moment, Brendon is gorgeous.

“I just. Needed something new. I can’t really…Chicago just didn’t felt right anymore. I love that place, you know? Chicago, it's awesome, but. I don't know.”

“Too big?”

“Too small.”

Brendon just nods, and damn, Jon really wants to kiss him, then. He doesn’t, though, he restrains himself. Brushes past Brendon’s shoulder and walks closer to the ocean, lets the waves lick at his toes.

“Is it permanent? Your move here.”

He hasn’t heard Brendon walking to him, but then his body heat is just against Jon’s shoulder, his breath hitting the back of Jon’s neck, and he shivers unintentionally.

“I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know a lot.”

“No.”

“It’s pretty exciting, isn’t it?”

It’s like he can hear the grin in Brendon’s voice, and for the first time since the conversation started, Jon finds himself smiling back, looking out at the horizon, feeling like this is the future, something far away that he can’t grasp, can’t reach.

“Yeah, it is.”

++

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know, Tom. Maybe not yet.”

“You like it over there?”

Tom sighs, and Jon can imagine him running a hand over his face, reluctantly nodding, and Jon closes his eyes.

“It’s fucking gorgeous, here, yeah.”

Jon doesn’t tell Tom that, when he says that, he sees Brendon’s face behind his eyelids.

++

When he swings by the tattoo parlor a few days later, Brendon’s not alone in it. The Dresden Dolls are blaring through the speakers this time, and Ryan, Ryan’s here. Jon recognizes him from the Starbucks down the street. He works there, gives Jon his frappuccino every morning.

He doesn’t look a day older than Spencer, and he looks like a bitch, a bit, sometimes. When he doesn’t smile. He’s leaning against the counter, watching Brendon’s notebook. He doesn’t even look up when Jon walks in.

“Hey, J.”

Brendon’s humming under his breath, along with the song, as he sweeps the floor, clean, long strokes of the broom. Jon tries not to stare as he holds up the CD he burnt for Brendon.

“Hey. Brought you that Nirvana album you wanted.”

Brendon looks up, grin fucking lighting up his face, and Ryan snorts, finally moving, and making Brendon roll his eyes.

“Jon, that’s Ryan. Ryan, that’s Jon.”

“Nirvana’s overrated.”

“And you, you overrate yourself.”

Jon takes a step back at the words leaving Brendon’s mouth, but then he sees the smirk, and he relaxes slightly, nods, leaves the album on the counter next to Ryan.

“Ryan writes songs.”

“Shut up, Bren.”

The edge in his voice tells Jon he means it. Ryan doesn’t look like much of a sharing person to Jon, but he can’t blame him. He’s not sharing a lot either, really. Brendon just shrugs it off, looks at Jon behind Ryan’s back with a smile that looks like rainbows and puppies to Jon.

He smiles back.

++

Jon takes up surfing lessons. He sucks quite a lot, but he enjoys the freedom, the way the waves crash over him, he likes trying to dominate them, it’s like grabbing his life in his hand. He listens to the sounds underwater when he’s wiped out and he enjoys the tugs on his muscles when he’s done.

He lies in the sand sometimes, and lets himself be dried by the sun and the wind. He shimmies out of the wetsuit he has for the lesson and just. Listens, to people, kids running, playing, crying, laughing. He listens to the waves, crashing on the sand, relentlessly going on, and on, coming and going, unstoppable, ever, and he thinks that was the way he felt like, back home.

And he likes that now, now he’s on the sand, firm, solid underneath his fingers. Maybe he’s not doing a lot, but at least he’s feeling like himself again. Feeling like he’s doing something for himself, for once. He doesn’t feel lost anymore.

++

"So, I saw your mom the other day! I was doing grocery shopping, and she tutted at me for buying chips and beer and like, no vegetables."

Jon cannot help but laugh, closing his eyes and seeing his mother's face, so clear there, in his head, looking sternly at Tom. Yeah, that's really the kind of things she does. Tom or Jon, she doesn't always make the difference.

"How's. How are things, Tom?"

He means the band, and he knows Tom knows, too. There's a sigh coming from the other end, and Jon's gut clenches a little, because Tom, he's often hopeful and he's often let down, and Jon thinks it's unfair. Tom's so talented, he deserves this. He does.

"Not so well. Casey left us like, two days ago. He said he didn't think we would make it. Obviously without him, we won't."

"I'm sorry, dude."

"I know. Me too."

++

“The Usual Suspects.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, turning to put the glass he just dried back on a shelf. Jon just smirks, shrugs, takes another sip of his beer.

“Things To Do In Denver When you’re Dead.”

Jon snorts. That’s not the best gangster movie ever, but it’s good all the same.

“Nice one. The Godfather, obviously.”

Jon cackles when Spencer groans at his words. He won, he's pretty sure.

“Bastard. I should have said in the rules that one wasn’t allowed.”

Jon smiles even bigger, brighter. His knee bounces a little when he hears the door open, up the stairs, maybe it’s Brendon. It’s not.

“Why shouldn’t it be allowed?”

“Because that’s like, automatic win on your part.”

“Well, yeah. Kind of the point, saying it.”

His knee bounces again when Spencer laughs, and this time, going through the door, jogging down the stairs, this time it’s Brendon. He looks like he just ran through half the city to get there. He tugs Jon off his bar stool, barely even acknowledging Spencer.

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

He doesn’t let go, he lets his fingers slide down from Jon’s wrist to his fingers, entwining them with his. Jon turns to Spencer, unsure, wondering, but Spence just shrugs, and Jon lets himself be pulled forward. Brendon is bouncing, breath coming out in short bursts, his cheeks are red, his eyes are glowing. His fingers shake against Jon's.

“Comeoncomeon.”

++

They stumble into Brendon’s apartment, and Jon stops dead in his tracks. Brendon lives just over Scum and he doesn’t have to pay a rent, since he does the cleaning of the shop and all that. It’s small, with one of the two bedrooms that is only to store material, inks, and stuff, but Brendon told Jon it was more than okay. He’s known worse, he says, and Jon doesn’t pry about that.

“Ta-da!”

But if Jon stops moving entirely once they’re in, it’s not because he’s in Brendon’s apartment; he’s been there before. It’s because of the piano leaning against the wall. A real piano. Not some crappy keyboard with fake sounds coming out of it. No. A real piano, painted bright blue and fitting Brendon perfectly.

“Bren, that’s –”

“Yeah, I know. It’s pretty. Pretty perfect, isn’t it? I managed it. I saved for a while, I just. I wanted this. I’ve seen that one a few months ago in some shop, and I just knew.”

Jon just nods, walks towards the piano, touches its edges with two fingers, pressing at some places, not at others. He can feel Brendon’s adoration for the instrument, like it’s what owns him, not the other way around. Brendon talks more, fast and in little bits of sentences that don't always make sense, just excitement simmering against the surface, happy and kind of crazy.

When Brendon stops talking, that’s when Jon breaks.

“You know, you know what I want? I want to play the fucking bass in a fucking band, and to tour the world. That’s what I want. I don’t want an everyday job and. And I don’t want something steady. I don’t want any of that. I want. I want more. Something else.”

Brendon doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t say anything, he just crosses the room in three steps and kisses Jon.

++

They go to have sushi, a few days later. It’s one of Spencer’s free nights, and Ryan is there, too. Jon tags along, because Brendon asks him to, and, surprisingly or not, he realises he can’t quite say no to Brendon’s smile.

Spencer mocks Jon’s inability to eat with chopsticks; Ryan keeps being his slightly tight-lipped self, but he loosens up as the meal goes on, talking to Spencer about some things that go over Jon’s head, and he realises that the two of them are better friends than Jon had ever thought.

Brendon is his usual bubbly self, and sometimes his foot slides in between Jon’s crossed legs, barely touching the skin of Jon’s calves, just like that, for nothing. He doesn’t even look at Jon as he does it. Brendon talks through his movements, talks through his food and talks with his mouth full, talks all the time, to say nothing, like it's his everything.

They laugh a lot over the course of the evening, and Jon feels relaxed, good. Happy, maybe not, fulfilled, far from it, but just. Good.

“You ok?”

Jon realises he zoned out when Brendon looks at him, a concerned glint in his eyes, and Jon just nods, smiles. He scratches the side of his face, feeling his stubble turning softer with length over his cheeks that he hasn’t shaved in weeks, maybe. Brendon grins.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

It doesn’t feel like a lie.

++

“Why don’t you do it?”

They’re lying down in the sand, looking up at the stars-filled. Brendon’s head is on Jon’s stomach, moving steadily with Jon’s breathing. One of Jon’s hands is behind his head, the other is playing with strands of hair over Brendon’s forehead.

“Do what?”

“The whole playing bass thing. Why don’t you do it?”

Jon’s fingers halt over Brendon’s skin, and he looks down, down into Brendon’s eyes, his head turned to watch Jon, too.

“Because. Because it’s not safe.”

“Who cares about safety, Jon? You didn’t come all the way over to fucking Sydney for safety. You came here to change something, and yet you’re not changing anything.”

Brendon turns fully as he talks, moves closer to Jon, until his chin is propped up on Jon’s sternum, and his fingers tangle in the collar of Jon’s shirt. Jon likes it, when he's like this, it's. A nice change.

“You took a gigantic step to come here, don’t stop now.”

Jon’s hand fists at the back of Brendon’s head, all tightness and insecurities, being put on the spot here, facing his fears. Facing his choices.

“It’s not like I can start a band from scratch. I don’t have. The music.”

“You think I’m blind, Jon? You always have your notebook with you . I see the way you tap out beats. I see the way you listen to music. You have it. Maybe you’re the blind one.”

Jon cannot help but laugh at that, throwing his head back in the sand, feeling its coldness, welcome, against his skin.

“Yeah, maybe it’s me.”

++

When Tom calls, he talks about everything that's going on in Chicago, and Jon is fucking glad, because he misses it, sometimes, misses the city he knows so well. He feels like a stranger in Sydney and Chicago, despite feeling uncomfortable lately for Jon, is home, and it's still something he can hold on to.

Jon tells Tom about Australia and about surfing, about Spencer and his addiction to buying shoes, about Ryan and Ryan's words. He tells him mostly about Brendon, though, about his smile and his ability to talk a mile a minute, about his laugh and the way he sings.

Tom tells him about his music and how it's not getting done, how they're stalled and he turns desperate over the phone. Jon wants him to be in Australia with him in those moments.

He doesn't tell Tom that, though.

++

As much as Jon enjoys talking with Brendon, he thinks he might enjoy kissing him a little bit more, because, let’s admit it, Brendon’s got those lips. And those lips, about anywhere on Jon’s body, feel fucking amazing.

It also seems like Brendon likes kissing Jon everywhere, and Jon would be the last person on Earth to complain about that.

Jon discovers with the days, the nights, what Brendon likes, what makes him writhe, moan. He discovers Brendon finds infinite pleasure in dipping his tongue in Jon’s navel, and that he’s very ticklish. He learns about how Brendon enjoys whispering lyrics over Jon’s hipbones in the dead of the night, and about how his voice turns deep as fuck when Jon licks that spot, there, just under his ear.

Jon notes all those things in his head, the way Brendon arches his back and the way his hair sticks over his forehead with sweat, the way he digs blunt nails in Jon’s shoulder blades when he comes. He also gets the way Brendon does the same, the way sometimes, he catches Brendon looking at him. The way he murmurs in Jon’s ear, questions of how? and good?, and the way his fingers always are a bit tentative at first, before Jon just closes his eyes and lets his body do the talking.

Jon enjoys how imperfect it is, how little they actually know each other and how much exploration, how much time it takes for them to feel comfortable in their moves, in their looks, in their gasps.

He likes that Brendon feels solid under his fingertips, but never really steady.

++

Brendon’s lips are attached to Jon’s hipbone when the phone rings, tongue drawing a pattern Jon can’t make out.

“Let it ring.”

Brendon’s words are muffled against Jon’s skin, and he kind of just wants to ignore the call, but it’s Tom’s ringtone.

“I can’t, Bren, it’s. It’s Tom. I won’t be long.”

Brendon sits up and nods, and Jon smiles, presses his lips to Brendon’s cheek for a second, before picking up.

“Yeah?”

“Am I waking you up?”

“No.”

There's a beat, there, a time, a moment where neither of them say anything. Jon knows it's not his turn to speak.

“Okay. Look, Jon, I just. I kind of want you to come home? The band’s over and I'm going crazy and I could use you around, you know.”

It’s blunt and it digs at Jon’s heart a little. It sounds selfish, to him, but then again he knows he’s being selfish to them, on the other side. Brendon slips an arm around Jon’s waist, and it's like he can feel Jon is crumbling a little, and Brendon holds him up against his chest.

“I – Tom, fuck.”

Brendon takes a deep breath, and Jon winces when he knows Tom hears it.

“You’re not alone.”

“Hm, I, well. No.”

“You’re not coming back, are you?”

“Just. Not yet, Tom.”

Tom sighs on the other end, long, drawn-out, but not angry, not pissed. Just a bit sad.

“I love you, dude. Be careful, okay?”

Jon closes his eyes, nods, soft, against Brendon’s shoulder. His skin under Jon’s forehead is soft and warm, inviting, welcoming, and Jon realises that, in the end, everything will be fine, with Tom.

“I promise. Love you too, man.”

The phone goes dead and Jon throws it on the carpeted ground, beside the bed, before looking up at Brendon. He knows there are probably unshed tears in his own eyes, but Brendon says nothing about that, just smiles a little when Jon runs his thumb over his bottom lip, silently.

When Jon kisses Brendon, then, it’s more urgent than it ever has been.

.part two.
++

Alphabet Drabble Meme #2

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 17:44:06 GMT

Title: Alphabet Drabble Meme: A Little Bit Of Fun, Collide, & In Your Eyes
Author: Ellie (evolia)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Multiple
Genre: Fluff
Part: 1/1
A/N: Unbetaed, very sorry. Three more drabbles, part of my Alphabet Drabble Meme. Take part!
Hope you enjoy this!
Con-crit is welcome!
Disclaimer: Not mine, that's a weird idea.

A Little Bit Of Fun - Keys - PoynterJones - PG-13. For im_my_own

He always forgets his keys at Danny’s place. It’s like he does it on purpose, leaving them there, plainly evident, so he can have a reason to run back up, to bite his lip softly, looking at Danny innocently. Danny knows he does it on purpose, he doesn’t say anything about it, though. They dangle from the end of his fingers, and Dougie goes to snatch them, but Danny’s hand is always there to wrap around his wrist.

He does it on purpose so Danny will tug him back inside and forget that they have an interview in a few hours, that they should sleep, that they shouldn’t be doing this, because it’s wrong, and they don’t work so well, the two of them. The sex is great, but they don’t talk seriously, they don’t communicate, they don’t manage to. They know it, the two of them.

But it’s fun.

Collide - Questions - JuddJones - PG-13. For silverferret89

“What are you doing here? The players’ lockers are forbidden to the public.”

“I should ask the questions. I’m the journalist, here.”

“And I’m the one getting naked, so I ask again, what are you doing here?”

“Watching you getting naked.”

Eyes challenge each other, for a split second, for that second there always is, between them, before Harry’s pushed again a locker by Danny’s still sweaty body, bare chest against Harry’s shirt. It’s a game Danny is good at, like football. He knows the rules. He always wins.

The kiss is bruising, as always, like the sex. It’s nothing soft, all rough, harsh, Danny still riding the high from the game, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He doesn’t explain why it happens, every time Harry’s around, what brings them together. Two different worlds colliding during those private seconds. Blink and you miss it.

Danny sometimes blinks and forgets it.

In Your Eyes - Lightning - FletcherJuddJones - PG-13. For figletofvenice

Harry doesn’t mind it. Danny manages not to care. Tom is bloody terrified. Dougie isn’t there, it’s the holidays. He’s home with his family. He would have been scared, too. But they don’t think of that so much then. He’s not there.

Tom’s body fits snugly between Harry’s and Danny’s, the three of them small on his huge bed. Lightning scars the night sky and he shudders with each of them. Harry wraps his arms around his waist, Danny buries his nose in the crook of his neck, breathing along his collarbone.

Another one. It shines in Tom’s eyes when Danny looks up. His fingers move, sliding over Harry’s forearms, closer, closer in each other’s arms. Tom knows he’s safe, here, with them, his own bodyguards. Warm, home. Smells like Danny’s shampoo and Harry’s washing powder. Danny’s hands are rough against his back, Harry’s are the same against his stomach.