Fic: A Little Bird Told Me
Title: A Little Bird Told Me
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Peter Vincent, Peter/Charley if you squint and tilt your head.
Rating: PG
Summary: In a long history of stupid ideas, this was probably Top Ten.
Disclaimer: The puppets are still firmly attached to the strings of Dreamworks.
Auther's Notes: The threatened Fright Night fic is here. The prompt from the Fright Night Kink Meme asked for hurt!Peter, with whumpage resulting from something other then Jerry. Like a great date, this was never meant to happen, it just did, in all it's cracky, slightly slashy glory.
This was so fucking stupid.
It was the only thing Peter could think as he lay on the ground, wind knocked out of him, and his ankle feeling extremely sprained if not broken. His rather inconvenient pain hadn’t been caused by bloodsuckers, or a stage accident, or anything remotely interesting.
He fell out of a tree.
He could imagine Charley finding him and laughing, likely making a joke about too much booze being a bad idea at high altitudes. Like in the fucking tree outside the hotel. He was in the fucking desert, who thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree in the fucking desert?
Of course, he had only been in the tree in the first place because of his laundry. That was another layer of stupid added to this mess. He could still see a lonely shirt blowing gently in the breeze above him, mocking him. Good idea, Peter, just air-dry all your clothes on the balcony ledge, nothing bad could ever happen. No wind could come along and steal every scrap you brought and scatter them in the branches outside.
He groaned experimentally. His ribs hurt like he spent the night with a couple of drunken bar bouncers, but nothing broken. Good. He could feel his mobile still in his pocket (god damn he could feel it, he’d landed on it) and hoped it was still in one piece. He could call Charley to come to his rescue. That might be fun. He could play the victim card and get fussed over by his very own sarcastic nursemaid. Or Charley might leave him with an icepack and Pay-Per-View. Not so fun. And if he got painkillers (which he most certainly would need, goddamn ankle), Charley wouldn’t let him near any alcohol. Hmm.
A pigeon landed in the tree above him. He giggled at it. “Find Charley,” he croaked. Thank Christ for endorphins. The pain in his ankle was already lessening. Although if he lay here for too long he’d be really messed up and might not be able to call for anyone. The sun would come up, he’d bake in the heat, get dehydrated...shit. And he didn’t tan well. Eight years living in this country and he still stood out as the rain-washed Englishman. It wasn’t his fault that all his work was indoors.
Wait, he was getting sidetracked again. Focus. Rescue. Charley. Yeah.
Fuck, he was vibrating! The shock if it made him jump and reminded him of his bruised ribs. Muttering curses under his breath, he managed to reach underneath him and dig out his mobile. It took a few seconds to focus on the tiny screen but when he did, he flopped back and wheezed rather than laughed.
The text from Charley was simple. “If you’re flat on your ass again, at least warn me if you’re naked before I come get you.”
Peter giggled again while trying to text back. “But that would ruin the fun.”
Author: alex_caligari
Characters/Pairings: Peter Vincent, Peter/Charley if you squint and tilt your head.
Rating: PG
Summary: In a long history of stupid ideas, this was probably Top Ten.
Disclaimer: The puppets are still firmly attached to the strings of Dreamworks.
Auther's Notes: The threatened Fright Night fic is here. The prompt from the Fright Night Kink Meme asked for hurt!Peter, with whumpage resulting from something other then Jerry. Like a great date, this was never meant to happen, it just did, in all it's cracky, slightly slashy glory.
This was so fucking stupid.
It was the only thing Peter could think as he lay on the ground, wind knocked out of him, and his ankle feeling extremely sprained if not broken. His rather inconvenient pain hadn’t been caused by bloodsuckers, or a stage accident, or anything remotely interesting.
He fell out of a tree.
He could imagine Charley finding him and laughing, likely making a joke about too much booze being a bad idea at high altitudes. Like in the fucking tree outside the hotel. He was in the fucking desert, who thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree in the fucking desert?
Of course, he had only been in the tree in the first place because of his laundry. That was another layer of stupid added to this mess. He could still see a lonely shirt blowing gently in the breeze above him, mocking him. Good idea, Peter, just air-dry all your clothes on the balcony ledge, nothing bad could ever happen. No wind could come along and steal every scrap you brought and scatter them in the branches outside.
He groaned experimentally. His ribs hurt like he spent the night with a couple of drunken bar bouncers, but nothing broken. Good. He could feel his mobile still in his pocket (god damn he could feel it, he’d landed on it) and hoped it was still in one piece. He could call Charley to come to his rescue. That might be fun. He could play the victim card and get fussed over by his very own sarcastic nursemaid. Or Charley might leave him with an icepack and Pay-Per-View. Not so fun. And if he got painkillers (which he most certainly would need, goddamn ankle), Charley wouldn’t let him near any alcohol. Hmm.
A pigeon landed in the tree above him. He giggled at it. “Find Charley,” he croaked. Thank Christ for endorphins. The pain in his ankle was already lessening. Although if he lay here for too long he’d be really messed up and might not be able to call for anyone. The sun would come up, he’d bake in the heat, get dehydrated...shit. And he didn’t tan well. Eight years living in this country and he still stood out as the rain-washed Englishman. It wasn’t his fault that all his work was indoors.
Wait, he was getting sidetracked again. Focus. Rescue. Charley. Yeah.
Fuck, he was vibrating! The shock if it made him jump and reminded him of his bruised ribs. Muttering curses under his breath, he managed to reach underneath him and dig out his mobile. It took a few seconds to focus on the tiny screen but when he did, he flopped back and wheezed rather than laughed.
The text from Charley was simple. “If you’re flat on your ass again, at least warn me if you’re naked before I come get you.”
Peter giggled again while trying to text back. “But that would ruin the fun.”