Glee RPS: I Hear Texas When You Talk Pt. 1
Title: I Hear Texas When You Talk
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Chris Colfer/Mark Salling, Kristen Chenoweth, various Glee cast member cameos.
Summary: You can take the man out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the man.
AN: For the puckurt prompt: Mark has a Texas accent that becomes more pronounced when he's tired/drunk/homesick/emotional. He's embarrassed by it, but Chris loves it. Especially in bed. Songs quoted My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, On the Road Again, Pride and Joy, and Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other. (Which with the exception of Pride and Joy are all Willie Nelson since he's The Man.) Also, the Palo Duro Canyons are pretty.
Warnings: RPS. Shameless accent!kink.
Word Count: 2, 660 for Part One. 6,780 overall.
Genre: RPS, Romance, Smut
The first time Chris meets Mark, he says “So you’re from Texas, right?” in what he hopes is a nonchalant ‘I Googled all my costars because I was curious’ voice and not a slightly more off-putting ‘I Googled you first and then just sort of stopped. PS. I’m a stalker’ way.
“Yeah. Dallas, born and raised.”
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
Mark raises an eyebrow and if they weren’t shaking hands, Chris might very well be face palming right now because Good lord, had he learned nothing from those after school specials with the sad tinkley piano music?
Stereotypes are bad.
But Mark just laughs and doesn’t rightfully call him out on being a dumb kid with a terminal case of foot in mouth disease.
“Actually, I do have one. I just work to hide it-trying to keep myself from getting typecast. You know how it is; Southern accents mean rednecks, the Confederacy, and the Klan. People in LA tend to automatically take off about fifty IQ points when they hear it. It’s amazing, you speak a little slower and they all assume you must think slow too.”
Ack! Self deprecating humor and a tiny glimmer of vulnerability. Chris is torn between wanting to hump Mark’s leg and offering him a hug and a bowl of soup. He of course restrains himself on both fronts as each would probably be equally inappropriate for a first meeting.
“Why? Are you disappointed? Did you think I’d sound like this?”
Mark tips an imaginary cowboy hat and smiles at him like Chris is the pretty new school marm he just rescued from a band of outlaws.
“Well, howdy there, Chris. Sure is nice ta meetya, darlin’.”
It's a molasses and expensive whiskey drawl and Chris doesn't know how anyone could think Mark was stupid if he talked like that. Because if his words are slower it's clearly nothing to do with IQ and everything to do with them not wanting to leave his gorgeous, sexy mouth.
It's probably good for Chris’ sanity (and his career) Mark doesn't sound like that all the time because they'd never get a thing done. He'd be a constant useless, desperate, fawning bundle of hormones begging to get into Mark's Levis.
**
Mark asks him to bring him a Coke from the craft service table one day and then stares in confusion when Chris brings him…a Coke.
“You didn’t ask what kind I wanted.”
“Because you said you wanted a Coke?” Chris is more than a little confused how he could have messed up such a simple request.
“No, but that doesn’t mean…” Mark stops and shakes his head with a laugh.
“Okay. Language barrier. In Texas, Coke is the generic name for any kind of soda. So, I’d say ‘I’d like a Coke’ and then you’d say ‘What kind?’ and I’d tell you ‘Dr. Pepper.’”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you preferred Dr. Pepper.” He tries not to make it sound as if he views this as a personal failure on his part.
“It’s like our official state drink. Best thing to come out of Waco…unless you’re a big Branch Davidians fanboy, which would be kind of freaky to be honest. But I’ll take this, don’t worry. It’s fine. My fault for the mix up.”
It’s weird and endearing and wonderfully quirky and so very Mark, that Chris just stands there with a goofy grin on his face and watches Mark sip his soda (Coke. That doesn’t always mean Coke. He learns something new every day. Like the fact that Mark prefers Dr. Pepper. He makes a mental note to always have some at his place from now on. Which is not creepy, okay? That’s just being a good host.)
“You know, in Chicago, we call all carbonated beverages pop.”
Mark’s expression at Jane’s comment can only be described as utterly appalled, so much so that, on an issue of such obvious importance, he can’t hold the Texas back.
“Now that, that jus’ ain’t right.”
Chris thinks the sudden overwhelming crashing wave of ‘throw me down on that crafts service table and have your way with me’ want at hearing Mark’s usually so well hidden accent probably ain’t exactly right either.
**
Chris feels like he has truly arrived as an actor when at his first introduction to Kristin Chenoweth, after she hugs him and informs him that he’s ‘cuter than a spotted pup under a porch swing’, he simply smiles and tells her thank you as opposed to losing his mind and gushing like a rabid Broadway fanatic.
Kristen’s funny and Kristen’s sweet and Kristen brings homemade cookies for the cast and Chris can totally get over his absurd jealousy that her character gets to have a threesome with Mark’s character because due to some sort of bizarre Southern osmosis, spending time with Kristen makes Mark’s own accent more apparent. He’s dropping g’s and saying ya’ll and around her, ‘fire’ becomes ‘fahre’ ‘your’ is ‘yer’, ‘tired’ is ‘tarred’, (much initial confusion on Chris’ part at that one), ‘aggravated’ is ‘aggervated’ and it’s all shoulda, coulda, woulda, (all of which is making Ryan twitchy and slightly aggervated as they’ve had to refilm a couple of scenes.)
Mark’s accidentally slipping up and saying things like ‘fixin to go’ and yelling at Naya to wait up for him, that he’ll be with her directly. At one point he tells Chris to ‘head on up in through there’ (which is such a next other level of adorable, never mind that it kind of makes Chris’ inner grammar nerd curl up into the fetal position and weep. He suspects he’d need a ball of string to find his way out of that tangled maze of prepositions.)
When Mark shrugs off everyone’s teasing by simply stating that “You can take the man out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the man”, Chris needs a moment to compose himself.
There’s something…almost dirty about that sentiment.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Kristin is also, it seems, a fucking master of the obvious.
“Mark, honey, that cowboy hat sure suits you.”
Yes, yes it most certainly does.
Mark.
Cowboy hat.
Mark in a cowboy hat.
It does things to Chris.
Maybe because it does things to Mark.
Mark puts on that stupid hat and Chris swears his whole center of gravity shifts, coiling low in his hips and thighs, like he needs to be on guard in case a gunfight breaks out or he’s going to have to steal a horse to hightail it out of town (hightail it out, another phrase Chris never used before meeting one Mark Salling), hands going to rest loosely at his belt buckle (which oh so helpfully draws your eyes down, down, down.)
The rest of them all look silly and cheesy and vaguely self conscious and there’s Mark looking like some sort of cover of a Harlequin romance novel.
During their down time (such as it is), Mark sits there absently strumming his guitar, one (booted) foot propped up (all the better to see the pull of denim across his thigh.)
Kristen, further cementing herself forevermore as Chris’ favoritest person ever, asks Mark to sing something. And with a nod and a little half smile (the one that always makes Chris have to suppress the urge to press his lips to that upturned corner of Mark’s mouth), he does.
I grew up a-dreamin’ of bein’ a cowboy
And lovin’ the cowboy way.
Pursuin’ the life of my high-ridin’ heroes,
I burned up my childhood days.
I learned all the rules of the modern day drifter,
Don’t you hold on to nothin’ to long
Just take what you need from the ladies
Then leave them, with the words of a sad country song.
My heroes have always been cowboys
And they still are it seems
Sadly, in search of, but one step in back of,
Themselves and their slow movin’ dreams.
Cowboys are special with their own brand of misery,
From bein’ alone too long
You could die alone in the arms of a nightmare,
Knowin’ well that your best days are gone
Pickin’ up hookers, instead of my pen,
I let the years of my youth fade away.
Old worn out saddles, and old worn out memories
With no one and no place to stay.
Oh, it’s all Texas twang and melancholy aching loneliness and Chris wants to ask Mark about his childhood, if he actually did play cowboys and Indians as a kid. He wants to know why that particular song came to mind first, if Mark really does feel that lonely sometime. Does he miss Texas? Is he homesick? Is Texas still considered home for him? Will California ever be home? (Could he ever be home for Mark? A small voice whispers in the back of his mind before he can stop it). He wants to crawl up into Mark’s lap, tuck his head against the hollow of Mark’s throat, and tell him he’s not alone.
He doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or relieved that Kevin chooses this moment to joke about how country music always makes him want to slit his wrists since it’s all so fucking depressing.
Relieved mostly, he thinks. Before he said or did something he regretted such as 1) reveal himself to be a sad cliché gay boy nursing a crush on his unobtainable straight friend so huge that even the likes of Kurt Hummel would be embarrassed by it 2) ruin his friendship with Mark or 3) Get himself fired for creating a hostile work environment.
Mark brushes Kevin off good-naturedly.
“Yeah, pretty much. But sometimes you need those drinkin’ and hurtin’ somebody done somebody wrong songs…besides, man, that was Willie Nelsen. If you’re from Texas and you don’t like the Red Headed Stranger, you might as well be a fuckin’ Communist.”
And then, ‘for Kevin’s continued mental health’, Mark effortlessly shifts moods and starts up something else.
On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way and our way
Is on the road again
Everyone’s laughing and cheering and clapping their hands, it’s a rowdy, rollicking, good time.
Chris thinks he might be in trouble.
Because despite the change in tone, he still kind of wants to crawl up into Mark’s lap.
***
According to Cory, once you cross the threshold of his house, you’re officially on Canadian soil.
Ergo, fuck rules about legal drinking age.
Ergo, Chris is more than a little drunk right now.
He’s cuddled up in a Lea and Dianna sandwich (made all the more enjoyable by the fact that he knows there are scores of guys who would sell their own grandmothers to be in his place) and everyone’s voices have sort of dimmed to a low ‘the grown ups on Charlie Brown’ wah, wah, wah, wah.
Mark is not drunk.
Mark is just kind of tipsy, soft and slightly blurred around the edges, legs splayed wide and inviting like if someone, let’s say Chris for example, wanted to get down on his knees and nuzzle his nose in the warm worn denim of his inseam, he’d be more than okay with that.
Mark is, however, part of the reason Chris is drunk.
Because each time he notices the way Mark’s fingers wrap loosely around the neck of his beer bottle or the way Mark’s throat looks when he takes a drink (perfect straight line and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows) Chris blushes, his mouth goes dry and he takes another gulp, hiding it all behind his glass.
Which is why when he stands up to get a refill ( ‘nuther round’ as Mark would say), everything kind of tilts for a moment and he almost falls over.
A warm hand on his back, a low rumbling laugh.
“Whoa there, bud. Think you’ve had ‘nuff.”
Chris might have been about to say something about how he’s an adult and he doesn’t need people telling him what to do, but it’s Mark’s hand on him, that drawl trailing across his skin and somehow leaving him hot and shivery at the same time, so instead he just kind of wobbles a bit and mumbles, “Mmmkay.”
And then, oh, arm over his shoulder and he’s nestled against Mark’s side and if he takes a moment to inhale Mark’s scent, Old Spice and fabric softener and the slightest hint of sweat (but not in a gross way, in a this is a man who does manly things way that makes Chris feel a sudden sharp spike of yes, want, please touch me deep in his stomach) who’s to know?
“Ya’llaregonnahafta ‘scuse me. Imma gon’ get Chris home.”
Cory snorts into his beer.
“Dude, was that even English?”
“Shut it, Monteith. Least I don’t say aboot.”
Yes, Cory should shut it. No one’s allowed to make fun of Mark’s accent, especially when it makes Chris’ knees turn to liquid.
Chris sways again and is rewarded with Mark wrapping his other arm around his waist, huge hand coming to curve around his hip bone and seemingly burning through his clothes.
“C’mon, Chris. Before I hafta carry you.”
Did Chris just whimper?
He thinks he might have just whimpered. Judging from the eyebrow raise of ‘you’ve got some splainin’ to do’ that Amber is shooting him.
In the car, Stevie Ray Vaughan is blasting from the CD player. At least that’s what Mark tells him it is.
“Best guitarist ever. Cryin’ shame that he died just as he sobered up and got his shit back together…he was born and raised in Dallas, you know.” There’s not little hometown pride in this statement.
All Chris knows is that thanks to Mark’s fucking awesome sound system, he can feel every dirty rough guitar riff in his spine.
He watches Mark idly tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel, singing along at all the stop lights.
Yeah, I love my lady, she's long and lean
You mess with her, you'll see a man get mean
She's my sweet little thang, she's my pride and joy
She's my sweet little baby, I'm her little lover boy
“Cory’s an idiot.” Chris slurs from the depths of Mark’s bucket seats. “You need to talk like that all the time.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring it up to Ryan for next season. Retconning Puck’s character so he’s from Texas. It’d make my job a hell of a lot easier.”
“ ‘m serious, Mark.” Chris tries to glare, annoyed at being teased, but he thinks it looks more like he’s crossing his eyes.
“S’hot…ratings’d go through the roof. You talk Texas and it makes me wanna remember the Alamo.”
Mark cracks up at this and asks him if he even knows what that means.
No, he really doesn’t know what it means, except for the fact that when Mark pulls up in front of his house, Chris bites his lip and asks if he wants to come inside.
Chris watches Mark’s hand clench on the steering wheel, the movement of his throat when he swallows.
“Chris, I think it’s pretty late. I’m gonna head on out. I’ll see you around, alright?”
Chris has to close his eyes at how gentle Mark’s voice is. It’s the sweetest letdown he could ever not ask for.
“Alright.”
Mark stays parked in his driveway until he’s safely inside the house. Chris leans his head against the door as he watches him go.
PART 2.
Author: alicebluegown16
Rating: NC-17
Pairing/Characters: Chris Colfer/Mark Salling, Kristen Chenoweth, various Glee cast member cameos.
Summary: You can take the man out of Texas, but you can't take the Texas out of the man.
AN: For the puckurt prompt: Mark has a Texas accent that becomes more pronounced when he's tired/drunk/homesick/emotional. He's embarrassed by it, but Chris loves it. Especially in bed. Songs quoted My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, On the Road Again, Pride and Joy, and Cowboys Are Frequently Secretly Fond of Each Other. (Which with the exception of Pride and Joy are all Willie Nelson since he's The Man.) Also, the Palo Duro Canyons are pretty.
Warnings: RPS. Shameless accent!kink.
Word Count: 2, 660 for Part One. 6,780 overall.
Genre: RPS, Romance, Smut
The first time Chris meets Mark, he says “So you’re from Texas, right?” in what he hopes is a nonchalant ‘I Googled all my costars because I was curious’ voice and not a slightly more off-putting ‘I Googled you first and then just sort of stopped. PS. I’m a stalker’ way.
“Yeah. Dallas, born and raised.”
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
Mark raises an eyebrow and if they weren’t shaking hands, Chris might very well be face palming right now because Good lord, had he learned nothing from those after school specials with the sad tinkley piano music?
Stereotypes are bad.
But Mark just laughs and doesn’t rightfully call him out on being a dumb kid with a terminal case of foot in mouth disease.
“Actually, I do have one. I just work to hide it-trying to keep myself from getting typecast. You know how it is; Southern accents mean rednecks, the Confederacy, and the Klan. People in LA tend to automatically take off about fifty IQ points when they hear it. It’s amazing, you speak a little slower and they all assume you must think slow too.”
Ack! Self deprecating humor and a tiny glimmer of vulnerability. Chris is torn between wanting to hump Mark’s leg and offering him a hug and a bowl of soup. He of course restrains himself on both fronts as each would probably be equally inappropriate for a first meeting.
“Why? Are you disappointed? Did you think I’d sound like this?”
Mark tips an imaginary cowboy hat and smiles at him like Chris is the pretty new school marm he just rescued from a band of outlaws.
“Well, howdy there, Chris. Sure is nice ta meetya, darlin’.”
It's a molasses and expensive whiskey drawl and Chris doesn't know how anyone could think Mark was stupid if he talked like that. Because if his words are slower it's clearly nothing to do with IQ and everything to do with them not wanting to leave his gorgeous, sexy mouth.
It's probably good for Chris’ sanity (and his career) Mark doesn't sound like that all the time because they'd never get a thing done. He'd be a constant useless, desperate, fawning bundle of hormones begging to get into Mark's Levis.
**
Mark asks him to bring him a Coke from the craft service table one day and then stares in confusion when Chris brings him…a Coke.
“You didn’t ask what kind I wanted.”
“Because you said you wanted a Coke?” Chris is more than a little confused how he could have messed up such a simple request.
“No, but that doesn’t mean…” Mark stops and shakes his head with a laugh.
“Okay. Language barrier. In Texas, Coke is the generic name for any kind of soda. So, I’d say ‘I’d like a Coke’ and then you’d say ‘What kind?’ and I’d tell you ‘Dr. Pepper.’”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you preferred Dr. Pepper.” He tries not to make it sound as if he views this as a personal failure on his part.
“It’s like our official state drink. Best thing to come out of Waco…unless you’re a big Branch Davidians fanboy, which would be kind of freaky to be honest. But I’ll take this, don’t worry. It’s fine. My fault for the mix up.”
It’s weird and endearing and wonderfully quirky and so very Mark, that Chris just stands there with a goofy grin on his face and watches Mark sip his soda (Coke. That doesn’t always mean Coke. He learns something new every day. Like the fact that Mark prefers Dr. Pepper. He makes a mental note to always have some at his place from now on. Which is not creepy, okay? That’s just being a good host.)
“You know, in Chicago, we call all carbonated beverages pop.”
Mark’s expression at Jane’s comment can only be described as utterly appalled, so much so that, on an issue of such obvious importance, he can’t hold the Texas back.
“Now that, that jus’ ain’t right.”
Chris thinks the sudden overwhelming crashing wave of ‘throw me down on that crafts service table and have your way with me’ want at hearing Mark’s usually so well hidden accent probably ain’t exactly right either.
**
Chris feels like he has truly arrived as an actor when at his first introduction to Kristin Chenoweth, after she hugs him and informs him that he’s ‘cuter than a spotted pup under a porch swing’, he simply smiles and tells her thank you as opposed to losing his mind and gushing like a rabid Broadway fanatic.
Kristen’s funny and Kristen’s sweet and Kristen brings homemade cookies for the cast and Chris can totally get over his absurd jealousy that her character gets to have a threesome with Mark’s character because due to some sort of bizarre Southern osmosis, spending time with Kristen makes Mark’s own accent more apparent. He’s dropping g’s and saying ya’ll and around her, ‘fire’ becomes ‘fahre’ ‘your’ is ‘yer’, ‘tired’ is ‘tarred’, (much initial confusion on Chris’ part at that one), ‘aggravated’ is ‘aggervated’ and it’s all shoulda, coulda, woulda, (all of which is making Ryan twitchy and slightly aggervated as they’ve had to refilm a couple of scenes.)
Mark’s accidentally slipping up and saying things like ‘fixin to go’ and yelling at Naya to wait up for him, that he’ll be with her directly. At one point he tells Chris to ‘head on up in through there’ (which is such a next other level of adorable, never mind that it kind of makes Chris’ inner grammar nerd curl up into the fetal position and weep. He suspects he’d need a ball of string to find his way out of that tangled maze of prepositions.)
When Mark shrugs off everyone’s teasing by simply stating that “You can take the man out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the man”, Chris needs a moment to compose himself.
There’s something…almost dirty about that sentiment.
Or maybe it’s just him.
Kristin is also, it seems, a fucking master of the obvious.
“Mark, honey, that cowboy hat sure suits you.”
Yes, yes it most certainly does.
Mark.
Cowboy hat.
Mark in a cowboy hat.
It does things to Chris.
Maybe because it does things to Mark.
Mark puts on that stupid hat and Chris swears his whole center of gravity shifts, coiling low in his hips and thighs, like he needs to be on guard in case a gunfight breaks out or he’s going to have to steal a horse to hightail it out of town (hightail it out, another phrase Chris never used before meeting one Mark Salling), hands going to rest loosely at his belt buckle (which oh so helpfully draws your eyes down, down, down.)
The rest of them all look silly and cheesy and vaguely self conscious and there’s Mark looking like some sort of cover of a Harlequin romance novel.
During their down time (such as it is), Mark sits there absently strumming his guitar, one (booted) foot propped up (all the better to see the pull of denim across his thigh.)
Kristen, further cementing herself forevermore as Chris’ favoritest person ever, asks Mark to sing something. And with a nod and a little half smile (the one that always makes Chris have to suppress the urge to press his lips to that upturned corner of Mark’s mouth), he does.
I grew up a-dreamin’ of bein’ a cowboy
And lovin’ the cowboy way.
Pursuin’ the life of my high-ridin’ heroes,
I burned up my childhood days.
I learned all the rules of the modern day drifter,
Don’t you hold on to nothin’ to long
Just take what you need from the ladies
Then leave them, with the words of a sad country song.
My heroes have always been cowboys
And they still are it seems
Sadly, in search of, but one step in back of,
Themselves and their slow movin’ dreams.
Cowboys are special with their own brand of misery,
From bein’ alone too long
You could die alone in the arms of a nightmare,
Knowin’ well that your best days are gone
Pickin’ up hookers, instead of my pen,
I let the years of my youth fade away.
Old worn out saddles, and old worn out memories
With no one and no place to stay.
Oh, it’s all Texas twang and melancholy aching loneliness and Chris wants to ask Mark about his childhood, if he actually did play cowboys and Indians as a kid. He wants to know why that particular song came to mind first, if Mark really does feel that lonely sometime. Does he miss Texas? Is he homesick? Is Texas still considered home for him? Will California ever be home? (Could he ever be home for Mark? A small voice whispers in the back of his mind before he can stop it). He wants to crawl up into Mark’s lap, tuck his head against the hollow of Mark’s throat, and tell him he’s not alone.
He doesn’t know if he’s annoyed or relieved that Kevin chooses this moment to joke about how country music always makes him want to slit his wrists since it’s all so fucking depressing.
Relieved mostly, he thinks. Before he said or did something he regretted such as 1) reveal himself to be a sad cliché gay boy nursing a crush on his unobtainable straight friend so huge that even the likes of Kurt Hummel would be embarrassed by it 2) ruin his friendship with Mark or 3) Get himself fired for creating a hostile work environment.
Mark brushes Kevin off good-naturedly.
“Yeah, pretty much. But sometimes you need those drinkin’ and hurtin’ somebody done somebody wrong songs…besides, man, that was Willie Nelsen. If you’re from Texas and you don’t like the Red Headed Stranger, you might as well be a fuckin’ Communist.”
And then, ‘for Kevin’s continued mental health’, Mark effortlessly shifts moods and starts up something else.
On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is making music with my friends
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again
Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
We're the best of friends
Insisting that the world keep turning our way and our way
Is on the road again
Everyone’s laughing and cheering and clapping their hands, it’s a rowdy, rollicking, good time.
Chris thinks he might be in trouble.
Because despite the change in tone, he still kind of wants to crawl up into Mark’s lap.
***
According to Cory, once you cross the threshold of his house, you’re officially on Canadian soil.
Ergo, fuck rules about legal drinking age.
Ergo, Chris is more than a little drunk right now.
He’s cuddled up in a Lea and Dianna sandwich (made all the more enjoyable by the fact that he knows there are scores of guys who would sell their own grandmothers to be in his place) and everyone’s voices have sort of dimmed to a low ‘the grown ups on Charlie Brown’ wah, wah, wah, wah.
Mark is not drunk.
Mark is just kind of tipsy, soft and slightly blurred around the edges, legs splayed wide and inviting like if someone, let’s say Chris for example, wanted to get down on his knees and nuzzle his nose in the warm worn denim of his inseam, he’d be more than okay with that.
Mark is, however, part of the reason Chris is drunk.
Because each time he notices the way Mark’s fingers wrap loosely around the neck of his beer bottle or the way Mark’s throat looks when he takes a drink (perfect straight line and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows) Chris blushes, his mouth goes dry and he takes another gulp, hiding it all behind his glass.
Which is why when he stands up to get a refill ( ‘nuther round’ as Mark would say), everything kind of tilts for a moment and he almost falls over.
A warm hand on his back, a low rumbling laugh.
“Whoa there, bud. Think you’ve had ‘nuff.”
Chris might have been about to say something about how he’s an adult and he doesn’t need people telling him what to do, but it’s Mark’s hand on him, that drawl trailing across his skin and somehow leaving him hot and shivery at the same time, so instead he just kind of wobbles a bit and mumbles, “Mmmkay.”
And then, oh, arm over his shoulder and he’s nestled against Mark’s side and if he takes a moment to inhale Mark’s scent, Old Spice and fabric softener and the slightest hint of sweat (but not in a gross way, in a this is a man who does manly things way that makes Chris feel a sudden sharp spike of yes, want, please touch me deep in his stomach) who’s to know?
“Ya’llaregonnahafta ‘scuse me. Imma gon’ get Chris home.”
Cory snorts into his beer.
“Dude, was that even English?”
“Shut it, Monteith. Least I don’t say aboot.”
Yes, Cory should shut it. No one’s allowed to make fun of Mark’s accent, especially when it makes Chris’ knees turn to liquid.
Chris sways again and is rewarded with Mark wrapping his other arm around his waist, huge hand coming to curve around his hip bone and seemingly burning through his clothes.
“C’mon, Chris. Before I hafta carry you.”
Did Chris just whimper?
He thinks he might have just whimpered. Judging from the eyebrow raise of ‘you’ve got some splainin’ to do’ that Amber is shooting him.
In the car, Stevie Ray Vaughan is blasting from the CD player. At least that’s what Mark tells him it is.
“Best guitarist ever. Cryin’ shame that he died just as he sobered up and got his shit back together…he was born and raised in Dallas, you know.” There’s not little hometown pride in this statement.
All Chris knows is that thanks to Mark’s fucking awesome sound system, he can feel every dirty rough guitar riff in his spine.
He watches Mark idly tap out the rhythm on the steering wheel, singing along at all the stop lights.
Yeah, I love my lady, she's long and lean
You mess with her, you'll see a man get mean
She's my sweet little thang, she's my pride and joy
She's my sweet little baby, I'm her little lover boy
“Cory’s an idiot.” Chris slurs from the depths of Mark’s bucket seats. “You need to talk like that all the time.”
“Yeah, I’ll bring it up to Ryan for next season. Retconning Puck’s character so he’s from Texas. It’d make my job a hell of a lot easier.”
“ ‘m serious, Mark.” Chris tries to glare, annoyed at being teased, but he thinks it looks more like he’s crossing his eyes.
“S’hot…ratings’d go through the roof. You talk Texas and it makes me wanna remember the Alamo.”
Mark cracks up at this and asks him if he even knows what that means.
No, he really doesn’t know what it means, except for the fact that when Mark pulls up in front of his house, Chris bites his lip and asks if he wants to come inside.
Chris watches Mark’s hand clench on the steering wheel, the movement of his throat when he swallows.
“Chris, I think it’s pretty late. I’m gonna head on out. I’ll see you around, alright?”
Chris has to close his eyes at how gentle Mark’s voice is. It’s the sweetest letdown he could ever not ask for.
“Alright.”
Mark stays parked in his driveway until he’s safely inside the house. Chris leans his head against the door as he watches him go.
PART 2.