Timestamp Meme ficlets pt 1
Midnight Land, Two Years On for uniformly
Runner liked to take a lap or two around the city after his shifts. There was something soothing about the jog, focusing on his respiration and heart rates with music blaring in his ears as he tried to wind down. He could never just turn it off after he left work. Lew always warned him that the longer he stayed, the worse some cases would linger. It’d been two years since the massive fuck-up that resulted in Lew’s move out of Special Investigations, and the whole squad was still feeling the ramifications of that bullshit. The shock was even reflected in their case load, their unsolved rate doubling since his departure.
People just wouldn’t talk to them, any of them, they wanted Chuckler. Sledge and Leckie weren’t a problem, they’d always communicated with various members of the staff, but Snafu now refused to talk to anyone but Runner. Even Stone didn’t realize how many contacts Lew kept up with until after he was gone. Lew, god bless his rock hard head, still stopped by and helped them off-the-clock.
Lew spent a year and a half under Lena’s tutelage before taking a Sergeant’s position in Cold Cases. Runner had been down there a few times to see him, but it never felt right, seeing Lew cramped behind a tiny desk in a basement, condensation from the air conditioning vents dripping on his head. It was frustrating as hell, having Lew down there were Runner could never see him, but Lew was going after something and needed all-access to the Archives to do it.
Runner started his cool down as he came to the porch of his new home. It was an old house, built in the late 1890s, full of character and all sorts of hidden treasures. He used the rickety wooden steps to brace himself as he went through his final stretches.
“I don’t recall custom ordering a sweaty athlete,” Lew said from the doorway.
Runner looked up, surprised to see him there.
“You’re supposed to be at work,” he said.
Lew shrugged, causing his too-small t-shirt to stretch even tighter across his collar bones. He must’ve stolen one of Runner’s again. The man had an irrational aversion to laundry.
“Don’t give me that face,” Runner said, “the last thing you need is an official reprimand.”
“It amuses me that you think I’m in some sort of trouble at work,” Lew said. He settled down on the porch steps, long limbs arranged in a lazy sprawl.
“Your recent job demotion would suggest as much,” Runner said.
“I asked for the position,” Lew said, “I hated wearing a tie to work every day. Besides, I’m actually a higher rank now. Lena just wants me to stew down there for a couple years.”
“Why?” Runner asked, stretching out his arms. He smirked when Lew got distracted. “Is this where I ask you if you see something you like?”
Lew laughed. “I confess, I didn’t take you into my home with only goodness in my heart.”
“Imagine that,” Runner murmured. He shook his limbs out one more time and sat down beside Lew. “Why is Lena making you run Cold Cases again?”
Lew sighed. “You didn’t hear this, but Vin’s planning on stepping down some time in the next two years.”
“Stone’s leaving? You’re fucking kidding me right?”
“Mac’s made it clear he doesn’t want Stone working in a job that’s trying its best to kill him. Stone’s got a chance for an instructor’s position at the Academy. He just needs to get his teaching certification first.”
“Fuck,” Runner muttered. That would mean so many damn changes. And one major implication. “Fuck,” he said again. He stood up and started pacing over the cracked sidewalk. If Stone left, Lew would be the only logical replacement. A lieutenant could not be in a relationship with one of his subordinates. Either they’d have to end this or Runner would have to quit. And he really liked his job.
Lew sat up and reached an arm out, pulling Runner back to the steps. “No, Will, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Really, because it seems to me like you’ve known about this for at least four months and never bothered to say anything. What the fuck, Lew?”
“Will,” Lew stood up and held him still, “I’m not taking Stone’s place. I’m replacing Lipton.”
“You’re going to Vice? We’re getting Lipton?” Runner asked.
Lew nodded. “That’s the plan. Who the hell knows what’s really going to happen, but Lena’s well aware that I will not take a position that will compromise either of our positions.”
“I could change squads.”
“No, kid, you couldn’t,” Lew said, “you’re my replacement, after all.”
Runner startled at that. He never caught onto that one.
“Holy shit, you’re speechless,” Lew said.
“Kiss my ass,” Runner said, pushing past him and running into the house. He grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge while Lew laughed behind him.
“Don’t get bitchy with me because you had a drama queen moment,” he said.
“We can’t all take everything in stride like you do,” Runner said, “some of us are only half-a-century old.”
“Do you really want to play the age card?” Lew asked.
Runner looked over at him then. Lew wasn’t mad, just amused, though there was his typical undercurrent of concern. He was leaning on the door jamb, watching each of Runner’s movements with a heaping dose of affection. It still freaked Runner out a little when he did that, but he remembered one else had ever shared this house with Lew. It must’ve been a hell of an experience to have another person around after a century.
And Runner knew it was a hell of a privilege to be here.
“At least I know you’re not secretly working for the mob,” Runner said.
“Not anymore,” Lew said.
Runner couldn’t keep his glare when faced with Lew’s wide smile.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up,” Lew said, “Hoosier’s invited us to dinner.”
“Is that sanitary?” Runner asked. He leaned against the doorjamb opposite Lew.
“He makes a mean chicken parm for a man from Indiana. Toye even likes it.”
“You go to dinner parties with Toye?” Runner asked.
“I’ve known his family since they arrived in this city,” Lew said.
“Wait, you really were neighbors with his Nonna?”
“She was the most amazing cook I ever met. I swear to god, I gained weight every week thanks to her. Lovely woman.”
Runner shook his head. “You’re freaking me out again.”
Lew stood over Runner, cradling his head as he pulled him in for a too quick kiss.
“You’ll get used to it,” he whispered against Runner’s lips.
It really wasn’t fair, living with a man who’d been around for almost two hundred years.
Runner pulled back and made for the stairs before he embarrassed himself.
Lew’s laughter followed him all the way.
----------------------------------------------------
Nashville 'verse: Gene and Babe, four years on for skylilies
Gene never thought he’d be here, sharing a house with Babe, having a plot of land to call their own. But that was their mailbox outside, their shoes by the door, their coats piled up on the couch, and their keys strewn across the table. This was their home, and that idea of a singular place tying Gene down was a novel concept. He never was one for roots, but Edward had a way of forcing them down and making them stay.
It hadn’t been easy, the past four years, and they hardly had an auspicious start. When Babe came back into his life, Gene was already starting to feel his years. Up until then the music, the road, and the shows had been enough. Seeing Babe again, that was like walking right to the edge and looking over. It brought up all sorts of thoughts about what could’ve been and what should be. Gene fell off everyone’s radar that October; he needed to be alone to sort out his mind. He needed time. He emerged in January with a new album, a new perspective, and Bill Guarnere making all kinds of groundhog jokes.
Babe arrived in the night, when word came out Gene was back among the living, and had rarely left since. Gene forgot what it was like, trying to work around Babe in a stubborn fit, but he also knew when to concede to someone with more sense.
They were here now, and while it would be foolish to say they forgot the past, that there weren’t fights and some darker tinges of pain, rejection, and resentment, they were as complete as they could ever possibly be. Gene had never been so content with everything in his life. One of the best things was that when that itch came into his veins, when he just had to get away, Babe had no qualms about packing up and coming with him.
Autumn was coming, each morning brought new frost over the lawn, and Gene was starting to get a chill in his bones.
“Should I call Ron and tell him we’re coming for a visit?” Babe asked, settling down beside him. He tugged the guitar out of Gene’s hands and laid his head on Gene’s shoulder.
“It’ll still be cold there,” Gene said.
“Yeah, but you’ll be closer to warmer cities,” Babe said.
Gene hummed in agreement. They needed to check on Scott and Casey, there were confessions you could make face-to-face that never came over e-mails or phone calls. It couldn’t be easy, living in a house with their father’s new partner, but Carwood Lipton seemed like a decent sort.
“You really won’t calm down until you can see the littlest Speirs’ with your own eyes,” Babe said.
“Stop reading my mind.”
Babe bit the side of Gene’s chin in response.
Gene laughed and pinched Babe in the side. “None of that.”
Babe sighed. “I know you, Gene,” he said, “it isn’t exactly difficult to see when you need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I’m not used to staying still,” Gene admitted.
“You stay with people, Gene, not places. It’s more important I’m with you, no matter where the hell we go.”
“You have gone and spoiled me.”
Babe smirked and laid his head down in Gene’s lap, long fingers catching and holding onto Gene’s wrist. “That was my master plan, of course, make it so you can never sleep alone again. Fran told me all about it.”
“And she would know better than anyone how to rein in a hurricane,” Gene said.
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Babe declared.
“Don’t you have to tech Walt’s show next week?”
“The kid needs to learn to stand on his own. Besides, Lieb is pretty much demanding we get our ass down South to see his new artist. The kid’s a Cajun like you.”
Gene smirked. “That boy always had a taste for my people.”
“God, don’t remind me,” Babe said, “I almost decked him the first time he let it slip about your past. Took the bastard forever to clarify he’d slept with your cousin.”
Gene tugged on Babe’s hair. “Even back then my intentions were firmly placed elsewhere. Remy, well, he’s never met a body he doesn’t like.”
Babe smiled up at Gene, the genuine, toothy grin, that rarely came after long hours and lugging around instruments and equipment. It’d been ages since Babe had taken this much time off, Gene never saw him so relaxed.
He was reluctant to break the peace they had in this house, their home, but neither one of them were ones for denying reality. Sooner or later, work, friends, emergencies, they’d all come encroaching on their sanctuary. Might as well leave here on their own terms rather than anyone else’s.
“You go make the plane reservations and I’ll pack our bags,” Gene said.
Babe dug his shoulder blades into Gene’s thighs, keeping him in place.
“In a minute,” he said, “just one more minute. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
------------------------------------------------------------
Nashville verse: Skinny, the first time he tried to quit smoking for skylilies
Skinny Sisk started smoking when he was 18. He wasn’t proud of it, but hell, of all the things to use as stress relief on a tour full of chart-topping pop stars and their hanger-ons, cigarettes seemed the least dangerous of the lot.
His father wasn’t too happy about it, said the last thing a security guard needed was decreased lung capacity, but even Wayne Sisk Sr. agreed that smoking Marlboros was much better than snorting lines of coke. Skinny always swore he’d quit by the time he turned 21. It seemed like a nice trade off, legally buying cigarettes for legally buying beer, but life didn’t really care about Skinny’s plans for his future health. His 21st year was one of the most stressful of his life, with the rise of 3B’s fame, the increase of Hoosier’s anxiety, and Nix’s nightly attempts to drink a bathtub full of gin. Skinny promised himself he’d get down to one pack a day by his 22nd birthday.
Of course, his 22nd year was the Year of Hell. Sink, the head of 3B’s label, decided Winters would serve the label better if he was sent to develop new copy-cat artists. The loss of Winters sent all the boys off the deep-end and somehow made Nixon an even greater mess. After Winters was sent off, Sobel dismissed Harry Welsh as the Touring Manager, which caused Johnny Martin, one of the senior security guys, to quit. Then came the firing of Sobel, who for all his faults was a damn good manager, the hiring of Norman Dike, who was much better suited to a corner office, and the rapid descent of 3B’s success. By the end of the year, Skinny was on a three-pack-a-day habit.
He decided he was going to quit, for good, by the time he hit 25.
********
“You need to get out here,” Lip’s voice rasped over the phone.
“It’s 3 AM,” Skinny said.
“Skinny, it’s Hoosier,” Lip said, “you need to get out here now.”
Skinny sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. “Carwood, don’t tell me he’s--”
“--he’s not,” Lip said, “but not for lack of trying. We need you out here, Skinny. Someone needs to watch over his ass.”
“Okay, I’ll be on the next flight out.” He closed his phone and threw it back on the nightstand.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to calm his ass down. Right now he needed to be rational and ready, he couldn’t make any stupid decisions.
It was a perfect fucking week to stop smoking.
He quit two days ago and he was starting to hit withdrawals bad. His nerves were shot, raw, and he’d never snapped at so many people in a singular week. Hell, Hoosier had even called last night and Skinny hadn’t answered because he just couldn’t deal with all that bullshit, not when his head was pounding and his mouth felt like the friggin’ Sahara.
It was typical of Hoosier, always waiting until Skinny was at his most vulnerable to massively fuck something up. He couldn’t wait to rip him a new one. Hoosier was a grown man, he shouldn’t require constant supervision, and he had a boyfriend to clean up after his messes.
It was a damn good thing Skinny couldn’t take his gun with him.
********
Even though Skinny liked to pride himself on using the least amount of violent force possible, sometimes a punch in the face was required. Going through withdrawal symptoms, flying across the country with nonexistent nerves, dealing with hospital client privacy privilege bullshit and finding Hoosier sitting up in a bed in the psych ward laughing his ass off? The only possible reaction was a punch to the jaw.
Hoosier blinked and shook his head while everyone in the room stayed silent.
“You’re late,” Hoosier said.
Skinny could feel his fingers dig deep enough into his palms to draw blood. Thank god Lip was there to pull him out.
“Where you going?” Hoosier called after them.
“God, you do have a death wish,” Nix replied.
Lip dragged Skinny by the collar all the way out to the parking deck.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Fuck you, Lip,” Skinny said. He patted his pockets, praying in vain for a pack to be hidden somewhere.
Lip shook his head and pulled a pack of Newports out of his back pocket.
“Yours?” Skinny asked in surprise.
“Nix’s, Winters is trying to wean him off the strong tobacco.”
Skinny took it without a thought, trying to ignore the trembling in his hands as he shook a cigarette out.
Lip lit it for him and leaned back against one of the cars.
“So, quitting?”
“Really not the time,” Skinny said after he savored the first puff.
“Do we need to stick you with Hoosier in the psych ward?”
“Probably,” Skinny admitted, “but you can’t deny he had it coming.”
Lip nodded. “You’re the only one who can ever get through to him. I know it’s not your mess to pick up, but Skinny--”
“I spent my flight arranging to have Hoosier’s things packed and moved to a new apartment. I’ll stay two weeks out here and then head back to Nashville.”
Lip nodded and held out a pack of gum as Skinny stubbed out his cigarette.
“We really need to get you to quit for good,” he said.
Skinny shrugged. “You want me to quit? Tell Hoosier to get his shit together.”
Lip smirked. “So, we should go ahead and put your cause of death down as lung cancer.”
“Or heart attack. Either way, you tell the coroner that Hoosier’s to blame.”
“What could’ve happened--”
“-it didn’t,” Skinny cut him off, “and we’re not going to act like it did. Hell, it’s Hoosier, he likes to forget his limits. So we’ll act like everything is normal, treat Patrick like the fucking asshole he is and I’ll be here helping Hoosier get on with his life. Again.”
“What are you going to do when Hoosier finally figures out you two are basically living in some twisted common law open marriage?”
Skinny waved the pack of Newports in reply.
-----------------------------------------------------
Other ficlets are coming soon. Any other prompt requests can be made here.
Runner liked to take a lap or two around the city after his shifts. There was something soothing about the jog, focusing on his respiration and heart rates with music blaring in his ears as he tried to wind down. He could never just turn it off after he left work. Lew always warned him that the longer he stayed, the worse some cases would linger. It’d been two years since the massive fuck-up that resulted in Lew’s move out of Special Investigations, and the whole squad was still feeling the ramifications of that bullshit. The shock was even reflected in their case load, their unsolved rate doubling since his departure.
People just wouldn’t talk to them, any of them, they wanted Chuckler. Sledge and Leckie weren’t a problem, they’d always communicated with various members of the staff, but Snafu now refused to talk to anyone but Runner. Even Stone didn’t realize how many contacts Lew kept up with until after he was gone. Lew, god bless his rock hard head, still stopped by and helped them off-the-clock.
Lew spent a year and a half under Lena’s tutelage before taking a Sergeant’s position in Cold Cases. Runner had been down there a few times to see him, but it never felt right, seeing Lew cramped behind a tiny desk in a basement, condensation from the air conditioning vents dripping on his head. It was frustrating as hell, having Lew down there were Runner could never see him, but Lew was going after something and needed all-access to the Archives to do it.
Runner started his cool down as he came to the porch of his new home. It was an old house, built in the late 1890s, full of character and all sorts of hidden treasures. He used the rickety wooden steps to brace himself as he went through his final stretches.
“I don’t recall custom ordering a sweaty athlete,” Lew said from the doorway.
Runner looked up, surprised to see him there.
“You’re supposed to be at work,” he said.
Lew shrugged, causing his too-small t-shirt to stretch even tighter across his collar bones. He must’ve stolen one of Runner’s again. The man had an irrational aversion to laundry.
“Don’t give me that face,” Runner said, “the last thing you need is an official reprimand.”
“It amuses me that you think I’m in some sort of trouble at work,” Lew said. He settled down on the porch steps, long limbs arranged in a lazy sprawl.
“Your recent job demotion would suggest as much,” Runner said.
“I asked for the position,” Lew said, “I hated wearing a tie to work every day. Besides, I’m actually a higher rank now. Lena just wants me to stew down there for a couple years.”
“Why?” Runner asked, stretching out his arms. He smirked when Lew got distracted. “Is this where I ask you if you see something you like?”
Lew laughed. “I confess, I didn’t take you into my home with only goodness in my heart.”
“Imagine that,” Runner murmured. He shook his limbs out one more time and sat down beside Lew. “Why is Lena making you run Cold Cases again?”
Lew sighed. “You didn’t hear this, but Vin’s planning on stepping down some time in the next two years.”
“Stone’s leaving? You’re fucking kidding me right?”
“Mac’s made it clear he doesn’t want Stone working in a job that’s trying its best to kill him. Stone’s got a chance for an instructor’s position at the Academy. He just needs to get his teaching certification first.”
“Fuck,” Runner muttered. That would mean so many damn changes. And one major implication. “Fuck,” he said again. He stood up and started pacing over the cracked sidewalk. If Stone left, Lew would be the only logical replacement. A lieutenant could not be in a relationship with one of his subordinates. Either they’d have to end this or Runner would have to quit. And he really liked his job.
Lew sat up and reached an arm out, pulling Runner back to the steps. “No, Will, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“Really, because it seems to me like you’ve known about this for at least four months and never bothered to say anything. What the fuck, Lew?”
“Will,” Lew stood up and held him still, “I’m not taking Stone’s place. I’m replacing Lipton.”
“You’re going to Vice? We’re getting Lipton?” Runner asked.
Lew nodded. “That’s the plan. Who the hell knows what’s really going to happen, but Lena’s well aware that I will not take a position that will compromise either of our positions.”
“I could change squads.”
“No, kid, you couldn’t,” Lew said, “you’re my replacement, after all.”
Runner startled at that. He never caught onto that one.
“Holy shit, you’re speechless,” Lew said.
“Kiss my ass,” Runner said, pushing past him and running into the house. He grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge while Lew laughed behind him.
“Don’t get bitchy with me because you had a drama queen moment,” he said.
“We can’t all take everything in stride like you do,” Runner said, “some of us are only half-a-century old.”
“Do you really want to play the age card?” Lew asked.
Runner looked over at him then. Lew wasn’t mad, just amused, though there was his typical undercurrent of concern. He was leaning on the door jamb, watching each of Runner’s movements with a heaping dose of affection. It still freaked Runner out a little when he did that, but he remembered one else had ever shared this house with Lew. It must’ve been a hell of an experience to have another person around after a century.
And Runner knew it was a hell of a privilege to be here.
“At least I know you’re not secretly working for the mob,” Runner said.
“Not anymore,” Lew said.
Runner couldn’t keep his glare when faced with Lew’s wide smile.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up,” Lew said, “Hoosier’s invited us to dinner.”
“Is that sanitary?” Runner asked. He leaned against the doorjamb opposite Lew.
“He makes a mean chicken parm for a man from Indiana. Toye even likes it.”
“You go to dinner parties with Toye?” Runner asked.
“I’ve known his family since they arrived in this city,” Lew said.
“Wait, you really were neighbors with his Nonna?”
“She was the most amazing cook I ever met. I swear to god, I gained weight every week thanks to her. Lovely woman.”
Runner shook his head. “You’re freaking me out again.”
Lew stood over Runner, cradling his head as he pulled him in for a too quick kiss.
“You’ll get used to it,” he whispered against Runner’s lips.
It really wasn’t fair, living with a man who’d been around for almost two hundred years.
Runner pulled back and made for the stairs before he embarrassed himself.
Lew’s laughter followed him all the way.
----------------------------------------------------
Nashville 'verse: Gene and Babe, four years on for skylilies
Gene never thought he’d be here, sharing a house with Babe, having a plot of land to call their own. But that was their mailbox outside, their shoes by the door, their coats piled up on the couch, and their keys strewn across the table. This was their home, and that idea of a singular place tying Gene down was a novel concept. He never was one for roots, but Edward had a way of forcing them down and making them stay.
It hadn’t been easy, the past four years, and they hardly had an auspicious start. When Babe came back into his life, Gene was already starting to feel his years. Up until then the music, the road, and the shows had been enough. Seeing Babe again, that was like walking right to the edge and looking over. It brought up all sorts of thoughts about what could’ve been and what should be. Gene fell off everyone’s radar that October; he needed to be alone to sort out his mind. He needed time. He emerged in January with a new album, a new perspective, and Bill Guarnere making all kinds of groundhog jokes.
Babe arrived in the night, when word came out Gene was back among the living, and had rarely left since. Gene forgot what it was like, trying to work around Babe in a stubborn fit, but he also knew when to concede to someone with more sense.
They were here now, and while it would be foolish to say they forgot the past, that there weren’t fights and some darker tinges of pain, rejection, and resentment, they were as complete as they could ever possibly be. Gene had never been so content with everything in his life. One of the best things was that when that itch came into his veins, when he just had to get away, Babe had no qualms about packing up and coming with him.
Autumn was coming, each morning brought new frost over the lawn, and Gene was starting to get a chill in his bones.
“Should I call Ron and tell him we’re coming for a visit?” Babe asked, settling down beside him. He tugged the guitar out of Gene’s hands and laid his head on Gene’s shoulder.
“It’ll still be cold there,” Gene said.
“Yeah, but you’ll be closer to warmer cities,” Babe said.
Gene hummed in agreement. They needed to check on Scott and Casey, there were confessions you could make face-to-face that never came over e-mails or phone calls. It couldn’t be easy, living in a house with their father’s new partner, but Carwood Lipton seemed like a decent sort.
“You really won’t calm down until you can see the littlest Speirs’ with your own eyes,” Babe said.
“Stop reading my mind.”
Babe bit the side of Gene’s chin in response.
Gene laughed and pinched Babe in the side. “None of that.”
Babe sighed. “I know you, Gene,” he said, “it isn’t exactly difficult to see when you need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“I’m not used to staying still,” Gene admitted.
“You stay with people, Gene, not places. It’s more important I’m with you, no matter where the hell we go.”
“You have gone and spoiled me.”
Babe smirked and laid his head down in Gene’s lap, long fingers catching and holding onto Gene’s wrist. “That was my master plan, of course, make it so you can never sleep alone again. Fran told me all about it.”
“And she would know better than anyone how to rein in a hurricane,” Gene said.
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Babe declared.
“Don’t you have to tech Walt’s show next week?”
“The kid needs to learn to stand on his own. Besides, Lieb is pretty much demanding we get our ass down South to see his new artist. The kid’s a Cajun like you.”
Gene smirked. “That boy always had a taste for my people.”
“God, don’t remind me,” Babe said, “I almost decked him the first time he let it slip about your past. Took the bastard forever to clarify he’d slept with your cousin.”
Gene tugged on Babe’s hair. “Even back then my intentions were firmly placed elsewhere. Remy, well, he’s never met a body he doesn’t like.”
Babe smiled up at Gene, the genuine, toothy grin, that rarely came after long hours and lugging around instruments and equipment. It’d been ages since Babe had taken this much time off, Gene never saw him so relaxed.
He was reluctant to break the peace they had in this house, their home, but neither one of them were ones for denying reality. Sooner or later, work, friends, emergencies, they’d all come encroaching on their sanctuary. Might as well leave here on their own terms rather than anyone else’s.
“You go make the plane reservations and I’ll pack our bags,” Gene said.
Babe dug his shoulder blades into Gene’s thighs, keeping him in place.
“In a minute,” he said, “just one more minute. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
------------------------------------------------------------
Nashville verse: Skinny, the first time he tried to quit smoking for skylilies
Skinny Sisk started smoking when he was 18. He wasn’t proud of it, but hell, of all the things to use as stress relief on a tour full of chart-topping pop stars and their hanger-ons, cigarettes seemed the least dangerous of the lot.
His father wasn’t too happy about it, said the last thing a security guard needed was decreased lung capacity, but even Wayne Sisk Sr. agreed that smoking Marlboros was much better than snorting lines of coke. Skinny always swore he’d quit by the time he turned 21. It seemed like a nice trade off, legally buying cigarettes for legally buying beer, but life didn’t really care about Skinny’s plans for his future health. His 21st year was one of the most stressful of his life, with the rise of 3B’s fame, the increase of Hoosier’s anxiety, and Nix’s nightly attempts to drink a bathtub full of gin. Skinny promised himself he’d get down to one pack a day by his 22nd birthday.
Of course, his 22nd year was the Year of Hell. Sink, the head of 3B’s label, decided Winters would serve the label better if he was sent to develop new copy-cat artists. The loss of Winters sent all the boys off the deep-end and somehow made Nixon an even greater mess. After Winters was sent off, Sobel dismissed Harry Welsh as the Touring Manager, which caused Johnny Martin, one of the senior security guys, to quit. Then came the firing of Sobel, who for all his faults was a damn good manager, the hiring of Norman Dike, who was much better suited to a corner office, and the rapid descent of 3B’s success. By the end of the year, Skinny was on a three-pack-a-day habit.
He decided he was going to quit, for good, by the time he hit 25.
********
“You need to get out here,” Lip’s voice rasped over the phone.
“It’s 3 AM,” Skinny said.
“Skinny, it’s Hoosier,” Lip said, “you need to get out here now.”
Skinny sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. “Carwood, don’t tell me he’s--”
“--he’s not,” Lip said, “but not for lack of trying. We need you out here, Skinny. Someone needs to watch over his ass.”
“Okay, I’ll be on the next flight out.” He closed his phone and threw it back on the nightstand.
He ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to calm his ass down. Right now he needed to be rational and ready, he couldn’t make any stupid decisions.
It was a perfect fucking week to stop smoking.
He quit two days ago and he was starting to hit withdrawals bad. His nerves were shot, raw, and he’d never snapped at so many people in a singular week. Hell, Hoosier had even called last night and Skinny hadn’t answered because he just couldn’t deal with all that bullshit, not when his head was pounding and his mouth felt like the friggin’ Sahara.
It was typical of Hoosier, always waiting until Skinny was at his most vulnerable to massively fuck something up. He couldn’t wait to rip him a new one. Hoosier was a grown man, he shouldn’t require constant supervision, and he had a boyfriend to clean up after his messes.
It was a damn good thing Skinny couldn’t take his gun with him.
********
Even though Skinny liked to pride himself on using the least amount of violent force possible, sometimes a punch in the face was required. Going through withdrawal symptoms, flying across the country with nonexistent nerves, dealing with hospital client privacy privilege bullshit and finding Hoosier sitting up in a bed in the psych ward laughing his ass off? The only possible reaction was a punch to the jaw.
Hoosier blinked and shook his head while everyone in the room stayed silent.
“You’re late,” Hoosier said.
Skinny could feel his fingers dig deep enough into his palms to draw blood. Thank god Lip was there to pull him out.
“Where you going?” Hoosier called after them.
“God, you do have a death wish,” Nix replied.
Lip dragged Skinny by the collar all the way out to the parking deck.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
“Fuck you, Lip,” Skinny said. He patted his pockets, praying in vain for a pack to be hidden somewhere.
Lip shook his head and pulled a pack of Newports out of his back pocket.
“Yours?” Skinny asked in surprise.
“Nix’s, Winters is trying to wean him off the strong tobacco.”
Skinny took it without a thought, trying to ignore the trembling in his hands as he shook a cigarette out.
Lip lit it for him and leaned back against one of the cars.
“So, quitting?”
“Really not the time,” Skinny said after he savored the first puff.
“Do we need to stick you with Hoosier in the psych ward?”
“Probably,” Skinny admitted, “but you can’t deny he had it coming.”
Lip nodded. “You’re the only one who can ever get through to him. I know it’s not your mess to pick up, but Skinny--”
“I spent my flight arranging to have Hoosier’s things packed and moved to a new apartment. I’ll stay two weeks out here and then head back to Nashville.”
Lip nodded and held out a pack of gum as Skinny stubbed out his cigarette.
“We really need to get you to quit for good,” he said.
Skinny shrugged. “You want me to quit? Tell Hoosier to get his shit together.”
Lip smirked. “So, we should go ahead and put your cause of death down as lung cancer.”
“Or heart attack. Either way, you tell the coroner that Hoosier’s to blame.”
“What could’ve happened--”
“-it didn’t,” Skinny cut him off, “and we’re not going to act like it did. Hell, it’s Hoosier, he likes to forget his limits. So we’ll act like everything is normal, treat Patrick like the fucking asshole he is and I’ll be here helping Hoosier get on with his life. Again.”
“What are you going to do when Hoosier finally figures out you two are basically living in some twisted common law open marriage?”
Skinny waved the pack of Newports in reply.
-----------------------------------------------------
Other ficlets are coming soon. Any other prompt requests can be made here.