Torn to Tattered: Cold
Title: Cold
Series: Torn to Tattered (1/4 or 5)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: TDS/TCR/Strangers with Candy RPS
Pairing: Stephen/Paul (pre-slash this chapter)
Rating: PG (later R)
Warning: This is fairly melancholy.
A/N: Okay, so this is my first attempt at blatant Stephen/Paul. I’m also cross-posting this everywhere so sorry to people’s flists. This was originally going to be all one piece but it just kind of ran away with me… Enjoy!
Length: 1756
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Summary: Stephen and Paul go through the seasons.
TORN TO TATTERED
Cold.
It’s November.
Stephen hears a soft knock, soft enough that it’s difficult to make out yet loud enough to make its presence known. He drops the dish towel he’d been using to unenthusiastically clean his dishes to turn to the source of the noise. With a cocked head he makes his way to the door, swinging it open without checking through the peephole.
Paul pushes his way inside, his puffy jacket making soft swishing noises as he rubs his arms, the horned-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose fogging in the slightly warmer air of the apartment. Stephen doesn’t know why Paul feels compelled to wear such glasses… as far as he knows, his eyesight is fine. But wear them he does and somehow it’s not pretentious like it would be for anyone else. In fact, it’s almost charming.
In a stupid way.
Stephen’s about to ask what he’s doing here but stops as he sees his expression; Paul doesn’t know why either. So with a shrug Stephen leaves the door open for Paul to close and makes his way into the small living space. Wordlessly Paul follows, burying even deeper into his ridiculous coat.
“You look ridiculous,” Stephen says aloud without thinking because, really, it’s true. He does. But he doesn’t say it with any malice… more just with a helpless laugh. “Like George Costanza in the Gore-tex coat.”
Paul cocks his head but doesn’t remove the coat. “It’s cold,” he states, shrugging.
“Well, it is November,” Stephen points out. “And we’re in Chicago.” He straightens one of the sleeves of his much more sensible turtleneck. Sure, it’s chilly, but he can handle it. At least he doesn’t look like such a goober.
“That may be, but at least I’m warm.” Paul glances around the apartment, his nose wrinkling under the glasses. “What I don’t get is why you feel the need to match the temperature inside to the outside. I had to come prepared somehow.” He rubs the sleeve of the bloated material fondly.
“I told you,” Stephen says mock-patiently, pouring himself a cup of coffee that’s not quite hot but still warmer than the frigid air that fills the room, “my landlord won’t fix my heat.”
“And I told you,” Paul says, matching Stephen’s tone, “that you could borrow one of my space heaters. Or that you should withhold rent because, oh my God, my testicles are actually retracting into my body.”
Stephen smirks and pours Paul a cup, not bothering to ask if he wants it or not. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. But I’m just going to hold out. I mean… how bad could it get?”
“How bad? Seriously? Didn’t last winter teach you anything?”
Stephen snorts and hands the coffee to Paul, ignoring the way his nose wrinkles once more. He drinks it anyway. “I think you northerners always make out the cold to be worse than it is,” Stephen says, kicking a milk carton into the upright position so he can sit on it as Paul takes one of the leaking bean bag chairs. Stephen refuses to invest in real furniture; this kind of shit living arrangement can only be temporary.
“And I think you southerners are gluttons for punishment,” Paul mutters, sipping his coffee miserably. He shifts around, the beans in the bean bag chair seeping out and the Gore-tex coat making the shushing noises again.
Stephen feels like he’s in college again. Paul just seems like the embodiment of college life in a weird way. What with his mismatched coat to his too-thin faded jeans, the should-be-pretentious glasses and that mussed curly hair that always seems purposefully defying all reason with the way it looks good whether Paul has been grooming himself or has just woken up with a hang over after not showering for two days.
The jeans have a hole in the knee and Stephen resists the inexplicable urge to stick his finger in it, pulling to see if the threadbare material will unravel. He’s pretty used to the occurrence of inexplicable urges around Paul though, so he’s not too bothered by it. It’s Paul. He’s Stephen. Hell, Paul would probably not even be phased if Stephen acted on the urge. But he still doesn’t. Not doing it almost implicates the fact that there’s more behind the urge, making not acting on it more awkward than if he had.
It’s strange and unsettling and Stephen just has to accept it as a fact of Paul-Stephen life and not worry about it too much.
“You should just move in with me.” Paul’s voice breaks the reverie and Stephen just stares.
“What?”
“You. You should just move in with me. I mean… this apartment’s a piece of shit.” No apology follows for insulting Stephen’s choice of living arrangements but Stephen doesn’t mind all that much. “You could just live with me. You know… in the warmth. Like a normal person.”
Stephen just crosses his arms, a smirk playing at his lips. “What, and leave my bachelor’s paradise? I think not. Why should I move?”
Paul purses his lips before he shoves his glasses up with his index finger, an action Stephen routinely avoids. He usually uses his middle finger… never the index. Something to do with it being too nerdy of an action or something. But Stephen supposes that when you don’t actually need the glasses, you can be as nerdy as you so please. Of course, he’s still not 100% positive on whether or not Paul needs glasses so his theory could be shot to hell with a little bit of investigating. But Stephen prefers the mystery so he neglects in asking.
“Well,” Paul starts, leaning back and ticking off the reasons on his fingers, “number one and as I mentioned before, this place is freezing. Two: this place is ugly. Three: you’re going to get shot one day living in this neighborhood. And four: I don’t know how you manage to get laid with having no furniture and a mattress on the floor.”
Stephen smirks again. “I have my ways.” They both fall silent in the acknowledgment that the statement is actually true; Paul making a face as if he should be annoyed but doesn’t have the energy to do so. Stephen just looks smug.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” Paul says, crossing his arms (“swish swish” goes the Gore-tex) and staring at the ceiling covered in exposed pipes and wiring.
“Skills,” Stephen says with a wink. “Skills and perseverance.”
“And roofies,” Paul adds. “One can never forget the roofies.” Stephen half-heartedly throws a spare notebook at him though he joins Paul in laughing. “You have wooed many-a-lady into your bed with the cunning use of date rape.”
“Hey,” Stephen giggles, arching an eyebrow his way. “That was one time and she thanked me for it the next morning.”
Paul throws his head back and laughs. “If only that were remotely untrue.” He pauses, toying with one of the foam beans that has fallen out of the bag he sits on. “I’m being serious, you know. About you living with me.”
Stephen’s eyes fall to his hands as he tips the milk cartoon back, teetering precariously. “What, so you don’t think I’m a pretentious asshole anymore?” He sounds shyer than he had intended, the bravado he’s worked so hard on cultivating these latest years of his short life faltering.
Paul just grins, not giving any sign that he’s taken notice of this brief break in the wall Stephen has built. “No, I still do. I just like it now.” Stephen grins back, his eyes dropping to the floor again.
Stephen shifts, the cold feeling more oppressive now, causing him to shiver. Or maybe it’s something else. He decides to not think about it. “You honestly want me to live with you?”
Paul lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if Stephen’s a little too stupid to be dealt with. Stephen should find it irritating but doesn’t; instead he just smiles. “Yes, Stephen, I do.” They fall silent again, Paul still contemplating the ceiling and Stephen staring at his socked feet. Paul probably thinks he’s insane for not wearing shoes but, then again, even wearing socks feels constricting to Stephen; it’s barefoot or bust most of the time.
“Look,” Paul finally says, struggling to get to his feet. “Think about it. Just… yeah. Think about it. If you have any questions or anything, just let me know.”
Are there any questions? Of course there are questions. Questions like: would it be a good idea? Would they get on each others’ nerves? Would they kill each other? Would something else happen, something far worse and somehow more irreparable?
But Stephen doesn’t ask so he doesn’t get the answers, not that he really wants to know anyway. It’s like the glasses… the mystery is better than knowing. So Stephen walks him to the door.
When they reach the entryway, Paul gives him a hesitant smile and Stephen feels pulled by gratitude towards this man who seems to have actually trekked all the way across a freezing city armed only with his Gore-tex jacket and battered jeans against the cold just to ask Stephen to live with him. He knows then what his answer will be. He just needs to time to make sure.
But he needs to give something to Paul now, something to show he’s grateful. So on a whim he grabs Paul by the arm, the material of his coat scratching along the ribbed wool of Stephen’s turtleneck, and places a kiss on his friend’s cheek. It might be awkward and a held a little too long and the stubble rubbing against stubble might be uncomfortable but Paul just smiles when he pulls away, the only indication of confusion being the quirked eyebrow being sent Stephen’s way.
“I’ll let you know,” is all Stephen says, opening the door for Paul.
Paul shrugs and makes his way outside, though he stops after a moment and looks Stephen’s way. Stephen pauses, feeling he has something to say. “Stephen…” Paul begins, an odd look on his face. It’s only a blip before it passes and is replaced by a grin. “You look like Mr. Rogers in that turtleneck. I’d burn it if I were you.” Stephen shuts the door in his face but he can still hear the call of, “Then you’d at least have some source of warmth!” from behind the thin plank of wood.
With a grin, Stephen shakes his head. Gore-tex-loving Neanderthal.
******
Endnote: Hopefully I’ll get more bits out soon. To those of you who regularly read my stuff: sorry this isn’t any of the other crap I’m also working on. I seem to be committed to the idea of multitasking my ass off. Also, the title of the series and other such things are from the song “Torn to Tattered” by Carbon Leaf.
Comment and friend if you so desire :D
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', ‘Strangers with Candy’, 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.
Series: Torn to Tattered (1/4 or 5)
Author: Yours truly
Fandom: TDS/TCR/Strangers with Candy RPS
Pairing: Stephen/Paul (pre-slash this chapter)
Rating: PG (later R)
Warning: This is fairly melancholy.
A/N: Okay, so this is my first attempt at blatant Stephen/Paul. I’m also cross-posting this everywhere so sorry to people’s flists. This was originally going to be all one piece but it just kind of ran away with me… Enjoy!
Length: 1756
Feedback: Always welcome with open arms and loads of metaphorical cookies.
Summary: Stephen and Paul go through the seasons.
TORN TO TATTERED
Cold.
It’s November.
Stephen hears a soft knock, soft enough that it’s difficult to make out yet loud enough to make its presence known. He drops the dish towel he’d been using to unenthusiastically clean his dishes to turn to the source of the noise. With a cocked head he makes his way to the door, swinging it open without checking through the peephole.
Paul pushes his way inside, his puffy jacket making soft swishing noises as he rubs his arms, the horned-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose fogging in the slightly warmer air of the apartment. Stephen doesn’t know why Paul feels compelled to wear such glasses… as far as he knows, his eyesight is fine. But wear them he does and somehow it’s not pretentious like it would be for anyone else. In fact, it’s almost charming.
In a stupid way.
Stephen’s about to ask what he’s doing here but stops as he sees his expression; Paul doesn’t know why either. So with a shrug Stephen leaves the door open for Paul to close and makes his way into the small living space. Wordlessly Paul follows, burying even deeper into his ridiculous coat.
“You look ridiculous,” Stephen says aloud without thinking because, really, it’s true. He does. But he doesn’t say it with any malice… more just with a helpless laugh. “Like George Costanza in the Gore-tex coat.”
Paul cocks his head but doesn’t remove the coat. “It’s cold,” he states, shrugging.
“Well, it is November,” Stephen points out. “And we’re in Chicago.” He straightens one of the sleeves of his much more sensible turtleneck. Sure, it’s chilly, but he can handle it. At least he doesn’t look like such a goober.
“That may be, but at least I’m warm.” Paul glances around the apartment, his nose wrinkling under the glasses. “What I don’t get is why you feel the need to match the temperature inside to the outside. I had to come prepared somehow.” He rubs the sleeve of the bloated material fondly.
“I told you,” Stephen says mock-patiently, pouring himself a cup of coffee that’s not quite hot but still warmer than the frigid air that fills the room, “my landlord won’t fix my heat.”
“And I told you,” Paul says, matching Stephen’s tone, “that you could borrow one of my space heaters. Or that you should withhold rent because, oh my God, my testicles are actually retracting into my body.”
Stephen smirks and pours Paul a cup, not bothering to ask if he wants it or not. “Well, I’m sorry for your loss. But I’m just going to hold out. I mean… how bad could it get?”
“How bad? Seriously? Didn’t last winter teach you anything?”
Stephen snorts and hands the coffee to Paul, ignoring the way his nose wrinkles once more. He drinks it anyway. “I think you northerners always make out the cold to be worse than it is,” Stephen says, kicking a milk carton into the upright position so he can sit on it as Paul takes one of the leaking bean bag chairs. Stephen refuses to invest in real furniture; this kind of shit living arrangement can only be temporary.
“And I think you southerners are gluttons for punishment,” Paul mutters, sipping his coffee miserably. He shifts around, the beans in the bean bag chair seeping out and the Gore-tex coat making the shushing noises again.
Stephen feels like he’s in college again. Paul just seems like the embodiment of college life in a weird way. What with his mismatched coat to his too-thin faded jeans, the should-be-pretentious glasses and that mussed curly hair that always seems purposefully defying all reason with the way it looks good whether Paul has been grooming himself or has just woken up with a hang over after not showering for two days.
The jeans have a hole in the knee and Stephen resists the inexplicable urge to stick his finger in it, pulling to see if the threadbare material will unravel. He’s pretty used to the occurrence of inexplicable urges around Paul though, so he’s not too bothered by it. It’s Paul. He’s Stephen. Hell, Paul would probably not even be phased if Stephen acted on the urge. But he still doesn’t. Not doing it almost implicates the fact that there’s more behind the urge, making not acting on it more awkward than if he had.
It’s strange and unsettling and Stephen just has to accept it as a fact of Paul-Stephen life and not worry about it too much.
“You should just move in with me.” Paul’s voice breaks the reverie and Stephen just stares.
“What?”
“You. You should just move in with me. I mean… this apartment’s a piece of shit.” No apology follows for insulting Stephen’s choice of living arrangements but Stephen doesn’t mind all that much. “You could just live with me. You know… in the warmth. Like a normal person.”
Stephen just crosses his arms, a smirk playing at his lips. “What, and leave my bachelor’s paradise? I think not. Why should I move?”
Paul purses his lips before he shoves his glasses up with his index finger, an action Stephen routinely avoids. He usually uses his middle finger… never the index. Something to do with it being too nerdy of an action or something. But Stephen supposes that when you don’t actually need the glasses, you can be as nerdy as you so please. Of course, he’s still not 100% positive on whether or not Paul needs glasses so his theory could be shot to hell with a little bit of investigating. But Stephen prefers the mystery so he neglects in asking.
“Well,” Paul starts, leaning back and ticking off the reasons on his fingers, “number one and as I mentioned before, this place is freezing. Two: this place is ugly. Three: you’re going to get shot one day living in this neighborhood. And four: I don’t know how you manage to get laid with having no furniture and a mattress on the floor.”
Stephen smirks again. “I have my ways.” They both fall silent in the acknowledgment that the statement is actually true; Paul making a face as if he should be annoyed but doesn’t have the energy to do so. Stephen just looks smug.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” Paul says, crossing his arms (“swish swish” goes the Gore-tex) and staring at the ceiling covered in exposed pipes and wiring.
“Skills,” Stephen says with a wink. “Skills and perseverance.”
“And roofies,” Paul adds. “One can never forget the roofies.” Stephen half-heartedly throws a spare notebook at him though he joins Paul in laughing. “You have wooed many-a-lady into your bed with the cunning use of date rape.”
“Hey,” Stephen giggles, arching an eyebrow his way. “That was one time and she thanked me for it the next morning.”
Paul throws his head back and laughs. “If only that were remotely untrue.” He pauses, toying with one of the foam beans that has fallen out of the bag he sits on. “I’m being serious, you know. About you living with me.”
Stephen’s eyes fall to his hands as he tips the milk cartoon back, teetering precariously. “What, so you don’t think I’m a pretentious asshole anymore?” He sounds shyer than he had intended, the bravado he’s worked so hard on cultivating these latest years of his short life faltering.
Paul just grins, not giving any sign that he’s taken notice of this brief break in the wall Stephen has built. “No, I still do. I just like it now.” Stephen grins back, his eyes dropping to the floor again.
Stephen shifts, the cold feeling more oppressive now, causing him to shiver. Or maybe it’s something else. He decides to not think about it. “You honestly want me to live with you?”
Paul lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if Stephen’s a little too stupid to be dealt with. Stephen should find it irritating but doesn’t; instead he just smiles. “Yes, Stephen, I do.” They fall silent again, Paul still contemplating the ceiling and Stephen staring at his socked feet. Paul probably thinks he’s insane for not wearing shoes but, then again, even wearing socks feels constricting to Stephen; it’s barefoot or bust most of the time.
“Look,” Paul finally says, struggling to get to his feet. “Think about it. Just… yeah. Think about it. If you have any questions or anything, just let me know.”
Are there any questions? Of course there are questions. Questions like: would it be a good idea? Would they get on each others’ nerves? Would they kill each other? Would something else happen, something far worse and somehow more irreparable?
But Stephen doesn’t ask so he doesn’t get the answers, not that he really wants to know anyway. It’s like the glasses… the mystery is better than knowing. So Stephen walks him to the door.
When they reach the entryway, Paul gives him a hesitant smile and Stephen feels pulled by gratitude towards this man who seems to have actually trekked all the way across a freezing city armed only with his Gore-tex jacket and battered jeans against the cold just to ask Stephen to live with him. He knows then what his answer will be. He just needs to time to make sure.
But he needs to give something to Paul now, something to show he’s grateful. So on a whim he grabs Paul by the arm, the material of his coat scratching along the ribbed wool of Stephen’s turtleneck, and places a kiss on his friend’s cheek. It might be awkward and a held a little too long and the stubble rubbing against stubble might be uncomfortable but Paul just smiles when he pulls away, the only indication of confusion being the quirked eyebrow being sent Stephen’s way.
“I’ll let you know,” is all Stephen says, opening the door for Paul.
Paul shrugs and makes his way outside, though he stops after a moment and looks Stephen’s way. Stephen pauses, feeling he has something to say. “Stephen…” Paul begins, an odd look on his face. It’s only a blip before it passes and is replaced by a grin. “You look like Mr. Rogers in that turtleneck. I’d burn it if I were you.” Stephen shuts the door in his face but he can still hear the call of, “Then you’d at least have some source of warmth!” from behind the thin plank of wood.
With a grin, Stephen shakes his head. Gore-tex-loving Neanderthal.
******
Endnote: Hopefully I’ll get more bits out soon. To those of you who regularly read my stuff: sorry this isn’t any of the other crap I’m also working on. I seem to be committed to the idea of multitasking my ass off. Also, the title of the series and other such things are from the song “Torn to Tattered” by Carbon Leaf.
Comment and friend if you so desire :D
Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
Any mention of 'The Daily Show', 'The Colbert Report', ‘Strangers with Candy’, 'Viacom', any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.