Word fic
Title: Grasshopper
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries
Word count: About 1,400
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
A/N: This is another fic written for a random word. nyteflyer once again served as beta extraordinaire. For Jooster fans, the theme might seem a wee bit familiar, but that didn't occur to me until just this minute.
I was sprawled on the couch in my apartment, watching the Yankees and wondering if Timmy was having a good time at dinner with his college buddies. He had invited me along so that I could meet them all, but I begged off. I was in the mood for a mindless diversion, not a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life.
Timmy had looked relieved when I said I’d wait for him at my place. Oh, he pretended to be disappointed, but I could see right through him. In the end, we both got what we wanted - a night out with old friends for him and a night in with Derek Jeter, I mean the Yankees, for me.
The phone rang midway through the eighth inning. Timmy’s number was on the screen, so I answered it. Before I could say hello, loud, snorting laughter practically broke my eardrum.
“Don?” More laughter.
“Timmy?” It didn’t sound like Timmy.
“No, Don. This is Don. Not the you, Don. But me, Don.”
“Who the hell is this?”
Whoever it was burped. “I told you. I’m Don. Don Miles. And I’m calling for your favorite Irishman.”
I’d heard of Don Miles. He and Timmy had gone to high school together as well as college. He lived in California, so we’d never met. But from the way Timmy had described him, he seemed like a decent enough guy. I propped my feet on the coffee table and got comfortable.
“So what’s my favorite Irishman doing?” I said, going along with the gag.
“He’s drunker than a sailor on shore leave,” Don said. “And so are the most of us. I mean, the rest of us.” He told Timmy to hold his horses, that he’d give back the phone in a minute. “We want him to stay at the hotel with us - no she-nanigans because I’m not gay but Tim has a nice ass, I think. But he won’t stay. He wants to go home.”
“I’ll come and get him,” I said. “Where did you guys end up?”
Timmy came on the phone. “I’m so sorry about that, Donald, honey.” He hiccuped. “I want to go home.”
A grin split my face. Timmy sounded drunk. Very drunk. He could handle a martini or two or even three, but anything beyond that and he had to be poured into bed.
“I’ll come get you,” I said. “Where are you?”
“We’re drinking grasshoppers,” he said, ignoring my question. “Many, many green grasshoppers.” His laugh became an undignified snort. “Come and get me, lover. I miss you.”
This was going to be fun. “Where are you?”
“The Hilton. Not Paris Hilton. Albany Hilton. It’s very ‘spensive to drink here, Donald. So bring some money.”
Another voice came on the phone. “Bring us all some money, Donald, honey.”
“I’ll bring my lottery winnings,” I said. “Whoever you are, take care of Timmy until I get there.”
“Will do, Donald, honey. You can count on us.” More laughter, and the phone went dead.
I reached the Hilton about twenty minutes later. I found Timmy in the opulent bar, surrounded by a group of about ten guys, laughing his ass off about something. When he saw me, he shouted my name and tried to walk toward me, but he stumbled into one of his friends. Fortunately, the guy was big enough to keep both of them upright.
Everyone in the group turned to look at me as I approached. I could have crawled into a hole when they all chorused, “Donald, honey!”
Timmy broke free from the crowd and flung his arms around me. The smell of creme de menthe about knocked me off my feet.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he half-whispered, half-yelled in my ear. “Let’s go home and get naked.”
“Sure, honey.” I loosened his stranglehold on my neck. “Just let me get you into the car first.”
Timmy’s drunken pals crowded around us, urging us to stay and have a drink for the road. I declined and assured a guy who turned out to be Don Miles that Timmy would call him as soon as he sobered up.
“We’re gonna get together at my dad’s place in P-town,” he said. “Only Dad doesn’t know it yet.”
“Good luck with that.” I slid my arm around Timmy’s waist. He was getting more loose-jointed by the second, and if I didn’t get him into the car while he could still help, we’d be carrying him out of there.
After a few fits and starts, I got Timmy in the car and fastened his seat belt. Before I could fasten mine, he was all over me.
“I’m horny,” he said as he stuck his tongue in my ear. “Take me home and let me have my way with you.”
He let off a creme de menthe burp. “I’ll show you a thing or two.” He ran his hand up my thigh and grabbed my crotch. “Maybe three.”
“Hey! Careful, there!” I grabbed his hand just as he started tugging at my zipper. Much as I liked being groped, I had to get him to my place before he passed out on me. I pushed his hand away and told him to be a good boy and let me drive.
“You’re no fun,” he said as he sat back in his seat.
I agreed and pulled out of the parking lot. Timmy babbled away about his evening, wondering aloud if we should drink grasshoppers instead of martinis. I shuddered at the thought.
I parked the car as close to my building as I could. Timmy was half asleep by now, but he managed to untangle his legs enough to get out of the car and on his feet. I shut his car door and took his arm, intending to lead him upstairs, but he staggered backward and ended up sprawled over the hood.
“I’m OK,” he said, flailing his arms as he tried to stand. Sighing, I hauled him up and draped his arm across my shoulders, sliding my arm around his waist.
“Come on, Grasshopper,” I said. I tried to move forward, but he stopped in his tracks and stared up at my building.
“Your home.” He leaned over and kissed my hair. “This is your home.”
“It sure is,” I said. “Now, let’s go upstairs.”
He burped again. “My home is over there.” He waved his free hand in a westerly direction. “All the way over there.”
“Not so far away.” I tried to make him move, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“Why two homes? Why not one home?”
“I don’t know,” I said, though I’d been wondering that myself for a while. The idea of going to sleep with Timmy every night and waking up to him each morning were things I’d wanted for a long time. But whenever I tried to broach the subject, I’d chicken out.
“If we had one home, it wouldn’t take so long to get there.” Timmy nodded at his own sage piece of reasoning. “We’d be there already.”
I kissed his cheek. He smiled. “One home, two guys. That makes more sense.”
“It does,” I said. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
Somehow, I got him into the building, on the elevator and inside my apartment. We stopped off at the bathroom so he could “take a giant whiz” and brush his teeth, then staggered to the bedroom. He flopped on the bed and let me undress him, but when I turned away to put his clothes on a chair, he grabbed my arm and hauled me down beside him.
“I’m very drunk,” he said as he nuzzled my neck. “Dunno if I can get it up.”
“That’s all right.” I kissed his minty mouth, then arranged him more comfortably, getting him underneath the blankets and tucking an extra pillow under his head.
“Donald?”
“Yeah?”
“If I don’t remember about one home, will you remind me?” He yawned. “It’s very important we have one home.”
“Sure, honey.”
I got undressed and got into bed with him. He moved into my arms and planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“You wanna live with me, Don? Promise I won’t drink grasshoopers.”
“I’d live with you even if you did drink grasshoopers.” I massaged the back of his neck and felt him relax against me. “I love you, Timmy.”
“Love you, Doonald.”
"Doonald?"
His only response was a quiet snore. I turned out the bedside light and got comfortable. Timmy would be awake in a few hours, barfing up creme de menthe and complaining about his massive headache. But once he was on the mend, I’d tell him I’d love to move in with him, grasshoopers and all.
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries
Word count: About 1,400
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Richard Stevenson.
A/N: This is another fic written for a random word. nyteflyer once again served as beta extraordinaire. For Jooster fans, the theme might seem a wee bit familiar, but that didn't occur to me until just this minute.
I was sprawled on the couch in my apartment, watching the Yankees and wondering if Timmy was having a good time at dinner with his college buddies. He had invited me along so that I could meet them all, but I begged off. I was in the mood for a mindless diversion, not a philosophical discussion about the meaning of life.
Timmy had looked relieved when I said I’d wait for him at my place. Oh, he pretended to be disappointed, but I could see right through him. In the end, we both got what we wanted - a night out with old friends for him and a night in with Derek Jeter, I mean the Yankees, for me.
The phone rang midway through the eighth inning. Timmy’s number was on the screen, so I answered it. Before I could say hello, loud, snorting laughter practically broke my eardrum.
“Don?” More laughter.
“Timmy?” It didn’t sound like Timmy.
“No, Don. This is Don. Not the you, Don. But me, Don.”
“Who the hell is this?”
Whoever it was burped. “I told you. I’m Don. Don Miles. And I’m calling for your favorite Irishman.”
I’d heard of Don Miles. He and Timmy had gone to high school together as well as college. He lived in California, so we’d never met. But from the way Timmy had described him, he seemed like a decent enough guy. I propped my feet on the coffee table and got comfortable.
“So what’s my favorite Irishman doing?” I said, going along with the gag.
“He’s drunker than a sailor on shore leave,” Don said. “And so are the most of us. I mean, the rest of us.” He told Timmy to hold his horses, that he’d give back the phone in a minute. “We want him to stay at the hotel with us - no she-nanigans because I’m not gay but Tim has a nice ass, I think. But he won’t stay. He wants to go home.”
“I’ll come and get him,” I said. “Where did you guys end up?”
Timmy came on the phone. “I’m so sorry about that, Donald, honey.” He hiccuped. “I want to go home.”
A grin split my face. Timmy sounded drunk. Very drunk. He could handle a martini or two or even three, but anything beyond that and he had to be poured into bed.
“I’ll come get you,” I said. “Where are you?”
“We’re drinking grasshoppers,” he said, ignoring my question. “Many, many green grasshoppers.” His laugh became an undignified snort. “Come and get me, lover. I miss you.”
This was going to be fun. “Where are you?”
“The Hilton. Not Paris Hilton. Albany Hilton. It’s very ‘spensive to drink here, Donald. So bring some money.”
Another voice came on the phone. “Bring us all some money, Donald, honey.”
“I’ll bring my lottery winnings,” I said. “Whoever you are, take care of Timmy until I get there.”
“Will do, Donald, honey. You can count on us.” More laughter, and the phone went dead.
I reached the Hilton about twenty minutes later. I found Timmy in the opulent bar, surrounded by a group of about ten guys, laughing his ass off about something. When he saw me, he shouted my name and tried to walk toward me, but he stumbled into one of his friends. Fortunately, the guy was big enough to keep both of them upright.
Everyone in the group turned to look at me as I approached. I could have crawled into a hole when they all chorused, “Donald, honey!”
Timmy broke free from the crowd and flung his arms around me. The smell of creme de menthe about knocked me off my feet.
“I’m so glad to see you,” he half-whispered, half-yelled in my ear. “Let’s go home and get naked.”
“Sure, honey.” I loosened his stranglehold on my neck. “Just let me get you into the car first.”
Timmy’s drunken pals crowded around us, urging us to stay and have a drink for the road. I declined and assured a guy who turned out to be Don Miles that Timmy would call him as soon as he sobered up.
“We’re gonna get together at my dad’s place in P-town,” he said. “Only Dad doesn’t know it yet.”
“Good luck with that.” I slid my arm around Timmy’s waist. He was getting more loose-jointed by the second, and if I didn’t get him into the car while he could still help, we’d be carrying him out of there.
After a few fits and starts, I got Timmy in the car and fastened his seat belt. Before I could fasten mine, he was all over me.
“I’m horny,” he said as he stuck his tongue in my ear. “Take me home and let me have my way with you.”
He let off a creme de menthe burp. “I’ll show you a thing or two.” He ran his hand up my thigh and grabbed my crotch. “Maybe three.”
“Hey! Careful, there!” I grabbed his hand just as he started tugging at my zipper. Much as I liked being groped, I had to get him to my place before he passed out on me. I pushed his hand away and told him to be a good boy and let me drive.
“You’re no fun,” he said as he sat back in his seat.
I agreed and pulled out of the parking lot. Timmy babbled away about his evening, wondering aloud if we should drink grasshoppers instead of martinis. I shuddered at the thought.
I parked the car as close to my building as I could. Timmy was half asleep by now, but he managed to untangle his legs enough to get out of the car and on his feet. I shut his car door and took his arm, intending to lead him upstairs, but he staggered backward and ended up sprawled over the hood.
“I’m OK,” he said, flailing his arms as he tried to stand. Sighing, I hauled him up and draped his arm across my shoulders, sliding my arm around his waist.
“Come on, Grasshopper,” I said. I tried to move forward, but he stopped in his tracks and stared up at my building.
“Your home.” He leaned over and kissed my hair. “This is your home.”
“It sure is,” I said. “Now, let’s go upstairs.”
He burped again. “My home is over there.” He waved his free hand in a westerly direction. “All the way over there.”
“Not so far away.” I tried to make him move, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“Why two homes? Why not one home?”
“I don’t know,” I said, though I’d been wondering that myself for a while. The idea of going to sleep with Timmy every night and waking up to him each morning were things I’d wanted for a long time. But whenever I tried to broach the subject, I’d chicken out.
“If we had one home, it wouldn’t take so long to get there.” Timmy nodded at his own sage piece of reasoning. “We’d be there already.”
I kissed his cheek. He smiled. “One home, two guys. That makes more sense.”
“It does,” I said. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
Somehow, I got him into the building, on the elevator and inside my apartment. We stopped off at the bathroom so he could “take a giant whiz” and brush his teeth, then staggered to the bedroom. He flopped on the bed and let me undress him, but when I turned away to put his clothes on a chair, he grabbed my arm and hauled me down beside him.
“I’m very drunk,” he said as he nuzzled my neck. “Dunno if I can get it up.”
“That’s all right.” I kissed his minty mouth, then arranged him more comfortably, getting him underneath the blankets and tucking an extra pillow under his head.
“Donald?”
“Yeah?”
“If I don’t remember about one home, will you remind me?” He yawned. “It’s very important we have one home.”
“Sure, honey.”
I got undressed and got into bed with him. He moved into my arms and planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“You wanna live with me, Don? Promise I won’t drink grasshoopers.”
“I’d live with you even if you did drink grasshoopers.” I massaged the back of his neck and felt him relax against me. “I love you, Timmy.”
“Love you, Doonald.”
"Doonald?"
His only response was a quiet snore. I turned out the bedside light and got comfortable. Timmy would be awake in a few hours, barfing up creme de menthe and complaining about his massive headache. But once he was on the mend, I’d tell him I’d love to move in with him, grasshoopers and all.