Bandfic: Cub Scouts (The Cab; Slight Cash/Marshall)
I was in the mood to write fluff this morning. (When am I ever not, though, right?) So here, have 1,300 words of The Cab Boys at their photo shoot with the tiger cub.
Title: Cub Scouts
Author: tigs
Rating: PG
Pairing: slight Cash/Marshall
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Baby tigers.
Summary: "Kill me now," Johnson says, but they're all grinning, because seriously, *baby tiger*. You'd pretty much have to have a heart of stone to not think that shit was adorable. ~1,300 words.
Author's Notes: Yeah. So. It was only a matter of time, right?
Somehow, this is Marshall's life now.
Five months ago he was in high school, finishing up his *finals*, Calculus and English Literature and fucking *Physics*, you know? And now, somehow, he's walking into a room with for a photo shoot (what the hell?) with baby tigers (no, seriously, *baby tigers*) and he's supposed to act like this is normal.
Of course, it pretty much is what passes for normal nowadays, what with the touring in, like, an actual van, outside of Vegas, and the record contract, and people actually knowing the words to their songs, and the fact that someone's actually stupid enough to be paying him to do this for a living, which he's pretty sure will never *not* be the most awesome thing ever.
But still, he's not quite sure how his life is suddenly one that includes photo shoots with baby tigers. He just knows that one of their publicity people broached the idea, that Singer's eyes had gone wide as he'd said, "Oh, *fuck* yeah," and now, here they are.
The tiger cub is in a room with it's handler; it's one of those educational center classroom type things, with the industrial carpet and the paneling on the walls to hang shelves and shit on, and the tiger is actually loose. There are soccer balls and, like, ostrich feathers scattered all over the floor, but when they actually come into the room, it's playing with a stuffed elephant that's pretty much as large as it is.
"Apparently they're trying to teach it about it's natural prey?" Cash stage-whispers. "Although I don't think elephants are probably that chewy in real life. Also, they've got those natural defense mechanisms known as tusks. Our little tiger's gonna be pretty surprised the first time he tries to catch an elephant of his very own."
The tiger's on its back, all four paws wrapped around the stuffed animal, one of the big, gray, floppy ears in its mouth, but the tiger's not chewing it, it's licking it, or was anyway, because as soon as the door closes behind them, the tiger stops and stares at them for a long second, upside down, before it seems to realize that baby or not, this is not the most dignified position it could be in.
Quickly it rolls back over, sits up as straight as it can, and begins to bathe its shoulder.
"That's fucking *awesome*," Ian says, and he's already walking slowly towards it, crouching down as he goes, hand out-stretched. He pauses before he gets close enough to touch to look at the trainer--Bob, his name tag reads--and once Bob nods, he goes down on his knees. The tiger pauses for a moment to look at Ian out of the corner of its eye, gives its shoulder one last swipe with its tongue, and then looks at all of them for a long moment before butting at Ian's knuckles with its head.
"Kill me now," Johnson says, but they're all grinning, because seriously, *baby tiger*. You'd pretty much have to have a heart of stone to not think that shit was adorable.
The trainer encourages them all to let the tiger get comfortable with them for a few minutes before they start in on the pictures, and Marshall's totally okay with that, because baby or not, the tiger is still a cat, with cat claws, and he's pretty sure that they would probably hurt more than the claws of his mother's tabby. Like, hospital-stitches-scars for life more, if the tiger decided to take offense to being, like, petted the wrong way.
So, they all sit on the floor, and the tiger actually manages to separate itself from Ian long enough to give the rest of them a disdainful look, then a slightly more evaluating look, and then, when it sees that Cash is holding its elephant, it crouches, hiding behind an ostrich feather, and looks as if it's going to pounce in their direction. Because that is maybe a little bit too enthusiastic for Cash, he tosses the elephant behind the tiger. The tiger is already in the air before the elephant hits the ground, though, catching it in its mouth and going down growling.
Singer, by this time, is pretty much hysterical. He wants a fierce picture with the tiger. He's been practicing it in the mirror for days, Marshall knows. Johnson is pretty adamant that he would just like to not be bitten. It's a worthy goal, Marshall thinks.
A few more minutes, and the tiger is lying down in its side, one paw holding onto the elephant's tail, its own tail flicking lazily. That seems to be what Bob was waiting for, because he says, "Okay then, " and the photographer starts getting his camera ready.
"Who's first?" Bob asks, and it's Ian, of course, because he's got fucking quick reflexes. He sits as still as possible, and lets Bob put the tiger in his lap. "Hold on," Bob says, and he's laughing a little at all of them.
The tiger cub starts wriggling almost immediately, but Ian holds on, and the tigers claws don't come out, so Marshall relaxes just a bit. The photographer gets maybe five shots before the tiger finally leaps out of Ian's lap, heading back to it's elephant. Bob intercepts it, though, and dumps it in Cash's lap. He looks a little surprised, but manages to smile as the camera flashes. It's only three pictures before the tiger plants its paws on Cash's shoulder and pushes away. Singer claims the tiger next, and on shot number four, when the cub is ready to be gone now, thank you, he holds the cub up to the camera and makes the growly face he's been practicing. Johnson sighs when the tiger's deposited in his lap, but amazingly enough manages to get six shots before it wiggles under his elbow.
This time, the cub actually makes it to the elephant, bowling it over, which in turn makes Singer laugh again, and take a flying leap at Johnson, knocking him into Ian. The three of them go down in a pile of elbows and ribs and Johnson saying, "Hey, hey, fuck you, get off me, you dick," and Ian starting in on the tickling. This seems to distract the tiger enough that it's almost quiet when it gets deposited in Marshall's lap. It's staring at the pile of Marshall's band mates and actually lets Marshall hold on, one hand on its chest, one holding its (huge) paw, and it stays relatively still while the camera snaps. Then, because Cash is suddenly right there, and also a fucker, he flicks the string of Marshall's hoodie, and suddenly the tiger cub has something new to pay attention to, and although Marshall's ear is covered by his hood, he still decides to let the tiger go as quickly as possible. But not before there's photographic evidence.
Perhaps sensing that they're about to have company, Singer, Ian, and Johnson manage to disentangle themselves, and Johnson kicks at a ball, which the cub watches roll by before racing after it, leaping on top of it, too fast, too far, because it ends up on its back being attacked by the ball.
Marshall just watches it play, watches Bob tease it with a feather, and then he feels Cash butt at his shoulder with his head once, then again. In retaliation, Marshall butts his own head at Cash's, then lets his head rest against Cash's for just a second, a long one, before he sits back up again.
When he glances over at Cash, Cash is grinning.
Marshall smiles in return.
Title: Cub Scouts
Author: tigs
Rating: PG
Pairing: slight Cash/Marshall
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warnings: Baby tigers.
Summary: "Kill me now," Johnson says, but they're all grinning, because seriously, *baby tiger*. You'd pretty much have to have a heart of stone to not think that shit was adorable. ~1,300 words.
Author's Notes: Yeah. So. It was only a matter of time, right?
Somehow, this is Marshall's life now.
Five months ago he was in high school, finishing up his *finals*, Calculus and English Literature and fucking *Physics*, you know? And now, somehow, he's walking into a room with for a photo shoot (what the hell?) with baby tigers (no, seriously, *baby tigers*) and he's supposed to act like this is normal.
Of course, it pretty much is what passes for normal nowadays, what with the touring in, like, an actual van, outside of Vegas, and the record contract, and people actually knowing the words to their songs, and the fact that someone's actually stupid enough to be paying him to do this for a living, which he's pretty sure will never *not* be the most awesome thing ever.
But still, he's not quite sure how his life is suddenly one that includes photo shoots with baby tigers. He just knows that one of their publicity people broached the idea, that Singer's eyes had gone wide as he'd said, "Oh, *fuck* yeah," and now, here they are.
The tiger cub is in a room with it's handler; it's one of those educational center classroom type things, with the industrial carpet and the paneling on the walls to hang shelves and shit on, and the tiger is actually loose. There are soccer balls and, like, ostrich feathers scattered all over the floor, but when they actually come into the room, it's playing with a stuffed elephant that's pretty much as large as it is.
"Apparently they're trying to teach it about it's natural prey?" Cash stage-whispers. "Although I don't think elephants are probably that chewy in real life. Also, they've got those natural defense mechanisms known as tusks. Our little tiger's gonna be pretty surprised the first time he tries to catch an elephant of his very own."
The tiger's on its back, all four paws wrapped around the stuffed animal, one of the big, gray, floppy ears in its mouth, but the tiger's not chewing it, it's licking it, or was anyway, because as soon as the door closes behind them, the tiger stops and stares at them for a long second, upside down, before it seems to realize that baby or not, this is not the most dignified position it could be in.
Quickly it rolls back over, sits up as straight as it can, and begins to bathe its shoulder.
"That's fucking *awesome*," Ian says, and he's already walking slowly towards it, crouching down as he goes, hand out-stretched. He pauses before he gets close enough to touch to look at the trainer--Bob, his name tag reads--and once Bob nods, he goes down on his knees. The tiger pauses for a moment to look at Ian out of the corner of its eye, gives its shoulder one last swipe with its tongue, and then looks at all of them for a long moment before butting at Ian's knuckles with its head.
"Kill me now," Johnson says, but they're all grinning, because seriously, *baby tiger*. You'd pretty much have to have a heart of stone to not think that shit was adorable.
The trainer encourages them all to let the tiger get comfortable with them for a few minutes before they start in on the pictures, and Marshall's totally okay with that, because baby or not, the tiger is still a cat, with cat claws, and he's pretty sure that they would probably hurt more than the claws of his mother's tabby. Like, hospital-stitches-scars for life more, if the tiger decided to take offense to being, like, petted the wrong way.
So, they all sit on the floor, and the tiger actually manages to separate itself from Ian long enough to give the rest of them a disdainful look, then a slightly more evaluating look, and then, when it sees that Cash is holding its elephant, it crouches, hiding behind an ostrich feather, and looks as if it's going to pounce in their direction. Because that is maybe a little bit too enthusiastic for Cash, he tosses the elephant behind the tiger. The tiger is already in the air before the elephant hits the ground, though, catching it in its mouth and going down growling.
Singer, by this time, is pretty much hysterical. He wants a fierce picture with the tiger. He's been practicing it in the mirror for days, Marshall knows. Johnson is pretty adamant that he would just like to not be bitten. It's a worthy goal, Marshall thinks.
A few more minutes, and the tiger is lying down in its side, one paw holding onto the elephant's tail, its own tail flicking lazily. That seems to be what Bob was waiting for, because he says, "Okay then, " and the photographer starts getting his camera ready.
"Who's first?" Bob asks, and it's Ian, of course, because he's got fucking quick reflexes. He sits as still as possible, and lets Bob put the tiger in his lap. "Hold on," Bob says, and he's laughing a little at all of them.
The tiger cub starts wriggling almost immediately, but Ian holds on, and the tigers claws don't come out, so Marshall relaxes just a bit. The photographer gets maybe five shots before the tiger finally leaps out of Ian's lap, heading back to it's elephant. Bob intercepts it, though, and dumps it in Cash's lap. He looks a little surprised, but manages to smile as the camera flashes. It's only three pictures before the tiger plants its paws on Cash's shoulder and pushes away. Singer claims the tiger next, and on shot number four, when the cub is ready to be gone now, thank you, he holds the cub up to the camera and makes the growly face he's been practicing. Johnson sighs when the tiger's deposited in his lap, but amazingly enough manages to get six shots before it wiggles under his elbow.
This time, the cub actually makes it to the elephant, bowling it over, which in turn makes Singer laugh again, and take a flying leap at Johnson, knocking him into Ian. The three of them go down in a pile of elbows and ribs and Johnson saying, "Hey, hey, fuck you, get off me, you dick," and Ian starting in on the tickling. This seems to distract the tiger enough that it's almost quiet when it gets deposited in Marshall's lap. It's staring at the pile of Marshall's band mates and actually lets Marshall hold on, one hand on its chest, one holding its (huge) paw, and it stays relatively still while the camera snaps. Then, because Cash is suddenly right there, and also a fucker, he flicks the string of Marshall's hoodie, and suddenly the tiger cub has something new to pay attention to, and although Marshall's ear is covered by his hood, he still decides to let the tiger go as quickly as possible. But not before there's photographic evidence.
Perhaps sensing that they're about to have company, Singer, Ian, and Johnson manage to disentangle themselves, and Johnson kicks at a ball, which the cub watches roll by before racing after it, leaping on top of it, too fast, too far, because it ends up on its back being attacked by the ball.
Marshall just watches it play, watches Bob tease it with a feather, and then he feels Cash butt at his shoulder with his head once, then again. In retaliation, Marshall butts his own head at Cash's, then lets his head rest against Cash's for just a second, a long one, before he sits back up again.
When he glances over at Cash, Cash is grinning.
Marshall smiles in return.