Fic & Art: Slumbering
A small explanation... I began this idea waaaaay back in October, but things got so hectic that I did not have time to work on it at all. My roommate is out of town for the evening which made it the perfect time to finish this up come hell or high water...
Title: Slumbering
by Griseldajane
Rating: PG (pre-slash)
Pairings: Pete/Roger if you squint.
1,444 words
Warnings: A fluff piece. This is me attempting to do something NOT angsty... because all the rest of my fic is shaping up to be hurt-heavy...
Disclaimer: This is FICTION! This never happened. No harm intended.
Summary: Pete tests his new rapport with Roger.
Teaser:
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“So what you’re telling me,” Pete said, making no attempt to mask the irritation in his voice, “is that we’re not getting out of here any time soon.”
Standing at the ticket counter at San Francisco International Airport, Pete glowered at the woman behind the desk, the early hour and unexpected delay adding to his post concert moodiness. The woman put on her most pleasant, plastic smile and confirmed that due to the heavy fog settling over the city, no planes would be arriving or departing the airport at present, but they were welcome to spend as much time as they wished in the VIP lounge.
No amount of negotiating, pleading, or throwing his celebrity around would get them out of the airport any sooner. With an unpleasant scowl, Pete turned from the ticket counter and stomped back towards the lounge where the rest of the band was waiting.
Pete had liked the vibe of San Francisco very much. The relaxed charm and distinctive spirit of this unique city with its rolling streets, mishmash of Victorian and modern buildings and breathtaking views of the bay, all fit very well with his creative sensibilities. But touring was taking its toll on him. It was their last gig in the States, they were supposed to be headed up to Vancouver their final stop before flying home, but the weather had left them stranded at the airport.
Pausing at the large glass windows overlooking the tarmac, Pete observed the heavy fog looming over the pavement. He’d never seen anything like it. Coming in thick and fast like something out of a horror film, the fog would take hours to lift from the runway. With a sigh, he looked across the lounge for his band mates.
Keith and John sat at the bar with what Pete suspected was more than just tall glasses of orange juice. He thought about joining them, but as he walked towards the bar he noticed Roger stretched out across three seats, sound asleep, and Pete paused mid-step.
More and more these days, Pete found himself looking at Roger and not knowing how he was supposed to feel. The road had changed them all, taken their rough edges, and smoothed them over into pieces that fit together. Before, their dynamic had been clear-- every man for himself. And well defined though it was, it certainly was not the best morale for a band to have.
Pete did not want to admit that the working-class singer had grown on him, that somewhere inbetween their constant bickering and radically different points of view, they had become friends.
The guitarist changed direction, his mind made up. He was in the mood for pressing buttons and Roger’s always proved to be the most satisfying to press. Pete knew he shouldn’t-- they were all tired and no good would come of it, except for his own mild amusement. A small part of him worried at how the singer might react, but Pete was audacious and irritable enough not to care.
“Shove over,” Pete said, abruptly pushing Roger’s feet off of the last seat. Unsuspecting a disturbance, the blond abruptly sat up to avoid falling off the seats entirely. Pete took advantage of Roger’s momentary disorientation and slipped into the now vacant end seat.
Blinking groggily, Roger wiped a hand across his face and asked, “We on the move?”
“Delayed for several hours at least,” Pete replied as he fished around in his bag for a book to read. Roger’s gaze rested heavily on him as the gears turned in his head and he realized that he had been awakened for no apparent reason.
“Well, there’s plenty of other bloody seating!” Roger retorted irritably.
“Not by the windows,” Pete supplied, “and I want natural light to read in.”
It was a thin excuse, particularly in this weather, but Pete would never admit that he actually desired Roger’s company. It was much more appealing to incur the singer’s wrath than to sit at the bar and brood over him. Besides, Pete enjoyed pushing Roger, testing how far he could bend him before he snapped, and now was as good a time as any to experiment. Roger’s grouchiness rapidly improved his own mood.
“I’m knackered, Pete,” Roger said softly, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t sleep last night.” The evident fatigue in his voice was almost enough to produce a sympathetic response in Pete. Almost.
“I don't want to hear about your nightly conquests,” Pete replied dismissively as he took out his novel. “In any case, no one is stopping you.”
He opened the book and began to read, still feeling Roger’s eyes on him. Any moment now, Pete expected Roger to shout at him or push him back off the chair or at the very least find a new row of seats to appropriate.
Instead, Roger shifted in his seat. Pete’s book was firmly pushed aside and a mop of blond hair was now in the guitarist’s lap. Curled on his side, Roger rested his cheek against Pete’s thigh and closed his eyes.
This was not the response Pete had anticipated-- at all. Physicality came easily to someone like Keith, and even John had an easy affability about him, but Roger was not the most demonstrative of men, and outside of the stage and a barroom brawl, he did not touch other men, let alone climb into their laps.
If Pete wanted proof that things were changing within the group, then this was it for sure.
“I’m trying to read,” Pete said to the blond head across his legs. He rested his right hand in the mass of curls, tugging at them playfully.
“No one’s stopping you,” Roger replied with a yawn.
Pete almost chuckled, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent. After a few minutes of fiddling with Roger’s hair and resting the spine of his book atop Roger’s head as he pretended to read, Pete realized that Roger had every intention of staying exactly where he was.
He knew that if he got up, it would be the same as letting Roger win this little tete a tete. There was no way in hell he would give Roger the satisfaction of knowing he’d been unwittingly bested at his own game.
So with a little sigh, Pete decided that Roger was not so annoying that he couldn’t let him stay where he was. Pete actually did start to read his novel then, and soon he heard Roger’s breathing even out. His sleep was a pleasing, steady rhythm that surprisingly soothed the guitarist. The singer was a warm, solid weight against him when Roger shifted unconsciously in his sleep, head angling for a more comfortable angle. Pete obliged, shifting with him so that they comfortably fit together.
Pete draped his arm over Roger’s shoulder and listened to him breathe. He was amazed by Roger’s ability to affect him, even in sleep. Pete was leery of the fondness he unexpectedly felt for Roger. It must be a combination of fatigue and their grueling tour schedule, this sort of comrade-in-arms attachment they’d developed.
“Awww,” Pete heard from behind the row. He looked over his shoulder to see Keith standing behind him. “Uncle Pete when is it my turn?” Keith asked and he vaulted over the row of seats, landing in a heap at Pete’s feet.
“Keith,” Pete admonished in a harsh whisper, but there was mirth in his eyes. “You’ll wake him.”
“What’s all this about, then?” Keith asked. “Some sort of new tactic for group leader-- sleeping with the enemy?” and he waggled his eyebrows mischievously.
“Do you want to deal with Roger’s wrath for the rest of the afternoon?” Pete asked instead.
Keith looked towards the ceiling as if pondering Pete’s question. Suddenly he pointed and declared, “We need to capture this moment for posterity!” He sprang to his feet and shouted, “Who has a camera? My kingdom for a camera!”
“Shhhh!” Pete said with a laugh, hunching over Roger as if to protect him from the sound, but the blond slept on, oblivious.
Keith rushed back towards the bar. “John! Give me your camera!”
Pete couldn't hear what John said, but he heard Keith wail, “What do you mean you don’t have one?” From the bar, John gave Pete a knowing glance and shook his head as the drummer made a great show of checking his pockets for a camera.
“Idiots,” Pete whispered fondly. He chuckled to himself and glanced down at the sleeping man in his lap, a feeling of affection spreading through his core, and Pete realized that he was the biggest idiot of the lot.
FIN
Detail:
Feedback is ♥
Title: Slumbering
by Griseldajane
Rating: PG (pre-slash)
Pairings: Pete/Roger if you squint.
1,444 words
Warnings: A fluff piece. This is me attempting to do something NOT angsty... because all the rest of my fic is shaping up to be hurt-heavy...
Disclaimer: This is FICTION! This never happened. No harm intended.
Summary: Pete tests his new rapport with Roger.
Teaser:
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
“So what you’re telling me,” Pete said, making no attempt to mask the irritation in his voice, “is that we’re not getting out of here any time soon.”
Standing at the ticket counter at San Francisco International Airport, Pete glowered at the woman behind the desk, the early hour and unexpected delay adding to his post concert moodiness. The woman put on her most pleasant, plastic smile and confirmed that due to the heavy fog settling over the city, no planes would be arriving or departing the airport at present, but they were welcome to spend as much time as they wished in the VIP lounge.
No amount of negotiating, pleading, or throwing his celebrity around would get them out of the airport any sooner. With an unpleasant scowl, Pete turned from the ticket counter and stomped back towards the lounge where the rest of the band was waiting.
Pete had liked the vibe of San Francisco very much. The relaxed charm and distinctive spirit of this unique city with its rolling streets, mishmash of Victorian and modern buildings and breathtaking views of the bay, all fit very well with his creative sensibilities. But touring was taking its toll on him. It was their last gig in the States, they were supposed to be headed up to Vancouver their final stop before flying home, but the weather had left them stranded at the airport.
Pausing at the large glass windows overlooking the tarmac, Pete observed the heavy fog looming over the pavement. He’d never seen anything like it. Coming in thick and fast like something out of a horror film, the fog would take hours to lift from the runway. With a sigh, he looked across the lounge for his band mates.
Keith and John sat at the bar with what Pete suspected was more than just tall glasses of orange juice. He thought about joining them, but as he walked towards the bar he noticed Roger stretched out across three seats, sound asleep, and Pete paused mid-step.
More and more these days, Pete found himself looking at Roger and not knowing how he was supposed to feel. The road had changed them all, taken their rough edges, and smoothed them over into pieces that fit together. Before, their dynamic had been clear-- every man for himself. And well defined though it was, it certainly was not the best morale for a band to have.
Pete did not want to admit that the working-class singer had grown on him, that somewhere inbetween their constant bickering and radically different points of view, they had become friends.
The guitarist changed direction, his mind made up. He was in the mood for pressing buttons and Roger’s always proved to be the most satisfying to press. Pete knew he shouldn’t-- they were all tired and no good would come of it, except for his own mild amusement. A small part of him worried at how the singer might react, but Pete was audacious and irritable enough not to care.
“Shove over,” Pete said, abruptly pushing Roger’s feet off of the last seat. Unsuspecting a disturbance, the blond abruptly sat up to avoid falling off the seats entirely. Pete took advantage of Roger’s momentary disorientation and slipped into the now vacant end seat.
Blinking groggily, Roger wiped a hand across his face and asked, “We on the move?”
“Delayed for several hours at least,” Pete replied as he fished around in his bag for a book to read. Roger’s gaze rested heavily on him as the gears turned in his head and he realized that he had been awakened for no apparent reason.
“Well, there’s plenty of other bloody seating!” Roger retorted irritably.
“Not by the windows,” Pete supplied, “and I want natural light to read in.”
It was a thin excuse, particularly in this weather, but Pete would never admit that he actually desired Roger’s company. It was much more appealing to incur the singer’s wrath than to sit at the bar and brood over him. Besides, Pete enjoyed pushing Roger, testing how far he could bend him before he snapped, and now was as good a time as any to experiment. Roger’s grouchiness rapidly improved his own mood.
“I’m knackered, Pete,” Roger said softly, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t sleep last night.” The evident fatigue in his voice was almost enough to produce a sympathetic response in Pete. Almost.
“I don't want to hear about your nightly conquests,” Pete replied dismissively as he took out his novel. “In any case, no one is stopping you.”
He opened the book and began to read, still feeling Roger’s eyes on him. Any moment now, Pete expected Roger to shout at him or push him back off the chair or at the very least find a new row of seats to appropriate.
Instead, Roger shifted in his seat. Pete’s book was firmly pushed aside and a mop of blond hair was now in the guitarist’s lap. Curled on his side, Roger rested his cheek against Pete’s thigh and closed his eyes.
This was not the response Pete had anticipated-- at all. Physicality came easily to someone like Keith, and even John had an easy affability about him, but Roger was not the most demonstrative of men, and outside of the stage and a barroom brawl, he did not touch other men, let alone climb into their laps.
If Pete wanted proof that things were changing within the group, then this was it for sure.
“I’m trying to read,” Pete said to the blond head across his legs. He rested his right hand in the mass of curls, tugging at them playfully.
“No one’s stopping you,” Roger replied with a yawn.
Pete almost chuckled, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stay silent. After a few minutes of fiddling with Roger’s hair and resting the spine of his book atop Roger’s head as he pretended to read, Pete realized that Roger had every intention of staying exactly where he was.
He knew that if he got up, it would be the same as letting Roger win this little tete a tete. There was no way in hell he would give Roger the satisfaction of knowing he’d been unwittingly bested at his own game.
So with a little sigh, Pete decided that Roger was not so annoying that he couldn’t let him stay where he was. Pete actually did start to read his novel then, and soon he heard Roger’s breathing even out. His sleep was a pleasing, steady rhythm that surprisingly soothed the guitarist. The singer was a warm, solid weight against him when Roger shifted unconsciously in his sleep, head angling for a more comfortable angle. Pete obliged, shifting with him so that they comfortably fit together.
Pete draped his arm over Roger’s shoulder and listened to him breathe. He was amazed by Roger’s ability to affect him, even in sleep. Pete was leery of the fondness he unexpectedly felt for Roger. It must be a combination of fatigue and their grueling tour schedule, this sort of comrade-in-arms attachment they’d developed.
“Awww,” Pete heard from behind the row. He looked over his shoulder to see Keith standing behind him. “Uncle Pete when is it my turn?” Keith asked and he vaulted over the row of seats, landing in a heap at Pete’s feet.
“Keith,” Pete admonished in a harsh whisper, but there was mirth in his eyes. “You’ll wake him.”
“What’s all this about, then?” Keith asked. “Some sort of new tactic for group leader-- sleeping with the enemy?” and he waggled his eyebrows mischievously.
“Do you want to deal with Roger’s wrath for the rest of the afternoon?” Pete asked instead.
Keith looked towards the ceiling as if pondering Pete’s question. Suddenly he pointed and declared, “We need to capture this moment for posterity!” He sprang to his feet and shouted, “Who has a camera? My kingdom for a camera!”
“Shhhh!” Pete said with a laugh, hunching over Roger as if to protect him from the sound, but the blond slept on, oblivious.
Keith rushed back towards the bar. “John! Give me your camera!”
Pete couldn't hear what John said, but he heard Keith wail, “What do you mean you don’t have one?” From the bar, John gave Pete a knowing glance and shook his head as the drummer made a great show of checking his pockets for a camera.
“Idiots,” Pete whispered fondly. He chuckled to himself and glanced down at the sleeping man in his lap, a feeling of affection spreading through his core, and Pete realized that he was the biggest idiot of the lot.
FIN
Detail:
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