(no subject)
Title: The Conspirators
Author: ghoti_fish
Pairings: Greta/Chris/Darren
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~1,900
Summary: “Nonchalance was not Darren’s strong suit.”
A/N: For pre_emptive in the Live Free or Die Fic Exchange, who asked for ‘THREESOME ACKSHON.’ I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to vanilla_alia for her Hushies primer at bandom_primers. All fiction.
Whenever touring allowed Greta tried to find a used bookstore. They were all the same, with endless, teetering stacks of paperbacks and names incorporating ‘pages’ or ‘well read’ or some other literary nod, which Darren would find clever if he hadn’t seen an identically named shop in Texas or Iowa. He figured that if he ever got tired of lugging a suitcase full of Bibles across the country, he could start collecting totes from each store. Cloth bags would ease the slight drag in the van’s rear left wheel where the Bag o’ Bibles usually got pushed. The bags weren’t that different from the distributions of Gideons International anyhow, both were comforting in their consistency. The bibles fit in Darren’s hand exactly the same in every hotel room, just as the bags were invariably cream in color and stamped with a row of books lifted from clip art and the store’s name.
Even if she went in only looking to get rid of old reads, Greta always came away from these excursions with a small stack of books under her arm, smiling sheepishly and muttering about the irresistibly of a potentially promising read. Sometimes Chris followed closely behind, carrying another stack, crinkling his brow and complaining unconvincingly that some people should realize close quarters didn’t leave very much room for non-essentials like books. Greta answered his protests with an eye roll and exasperated sigh that books were essential, thanks.
Now they were somewhere in the Dakotas - North? South? Darren couldn’t recall - and he was trying to find his way to the exit through the maze of shelves he’d wandered into. He turned a corner and saw Chris and Greta. Finally, he thought, he wouldn’t have to wander alone.
They were hunched over a book, leaning together conspiratorially and chuckling. He opened his mouth to get their attention as their laughter petered out when, still smiling, Greta turned into Chris and kissed his cheek, lingering for a moment longer than was strictly platonic before she pulled away, smiling slightly. The greeting died in Darren’s throat as he watched Chris look startled for a second before returning the kiss properly.
He thought he might have seen their first kiss. It was intimate but careful, carried by the desperate delicacy that came with marking new territory. Darren hadn’t even realized he was staring, just flat out gawking at his friends as they kissed, but then his breath began to hitch. He was trespassing, partaking of an intimate moment that wasn’t his.
Later he would learn that for its air of spontaneity and recklessness, they’d been slow and steady in reaching this point. And when he thought about it, Darren could nearly see the two of them building to it, a million tiny moments that led to a near-stolen kiss in the stacks of a used bookstore in the Black Hills.
As Chris’ arm dropped to her back, Greta let out a delicately audible sigh and Darren realized he couldn’t stay. He spun on his heels and fled, miraculously finding the front door and cursing its illogical placement as the cause of his accidental voyeurism. He’d just wanted to see if the store carried anime.
The rest of the tour he’d tried nonchalance, since Chris and Greta’s public behavior towards one another hadn’t changed. Greta hugged him or begged the occasional piggy back ride from Chris no more than she did from Darren or Bob or Adam. Well, if they weren’t going to mention it, Darren sure as hell wasn’t going to drag out their private business. He was curious, not a traitor. He did feel slighted - where was the solidarity if they couldn’t tell their band mates about that kiss, or at the very least whatever passions they harbored for each other. Darren was convinced that they were holding clandestine meetings, behind the van, making out with reckless abandonment, praying not to get caught. When his accusations dialled up the drama this high, he made a note to stop watching daytime soap operas with Adam and resolved to seek some closure.
However, nonchalance was not Darren’s strong suit. He started conversations about romance and cohabitation and Fleetwood Mac and instead of answers or even hints of a budding relationship, he just got razzed for being sentimental and love obsessed.
On a few separate occasions he’d swear he saw Chris or Greta look at him predatory while he rambled about flings versus relationships, but then he’d blink and they were simply listening to him speak.
Answers didn’t come until nearly a week after the end of the tour. Darren and Chris were sitting in Chris’ apartment and Darren launched segue-less into a conspicuous line of questioning about Chris’ love life. He was fairly certain that his frustration was becoming obvious when Chris ignored him and mentioned that Greta was coming over. Bob had opted to hang out with Kristine and her family, but Greta had crammed in family time and needed a break from her break.
Darren nearly rejoiced. He could get answers and privately, too, without involving outsiders. Chris’ poker face was good, as was Greta’s, especially if they were carrying on some kind of secret affair - seriously, no more soaps - but Darren was already picturing after the firing squad of his deft questioning, the two of them would have no choice but to smile knowingly at one another, then at him, before linking hands and spilling the how and why of their newly found romantic bliss. Enlightenment was so close that Darren could taste it. It took most of his willpower not to jump on the couch and do his victory dance immediately.
But Greta arrived and nothing changed. Darren and Chris moved to opposite ends of the couch to give Greta a place between them, but some godawful reality show was still playing on mute, the sound of The Zombies was still radiating low and bright from the stereo and the couch was still slightly uncomfortable if you hadn’t been taught exactly the right way to place yourself on it.
Darren kept waiting to bring up the bookstore kiss. He waited politely through usual reunion chit-chat, through a story about Greta’s cousin going into labor at the family BBQ, and through the tale of how Chris’ roommate had, in a feat of superhuman drunkenness, thrown a bottle of Jager so hard that it was now lodged in the kitchen wall. Darren was desperately trying to conceive a way to bring his marginal sense of nonchalance into the mix when the other two paused and looked to him, so he seized his chance.
After he blurted out ‘Sowhydidyouguyskissinthebookstore?’ Darren figured he could at least shock them into an explanation.
He didn't expect his outburst to be greeted with bemused smiles, or for Greta to fire a playful ‘I told you I saw him’ at Chris before slumping further into the couch and leaning her head carefully on Darren’s shoulder. It made it hard to look at her from that angle, but Darren listened. For a moment, at least.
Because their explanation was awfully meager, that they simply fell into their togetherness, as if Darren should have just understood. He might have understood but he wanted to hear about a substantial revelation for them, to have validation for his romance-obsessed state of the past couple weeks.
Greta was now lacing her arm through Darren’s and saying something about ‘units’ and ‘connectively’ and ‘completion’ and about talks she and Chris had had, more than once as a matter of fact, and if Darren didn’t know any better he’d have thought they were propositioning him. He leaned back and looked down at Greta, who was soothingly stroking his arm and biting her lips in a way that was entirely unfair. Oh. Oh, okay.
Then he felt Greta’s hands on his collarbones as she leaned in to kiss him, full and heavy on the lips. Kissed him with verve, he couldn’t help thinking, just like when she would sing. She was followed shortly by Chris scooting off the couch to Darren’s other side, wrapping his arms around the two of them, and opening his mouth until it was hot and wet in the crook of Darren’s neck where shirt collar met skin. Darren thought that people with hands and mouths, especially these two people, could be absolutely astonishing in providing all the validation he might ever need.
--
The couch had been a tight squeeze when all three of them were upright and now, with all the wriggling and repositioning and movement, the only choice, the smart and comfortable choice, was the floor.
There was a lovely kind of slip-sliding free fall as Greta led the way, pulling Darren down, Chris alongside him. The rhythm of two distinct and wonderful hearts, and the jolt of the unexpected movements from anticipating two separate sets of hands, made everything heady and comfortable all at once, even if it was happening on Chris’ questionable apartment carpet. Darren had far more valuable things warranting his attention than the last time Faller might have vacuumed.
They’d just been raised right, Darren reasoned as he moved to kiss Chris hungrily, all fisting of hair and clashing of tongues and teeth, while Greta unbuttoned his shirt. They were too considerate, cared for each other too much, to leave anyone behind.
If an adolescence of sneaking listens to ‘Loveline’ after his parents thought he was asleep had taught him anything, it was that threesomes were relationship sabotage.
Darren didn’t know if Chris and Greta were chrisandgreta, as their state of union discussion had been rather abortive and skipped ahead to the whole ‘we think you could complete us’ business quite quickly. He wasn’t sure if they even knew themselves, but regardless he felt like he was helping something grow, not tearing it apart.
The mechanics were awkward at first - none of them were completely inexperienced, but throwing another person into the equation meant more fumbling and clicking of teeth and accidental bruising than Darren assumed was normal.
The way Darren’s heart was pumping and his head was buzzing and his jeans were tightening more than compensated for any minor injuries potentially sustained. No glory without risk and all that.
Sure enough, his elbow slammed into the couch as he moved to run a hand through Greta’s hair. She just chuckled and murmured to Chris about getting a bigger place. He responded by mumbling that he had a bedroom, thanks, complete with queen-sized bed, and that next time -next time, Darren noted happily- the proceedings should start there.
--
That first time left Darren with an awful crick in his neck from where he’d gotten pinned beneath Greta and between Chris and the coffee table. The first time turned into the second, which blurred into the third and then Darren couldn’t keep count anymore. He remembered each incident but couldn’t track specific numbers. That would have been too cold, too clinical, inappropriate when all he felt was warmth and satiation.
They were his and he was theirs. Before what Chris had dubbed The Night of the Attack, the sprawl of Greta across her corner of the van, book on her stomach, open to the page she had fallen asleep reading, calmed him. The rhythm Chris smoked his cigarettes to, even if he hated the smell and worried for his health, centered him. He had breathed in and out with them in those moments, whether they had noticed or not. Now, they were all breathing together.
end.
Author: ghoti_fish
Pairings: Greta/Chris/Darren
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~1,900
Summary: “Nonchalance was not Darren’s strong suit.”
A/N: For pre_emptive in the Live Free or Die Fic Exchange, who asked for ‘THREESOME ACKSHON.’ I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to vanilla_alia for her Hushies primer at bandom_primers. All fiction.
Whenever touring allowed Greta tried to find a used bookstore. They were all the same, with endless, teetering stacks of paperbacks and names incorporating ‘pages’ or ‘well read’ or some other literary nod, which Darren would find clever if he hadn’t seen an identically named shop in Texas or Iowa. He figured that if he ever got tired of lugging a suitcase full of Bibles across the country, he could start collecting totes from each store. Cloth bags would ease the slight drag in the van’s rear left wheel where the Bag o’ Bibles usually got pushed. The bags weren’t that different from the distributions of Gideons International anyhow, both were comforting in their consistency. The bibles fit in Darren’s hand exactly the same in every hotel room, just as the bags were invariably cream in color and stamped with a row of books lifted from clip art and the store’s name.
Even if she went in only looking to get rid of old reads, Greta always came away from these excursions with a small stack of books under her arm, smiling sheepishly and muttering about the irresistibly of a potentially promising read. Sometimes Chris followed closely behind, carrying another stack, crinkling his brow and complaining unconvincingly that some people should realize close quarters didn’t leave very much room for non-essentials like books. Greta answered his protests with an eye roll and exasperated sigh that books were essential, thanks.
Now they were somewhere in the Dakotas - North? South? Darren couldn’t recall - and he was trying to find his way to the exit through the maze of shelves he’d wandered into. He turned a corner and saw Chris and Greta. Finally, he thought, he wouldn’t have to wander alone.
They were hunched over a book, leaning together conspiratorially and chuckling. He opened his mouth to get their attention as their laughter petered out when, still smiling, Greta turned into Chris and kissed his cheek, lingering for a moment longer than was strictly platonic before she pulled away, smiling slightly. The greeting died in Darren’s throat as he watched Chris look startled for a second before returning the kiss properly.
He thought he might have seen their first kiss. It was intimate but careful, carried by the desperate delicacy that came with marking new territory. Darren hadn’t even realized he was staring, just flat out gawking at his friends as they kissed, but then his breath began to hitch. He was trespassing, partaking of an intimate moment that wasn’t his.
Later he would learn that for its air of spontaneity and recklessness, they’d been slow and steady in reaching this point. And when he thought about it, Darren could nearly see the two of them building to it, a million tiny moments that led to a near-stolen kiss in the stacks of a used bookstore in the Black Hills.
As Chris’ arm dropped to her back, Greta let out a delicately audible sigh and Darren realized he couldn’t stay. He spun on his heels and fled, miraculously finding the front door and cursing its illogical placement as the cause of his accidental voyeurism. He’d just wanted to see if the store carried anime.
The rest of the tour he’d tried nonchalance, since Chris and Greta’s public behavior towards one another hadn’t changed. Greta hugged him or begged the occasional piggy back ride from Chris no more than she did from Darren or Bob or Adam. Well, if they weren’t going to mention it, Darren sure as hell wasn’t going to drag out their private business. He was curious, not a traitor. He did feel slighted - where was the solidarity if they couldn’t tell their band mates about that kiss, or at the very least whatever passions they harbored for each other. Darren was convinced that they were holding clandestine meetings, behind the van, making out with reckless abandonment, praying not to get caught. When his accusations dialled up the drama this high, he made a note to stop watching daytime soap operas with Adam and resolved to seek some closure.
However, nonchalance was not Darren’s strong suit. He started conversations about romance and cohabitation and Fleetwood Mac and instead of answers or even hints of a budding relationship, he just got razzed for being sentimental and love obsessed.
On a few separate occasions he’d swear he saw Chris or Greta look at him predatory while he rambled about flings versus relationships, but then he’d blink and they were simply listening to him speak.
Answers didn’t come until nearly a week after the end of the tour. Darren and Chris were sitting in Chris’ apartment and Darren launched segue-less into a conspicuous line of questioning about Chris’ love life. He was fairly certain that his frustration was becoming obvious when Chris ignored him and mentioned that Greta was coming over. Bob had opted to hang out with Kristine and her family, but Greta had crammed in family time and needed a break from her break.
Darren nearly rejoiced. He could get answers and privately, too, without involving outsiders. Chris’ poker face was good, as was Greta’s, especially if they were carrying on some kind of secret affair - seriously, no more soaps - but Darren was already picturing after the firing squad of his deft questioning, the two of them would have no choice but to smile knowingly at one another, then at him, before linking hands and spilling the how and why of their newly found romantic bliss. Enlightenment was so close that Darren could taste it. It took most of his willpower not to jump on the couch and do his victory dance immediately.
But Greta arrived and nothing changed. Darren and Chris moved to opposite ends of the couch to give Greta a place between them, but some godawful reality show was still playing on mute, the sound of The Zombies was still radiating low and bright from the stereo and the couch was still slightly uncomfortable if you hadn’t been taught exactly the right way to place yourself on it.
Darren kept waiting to bring up the bookstore kiss. He waited politely through usual reunion chit-chat, through a story about Greta’s cousin going into labor at the family BBQ, and through the tale of how Chris’ roommate had, in a feat of superhuman drunkenness, thrown a bottle of Jager so hard that it was now lodged in the kitchen wall. Darren was desperately trying to conceive a way to bring his marginal sense of nonchalance into the mix when the other two paused and looked to him, so he seized his chance.
After he blurted out ‘Sowhydidyouguyskissinthebookstore?’ Darren figured he could at least shock them into an explanation.
He didn't expect his outburst to be greeted with bemused smiles, or for Greta to fire a playful ‘I told you I saw him’ at Chris before slumping further into the couch and leaning her head carefully on Darren’s shoulder. It made it hard to look at her from that angle, but Darren listened. For a moment, at least.
Because their explanation was awfully meager, that they simply fell into their togetherness, as if Darren should have just understood. He might have understood but he wanted to hear about a substantial revelation for them, to have validation for his romance-obsessed state of the past couple weeks.
Greta was now lacing her arm through Darren’s and saying something about ‘units’ and ‘connectively’ and ‘completion’ and about talks she and Chris had had, more than once as a matter of fact, and if Darren didn’t know any better he’d have thought they were propositioning him. He leaned back and looked down at Greta, who was soothingly stroking his arm and biting her lips in a way that was entirely unfair. Oh. Oh, okay.
Then he felt Greta’s hands on his collarbones as she leaned in to kiss him, full and heavy on the lips. Kissed him with verve, he couldn’t help thinking, just like when she would sing. She was followed shortly by Chris scooting off the couch to Darren’s other side, wrapping his arms around the two of them, and opening his mouth until it was hot and wet in the crook of Darren’s neck where shirt collar met skin. Darren thought that people with hands and mouths, especially these two people, could be absolutely astonishing in providing all the validation he might ever need.
--
The couch had been a tight squeeze when all three of them were upright and now, with all the wriggling and repositioning and movement, the only choice, the smart and comfortable choice, was the floor.
There was a lovely kind of slip-sliding free fall as Greta led the way, pulling Darren down, Chris alongside him. The rhythm of two distinct and wonderful hearts, and the jolt of the unexpected movements from anticipating two separate sets of hands, made everything heady and comfortable all at once, even if it was happening on Chris’ questionable apartment carpet. Darren had far more valuable things warranting his attention than the last time Faller might have vacuumed.
They’d just been raised right, Darren reasoned as he moved to kiss Chris hungrily, all fisting of hair and clashing of tongues and teeth, while Greta unbuttoned his shirt. They were too considerate, cared for each other too much, to leave anyone behind.
If an adolescence of sneaking listens to ‘Loveline’ after his parents thought he was asleep had taught him anything, it was that threesomes were relationship sabotage.
Darren didn’t know if Chris and Greta were chrisandgreta, as their state of union discussion had been rather abortive and skipped ahead to the whole ‘we think you could complete us’ business quite quickly. He wasn’t sure if they even knew themselves, but regardless he felt like he was helping something grow, not tearing it apart.
The mechanics were awkward at first - none of them were completely inexperienced, but throwing another person into the equation meant more fumbling and clicking of teeth and accidental bruising than Darren assumed was normal.
The way Darren’s heart was pumping and his head was buzzing and his jeans were tightening more than compensated for any minor injuries potentially sustained. No glory without risk and all that.
Sure enough, his elbow slammed into the couch as he moved to run a hand through Greta’s hair. She just chuckled and murmured to Chris about getting a bigger place. He responded by mumbling that he had a bedroom, thanks, complete with queen-sized bed, and that next time -next time, Darren noted happily- the proceedings should start there.
--
That first time left Darren with an awful crick in his neck from where he’d gotten pinned beneath Greta and between Chris and the coffee table. The first time turned into the second, which blurred into the third and then Darren couldn’t keep count anymore. He remembered each incident but couldn’t track specific numbers. That would have been too cold, too clinical, inappropriate when all he felt was warmth and satiation.
They were his and he was theirs. Before what Chris had dubbed The Night of the Attack, the sprawl of Greta across her corner of the van, book on her stomach, open to the page she had fallen asleep reading, calmed him. The rhythm Chris smoked his cigarettes to, even if he hated the smell and worried for his health, centered him. He had breathed in and out with them in those moments, whether they had noticed or not. Now, they were all breathing together.
end.