fic: RPS: Til You're Resting Here (1/1)
Title: Til You're Resting Here
Author: Havenward
Series: CWRPS
Words: 1272
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson, hints of past Chris/JDM
Rating: hard PG13 for language
Notes: For amara_m and badfalcon. Follows badfalcon's story Every Cowboy Sings a Sad Sad Song. Extra thanks to thehighwaywoman for an extra set of eyes and help with the title. A touch of angst and a lot of schmoop. Steve POV.
Summary: Steve's spent just under three days straight driving to get to Chris, not knowing what state he'll find him in when he gets there.
I'm ready to fall over by the time I pull up in front of Christian's house. Part of me wants to sit there for a moment, to ready myself for what I might find. But I wasn't patient enough to wait for a goddamn flight, why start hesitating now?
I'm out of the car, up the front walk, and banging on the door before I give myself a second chance to think about it. Of course now I have time to wait. And worry. It's almost dawn, but this time of year most of the sky is still inky dark. I find myself hoping that isn't ominous.
The door opens, and it's Chris standing there. On his own two feet. And sober. He looks terrible, too tired and too thin, but there aren't words for the relief that's suddenly flooding my veins at the sight of him. I don't wait to be invited in before I take the handful of steps that separate us and wrap my arms around him like I'll never let go.
Maybe because I don't ever intend to. "Hi," I say softly into his hair. It's as good an opening as anything else.
He leans into me, his head pressing into my shoulder and fingers digging into my back so hard it hurts. Chris is clinging to me. Literally. Christ, he's clinging to me. The full weight of that realization cuts into me and I tighten my grip. What the hell happened?
He's never told me everything that goes on in that thick skull of his. I know he's got that stubborn need to try and do everything on his own. But he's never hidden from me either, never tried to hide the fact that there was something wrong even if he wouldn't tell me anything about it.
Nevermind his mother. I'm fairly certain she can count the number of times he's kept things from her, the important things (the things that break you), on one hand. And the bastard turned his phone off.
"You're an idiot," I find myself saying. If I'd had a plan, it wouldn't have been my choice of what to say next, no matter how true it is. Chris stiffens in my arms, tries to pull away. I don't let him, not this time. No more hiding. "Your mama is beside herself worrying about you. And I..." My voice cracks, exhaustion and a new spike of worry bleeding through. I pull back enough to look him in the eye. "Chris, you scared the shit out of me." Guilt floods his expression. I want to shake him, make him stop just hearing and actually listen to me. "Look, I know you probably won't tell me whatever it is that's going on." The admission hurts more than I expected. It doesn't matter. "I can deal with that. But knowing you needed me, knowing things were this bad, and you wouldn't--"
"Steve..." Chris starts, looking away toward the floor so his hair covers his face. For once I'm glad when he can't find his words.
"No, Chris, I..." Dammit. I've been driving for too long; the words are getting jumbled before they can come out of my mouth. I reach up with one hand and push the hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. Let my hand linger there, almost cupping his face. "You know I love you. Right?" He has to. Doesn't he?
His eyes snap up immediately. "'Course."
That's something at least. I tip my head so our foreheads are touching, am relieved again when he leans into me again. "Don't shut me out..." His fingers tighten, position shifting just enough that he's tucked against me. It's the closest I'll get to I won't from Chris with the state he's in. It's all the answer I need. The rest can come later.
Especially since that whole falling over thing I mentioned earlier? Coming up on that pretty quick, now that I know Chris isn't dead or in the hospital. Might even be swaying on my feet already.
The scrape of a chair against hardwood pulls my attention away from the man in my arms. I look up and see Jeff standing, clearing away a pair of coffee cups. He looks exhausted, and the smile he shoots me is wistful. There aren't words to thank him for helping me. Helping Chris. For me being able to trust him when he loves Christian as much as I do. I open my mouth to try anyway.
He shrugs it off, nodding like he understands. Of anyone, he would. The man's a saint. "You two should get some sleep," he says, though it really sounds like he ought to do the same himself. "'Specially you, Steven. Must not have slept at all, fast as you got here. You look like you're about to pass out where you stand, and I've had enough of carrying around grown men lately." He chuckles a little at that, and I smile despite the fresh coil of worry in my gut. (Things must have been pretty bad. How could things have gotten this bad?) Chris blushes hard enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Go on. I'll take care of breakfast. Or lunch."
I nod and have to tug a little at Chris' shoulder so he'll let go enough for us to walk to the bedroom, barely remembering to reach back and close the front door. Being this tired is a bit like being drunk, stumbling with one hand trailing along the wall, but we manage to make it. Somehow I end up sitting on the bed with Chris in front of me.
He pushes my jacket off my shoulders and I pull my arms out automatically so he can toss it to the chair in the corner. It's dark in here, and comfortable, and I have to put a hand on his arm to keep myself from just collapsing back where I am. I must start microsleeping somewhere along the way, though, because I have no memory whatsoever of Chris tugging off my shoes or pulling me to my feet so he can turn the covers down. What comes into almost startling focus, cutting through the haze, is the way he touches my face, my hair. Like he'd almost forgotten what I looked like and was committing me to memory,
The rest of my thoughts dissolve when he leans in to kiss me. It's chaste, but leaves us both breathless anyway. When he finally starts to move away, my lips chase after his to kiss him again. It's been too long, too far apart. Chris sighs against my mouth.
"C'mon darlin'," he murmurs.
It doesn't take anything more to convince me to crawl into bed beside him. I haven't got the energy for anything else, talking or otherwise. Facing each other, he presses himself against me so that as much of us is touching as possible. I'll lose feeling in my right arm where it's curled under and around him to hold him close. But with his breath warm against my neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, and sleep coming on fast?
I can't imagine doing anything else.
Author: Havenward
Series: CWRPS
Words: 1272
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson, hints of past Chris/JDM
Rating: hard PG13 for language
Notes: For amara_m and badfalcon. Follows badfalcon's story Every Cowboy Sings a Sad Sad Song. Extra thanks to thehighwaywoman for an extra set of eyes and help with the title. A touch of angst and a lot of schmoop. Steve POV.
Summary: Steve's spent just under three days straight driving to get to Chris, not knowing what state he'll find him in when he gets there.
I'm ready to fall over by the time I pull up in front of Christian's house. Part of me wants to sit there for a moment, to ready myself for what I might find. But I wasn't patient enough to wait for a goddamn flight, why start hesitating now?
I'm out of the car, up the front walk, and banging on the door before I give myself a second chance to think about it. Of course now I have time to wait. And worry. It's almost dawn, but this time of year most of the sky is still inky dark. I find myself hoping that isn't ominous.
The door opens, and it's Chris standing there. On his own two feet. And sober. He looks terrible, too tired and too thin, but there aren't words for the relief that's suddenly flooding my veins at the sight of him. I don't wait to be invited in before I take the handful of steps that separate us and wrap my arms around him like I'll never let go.
Maybe because I don't ever intend to. "Hi," I say softly into his hair. It's as good an opening as anything else.
He leans into me, his head pressing into my shoulder and fingers digging into my back so hard it hurts. Chris is clinging to me. Literally. Christ, he's clinging to me. The full weight of that realization cuts into me and I tighten my grip. What the hell happened?
He's never told me everything that goes on in that thick skull of his. I know he's got that stubborn need to try and do everything on his own. But he's never hidden from me either, never tried to hide the fact that there was something wrong even if he wouldn't tell me anything about it.
Nevermind his mother. I'm fairly certain she can count the number of times he's kept things from her, the important things (the things that break you), on one hand. And the bastard turned his phone off.
"You're an idiot," I find myself saying. If I'd had a plan, it wouldn't have been my choice of what to say next, no matter how true it is. Chris stiffens in my arms, tries to pull away. I don't let him, not this time. No more hiding. "Your mama is beside herself worrying about you. And I..." My voice cracks, exhaustion and a new spike of worry bleeding through. I pull back enough to look him in the eye. "Chris, you scared the shit out of me." Guilt floods his expression. I want to shake him, make him stop just hearing and actually listen to me. "Look, I know you probably won't tell me whatever it is that's going on." The admission hurts more than I expected. It doesn't matter. "I can deal with that. But knowing you needed me, knowing things were this bad, and you wouldn't--"
"Steve..." Chris starts, looking away toward the floor so his hair covers his face. For once I'm glad when he can't find his words.
"No, Chris, I..." Dammit. I've been driving for too long; the words are getting jumbled before they can come out of my mouth. I reach up with one hand and push the hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. Let my hand linger there, almost cupping his face. "You know I love you. Right?" He has to. Doesn't he?
His eyes snap up immediately. "'Course."
That's something at least. I tip my head so our foreheads are touching, am relieved again when he leans into me again. "Don't shut me out..." His fingers tighten, position shifting just enough that he's tucked against me. It's the closest I'll get to I won't from Chris with the state he's in. It's all the answer I need. The rest can come later.
Especially since that whole falling over thing I mentioned earlier? Coming up on that pretty quick, now that I know Chris isn't dead or in the hospital. Might even be swaying on my feet already.
The scrape of a chair against hardwood pulls my attention away from the man in my arms. I look up and see Jeff standing, clearing away a pair of coffee cups. He looks exhausted, and the smile he shoots me is wistful. There aren't words to thank him for helping me. Helping Chris. For me being able to trust him when he loves Christian as much as I do. I open my mouth to try anyway.
He shrugs it off, nodding like he understands. Of anyone, he would. The man's a saint. "You two should get some sleep," he says, though it really sounds like he ought to do the same himself. "'Specially you, Steven. Must not have slept at all, fast as you got here. You look like you're about to pass out where you stand, and I've had enough of carrying around grown men lately." He chuckles a little at that, and I smile despite the fresh coil of worry in my gut. (Things must have been pretty bad. How could things have gotten this bad?) Chris blushes hard enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. "Go on. I'll take care of breakfast. Or lunch."
I nod and have to tug a little at Chris' shoulder so he'll let go enough for us to walk to the bedroom, barely remembering to reach back and close the front door. Being this tired is a bit like being drunk, stumbling with one hand trailing along the wall, but we manage to make it. Somehow I end up sitting on the bed with Chris in front of me.
He pushes my jacket off my shoulders and I pull my arms out automatically so he can toss it to the chair in the corner. It's dark in here, and comfortable, and I have to put a hand on his arm to keep myself from just collapsing back where I am. I must start microsleeping somewhere along the way, though, because I have no memory whatsoever of Chris tugging off my shoes or pulling me to my feet so he can turn the covers down. What comes into almost startling focus, cutting through the haze, is the way he touches my face, my hair. Like he'd almost forgotten what I looked like and was committing me to memory,
The rest of my thoughts dissolve when he leans in to kiss me. It's chaste, but leaves us both breathless anyway. When he finally starts to move away, my lips chase after his to kiss him again. It's been too long, too far apart. Chris sighs against my mouth.
"C'mon darlin'," he murmurs.
It doesn't take anything more to convince me to crawl into bed beside him. I haven't got the energy for anything else, talking or otherwise. Facing each other, he presses himself against me so that as much of us is touching as possible. I'll lose feeling in my right arm where it's curled under and around him to hold him close. But with his breath warm against my neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, and sleep coming on fast?
I can't imagine doing anything else.