SN fic: Midnight Caller
Title: Midnight Caller
Fandom: Sports Night
Characters: Casey McCall, Dan Rydell
Rating: PG
Category: Slash, 1,530 words
Summary: After the worst date in the world, who else is Casey going to tell about it but Dan? Even if he has to wake him up at four in the morning to do it.
Written: July 2006 for the contrelamontre 30-minute challenge, Disappointment.
There's a hammering on Dan's apartment door, although at first he doesn't realise that's what it is. Fast asleep, he dreams of jackhammers, of thunder, of earthquakes, and when he finally claws his way into wakefulness his heart, too, is hammering fit to equal what he now realises is only the sound of someone knocking at his door, although knocking sells it short. Pounding, pounding is what it is. And as for the someone, who is he kidding? There's only one person it can be, only one person who thinks nothing of waking him up, him and, by now, all his neighbours, at (Dan checks): four in the morning.
Dan flops back against his pillows and moans, and contemplates for a moment simply burying his head underneath those pillows and, for once, leaving Casey to sort out his own problems all by himself, without any help from Dan, without Dan having to sit and watch the night shrink away and the sun come up while Casey storms and rants and blusters and contradicts himself twenty times over and rejects all Dan's opinions and suggestions and all his attempts to pacify or help and eventually goes away as mad as he came, nothing concluded, nothing resolved.
And then, in the interest of still having a roof over his head at the end of the month (because: neighbours. There's only so much they'll stand for), Dan gives in, throws back the covers, and pads over to the door, unhooks the chain, slides the bolts and pulls it open.
He allows himself a tiny, vengeful satisfaction in doing so so sharply that Casey loses his balance and stumbles into the room, trips over the mat and staggers on in until he fetches up against the coffee table and bangs his shins.
Casey straightens and glares, which, Dan considers, is a bit steep. If anyone in the room's entitled to be pissed, he thinks it should be him. But Casey in banging-on-doors-at-4am mode is unlikely to listen to reason, and Dan lets it slide. He just says, "Hey," and wanders past Casey, into the kitchen, pulls two bottles of water from the fridge and tosses one to the other man, heads back to the living room and claims the couch before Casey has a chance to beat him to it. Not that Casey seems to be thinking of making himself comfortable. They're definitely in for pacing, then, Dan guesses, and wonders whether there's any point in making a plea on behalf of the little old lady downstairs.
Probably not.
Casey's expression is one that Dan knows only too well: belligerent, defensive. It's the look he gets when he's behaved outrageously by anyone else's standards but his own and is astonished to find himself meeting with disapprobation. Or when he just plain old doesn't get his own way. Dan tips his head against the back of the couch and wonders which it is this time, how much fallout there's going to be, and how long Casey's going to stand there scowling before he actually opens his mouth to speak.
If it's going to be a while, Dan wonders whether he could get away with a quick, eyes-open nap.
He doesn't want to be the one to ask. Because he's not so sleepy that he doesn't remember where Casey was tonight. Not so fuddled that he can't make a pretty good guess why he's here now: banging, stomping, fuming. Sulking.
Tonight was the night, the long-awaited night, when Casey finally - finally! - had his first date with Dana.
The Dating Plan was a long-ago memory; that whole episode had been written off, no-one ever talked about it any more, not even as a joke. It hadn't been funny, anyway. Still wasn't. But Casey and Dana … they had a history. There'd been this thing, this attraction, this vibe, between them for so many years now. Knock it down, stamp on it, ignore it, it was never going to go away. It was always there, like a persistent itch in the small of your back, one you couldn't reach with even the tip of your fingernail, no matter how you twisted and stretched.
Until eventually you had to ask someone else to scratch it.
And that had been tonight. Dan, along with everyone else, had pretty much breathed a sigh of relief. Casey and Dana had been sparking so much off one another, it was a wonder they hadn't set themselves and the entire studio on fire. Time to get it out of their systems. After tonight, it'd all be settled, all the friction, all the tension. For better or for worse, they'd know where they stood.
He guesses it'd been 'worse'.
But damned if he's going to ask.
So Casey carries on pacing, and glaring, and running his hands through his hair, and occasionally sighing, and Dan sinks further and deeper into the couch and casts longing glances toward his bedroom door, and it looks as though this could go on all night, or morning, or whatever it is, but eventually, finally, Casey blurts out, "Oh, god, Danny, that was just - that was - that was awful! Awful, awful, awful!"
Dan struggles upright and jams his eyes open. "You didn't charm her?"
Casey shudders. "I've known Dana over fifteen years. She's wise to my ways, Danny."
"That's bad?"
"Pretty bad."
"She knows the worst."
"She really does!" Casey shudders again, and launches into a recitation of the events of the evening. He goes into considerable detail, more than Dan really needs to know, and he holds up a hand.
"Casey?"
Casey blinks at him, surprised at the interruption.
"Can you not … I mean, we've been through this before, and I know my lines. Only, you know? Psycho bitch, lucky escape? This is Dana we're talking about here, so - um, maybe, not so much." Plus, thinking of Casey and Dana together? It's less than one small step down from picturing his parents having sex, and, really, who needs that?
Casey says, "Oh," and just stands there, his hands hanging down at his sides. Dan leans forward, rubs his eyes again, and says, "So. You slunk?"
"I did not - "
"Casey." Dan nods at the clock, and Casey lets his head drop, lets out a heavy sigh, collapses onto the couch next to Dan.
"You think that job offer's still open? The one in LA?"
"Oh," Dan says, and he doesn't sound bitter at all, "now LA sounds good to you! Besides," he adds, "they wanted Dana too. We come as a boxed set, apparently."
"Yeah," Casey says, and he lets out a long, deep sigh of his own. "Okay. No LA. I'll make a manly apology tomorrow."
"You should."
"There may be flowers."
"I think that might actually be compulsory."
"The guy code."
"That very thing." Dan tries not to yawn, but fails.
"I'll tell her …" Casey pauses. "What do I tell her?"
"You woke me up to write your damn break-up script?" Dan wants to sound outraged, but he knows it just comes across as whiny.
"No," Casey says. "No. I just - I didn't know where else to go."
And this is why Dan gets up; this is why he opens the door, this is why he listens, why he'll always be there. Casey sounds hurt, and bewildered, and scared, and no older than Charlie; just a lost, frightened kid, skinned knees, bruised knuckles, banging his head against the brick wall of a hard and unforgiving world and losing, never even standing a chance.
Dan's been in that same place too often himself not to want to help where he can. "It's okay," he says softly, and rests a hand on Casey's forearm. "Casey, it's - "
He was going to say 'okay' again, because it's gone 5.00 now and this is not the hour for either coherence or lucidity, but he says nothing at all, except, perhaps, a tiny "Oh!" of surprise, because Casey has turned, and leaned toward him, close, closer, closer yet, and now Casey's mouth is covering his, soft and questing, then suddenly not soft at all, and Casey's hands …
He stops thinking right about then, if not before, and when he surfaces much, much later, pinned under Casey's weight, looking up into Casey's eyes that are no longer angry or hurt or worried but are - god, he's never seen this before, they are dancing, dancing with excitement, with exhilaration, with pure joy - he still can't think of anything to say, and so he reaches up and snakes his arm around Casey's neck and pulls Casey's head down to rest on his chest, and he breathes into Casey's hair, "That was …"
Casey grins up at him.
"It really was," he says.
"That's good," Dan murmurs. "I'd've hated for you to've had two disappointments in one night."
He feels the touch of Casey's lips against his neck; Casey's fingers brush along his cheek, and his eyes slip closed; his breathing steadies and slows and deepens, and he begins to drift back into sleep. The last thing he hears is Casey's whisper.
"There was never any chance of that, Danny. Never any chance of that, at all."
***
Fandom: Sports Night
Characters: Casey McCall, Dan Rydell
Rating: PG
Category: Slash, 1,530 words
Summary: After the worst date in the world, who else is Casey going to tell about it but Dan? Even if he has to wake him up at four in the morning to do it.
Written: July 2006 for the contrelamontre 30-minute challenge, Disappointment.
There's a hammering on Dan's apartment door, although at first he doesn't realise that's what it is. Fast asleep, he dreams of jackhammers, of thunder, of earthquakes, and when he finally claws his way into wakefulness his heart, too, is hammering fit to equal what he now realises is only the sound of someone knocking at his door, although knocking sells it short. Pounding, pounding is what it is. And as for the someone, who is he kidding? There's only one person it can be, only one person who thinks nothing of waking him up, him and, by now, all his neighbours, at (Dan checks): four in the morning.
Dan flops back against his pillows and moans, and contemplates for a moment simply burying his head underneath those pillows and, for once, leaving Casey to sort out his own problems all by himself, without any help from Dan, without Dan having to sit and watch the night shrink away and the sun come up while Casey storms and rants and blusters and contradicts himself twenty times over and rejects all Dan's opinions and suggestions and all his attempts to pacify or help and eventually goes away as mad as he came, nothing concluded, nothing resolved.
And then, in the interest of still having a roof over his head at the end of the month (because: neighbours. There's only so much they'll stand for), Dan gives in, throws back the covers, and pads over to the door, unhooks the chain, slides the bolts and pulls it open.
He allows himself a tiny, vengeful satisfaction in doing so so sharply that Casey loses his balance and stumbles into the room, trips over the mat and staggers on in until he fetches up against the coffee table and bangs his shins.
Casey straightens and glares, which, Dan considers, is a bit steep. If anyone in the room's entitled to be pissed, he thinks it should be him. But Casey in banging-on-doors-at-4am mode is unlikely to listen to reason, and Dan lets it slide. He just says, "Hey," and wanders past Casey, into the kitchen, pulls two bottles of water from the fridge and tosses one to the other man, heads back to the living room and claims the couch before Casey has a chance to beat him to it. Not that Casey seems to be thinking of making himself comfortable. They're definitely in for pacing, then, Dan guesses, and wonders whether there's any point in making a plea on behalf of the little old lady downstairs.
Probably not.
Casey's expression is one that Dan knows only too well: belligerent, defensive. It's the look he gets when he's behaved outrageously by anyone else's standards but his own and is astonished to find himself meeting with disapprobation. Or when he just plain old doesn't get his own way. Dan tips his head against the back of the couch and wonders which it is this time, how much fallout there's going to be, and how long Casey's going to stand there scowling before he actually opens his mouth to speak.
If it's going to be a while, Dan wonders whether he could get away with a quick, eyes-open nap.
He doesn't want to be the one to ask. Because he's not so sleepy that he doesn't remember where Casey was tonight. Not so fuddled that he can't make a pretty good guess why he's here now: banging, stomping, fuming. Sulking.
Tonight was the night, the long-awaited night, when Casey finally - finally! - had his first date with Dana.
The Dating Plan was a long-ago memory; that whole episode had been written off, no-one ever talked about it any more, not even as a joke. It hadn't been funny, anyway. Still wasn't. But Casey and Dana … they had a history. There'd been this thing, this attraction, this vibe, between them for so many years now. Knock it down, stamp on it, ignore it, it was never going to go away. It was always there, like a persistent itch in the small of your back, one you couldn't reach with even the tip of your fingernail, no matter how you twisted and stretched.
Until eventually you had to ask someone else to scratch it.
And that had been tonight. Dan, along with everyone else, had pretty much breathed a sigh of relief. Casey and Dana had been sparking so much off one another, it was a wonder they hadn't set themselves and the entire studio on fire. Time to get it out of their systems. After tonight, it'd all be settled, all the friction, all the tension. For better or for worse, they'd know where they stood.
He guesses it'd been 'worse'.
But damned if he's going to ask.
So Casey carries on pacing, and glaring, and running his hands through his hair, and occasionally sighing, and Dan sinks further and deeper into the couch and casts longing glances toward his bedroom door, and it looks as though this could go on all night, or morning, or whatever it is, but eventually, finally, Casey blurts out, "Oh, god, Danny, that was just - that was - that was awful! Awful, awful, awful!"
Dan struggles upright and jams his eyes open. "You didn't charm her?"
Casey shudders. "I've known Dana over fifteen years. She's wise to my ways, Danny."
"That's bad?"
"Pretty bad."
"She knows the worst."
"She really does!" Casey shudders again, and launches into a recitation of the events of the evening. He goes into considerable detail, more than Dan really needs to know, and he holds up a hand.
"Casey?"
Casey blinks at him, surprised at the interruption.
"Can you not … I mean, we've been through this before, and I know my lines. Only, you know? Psycho bitch, lucky escape? This is Dana we're talking about here, so - um, maybe, not so much." Plus, thinking of Casey and Dana together? It's less than one small step down from picturing his parents having sex, and, really, who needs that?
Casey says, "Oh," and just stands there, his hands hanging down at his sides. Dan leans forward, rubs his eyes again, and says, "So. You slunk?"
"I did not - "
"Casey." Dan nods at the clock, and Casey lets his head drop, lets out a heavy sigh, collapses onto the couch next to Dan.
"You think that job offer's still open? The one in LA?"
"Oh," Dan says, and he doesn't sound bitter at all, "now LA sounds good to you! Besides," he adds, "they wanted Dana too. We come as a boxed set, apparently."
"Yeah," Casey says, and he lets out a long, deep sigh of his own. "Okay. No LA. I'll make a manly apology tomorrow."
"You should."
"There may be flowers."
"I think that might actually be compulsory."
"The guy code."
"That very thing." Dan tries not to yawn, but fails.
"I'll tell her …" Casey pauses. "What do I tell her?"
"You woke me up to write your damn break-up script?" Dan wants to sound outraged, but he knows it just comes across as whiny.
"No," Casey says. "No. I just - I didn't know where else to go."
And this is why Dan gets up; this is why he opens the door, this is why he listens, why he'll always be there. Casey sounds hurt, and bewildered, and scared, and no older than Charlie; just a lost, frightened kid, skinned knees, bruised knuckles, banging his head against the brick wall of a hard and unforgiving world and losing, never even standing a chance.
Dan's been in that same place too often himself not to want to help where he can. "It's okay," he says softly, and rests a hand on Casey's forearm. "Casey, it's - "
He was going to say 'okay' again, because it's gone 5.00 now and this is not the hour for either coherence or lucidity, but he says nothing at all, except, perhaps, a tiny "Oh!" of surprise, because Casey has turned, and leaned toward him, close, closer, closer yet, and now Casey's mouth is covering his, soft and questing, then suddenly not soft at all, and Casey's hands …
He stops thinking right about then, if not before, and when he surfaces much, much later, pinned under Casey's weight, looking up into Casey's eyes that are no longer angry or hurt or worried but are - god, he's never seen this before, they are dancing, dancing with excitement, with exhilaration, with pure joy - he still can't think of anything to say, and so he reaches up and snakes his arm around Casey's neck and pulls Casey's head down to rest on his chest, and he breathes into Casey's hair, "That was …"
Casey grins up at him.
"It really was," he says.
"That's good," Dan murmurs. "I'd've hated for you to've had two disappointments in one night."
He feels the touch of Casey's lips against his neck; Casey's fingers brush along his cheek, and his eyes slip closed; his breathing steadies and slows and deepens, and he begins to drift back into sleep. The last thing he hears is Casey's whisper.
"There was never any chance of that, Danny. Never any chance of that, at all."
***