deawrites: (as long as you love me (chris/steve))
[personal profile] deawrites
Title: Having A Real Good Time (With Miscommunication)
Author: [livejournal.com profile] dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: This started out as an attempt to write happy porn. This didn't happen. I'm sorry? But at least I'm writing again, right? Title taken from Kane's "Don't Come Home." Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] waterofthemoon for the beta.

He misses Christian. He cracks jokes about wanting to be taken advantage of, puts everything into the music, and tries to drink enough to drown the absence beside him.



England’s an escape, really, but if it’s supposed to give him distance from Chris, it’s all only physical. Passing the same places, seeing the same sights they saw on their England tours, and none of it looks the same. The colours have faded, somehow, and there’s an ache in his chest that won’t leave him alone.

His heart breaks a little more every time he sings those songs.

He misses Christian. He cracks jokes about wanting to be taken advantage of, puts everything into the music, and tries to drink enough to drown the absence beside him.

-

It’s amazing how easy it is to avoid someone even though you run in the same circles, have the same friends. Then again, after the UK, he’s pretty sure his friends are doing the scheduling for both of them, and they’re doing a damn good job of making sure they’re never at the same place at the same time. Steve’s thankful for it, even though he never acknowledges it. He’s not sure anyone would admit to it, even if he did.

He ignores all news of Chris, especially when he does his radio tour, someone else trailing him around the country, singing and playing beside him. Poor fucker, Steve thinks. Chris is a damn handful, especially when he has somewhere to be in the morning. He feels sorry for whoever got roped into it, and he wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. At least, that’s what Steve tells himself.

He concentrates on his music.

“Let’s try something else,” Darren says, when all his major chords turn to minor, lyrics turned lost and lonely. “Let’s go for a drink.”

Even Vegas’ lights look dimmer.

-

He’s lost track of the parties he’s supposed to be at, places he’s supposed to be. Riley’s so drunk that he’s not helping at all, but fuck if it matters; it’s a party. There’s food and people and alcohol, and besides, Chris is probably still prancing around radio stations with some stupid country guitarist that knows nothing about him anyway.

He’s lost Riley and that girl he’d been talking to earlier – what was her name? – and it’s kind of a pity because he’s pretty sure she might have been gunning for finding somewhere quieter to go, but whatever. He doesn’t really care, anyway. She was pretty enough, sure, but it’s probably better this way.

And he really, really needs to take a leak.

“Steve?”

There is absolutely nothing graceful about being surprised when you’re trying to answer nature’s call, but if Kane actually had good timing, maybe they wouldn’t be in this damn mess in the first place. Steve swears loudly and stumbles over to the sink, shooting a glare at Christian as he sticks his hand under the water.

“Do you even fucking have a brain, Kane?” He growls out. “What made you think that was a good idea?”

Chris gapes at him. “You’re…uh. It’s. Steve.”

“What?” Chris is still staring. It’s starting to get a little unnerving. “What, Christian?”

“You changed your number.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns off the tap. “What do you care?” He turns his full attention to Chris. Who is still staring. There’s a look in Chris’ eyes that’s far too familiar, only Steve can’t think of a single reason why Chris would… and then there’s a flick of Chris’ tongue over his lips and a soft, helpless moan, and the reason Chris’ pupils are slowly expanding makes itself very, very clear.

His dick, at least, is very excited to see Chris again. And if he’d zipped back up, he’d be able to tell Chris to go fuck himself more convincingly.

Chris, apparently, is just as eager to see it because Steve doesn’t get any more warning than a choked sound that’s almost his name. Then his back’s against the wall, and Chris is on his knees, and he’s watching Chris’ mouth stretching wide around his cock. His hands slide into Chris’ hair automatically, pulls him forward, sinks deeper down Chris’ throat – and fuckfuckfuck, it’s still fucking perfect, warm heat, and he feels an urge to reclaim this. To punish Chris for leaving it so long, for fucking disappearing.

He winds his fingers tighter in Chris’ hair, pulls Chris back only to push in again. He starts to fuck Chris’ mouth hard, wants to fucking chokehimfillhimremindhim, and all Chris does is moan like it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

He doesn’t last. He comes down Chris’ throat with a choked off moan, and he pulls out to find Chris’ fingers wrapped around his own cock, hand moving faster, twisting in a way Steve recognizes. It takes a moment for him to realize Chris has had his legs spread the entire time, jerking himself off as Steve fucked his mouth, and fuck, he feels a light tug in his balls as his dick makes an attempt to let him know exactly how much it likes that idea.

Fuck, he’d forgotten Chris is pretty much sin personified. He brushes his thumb over the corner of Chris’ mouth, catches the come Chris hadn’t managed to swallow, slides it across to press against Chris’ lips. Chris whimpers, opens for it – and fuck, how could he forget?

“So close, aren’t you?” He mutters. Chris nods, eyes squeezed shut. “Fucking look at me, Christian.”

Chris has always looked fucking amazing on his knees.

Steve sinks down to face him and curls his hand around Chris’. He shifts it once, twice, flicks his thumb over the head of Chris’ cock, and Chris comes with a low groan.

This time, Steve remembers to do up his pants. He doesn’t forget to give Chris his new number; he just doesn’t do it.

-

There’s banging on his door.

“You can’t fucking do that to me!” Chris has been banging for a little while now, cursing and swearing, and Steve’s pretty sure if he leaves him out there for a little while longer, one of his neighbours is going to call the police. Wouldn’t be the first time Chris gets done for disturbing the peace.

That last statement, however, is something he wants to answer.

He unlocks the door and opens it, and he almost gets a fist in the face for his troubles. Chris manages to stop his hand before it lands, though, even though he looks like he really regrets it a moment later. He’s probably cursing his reflexes.

He’s absolutely fuming, breathing hard, eyes wild and angry. The fact that his lips are bruised and his voice is rougher than usual ruins the effect of the glare.

Steve crosses his arms.

“You can’t fucking do that to me,” Chris repeats. “You – you can’t. You can’t just – and then leave me there without even your goddamn number. I know where you live.

“I can see that,” Steve answers calmly. “What do you want?”

“You – Steve,” Chris says. “You can’t just fuck me and leave me there without a fucking word.”

“Why not?” Steve asks. “That’s what you did. Now you know what it felt like when you left me for that fucking deal.”

Chris flinches, takes a step back. “What?”

“You heard me,” Steve says, and he shuts the door.

-

He doesn’t hear from Chris again. He tells himself he’s relieved, that the incident in that bathroom was closure – that he’s glad he’s got the last say, that it’s over for him. That he doesn’t feel like his bed’s too damn big at night and his coffee never tastes quite right.

He’s over it.

Then Aldis fucking Hodge and Academy Award Winner Timothy fucking Hutton himself turn up on his doorstep.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Hutton demands as they push inside. Apparently, being an Academy Award winner means you require no introduction, even when you’ve never met. And despite that Aldis is the geeky guy on the show (yes, Steve’s watched it; no, it wasn’t because of Chris), he’s apparently the muscle today. Not that Steve’s convinced Hutton needs any back up.

Maybe they both just want to grill him.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” He returns. He doesn’t need to answer anything; they weren’t invited in.

“Asking you questions.” Apparently, Aldis Hodge is also a fucking smartass. Brilliant. “What the fuck did you do, Carlson?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Hutton whirls around and pins him with a stare. “To Chris, Carlson. What the fuck did you do to Chris?”

“You flew all the way here to ask me that?” He’s not answering any fucking questions; it’s none of their damn business. “You could have done that over the phone.”

“Flew?” Aldis says. When he laughs, Steve gets the feeling that he’s really, really missing something. “Are you fucking kidding?”

Now he’s confused. Chris had flown out – Nashville, then Chicago, then god fucking knew where – but they hadn’t flown in?

“We shoot in LA.” The look on Hutton’s face says everything; he thinks Steve is a complete and utter idiot.

Steve feels like a complete and utter idiot. He gapes. “What?”

Aldis snorts. Steve’s a little stuck on the fact that there’s a twenty-two-year-old snorting in derision at him. “You really didn’t know? Kane’s been on a fucking high since we got the news. Kept saying he couldn’t fucking wait, he was coming home, and maybe he’d finally get enough time to find you and apologise, make shit right.”

“Came to set the other day looking like someone shot his dog,” Hutton accuses. It doesn’t help the pit that’s opened up in Steve’s stomach. In fact, he’s pretty sure his guilt just digs deeper. “And he’s been wandering around looking like that ever since. Hasn’t said a single fucking word about you, and looks damn well more out of place here than he ever did in Chicago.”

“What?” He’s not going to add to his humiliation by fainting, but he’s pretty damn close to it. He’s not getting enough air – there’s no way he’s getting enough oxygen in his lungs, to his brain. He can’t process this.

There’s a few moments of silence. “You didn’t know, did you?” Tim asks him. “That he’s wanted to come back to you for months. He wanted to be able to stay.”

Steve shakes his head. He can’t process this. He can’t find the words. God, Chris.

“I didn’t know,” he finally manages, whispered and broken. Chris. “God, what did I do?”

-

It’s not easy to convince Tim and Aldis to help him, especially when they won’t say a word until he’s told them exactly what he did. Well, the CliffsNotes version because, really, they didn’t need it in all its gory details.

And he wasn’t sure he could stomach the shame of retelling the full story, not now he knows Chris’ side.

They do agree eventually, mostly because Steve’s not above begging for help. He’s got to make this right. It doesn’t even matter if Chris won’t take him back now; he’s got to make some part of this right again, and he can’t do that if he doesn’t know where Chris is. Luckily for him, after promises of pain and retribution should he fuck this up anymore, Tim and Aldis help him plan.

Turns out, they’re pretty good at plans. Despite them pretty much telling him that they’ll be listening outside Chris’ trailer door, Steve’s so grateful he could cry.

He sits quietly in Chris’ trailer, looking around and waiting for Chris to finish shooting. It doesn’t help alleviate the guilt at all, doesn’t help him with anything except missing Chris more.

Chris has pictures taped to the walls. Steve can make out David, Stephanie, and the rest of the Angel crew in a group of photos, Chris’ family in another. There’s some of Jerrod and Brandon, and Riley, Jason – familiar faces everywhere – and more recent pictures of the Leverage cast and crew – people he only knows by sight and name. The part of Chris’ life he’s never shared.

And then there’s an almost space, wallpaper ripped and peeled. Someone tore whatever was there down in a hurry, and there would be no way to know what occupied that space except for a couple of snapshots that survived the destruction. There’s a picture of them, his arm thrown carelessly across Chris’ shoulders, pulling him close as he whispers something in his ear. The smile on Chris’ face is absolutely breathtaking. There are a couple more, similar ones, of them and their friends, one of the band at Country Thunder. And then there’s one he’s never seen before, torn in half and taped back together again. It’s a fuzzy picture of him, fast asleep and settled in their old bed, easy smile on his face, one arm thrown over the space Chris should have been in.

His eyes burn, but it’s only when he catches sight of the Stripped Down case next to the CD player that the tears fall.

Of course, the cast chooses that exact moment to escort Chris back to his trailer.

“We’re just going to be outside,” Gina says, voice soothing. It’s the same voice Steve hears sometimes on TV.

“It’s going to be okay,” Beth adds.

“Right here.” Hutton’s looking past Chris, though, and right at Steve. Steve registers that on some level, but his attention’s completely focused somewhere else. On someone else.

Chris hasn’t turned around yet. He’s looking at his friends like they’re talking a different language. “Guys? I’m just going to change. It’s not like I’m – ” He stops talking. Stops turning. Stops moving, and just stares at Steve.

“Just outside, brother,” Aldis says as he reaches up and squeezes Chris’ arm. “Just call if you need us. Need anything. If you want us to throw him out or hide his body or something, you just yell.”

It’s really not reassuring, but Steve knows he deserves it. He stands up slowly but doesn’t make any attempts to go any closer to Chris, even as the trailer door shuts behind him.

Chris is the one calling the shots, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Just… give me a few minutes, okay?” Steve starts when, a few seconds later, Chris is still standing there silently. “I… fuck, Chris.”

“You already did that,” Chris says coldly.

Steve let out another breath, swallows hard, and just nods. It’s the truth, and he can’t make excuses if he’s going to get Chris to listen. “I know. And I didn’t just fuck… you, I fucked up. I didn’t know you – I didn’t know Leverage was shooting here. That you were back in LA.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I know, and I should have. I don’t have any excuse for it except I was hurt and drunk and – fuck, Chris, wrong. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to hurt you like you hurt me.”

“Well, congratulations,” Chris says. He steps to the side, giving Steve a clear path to the door. “You succeeded.”

“And I want to make that right,” Steve whispers, heart in his throat. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want Chris to tell him to leave. “Like you tried to make this right. To make us right. Please, Chris.”

Chris looks between him and the door, hand going up to carelessly brush against something familiar. Steve has to squint slightly to make it out between Chris’ fidgeting, but there’s no mistaking it. He bites his lower lip, waiting for Chris to look back at him.

“You’re still wearing it,” he says. At Chris’ confused look, he gestures to the necklace. There’s a matching one around his neck. Despite everything, he’s never been able to bring himself to take it off. “That’s got to mean something, right? Please, Chris. It doesn’t have to be much – doesn’t have to be anything at all. Just, please, let me fix something.”

He pulls a piece of paper out from his pocket. “Starting with my phone number. And maybe coffee some time, somewhere with people around. Please.”

It takes another moment – Steve doesn’t know how long because, to him, it feels like hours – but Chris finally nods and crosses the room. He takes the piece of paper carefully from Steve’s hand, then pulls out his phone and punches in the number. In his pocket, Steve’s phone vibrates, Chris’ own voice singing One More Shot back to them, loud and clear.

And I've got a lot of nerve
To ask you back at all.


Their eyes meet, just for a split second, before Steve drops his gaze to the floor. “Give me a call when you can fit me in,” he says finally.

“Wednesday,” Chris says, just as Steve’s about to turn the handle of the door. He looks back at Chris, who’s now standing in the middle of the trailer, his phone still in his hand. “I’m free on Wednesday.”

Steve lets himself hope.
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