mickeym

A bit of kinda cracked-out Trickyfish *g* For

rhyssj, who shares my odd kinks :)

Morphine dreams are very, very strange things.

Somewhere in between the penguin with an AK47 who's angry with the polar bears, and the giant dancing mushrooms and strawberries (which are really terrifying, in a detached I-know-this-is-a-dream sort of way), Chris' bladder starts sending out messages that it's about time to wake up and deal with it.

There is a problem however, in that even recognizing it, there's no guarantee he can do anything about it. He's lost in the hazy world of drugged dreams. Nothing feels real, but everything seems real, and wow—it's like Alice in Wonderland. Complete with a grinning Cheshire Cat that laughs and talks to him a deep, slow southern drawl.

Ooh. That drawl makes other parts of him throb gently in time with his bladder. He reaches up and touches the cat, but his fingers slide through shimmery images and he blinks at the way the features rearrange themselves, though the eyes – glittering green, a mischievous tilt to them – never shift.

"Cat," he mumbles quietly, "you're freaking me out. Come or go."

"You are so wasted." The cat rumbles softly then touches Chris' face briefly. Before Chris can say it's a legal wasted – pain killers are awesome things, when they really take the pain away – he's gone, glowing smile fading into another weird round of strawberries and penguins and a really scary something that is Prince, but with Madonna's tits.

"I don't like those tits," Chris says to the Prince-Madonna person, but the cat is the one who answers, eyes glittering through the dream-haze.

"You need anything, man? I'm thinking you have enough drugs in your system—"

"I don't know." He shifts – dream-self or real-self? – and the throbbing in his body is instantly worse, instantly real. "Maybe. Yes. I think I need to take a leak. Am I awake?"

"I have no idea." The cat sounds amused now, and Chris blinks, then pokes a finger at it, smiling when it grunts.

"You're real."

"So they tell me. C'mon, doofus. Sit up and we'll get you into the bathroom."

It sounds easy – even if Chris is still half-convinced the cat is really a cat, and not Lance. He thinks Lance was the one who took him to the oral surgeon and then drove him home after his surgery…and so if it was Lance, why is there this cat?

"It is me, you ass. Quit calling me a cat. And sit up."

"Spinny." Getting up is not so easy to do. Chris winces when he moves, and again when he very gingerly sits up. His whole face feels swollen and hot, and aches in the way that makes him think about the bar fight he got into with Jimmy Swenson right after he'd turned twenty-one and could go out legally. Jimmy'd had a left hook that left Chris sore and swollen and bruised for days. "Lance—the room's spinny. Spinning." He closes his eyes thinking that'll help, but instead it just makes him realize how bad he really has to go, now that he's actually sort of awake and moving.

"That's 'cos you're completely wasted on pain meds, Chris. C'mon—oof. God." Lance growls something very unflattering into Chris' ear, but all it does is slide down to wrap around his nerve endings, adding a really nice warm glow to the one already winding through him.

"Mmm. Moving. Walking. Did you know you look like the Cheshire Cat?" He's not really walking; more like floating, his feet hardly seem to touch the ground. Or that could be because Lance is practically carrying him.

"Mmhmm." Lance brushes a kiss against Chris' temple. "You're such a dork."

"Uhhuh." It's not far from the bed to the bathroom, but each step – each float? – jars him a bit, leaves an ache he can feel vaguely-formed beneath the medicine haze. "Can I have more drugs?"

"Pee first, then drugs." Lance maneuvers him in front of the toilet and steps back. "Go for it." And it's really weird how all he's wearing is sweats, but the string tying them is too complex to figure out. Chris fumbles with the knot, rolling it between his fingers, tugging futilely at it until Lance sighs and steps forward, fitting himself against Chris' back. "I'm amazed you're actually housebroken," he whispers, tugging on the waistband. It slides down magically, leaving Chris bare, ready to go.

"Who says I am?" He whispers back, and feels the warmth within him increase when Lance slips one hand around his waist and down to take his cock in hand. "Oh—"

"Go on, Chris." It's a soft touch, and soft words, almost a whisper, zigging through him, adding to the haze surrounding him. "Go on. It's cool."

He closes his eyes because really, it's kinda weird. Not bad weird, just—weird. But good. So, eyes closed, and he giggles a little and relaxes back and Lance is—not caressing him, exactly, and it's not like Lance hasn't ever held his dick, but not like this. And he's big and warm and solid behind Chris—and it feels good to let go, to piss while Lance holds him, totally not grossed out at all.

He still feels floaty and warm when he's finished – and he wonders if it always takes this long to take a leak, or if it's the meds, or just 'cos Lance is helping him, or what. But he's warm and tingling, and a little turned on in spite of the ache in his jaws. Lance slides his sweats back up, then gets him settled back in bed. A bit of water, some more pain meds, and then a warm Lance – who blinks at him from cat-green eyes – snuggling beside him.

Chris kisses Lance sloppy, giggles when Lance licks at his tongue, then shudders when the room tilts wildly. "Spinny again."

"Close your eyes and sleep, darlin'." Another kiss, this one warm and gentle, licking at his lips. Chris moans softly and shifts, snuggling close into Lance. "That's it. Sleep, and dream again."

"Dream of you," he slurs.

"Okay. Dream of me. Or for me."

"M'kay."

He dreams of gentle hands holding him, touching him, and a warm, soft rain falling around him.

~fin~