mickeym

I'd hoped to get more done, and faster, but it's been a weird weekend. So, here are three.

darkseaglass

It's never been a secret I don't like planes, or flying. In fact 'don't like' is pretty much an understatement.

I got used to them, as much as I could, because Michael flew a lot. Around the country to the various offices and production centers for Pierson Pharmaceuticals, as well as overseas to see his family and to attend to business there. The more the corporation expanded, the more he was needed elsewhere, so it quickly reached a point where it was a matter of suck it up and deal, or check out of reality altogether. I didn't really consider that an option, so suck it up and deal, it was.

That didn't mean I had to like it, though.

Michael was good about checking in with me on the various legs of his trips--before they took off, whenever they landed, always when he was at home. It helped, too, especially once technology caught up and he could call from the plane--though he didn't very often, since he frequently used that time to catch up reading contracts or proposals or a hundred other things that made up his version of paperwork.

On this particular trip he'd kissed me goodbye at the ungodly hour of four a.m. -- I think I'd been asleep for a couple hours, maybe -- and whispered, "love you, Caro. Talk to you this afternoon, yes?"

I muttered yes and rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head. The last thing I heard before falling back to sleep was his rich, low laugh. It was nice to know I amused him.

~~~~~

My alarm went off at seven and I realized nothing had woke me in between Michael leaving and now, and my stomach cramped up a little. I swallowed down the fear and need to panic -- bitter, bitter taste in my mouth -- and went to shower, telling myself firmly that there could be any number of reasons why Michael hadn't called yet. A glance out the window told me they probably hadn't even left yet, because it was foggier than usual, like thick pea soup hanging in the air outside.

At seven-thirty I turned the television on to catch the weather and traffic, and stopped dead in my tracks when the anchorman said, "updating you on what we know right now, a small, private owned jet slid off the runway this morning, narrowly missing a collision with another aircraft, United flight 1038, bound for Los Angeles--"

I hit mute on the button at the same time there was a sharp, brief rap on the door. It swung open before I could make my mouth work, and Miles stood there, an odd look on his face.

"It's not him, right? Tell me it wasn't--" I stopped then, because I could read it on his face. Nearly ten years together, I knew most of the expressions Miles ever wore, and this one. God. I locked my knees in place because otherwise, I'd be on the floor in a heartbeat. As it was, I was sure I was going to throw up.

"He, that is, the hospital, rang my private line just a moment ago, Mr. Taylor. Mr. Pierson is all right, though a bit banged up. I'm to bring you down as soon as you're ready to go. Apparently he's being a bit--"

"Pigheaded? Stubborn? A pain in the ass?" I wanted to hit something, really really hard. Michael would do in a pinch, even if I had to wait until he wasn't 'banged up' to do it. No, I didn't really mean that, but Jesus Christ. I swallowed hard, then swallowed again as sweat broke out on my forehead.

"Any of those will do," Miles said calmly, then reached for me as I wobbled. He guided me to the edge of the bed and thrust a trashcan at me just in time.

Nerves, relief, fear, I wasn't sure. Some combination of all of them. I was glad I hadn't had breakfast yet; less to come up, that way.

"Sorry," I muttered to Miles, but he waved my apology away, disappearing into the bathroom with the trashcan and reappearing with a cool, damp cloth and a glass of water. By the time I'd rinsed my mouth and wiped myself off I felt almost human. Almost. "Give me five minutes," I said and Miles nodded and turned for the door. "Hey, Miles?"

He turned back. "Sir?"

"Thanks."

I got the half-smile he used most of the time to express pleasure, or happiness. "I understand, Mr. Taylor--I care for him, as well."

~~~~~

Michael was growling at a nurse when I walked into his room. He was paler than usual, except for a vivid red-purple bruise spreading out from under a bandage and across his forehead. His bottom lip was swollen, with what looked like stitches in it, and he had a pressure bandage on his left wrist. He looked absolutely wonderful, even banged up and snarling.

His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he did that…thing he does so well, so instinctively, and dismissed the nurse just by looking away from her. She glared back at him and shook her head, and mock-whispered to me on her way past, "see if you can get him to act sensibly."

I snorted at that, because really, if I'd learned anything in the last decade, it was that Michael Pierson did what he damned well pleased, and to hell with the rest of the world.

"Randy--Caro," he said as I got closer to the bed. "I didn't…I'm sorry."

"Michael. I thought--" I swallowed down the rest of the words, and instead leaned in to hug him. I heard him grunt when I squeezed too tightly, but he didn't back down, so I didn't either. I needed to hold him tight, at least for a minute, and reassure myself he was still alive. Still breathing. Still here. I squeeze again, once, then let go to perch beside him on the bed. "Sorry for what?"

"I know how you feel about planes, and about me flying."

Ghosts from ages ago flashed through my mind, but I pushed them away. Michael was here, was alive, and honestly, just getting into a car or truck and out in traffic was more dangerous than getting into an airplane. I sighed and shrugged. "You're worth a few gray hairs, darlin'."

"Just a few?" He teased, reaching up to brush my hair back from my eyes. His own hair was liberally salt-and-pepper now, though he was vain enough to color it.

"Okay, more than a few. But I think you reached your quota today for like, the next couple of years." I leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss across his mouth, taking care not to apply any pressure.

"So noted," he answered, just before pressing his mouth harder against mine.

I'm still not sure which one of us whimpered, before the sound disappeared into the kiss.

destina

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me." Dean scowled at Sam, no really, at the stack of boxes in his hand, and grumbled, "seriously. Board games? You're kidding, right?"

"It'll help pass the time, Dean." Sam set the pile on the card table, then eyed Dean, stretched out on the couch, broken leg elevated with a pile of pillows and folded blankets. "How's your leg? Do you need anything?"

"A new leg and a different life," Dean muttered, eyeing the pile of games like they were poltergeists just waiting to jump out and get him. "This is so lame, dude. Monopoly?"

"There's Monopoly, Scrabble, Life, um--" Sam poked at the pile. "Guess we're both too old for Chutes-N-Ladders--Mrs. Hovenish just handed me the whole stack, I think."

"You didn't tell her we're here by ourselves, did you?" That'd just be icing on the cake, Dean thought, if the nosey, mothers-everyone-in-the-building neighbor knew they were here while Dad…wasn't. Especially with Sam still being young enough that Social Services would intervene.

"Do I look stupid?" Sam snapped the words out, then sighed and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I just said we were both bored with the rotten weather, and tired of playing cards. She didn't say anything about if we were alone or whatever."

"Keep an eye on her, Sammy. Old biddy's just waiting to stick her nose in where it don't belong--"

"She's nice," Sam said quietly in protest. "She gave me some oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies, too. Dunno if I should share with you now, or not."

"I think we should play Monopoly with cookies as the stakes," Dean said, eyeing the foil-wrapped package he hadn't noticed before. "Winner takes all."

"Nuh-uh." Sam shook his head. "If I share them with you, it's gonna be divided evenly, not based on the game. You cheat, man."

"Me?" Dean slapped his hand to his chest over his heart. "You wound me, dude. Cheat my baby brother at Monopoly?"

"The minute I take my eye off you," Sam muttered, moving the rest of the games off the table. "You sure you don't need anything? Another pain pill?"

"Nah, I'm good." And he really was, Dean realized. Yes, okay, bored and sore -- broken bones were a bitch -- but a little down time with his brother wasn't a bad thing…and if he played his cards right, or well, his Monopoly token, he might be able to pad his finances and get a few extra cookies out of it.

poetdiva28

It might be funny, if it didn't happen every single time they went into the studio. Chris could actually predict fairly accurately about what time things would breakdown. When communication would cease working, and JC and Justin would move beyond the occasional friendly snarking to bickering, to fighting.

He really hoped their make-up sex was spectacular, because their arguments got pretty out-of-control at times.

No, he wasn't thinking about the time Justin punched a hole in the wall in the lefthand stall of the men's room, either.

"It needs to be lower," JC said, inside the studio. He was bent over the soundboard, Justin hovering beside him, his mouth drawn downward. "There's too much--" Some wild gesticulation apparently conveyed to Justin what there was too much of, but Chris couldn't tell, himself.

"If you make that lower, then we'll need to compensate here--" Justin pointed, and pushed at one of the knobs, and Chris sighed and checked his watch. He hoped Joey was ready to pay up this time. And that there wasn't going to be any bloodshed. Not that there'd been bloodshed before, exactly--unless scraped knuckles counted.

"No. We won't have to compensate--we can dub Chris's vocals in over that, and it'll--" Another whirlwind of gesturing, which made Justin shake his head violently enough Chris felt sick to his stomach briefly.

"No! No, C, look." Justin gestured, pointing to something on the soundboard. "Right there. If we leave that, then bring Chris in over yours--hey! Stop it." Now Justin was the one gesturing wildly, and if JC scowled any harder at him, his face was going to get stuck like that.

"Don't tell me to stop it. I have as much at stake as you do--look, if you would just step back for a second and listen to the damn song--"

"I just sang the damn song, dickhead." Justin pushed a knob and JC pushed it back, and Chris thought now might be a good time to start edging back from the glass dividing the recording booth from the rest of the studio. Except if he left the recording booth, well, he'd be with Justin and JC, and that just wasn't a healthy place to be right now. Especially if Justin was starting with the name-calling.

"Then you should know we need to turn it down, lower the bass a little. It's too high, the way it is."

"If you hadn't been in such a fucking hurry to--"

"Me?" JC's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of their sockets, and Chris's ached in sympathy. "I wasn't the one saying 'come on, guys, let's do one more'--I wanted to finish up and layer that last track, let it sit for a while."

"Yeah, right." Justin was up in JC's face now, finger pointing, no, jabbing into JC's chest. "You said we could get one more done if we just hurried up, well we hurried up--Chris made a special trip in here to finish this--"

Oh, that was low. Bad enough he had to listen in, often enough to predict shit like this. But Chris really hated it when either Justin or JC brought him into the fray, even if it was just mentioning his name. He tapped gently on the glass, wondering if he should even make the effort, or just slink out of the studio and wait until they'd fought, then fucked it out, and call one of them later in the evening.

They were face-to-face now, both of them snarling at each other, and Chris wasn't sure there were even actual words still being used. Mostly it seemed to be sounds and gestures, and a lot of fingers pointing and jabbing.

Okay. He could do the slink-out-quietly thing. It really was safer. And next time? Not letting either of them into the studio if the other one was there.

He really wished he could have a tape of their make-up sex, though. Maybe if he put it on his Christmas wish list….

*Okay, I'm not sure if that's exactly what you were looking for, but every time I started typing, it was Chris talking. So I went with it. If you want something else, I can try again later :)