just imagine spencer and larry having a conversation
The complete lack of Criminal Minds/Numb3rs crossover fic has made the nail on my right pinkie finger turn blue and every day that there is no such fic the blue spreads a little bit and I can only infer that, if I never get Criminal Minds/Numb3rs fic, I will die from it. Which would be a shame since I'm doing so well at this life thing. :P
Okay, that was a lie. Still, I guess I am going to have to write it myself.
I was going to post about the following things:
1.) an old SNL Alec Baldwin skit where he plays an actor who plays a doctor,
2.) how I'm thinking about applying to library school when I graduate instead of/in addition to applying to linguistics grad programs,
3.) my stats TA who is exactly like Carleton Banks, except named Derek,
4.) the Pete/Patrick story about bathtubs that I just can't seem to finish,
but I have to go pick up live frogs from the FedEx warehouse right now, so I can't.
ETA: Also, this is on my desktop and I have a.) absolutely no memory of writing it and b.) no context whatsoever. Ha.
"Pete," Patrick says, and the smile in his eyes doesn't match the soft, serious line of his mouth, "you should kiss me now." His tie is hanging crooked around his neck.
Pete shifts his weight from foot to foot, breathing out, cutting his eyes away. He catches sight of their reflection in the mirror on the far wall of the dark cave past the bathroom door, notices the tired line of Patrick's shoulders, the rumple of his shirttails. He thinks about saying Ashlee's name, something about the divorce, how it's been so long. He thinks about asking why. In the end he just says, "What if I don't want to kiss you?" He means for it to come out sassy, but it doesn't.
"Pete," Patrick should be looking away, down, but he isn't, he's meeting Pete's eyes. "You want to kiss me," he says, softly but sure, color blooming high on his cheeks, "and if--" he makes a vague gesture encompassing the space between them, "if, if this...you have to kiss me." Patrick leans his head back against the door and waits, like he did through the whole night at the banquet, through the whole week that the band's been reunited in LA. Pete knows the entire suite opens up behind him, he can retreat, he can walk away, and Patrick won't come further into the room if he does. Patrick will stand at the doorway until Pete pulls him in, just like he's stood in all of Pete's doorways. Or Patrick will leave--he won't push, not more than he already has.
Pete takes a moment and looks at Patrick, who is still meeting his eyes, still certain. Then he nods and steps forward. "Okay," he says. "I--" he clears his throat and tries again. "I'm going to kiss you. Patrick." The words hang in the air, and Pete thinks there should be a drumroll, a great swell of music, but instead it's quiet. There should be crashing waves, or fireworks, or someone should swoon, but instead he just stands there and hears the ice machine rumbling down the hall and looks at Patrick, who nods and presses his open palms to the door behind him.
Pete leaves his arms folded around his own abdomen when he moves to kiss Patrick, just leans his head in. Patrick's lips are soft and his chin is scratchy, and Pete feels like a balloon with no helium, barely touching the floor. He uncurls his arms so he can press his thumb backwards against Patrick's stubble and his other hand finds it's way to Patrick shoulder, collar slick between his fingers, nails skipping down the woven silk of his tie. Patrick's palms stay flat against the door. Pete kisses Patrick slowly and soft, long enough that there's sweat between the small of Patrick's back and the door when Pete presses his fingers there.
After they land on the bed, Pete gets the last few buttons of Patrick's shirt undone, Patrick propped up over him. When the last button slides free, the fabric hangs down on either side of Patrick's torso and Pete slides his hands up under the slick cotton to where he can't see them, rucking up Patrick's undershirt to press his fingers to Patrick' sides, slide his thumbs over Patrick's stomach.
"Patrick," Pete whispers, arching to press his cock into Patrick's hip, "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you." Patrick groans and slides his thigh between Pete's legs, bearing down to grind Pete's hips into the slick hotel comforter, and Pete laughs and groans at the same time. "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you."
Okay, that was a lie. Still, I guess I am going to have to write it myself.
I was going to post about the following things:
1.) an old SNL Alec Baldwin skit where he plays an actor who plays a doctor,
2.) how I'm thinking about applying to library school when I graduate instead of/in addition to applying to linguistics grad programs,
3.) my stats TA who is exactly like Carleton Banks, except named Derek,
4.) the Pete/Patrick story about bathtubs that I just can't seem to finish,
but I have to go pick up live frogs from the FedEx warehouse right now, so I can't.
ETA: Also, this is on my desktop and I have a.) absolutely no memory of writing it and b.) no context whatsoever. Ha.
When he takes off his suit jacket, Patrick is wearing black suspenders and a black tie, which he's slowly unknotting. Pete reaches out to touch his right cuff link, worrying the silver square between his fingers, and Patrick's head thunks against the hotel room door.Pete wishes he'd move further into the room. All week, it's been like this, just Patrick and Pete breathing the same air, and it's been years since Pete felt like this, like there was nothing between them. Like if he reached out his arm he would touch Patrick and Patrick would be warm, and if he made a fist in Patrick's shirt and pulled Patrick would be moved.
"Pete," Patrick says, and the smile in his eyes doesn't match the soft, serious line of his mouth, "you should kiss me now." His tie is hanging crooked around his neck.
Pete shifts his weight from foot to foot, breathing out, cutting his eyes away. He catches sight of their reflection in the mirror on the far wall of the dark cave past the bathroom door, notices the tired line of Patrick's shoulders, the rumple of his shirttails. He thinks about saying Ashlee's name, something about the divorce, how it's been so long. He thinks about asking why. In the end he just says, "What if I don't want to kiss you?" He means for it to come out sassy, but it doesn't.
"Pete," Patrick should be looking away, down, but he isn't, he's meeting Pete's eyes. "You want to kiss me," he says, softly but sure, color blooming high on his cheeks, "and if--" he makes a vague gesture encompassing the space between them, "if, if this...you have to kiss me." Patrick leans his head back against the door and waits, like he did through the whole night at the banquet, through the whole week that the band's been reunited in LA. Pete knows the entire suite opens up behind him, he can retreat, he can walk away, and Patrick won't come further into the room if he does. Patrick will stand at the doorway until Pete pulls him in, just like he's stood in all of Pete's doorways. Or Patrick will leave--he won't push, not more than he already has.
Pete takes a moment and looks at Patrick, who is still meeting his eyes, still certain. Then he nods and steps forward. "Okay," he says. "I--" he clears his throat and tries again. "I'm going to kiss you. Patrick." The words hang in the air, and Pete thinks there should be a drumroll, a great swell of music, but instead it's quiet. There should be crashing waves, or fireworks, or someone should swoon, but instead he just stands there and hears the ice machine rumbling down the hall and looks at Patrick, who nods and presses his open palms to the door behind him.
Pete leaves his arms folded around his own abdomen when he moves to kiss Patrick, just leans his head in. Patrick's lips are soft and his chin is scratchy, and Pete feels like a balloon with no helium, barely touching the floor. He uncurls his arms so he can press his thumb backwards against Patrick's stubble and his other hand finds it's way to Patrick shoulder, collar slick between his fingers, nails skipping down the woven silk of his tie. Patrick's palms stay flat against the door. Pete kisses Patrick slowly and soft, long enough that there's sweat between the small of Patrick's back and the door when Pete presses his fingers there.
After they land on the bed, Pete gets the last few buttons of Patrick's shirt undone, Patrick propped up over him. When the last button slides free, the fabric hangs down on either side of Patrick's torso and Pete slides his hands up under the slick cotton to where he can't see them, rucking up Patrick's undershirt to press his fingers to Patrick' sides, slide his thumbs over Patrick's stomach.
"Patrick," Pete whispers, arching to press his cock into Patrick's hip, "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you." Patrick groans and slides his thigh between Pete's legs, bearing down to grind Pete's hips into the slick hotel comforter, and Pete laughs and groans at the same time. "Patrick, I'm going to fuck you."