Title: Flyboys (Beware! RPS!) Part 5 of "Season 3"
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Feedback to: jfc@freeshell.org
Archive: Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission!
Category: Romance, Michael's side
Timeframe: A particular night in January 2004
Rating: R for language and suggestions of m/m sexual interaction
Pairing: Michael/Tom
Summary: Two ships that collide in the night

DISCLAIMER: This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit. It is pure fantasy and does not intend to reflect on the actual behavior or personalities of the people named herein. Please do not sue me for my little bit of fun!

DEDICATION: For Tiff, who shares my brain

COPYRIGHT: (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, June 21, 2004, jfc@freeshell.org

Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.

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That Duchovny was right. It always rains in Vancouver. Every single thing you can see in the dark is shiny--brake lights, the pavement, hotel shuttle buses, the traffic cop's poncho. You wonder if you'll be able to find your "fare", given how shiny he can be.

The line of vehicles moves toward the passenger pickup area by millimeters, and you have no urge to sing along with the CD in the dash, because you're just too edgy to relax that much. Once you see him, you'll feel a lot better, or you try to tell yourself that, anyway.

You'd spit out your gum into an ashtray, but this is Tom's car, borrowed while the shaggin' wagon is in the shop, and you don't think he or Jamie would appreciate it, so you just keep chomping. Everybody in the airport parking lot is delayed due to the weather, just wanting to find his or her charge and go home. You guess it could be considered a communal event.

The noise level makes you glad you set your cellphone to vibrate, as you might not have noticed it ringing otherwise. Quick check to caller I.D.: Tom. With a split-second benediction, you flip open the small device and answer his call.

"I'm sorry!" you begin.

"Marco!" he sings out goofily from the tiny speaker.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're supposed to say 'Polo', butthead. The fuck are you?"

"In line at the arriving passenger pickup, about two miles from the door. I'll be there as soon as traffic allows." You consider his tone of voice. "Are you drunk?"

"Nnnnnyes. Come get me. I'm sleepy," he whines like he's four.

"Hang on, prettyboy. I'm doing the best I can. Are you at least inside?"

"Yep. It's raining like a mofo. I'll stay here till I see the car. How cold is it out there?"

"Effing freezing. Stay put. Doorway B, right?"

"Right. Don't hang up, okay?"

You grin at his neediness. After all, is he on the phone to his wife? Nope--it's all for you. "I'm here. You all right?"

"Yeah. I missed you today."

"I missed you, too, dude. There was an empty chair out behind the camera with your name on it."

"Sure there was. Can't you get by without me?"

The car in front of you lurches forward about ten feet, then squeals its brakes and stops short. "I like having you as an audience. Makes me feel safe. How was the Paley?"

His audible smile hints that he caught your compliment on the fly. "Fine. I think the brass were impressed. Only one space cadet asked me to marry her."

"Eh," you chuckle, "par for the course. At least they still love you."

"At least. It was a pretty good show."

"Did my name come up?" For a second you think that your connection has been broken, due to the strange sounds on the other end. After a moment, you realize he is laughing. "What?" He gasps a little for breath, but doesn't form any words. "What?"

"...called you a pervert!" you hear, cut short by the erratic signal and his hysterics.

"Who called me a pervert?"

"Annette," he practically squeaks, mid-hilarity.

"To whom? To you?"

"No--no, man. To the whole damned room!"

"Wait--whoa. Hold on. Explain this to me."

"I was talking about you..."

You're not really pissed, but your annoyance at the traffic comes through in your voice. "You got her to call me a perv? Thanks a heap, you tool!"

"No--not like that. I tried to say you were a perfectionist, but I stammered a little on that word, and well..."

"And then Annette gets all helpful and supplies the word 'pervert'? Geez. It's nice to know who your friends are!" You're chuckling inwardly, but it helps you blow off steam to rant at him a little.

"I agreed with her." Your exasperated snort is obliterated on the one-way speaker by his redoubled laughter.

"I love you, too, shithead!" you bark into the phone, actually amused at how this must have sounded to all of the TV suits.

"I'm sorry," he wails, obviously not really sorry at all. "It wasn't my fault!"

"Sure, it wasn't. I think I'm glad I wasn't there."

He grows quiet enough that you can hear the ambient roar of the cavernous airport over the tiny speaker. "Wish you had been."

"You did just fine, beautiful. I'm sure of it."

"Thank you, Michael. You're my inspiration--I hope you realize that."

"Eh, I try. What are you gonna do next: learn hockey?"

"Oh, shit--I almost forgot to ask! How was the game yesterday?"

The door where he waits comes into view at last. "It was a blast. Now get out here and get in the car, and I'll tell you all about it."

"You're here? Fu--" The line goes dead on his expletive, so you end the call and pocket your phone.

Putting the car in park, you wait, though it isn't long before a familiar form lurches up to the side of the car from the sodden dark. You pop the trunk latch, prompting him to scurry around back and deposit his sparse luggage. Soon he's bustling into the passenger seat, shaking out his coattails and getting settled.

Seatbelt buckled, door shut against the harsh weather, he turns to you immediately once the dome light is out. Not waiting for you to let go of the wheel, he reaches across and gives you a wickedly slurpy kiss. "There's more where that came from," he promises. "Now take me home."

"Yours or mine?" you ask, pulling away from the curb.

"I have no preference," he insists, ending on a yawn.

You would ask if Jamie is expecting him, but you decide against it, taking the opportunity to have him all to yourself after two days of being in different countries. "Mine's closer," you rationalize, and he concurs with a nod.

"Besides, that way I can sleep in your bed tonight. I like the way you think, Rosenbaum."

"Is that all?" you ask, concentrating on his voice and the traffic in equal measure.

"The way you think, the way you kiss, the way you taste, the way you sound when you come..." You can't help glancing over to note his tired smile in your direction, illuminated by red lights through the windshield.

You hadn't known for sure what Tom would want to do when he arrived, but you promise yourself to make it worth his time now that you're the lucky winner. However, there is the issue of the time itself... "Look--it's late. Maybe we'll have time to fuck in the morning, okay?"

"Sounds good. Now tell me about the game."

You pay the parking lot cashier, silently stunned at the total since you never really parked, then start in on the highlights of your charity hockey event, ticking off names of guys you'd greeted and details of every single point scored as you head into town. Tom reacts to the good parts of your story, mm-hmmming in his seat beside you in the dark and chuckling in all the right places.

Having saved the best part for last, you add, "Hey--did I tell you about the kid in the locker room, who was blown away when he thought I was a Jewish pro hockey player?"

There is no reaction from the big guy riding shotgun except for a soft snore.

A glance to your right confirms the evidence. Tom is out like a light. With a loving shake of your head, you whisper, "That's okay, buddy. Sleep. We'll be home soon."

Say what you will about Vancouver--it feels a lot warmer when your beautiful man is there with you.

THE END