IMPLIED SLASH! Dan hates the Department of Motor Vehicles. Chris' POV. One-Shot. [Dan/Chris]
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I started writing the sequel to my Dan Vs. lemon "Jumping" and this began as a flash-back but ended up as three pages of Dan/Chris hilarity and I thought I should just make it into a separate one-shot! The idea for the flashback started with an actual fight between me and my boyfriend. I was bitching about the vending machines as my college having poptarts, but no available toaster. I am picky about my poptarts. I want them heated it is indicated on the package that they are meant to be eaten that way. My man will eat poptarts cold or warm. Hell, he would eat the package if you let him. He's so Chris. Lol. Anyway, this little argument spawned the idea of Dan being super specific about the same thing. Which, seeing how he is about his naked burgers, I could see happening. GAH! I love this pairing with SO much passion I could die. It is damned sexy. I am always looking for cute (or smutty) one-shot ideas with these two so note me if you have any! PS. The tense changes from present to past to indicate flows in time and Chris' memory.
WARNINGS: This story is rated for adult language and implications of a male-male relationship.
PAIRINGS:Chris/Dan
Dan Vs. © Dan Mandel & Chris Pearson
FanFiction © Courtney Dracon (LuffySP)
"Poptarts"
Dan taps his foot impatiently.
We are sitting in the waiting area of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. I have to get my license renewed before the end of the week and I refuse to put it off any longer. I had managed to talk Dan into putting his revenge for the day on hold so that I can run my errands.
He had thrown a fit, but he knew that I wouldn't drive without a license, no matter how hard he had pushed me to do otherwise several times in the past. And if he wanted me to continue to be his personal chauffer, he had to acquiesce to this small deviance from his plans. However, his irrational hatred of the Department of Motor Vehicles meant that he had no intention of making the experience neither simple nor pleasant.
Dan hated the DMV with passion. He hated the DMV so much that it was on his list three separate times. It was not unusual for Dan to hate something, in fact it was the norm, but he absolutely abhorred anything to do with the California Department of Motor Vehicles. This could have something to do with the fact that he had failed his driver's test seven times when he was sixteen. Admittedly, this was not necessarily because of a lack of driving skill but rather due to citations for inappropriate language, failure to follow directions, and the attempted assault of the driving instructor with a homemade shank.
He had also managed to accumulate more parking tickets and violations than I had even thought humanly possible. Frankly, his license should have been revoked years ago, not that he would have noticed, much less cared. Dan was never one to concern himself much with the law, unless it suited his needs. He refused to pay the tickets. I doubt the state of California has ever seen a cent from him.
For a short while last year when his parking lot was being re-paved, he managed to garner an impressive number of parking violations, even for him. It was during that time he decided his free time would be better spent learning the art of origami. Instead of paying his tickets, he collected them and spent the hours he wasn't using scheming folding them into teeny pink and white cranes and cicadas. He took to hiding them around our house. Elise was still furious with him after the time she opened the cabinet above our bathroom sink and no less than thirty-seven paper animals fell out on top of her. I will never admit to this, but I thought it was hilarious. I ended up taking a pink crane with me. It still sits on top of my computer at work.
Dan flops back in his chair, letting out a loud, dramatic sigh. I glance up from my phone, where I had been idly checking my email, to watch his performance. He throws his head back and releases another over the top sigh, "I'm so bored." He laments, kicking at the backs of the chairs in front of him like a small child.
"Dan, stop that." I chided, tucking my phone into my breast pocket. I glance at the number on the slip of paper I had pulled from the dispenser, fifty-two. I look back up at the blinking red board behind the counter where it read Now Serving: Twenty-Nine, dammit. "It'll be my turn soon, alright?" I try to reassure him, "Can't you just be patient?" I frown.
He glares at me, sitting up straight in his chair. Dan leans over and I flush involuntarily at his close proximity. He proceeds to flick my nose, "Don't treat me like a child, Chris." He spits. I grab my nose, blushing. The pain never hurts as badly as the indignity of being flicked in the nose like a naughty puppy that had piddled on the carpet.
"I wasn't treating you like a child!" I argue, my cheeks on fire. He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing out his bottom lip indignantly. Now I wanted to throw a fit. It continued to vex me how, after so many years, this man could still infuriate me. How have I not taught myself to avoid his baiting?
"Dan!" I nearly shout his name. He turned slowly back to face me, arms still crossed over the JERK logo on his tee shirt. Dan raises an eyebrow and looks at me expectantly. His green eyes bore into mine and before I knew what was happening, I was apologizing. "I'm sorry I made you feel like a kid." I sigh, wondering how he had managed to hypnotize me into bending to his will yet again.
"It's okay, buddy." He patted my back, reassuringly. I smile at him weakly and he returned it, turning my weak smile into a genuine one.
All was right in the world.
Dan leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on his leg. "I'm fucking starving!" He says abruptly, patting his stomach. Almost on cue, it releases a low growl and he glares at it.
"There's a vending machine over there." I indicate a line of machines on the far wall. He nods and stands up. He walks towards the machines, tugging a frayed bill from his pocket. I am slightly surprised he hadn't asked me for the money, but I didn't push it. I figured I would be footing the bill for today's revenge and I was going to save any dollar I could.
I watch him with mild interest as he rubs the dollar on the side of the machine to smooth it out. He feeds it carefully into the mouth of the machine, taking care to make sure it isn't rejected. I couldn't help but grin. He is so rarely careful and meticulous about anything that it is quite entertaining to watch him take his time and fixate on a task. Dan punches a couple buttons and waits expectantly for his treat.
"THE FUCK?"
Dan's voice rang throughout the room angrily, causing several people to jump. I bolt from my chair and rush over to the vending machine. "What's wrong?" I ask him. He turns to me, his face contorted with a look of disgust. Dan shoves a silvery package under my nose, waving it like it is filled with baby carcasses. It took a moment for my brain to register that it was simply poptarts, "What's wrong?" I repeat, confused.
"What's WRONG?" Dan screams at me, "What do you mean, what's wrong?" he asks indignantly, as if it were incredibly obvious why he would be pissed off about poptarts. I can see his cheeks getting redder, the vein in his forehead pulsating and I begin to panic. The last thing I needed today was to be thrown out of the DMV or have my license suspended. I try to place a calming hand on his shoulder, but he angrily throws it off.
"Dan," I whine, "I don't understand."
"You wouldn't!" Dan snarls at me, "You would eat paper if someone put ketchup on it!" he says, accusingly. I would debate him if it wasn't for that one drunken night in college where he managed to get me to eat part of my chemistry textbook. I sigh and Dan continues his rant, "I didn't even want these. I wanted a bag of chips, ruffled. I refuse to eat these disgusting things!" Dan shouts, stamping on the floor to emphasize his point.
I glance around the waiting area tentatively. People are staring at us outright now, not even bothering to hide their accusing glares behind paperwork or cell phone screens. He's making a scene. Dan always makes scenes. I bite my lip. This is one of those days that I feel like a bomb technician, desperately trying to figure out which wire to cut in time so that we don't all die in fiery blast.
"But Dan, I've seen you eat poptarts before." I point out to him, my voice coming out a little squeakier than I had meant it to. I am trying desperately to defuse the situation. He glowers at me like he is trying to burn a hole in my soul.
"Toasted, Chris. I only eat toasted poptarts." He says matter-of-factly, his voice flat. "Why do they even have these here?" Dan asks, glaring at the innocent pastry in his hand. "Poptarts are meant to be heated in a toaster. I see no toaster here." he yells, gesturing wildly around the DMV. "It says right here on the package to toast them. This is BULLSHIT." Dan gnarls, pointing to the directions on the package.
I am dumbstruck. I do not think I will ever cease to be utterly vexed by the distorted logic of this man. It is both sensible and flawed, the sort of twisted musings that can only come from the mind of a truly warped individual.
I struggle to dismiss my thoughts and return to the situation at hand, "If you want, I can eat the poptarts and give you the money for a bag of chips." I offer, my voice hopeful. Dan frowns, his brow furrowing dangerously.
"Absolutely not." Dan says brusquely, as if the idea of simply purchasing a bag of chips was ludicrous. "That defeats the whole purpose, Chris." He explains, "They shouldn't have these in here if they aren't going to provide the proper appliances for customers to enjoy them. Besides, I want my money back." Dan scowls around the room, searching for something. I can see the cogs in his brain turning as he works out his plan on the spot.
Suddenly, a grin breaks out on his face, Joker-like in quality, sharp-toothed and predatory. I have seen this grin more than once over the years we had been together. I feel my stomach drop to my shoes.
"Dan, what are you—?" I start to speak, but my voice dies in my throat when the horror of the situation sets in. I watch, frozen in abject terror as Dan marches over to the nearest chair and grabs it with both hands, hefting it over his wiry frame with an audible grunt. The woman sitting in the chair nearest him shields her child instinctively, in an obvious attempt to protect him from the psychotic parading around the Department of Motor Vehicles.
I don't remember anyone moving to stop him. I think they were all immobile in the same way I was, watching the display in slow-motion like a bad action movie. The short, raven-haired man striding over to the vending machine with purpose, chair lifted over his head with obvious effort, emerald eyes gleaming with malicious intent, proceeding to smash it directly into the glass front of the machine.
The sound of smashing glass jerks me roughly from my stupor. I watch as Dan steps carefully over the pieces littering the floor and picks up his bag of ruffled chips and the eighty cents he had originally paid for the accursed poptarts. Tucking the change into his pocket, he strides wordlessly out the double doors as if nothing had happened.
I am mortified.
It takes the woman behind the counter a good five minutes to regain her composure before she starts screaming at me. One would think I would be used to situations like this, having been friends with Dan for so many years, but every time I end up being yelled at for something he did, I feel like an elementary-schooler again. Shame-faced and on the verge of tears, I simply nod and apologize.
I attempt to explain the incident away, accusing Dan of being borderline psychotic. I claim he has a diagnosis of "explosive Tourettes" and I am filling in for his usual handler. The woman accepts the story, along with a check for damages. I convince her not to report the incident to the police, hiding my face sheepishly behind my hand as I scribble out the check and hope Elise didn't mind living without electricity for a month.
Somehow, I also manage to talk her into renewing my license. It costs twice as much as it should have. Sliding the plastic card over the counter to me, a look of repugnance on her features, she kindly asks I never return to this particular branch of the Department of Motor Vehicles, since both Dan and I are being marked Persona non Grata.
I tear outside in a rage.
I find Dan sitting on the hood of my car. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips, soft clouds of smoke swirling above his head. Staring off into space, he looks almost calm. His eyes are heavy and lidded, a look of contemplation on his features. If I weren't so angry, I might notice how the sun makes his eyes glitter like emeralds or how when he quiet like this, his intensity is more radiant than a wildfire.
"DAN!" I scream, skidding to a stop in front of my car. He turns to look at me, his face nonplussed. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I can barley control the volume of my voice. I am so angry I want to strangle him. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.
Dan frowns. Tossing his cigarette to the ground and hopping off the car, he turns to face me. "I told you Chris, I wanted what was mine. Can we go now? I have a certain shoe salesman who needs to learn a lesson." his voice is dull, unimpressed. He doesn't care that he just embarrassed me in front of a group of people. He doesn't care that he just cost me a few thousand dollars. He never cares. I feel something snap.
"Like hell can we go!" I shout, "You embarrassed me! I had to tell that woman you were insane just to get her to not call the police!" I feel tears at the corners of my eyes. I am so tired of this. I feel like I have had this fight a thousand times. It never goes anywhere. Nothing ever changes. We are spinning in circles, going nowhere.
"What is your problem?" Dan snarls, "I don't understand why you're always so pissy, Chris. You really need to lighten up." he advises, shaking his head, raven bangs hitting him in the face and I see red. I am so angry I want to scream until my lungs pop. I want to tear every hair in my head out by the root. My anger boils inside me like acid, bubbling to the surface and frothing out my mouth into poisonous words.
"God dammit, Dan! I hate you!" I yell. I can feel tears now. I am such a girl, crying in a fight with another man. I hate him for this. Dan frowns at me, unconcerned. He shakes his head runs his fingers through his hair.
"No you don't." he says matter-of-factly. His arrogance is so palpable I nearly choke on it. I glare at him. He meets my gaze without wavering and I can almost see the sparks of electricity flying between us.
"I do so!" I insist, angrily. Dan raises an eyebrow skeptically and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting out my tantrum. I feel all my emotions simmering inside me, like a pot left on the stove for far too long. I am crying freely now, barely managing to wipe my nose. I feel like an idiot. My tongue feels thick and I speak before my brain catches up, "No, you're right. I don't hate you. I wish I could. I hate the fact that I can't hate you. I love you. I fucking love you, you stupid, stupid asshole."
Dan's eyes widen slightly and I clap my hands to my mouth. We stare at one another in silence. I can't believe I said that out loud. I start to shiver, even though it's over seventy-degrees outside. I am the biggest jackass on the planet right now, I am sure of it. I am married and I just confessed my feelings to my best friend, a man, in the parking lot of the DMV while calling him a giant ass. I have learned nothing from romantic comedy.
Suddenly, Dan grabs the front of my shirt, pulling my face into his. Before I know what is happening his lips are on mine and I forget where we are for a moment. I forget about the vending machine. I forget about the money. I forget about my wife. In that moment of lips meeting lips, rough and scorching hot, I am content.
Dan breaks the kiss and stares at me, "Took you long enough." He says, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Now come on, we have to go." He taps the hood of my car expectantly and in a daze, I click the key and unlock it. Dan opens the door and slides in. It takes a moment before I can follow suit. I feel like I am waking through syrup. In a haze, I open the drivers' side door and sit down.
Making no motion to start the car, I close my eyes and try to collect my thoughts. Trying to make sense of what happened. I kissed my best friend. I liked it. No, I loved it. I feel like I am going insane. My entire universe has just been turned on its head and I don't know if Dan even cares in the slightest.
I hear a crunch and snap and turn to see Dan opening his bag of chips, popping one into his mouth and chewing audibly. He glances over at me. Abruptly, something hits me smack dab between the eyes. It doesn't really hurt, and I look down o see a shiny package of strawberry poptarts in my lap. "Saved 'em for ya." He says, "Even if they are cold."
I smile, opening my package and taking a bite of one of the cold poptarts. We sit in complete silence while we eat, Dan staring idly out the window and me playing with the silvery wrapper of the poptarts.
All is right in the world.
END