Author: monimala
Fandom: 21 Jump Street
Rating/Classification: PG-13, angst, ep filler, slash, Penhall/Hanson.
Disclaimer: Stephen J. Cannell, etc.
Summary: Tag/filler for Season 2's "Best Years of Your Life." 900 words. It's no wonder he's all talk, without actually saying anything real or
important.
He calls Dorothy from your apartment, uses that voice you've started to recognize as his bullshit voice, too loud, too bright, full of penny ante excuses as he apologizes for worrying her. "Babe," he says, exaggerating a shrug that she can't even see. "I'm sorry. I'll see you in the morning, huh?"
You split a giant order of meatballs and a pitcher of iced tea. You talked for hours about nothing relating to suicide. And then he'd practically begged as he pulled up to your place, idling the motor on his bike. "I can't go back there right now. I gotta get my head together. Can I…Man, can I?"
"Sure," you'd said, automatically, because when did you ever say no to helping out a friend, right? If that ever happened, it would probably signal the end of the world or something. You're a freaking Boy Scout and everyone knows it.
You can tie all your knots and earn all your merit badges and find Doug in the dark even when his girlfriend has checked every single one of his regular hangouts. And you have a couch he can crash on, so you said, "Sure," and slid off the warm seat, unwrapped your arms from his waist, and fumbled for your house keys.
Doug hangs up with a little of the fake flourish still in him, but when he turns to you, he looks worn out again, all six-years-old and untied shoelaces. He looks like somebody the McQuaid brothers would shakedown for lunch money in a heartbeat…and you think it's no wonder he never told anyone about his mother before. It's no wonder he's all talk, without actually saying anything real or important.
"What?" One eyebrow goes up. Defensive. Proving your point. "I asked for couch, Tommy. Didn't ask for any head-shrinking to go with it."
"I'm not shrinking," you assure him, laughing a little because you just can't help it. "Harry's the one who had Psych 101."
He laughs, too, tiredly wiping his hand over his face and shaking the kinks out of his neck and shoulders. "Oh, so you're saying I picked the wrong guy to bare my soul to, huh?"
"Hey! I didn't ask you to bare anything! I don't do that until the third date at least."
His smile fades as soon as you make the joke.
So does yours.
Cue the awkwardness of passing each other in gym showers or hands touching packages while you wrestle.
"Listen, Doug," you stammer, immediately, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded…"
"You mean as queer as The Village People riding a float in the Macy's Day Parade?" He shakes his head, suddenly grinning again as you wave your hands around trying to explain yourself without sounding like a chorus of 'Macho Man.' "Relax. It's cool, Hanson. I don't care if you swing from the chandeliers on the third date."
You're probably beet red. You fold and unfold the guest blankets twice as you mutter, "Chandeliers are the fifth date, actually."
He guffaws -- he's one of the only people you know who actually does what the word means -- and slaps you on the back, nearly sending you headfirst into the sofa cushions. "Tommy, I don't know what I'd do without you, Man."
"Back atcha," you say. He's your partner. Your brother. Your best friend. Even when he's being a complete asshole. And you had no idea that he was in pain today. And yesterday. And the day before that. What kind of partner, brother, and friend does that make you?
What kind of Boy Scout does that make you?
Not a very goddamned prepared one, that's for sure.
"Tom?" His hand is cool on the back of your neck. He shakes you a little, Dougie McQuaid wanting your lunch money…or maybe just the penny for your thoughts.
"I'm sorry, Man."
You slip your arms around him. No sitting bitch on the bike to excuse it this time. It's one of those awkward man hugs, where your hands skim over him, almost touching but not quite. He's the one that makes it real, that pulls you close and bear hugs you, lifting you off your feet like he does all the time at the chapel.
"Lame-o," he murmurs, affectionately. "You ain't gotta apologize for nothing."
"Yeah, I do. For this."
You kiss him before you lose your nerve. Before you find what's left of your brain. And, somehow, you're not surprised that he tastes sweet, sugary, like vanilla extract. You are surprised, though, that he doesn't shove you away and commence a monumental kicking of your ass.
He grabs it instead.
He kisses you back instead.
He asked for couch…and you give him bed.
You both hit the mattress running, hands undoing flies and him whispering that he hasn't jerked a guy off since Jeffrey Sands during summer camp when he was 12. "Shut up," you gasp, "shut up," and he does. He shucks off his shirt, bares his soul and other parts and it's not even the third date. Probably not even the first although you're the one that put down the cash for the meatballs and tea.
"Can I…Man, can I?" he pleads.
"Sure," you say, automatically.
Because you never say no to helping out a friend, right?
But then his hand closes around you and it signals the end of the world anyway.
And something.
--end--
August 6, 2006