1:29
Acepilot
AN – No.39 in the Road series. So named because it was finished at 1:29 in the morning on the 2nd of December 2005. Was going to be a double-A side but ended up being long enough to stand on it's own – I'll try and fix the other story up to be ready soon as well. Hope you enjoy it. Another story with Phil and Chris – hopefully you all still like this character. (This is evidently before Chris moves in)
I'm aware that this is not exactly my best work - however, it is the first since I've moved and I'm still settling into a new environment. Hopefully I'll be back at my full steam within a short while.
Disclaimer – the characters contained herewithin are property of KlaskyCsupo, except Chris, Cara and Marcus, who are mine.
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I wanted to get the house with the en suite.
It's 1a.m. My wife and I have just gotten home from a party. A party at which I had quite a few softdrinks (I drew the short straw to be designated driver). A party at which I had a great time. But a party which is insistently pounding into my bladder and telling me I better resolve that fact, soon.
Now, I wanted the house with an en suite. But no. We had to get the one with the big kitchen.
Therefore, it's 1a.m., and I'm standing in the hallway, waiting impatiently as my son takes his own sweet time in using the facilities.
When the door finally opens, I gasp in relief. "Thank Christ, Marcus, did you fall – "
At which point I cut myself off in shock. As, standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but boxer shorts but doing a surprisingly good job of looking innocent in spite of this, is Chris Peterson.
I breathe deeply, count to five, and grab him by the ear and drag him downstairs into the kitchen. I fling him into the first seat we come to and simply order, "Stay there."
He doesn't seem in too much of a hurry to object as I flick on the kitchen light. I try valiantly to look at everything else in the room besides him. I pull a bottle of scotch down from the cupboard, deciding that I'm not going to be doing any more driving tonight and could really, really use a drink. That, and the empty bottle might be good for killing him with.
I grab two tumblers. "Glass of scotch, Chris?" I ask, not really caring about legalities.
"No, thanks, Mr. D – "
"Have a glass of scotch, Chris," I reiterate, sliding him over a full glass.
"Okay, Mr. D," he rescinds.
I down my drink and try to think about this. I decide I'd rather not think about it and pour a smaller one.
"Chris, can you please explain to me exactly why I found you skulking around my house in your boxer shorts?" I ask, carefully refraining from throttling him in between each word.
He smiles. "I suppose saying your daughter plays a mean hand of strip poker wouldn't help me here?"
I glare at him. "No, it wouldn't.'
He smiles.
"Chris," I ask cautiously, "if I were to ask you what you were doing here, would I regret it?"
Chris shook his head. "No way, Mr. D."
I think that one over for a second. "Chris, if I were to ask you what you were doing here, would you regret it."
Chris smiled smugly and simply nodded.
I'm not sure if I feel like I'm too old for this or not old enough. You see, the thing is, at his age, I probably would have tried to pull the same thing at Kimi's place. If we'd been going out at that point, anyway. So I can relate. But I'm aware I need to be a parent here.
"Chris, I'm not entirely comfortable with the thought of you sleeping with my daughter," I tell him, kicking myself for how stupid that sounded. But hey, I'm still learning my way through this whole parenting an adolescent thing myself.
"Oh, no, Mr. D, we haven't slept together," he tells me, looking relieved and slightly confused.
My heart leaps. I can tell when Chris Peterson's lying. Occupational trick of the trade. If you're going to teach this kid, you have to pick his fiction from his reality. And he isn't lying. This is great. They haven't slept together.
"No," he continues, "we've just had sex. I needed to go to the toilet before we went to sleep."
He leaps rather athletically out of the way as I lunge across the table. "I'm going to kill you, Chris," I announce after the attempted-fact.
"No you won't, Mr. D," he tells me, quite matter-of-factly. "Your daughter would never forgive you."
I glare at him and start slowly rounding the table. He gets up and does the same, in the opposite direction. Our own little stand-off. "She'll get over it before you will," I point out.
He shrugs. "Oh well. What have I got to lose?" He sighs, and I see the humour drop from his façade for a moment. "Look, Mr. D, I'll level with you."
I'll level you, you little bugger..."Go on."
"I wouldn't do anything to hurt your daughter," he tells me. "I mean, I'm not going to tell you that we'll be together forever and that I'm going to marry her right now or whatever. But I care a lot about Cara. And I'm not so stupid that I'd do something bad to her."
I nod, trying to think of how exactly I should respond to this.
He saves me the trouble. "We were safe, I promise."
I nod again, seemingly unable to do anything else. "Good," I finally vocalise. "Chris – "
"And I treated her alright, I promise," he continues. "I mean, I even made sure –"
"I really, really don't want to know, Chris," I tell him. "Just…shut up and…"
I don't really want to say go to bed. But I don't think I've got much choice.
"Alright, Mr. D," he says, grinning at me. "I knew you'd let me stay here if I sweet talked you long enough."
And suddenly my trance is snapped. Chris Peterson dashes up my staircase with me all but biting at his heels.
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I rub tiredly at my eyes and try vaguely to read the assignment on my desk, but I decide it's too early. I look up to see most of my class has filed in. With one conspicuous absence.
Who quickly accounts for himself by swinging in lazily on the doorframe. "Oh, gee, Mr. D. I'm so sorry," he tells me, sauntering up the aisle and dropping into his regular seat. "Didn't mean to be late, just…well, I didn't get much sleep last night."
I glare at him.
But only half-heartedly.
That doesn't mean I like him. Just that, despite my best intentions…I'm getting used to the little rotter.
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