Warnings: Slash (Colt/Punk), some profanity, some extreme AU, some set in 7Sins continuity, some in the Tail of a Comet Verse, and one in Chasing the Wind.

31: Body Rock - Moby (7 Sins Continuity)

"I don't dance." He's leaning against the bar scowling out at the writhing mass of humanity, and you have the distinct feeling he's not going to cave no matter how much you try and persuade him.

"So why are we here then?" It's a fair question even if you know the answer is that you're there because he's the perpetual designated driver.

"Because our friends suck?" His reasoning is pretty sound, in context, but perhaps unfair to your friends.

"That's just mean... They're good people." And they are, for the most part, when they're not drunk off their asses at least.

"They still suck, Colt" But he does make a good point.

"Yeah, well to be fair, so do you." And he does suck, he's very good at sucking in fact.

"Not if you keep being an asshole." He's getting just a little testy at being poked at, rubbing his temples, looking prickly.

"Hmm... Just one tiny little dance?" It might make him cheer up, it might also piss him off being asked again, but you don't think it'll hurt too much anyways.

"No." He doesn't look at you, still focussed on glaring at the crowd.

"C'mon, it'll be fun." That's a lie and you know it. He's really not in the mood to be here, and you should be trying to persuade him into leaving, but that would be rude to your still drunk and still dancing friends.

"No." This time he does look over at you, something darkly annoyed in his eyes.

"C'mon, Punkers... You like getting all sweaty." You leer at him, and a smirk spreads over his lips.

"I'm not sweating with a bunch of drunken, molesty assholes." He leans closer to you, his hand trailing down your chest.

"Molesty?" You ask him, his hand creeping a little lower before it's withdrawn.

"Molesty." He says firmly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Wanna sneak out and be consensually molested?" You're sick of this club too; you'll give your buddies some money for the cab back to the motel in the morning. He grins at you, grabbing his coat and your hand.

"Thought you'd never ask."

32: Muscle Museum - Muse (AU)

Falling in love with her had never been the plan, never. When you'd first met her, all prickly ill-tempered posturing and far too big, far too pretty green eyes, you'd not really thought much of her. She was another one of those girls who'd end up on the Indy circuit sucking cocks for a spot. At least that was your thoughts until you saw in the ring, there she moves like poetry. If she'd been born a boy, she'd have it so much easier, but she's not, she's a girl, so her rise to stardom will always be limited. You know as soon as she tells you that the WWE have spoken to her about a deal that it's a terrible idea for her to accept. You also know that she'll take them up on the offer and you'll have missed your opportunity to tell her the truth. You should have told her on one the many, many nights she's lain in a hotel bed beside you, and you'd been too nervous for just sleeping beside your best friend. You should have, but you didn't and now as you hug her tightly in the ring, you know you've missed your opportunity to tell her. The I love you Punkers you whisper against her hair, you know she'll put down to nothing but friendly feelings, you know that she'll never think twice about it, but you will. Just like every time she introduces you to another boyfriend, you'll think of just how true those words are, but you know she'll never look at you that way, never. It won't stop you from hoping, won't stop you from worrying about her, coveting her, wanting her. When she smiles at you, a great big goofy grin and tells you she loves you back, she has no idea how much it hurts, but it's okay. When the WWE fuck this up, and they will because they always fuck up when it comes to women, you'll be there, you'll help her decide what she wants, and hopefully she'll finally realise it's you.

33: Can't Stand Losing You - Feeder (AU)

I'm not jealous by nature, but there are some things that I can't stand. I can bear watching him with other people. He's not a big dater, not really, and I'm sure that's down to me. I'm a selfish bastard, I know I am, but I can't help it. He's mine. He's my best friend, and I want him. There's a reason I date assholes, there's a very simple, very plain, very obvious reason for my actions. When my heart's broken, he's there, his arms around me and his lips in my hair. It's cruel, and I know that if he's not caved to my constant attempts at seduction by now, he's never going to, but I can't stand the idea of him with someone else. He's mine, and I'm possessive. No matter how many women he shyly attempts to date, I'll always want him more, I'll always need him more than any woman ever will. One day he'll give in, I'm sure of it, no one can resist love forever even if it has the wrong genitals for them. It'll just take time, it'll just take another shitty relationship for him to realise that he's my white knight, one more shitty break-up for him to realise that he can save me from myself. Eventually, Colt will cave in to me. It's a stupid game, but I can't stand losing, especially when he's the prize.

34: The Libertine - Patrick Wolf (Chasing the Wind AU)

The light that filters through the thin blinds makes the dust motes in the air dance like glittering snowflakes, a quiet stillness fills the room, making you feel sleepy, but curiously awake. It's the first time you've come here hung-over, and you regret it. The smell of disinfectant and misery had assaulted you as soon as you'd stepped into the hospital. The nurse had told you that you looked pale, and in all honesty, you feel pale, like wraith wandering through a building full of them. This is the second time you've come to watching him dying. It's brutal; it's the worst thing in the World. You had him, you had him for such a short time, but you know you didn't cherish him the way you should have. If you had, you wouldn't be here, he wouldn't be refusing to eat, he wouldn't be skin, bones and dying organs. He's been difficult for them, has been forced into being fed with tubes and vitamin injections. You're glad he's asleep, you're glad he's not glaring at you in contempt, because you feel contemptible, you feel like a libertine coming to sympathise with a martyr. There's nothing binding him to you, nothing that you both share, but one thing. His eyes open slowly, he lies there blinking up at you, and for a few seconds you can see it, you can see the one thing that keeps you coming back to this hellish place. Love is great and terrible thing, and a libertine like you is in no position to resist its allure.

35: Roses - Deus (Tail of a Comet-verse)

"I'm sure he didn't mean to, Punk."

"I don't care, Marty."

"C'mon..." Don't you dare try and weasel out this for him, he fucked up, so he's out on his ear. "I'm sure he's sorry... I know he's sorry. I get told all about how sorry he is regularly and I'm sick of it, let him come home."

"I don't care." I really don't, so stop looking at me like that, and stop eating all the cookies, they're not for you.

"You might say you don't care, Punk, but these are Colt's favourites." Shut up, Marty. "He's sorry."

"A hundred percent now? Cause he was only half sorry at first." Half-sorry! How the fuck can you even be half-sorry, the stupid asshole. He clearly has no idea the hassle I went to with that fucking lock and he fucking loses the damn key as soon as he touches the damn thing.

"Well... He does kind of have a point. You could just get the hole fixed." I am so going to throw you out too DeRosa if you aren't careful.

"He suggested ripping a hole in the wall, Marty."

"Uch... Really? He didn't say that..."

"No, I'm not surprised." It's a fucking stupid idea. This is our home. To so fucking casually suggest destroying it...

"He does realise that ripping holes in the wall of his house is a bad idea, right?" What do you think, Marty?

"Ask him." I'm not, I don't care.

"Look, he did something dumb, and then said something even dumber, but Punk... It's been three days." I know how long it's been. I keep expecting Life to show up and remind me, not sleeping usually results in that asshole showing face, but maybe months of resting, months of being home had cured me of insanity.

"I know... I just..."

"What? Seriously, whatever it is you want tell me so I can get your husband off my couch."

"He's not my husband!"

"You wearing his ring. I'm sure if you gave him one he'd wear your's too. Let's face it, you're fucking married whether you like it or not."

"You really think he'd wear my ring?" I don't know... I mean I guess I've kind of thought about it, but I don't think he needs one, and this isn't really Colt's ring anyways, it's his Grandma's, and it's not even on my wedding finger, but he did propose, theoretically at least...

"Punk, if you decided you wanted to get married, Cabana would wear a fucking dress and veil if you told him to. Do you have any idea how wrapped around your finger he is?" He's not wrapped around my finger! He's his own, very stupid man.

"He'd look ridiculous in a dress... and I don't really think white is his colour."

"I don't think I'd be able to wear white with any kind of clear conscience, Punkers."

"What are you doing here?" I'm sure I threw you out for losing the fucking key for the basement door, and then suggesting we ripped the supporting wall down to find it. But I've missed you, and I'm going to cave as soon as you get close enough to wrap my arms around you, I'm sick of being on my own when I don't have to be.

"Got your key. Magnet on a stick, Ace is a smart dude." Colt and the lost key, well at least it's not caving, it's forgiving, which makes me look better if nothing else.

"Gimme that here before you lose it again." Idiot... C'mere, have some coffee, and let me snuggle you some, I'm lonely and tired without you.

"So he's allowed back home? See, one key all returned, so no more trying to but failing at sleeping on Marty's couch? Because as much as I love you Colt, and I do love you man, it's gonna be a hell of a gay email this year, I want my place to myself again, and I'm sick of you sneezing cause of the cat."

"Yes... But no more losing keys... I'm learning to plaster or something." And possibly not throwing anymore quite as spectacular temper tantrums, they're not really good for me or my sleeping routine. You know, if you keep petting my hair like this I'm gonna fall asleep, Colt.

"Ooo, cookies! Thanks, Punkers."

36: Night and Day - Billie Holiday (Tail of a Comet-verse)

You miss him. He's at home, and you miss him so much because you're not. The longer trips you take he comes, he's been with you all over the place, but for these little away dates, he lets you go by yourself. It's only been a day, but you miss him. You want to be at home, you want to fall asleep with your arms around him, and his head on your chest instead of some cheap hotel blankets. You suppose you could call him, but you don't know if he'll be awake. He sleeps so much better these days, he has a proper sleep pattern, even when you're away. You're proud, but you don't sleep when he's not with you, missing him keeps you awake. You've always been the tail wrapped around your little comet, but now it's almost like you've traded roles. He's the warm solid comfortable presence you come home to, whilst you spend your time busily working elsewhere. You glance at your cell again, and once more consider calling him, but if he's sleeping, you don't want to wake him up.

Incoming call

Punkers

Accept Reject

You stare at the phone, and shake your head, he knows you so very well.

37: A Real Hero - College featuring Electric Youth (7 Sins Continuity)

There's a strange moment just before you tell people what you do, a moment of expectation when they try to guess. I've always wanted to hear what people really think I might do, especially when they've got no idea who I am. I don't think I'll ever find out, not nowadays anyways, though if I did, I might get some ideas. I'm not sure what I'm doing, not anymore at least. Everyone I know, everyone I love, all work in the same profession, all do the same thing, from my wife to my best friend, and I don't, not any more at least. It's strange, but even now sometimes there's a moment when someone'll look at me, and there'll be something in their eyes, something I used to see a lot more often. Something that reminds me that whilst as far as I'm concerned my wife, my Bana and my friends all wrestlers, to some people they're heroes, and once upon a time I was too.

38: I - Nicola Roberts (AU)

I'm scared. I'm scared of being caught. I'm scared of being alone again. I'm so very scared, so I hate. I hate that this is all there can be. I hate that there's nothing else. I hate that there's no way to make this better. I hate the orderlies that will interrupt, which makes me scared. I'm scared of more treatment. I'm scared of moving facilities. I'm scared of there being more nothing, so again I hate. I hate the coming morning. I hate that this will have to be ignored by dawns light. I hate that there won't be any more till darkness falls and again we can be together. I hate the rules. I hate the regulations. I hate being here, but I hope. I hope for release. I hope for happiness. I hope for being safe. I hope to be free. I hope to be in love. I hope to be with Colt.

39: Someone Great - LCD Soundsystem (AU)

His phone ringing wakes Colt up. It's early, he can tell by the way his wife is curled up in bed beside him, the covers pulled up to her chin, and because the house is completely silent. If it was later the kids would be making a noise, his wife wouldn't be in bed with him, instead she'd be working or trying to bring order to the chaos of their children. He answers his cell, stroking the hair back from the face of the woman sleeping beside him. She's looking older, and he supposes they all are, but she's no less beautiful, no less the only woman he wants, no less the woman he loves.

"Hello?" There's a desperate sob on the other end of the line. He glances at the caller id, and closes his eyes. He knows what this is about. "Where? Is-"

"Gone." The woman on the other end of the line sobs. She's trying to talk, trying to make sense, but she not, there's nothing but a soft keening wail coming from her. There's tears running down his face, he can feel them and a scream in his throat that he holds back. His wife wakes up and stares at him, her sleep chased away by whatever she sees on his face.

"What?" She whispers and he thrusts the phone at her. She takes it, watching him get out the bed, pulling clothes on rapidly. "April, April! Slow down, honey, I can't understand... No... Oh no, sweetheart, no... Don't worry... No! Don't worry, Scott'll go to the hospital, he'll... He can... Scott, you'll go won't you?"

"To identify him?" He says coolly, desperately ignoring the tears running down his face, hoping he doesn't run into his kids, he doesn't need them seeing daddy crying. His wife nods tightly, and he sighs, biting back the desperate scream that wants to leave him. "Which one?"

"April, honey... Which hospital is it? Where have they taken Phil's body?" Colt feels sick at his wife's words. Phil's body. Not his Punkers, not anymore. "Okay, sweetie, okay... No, I'll be over, I'll get the kids up and we'll come right over. No, no, Scott'll be over first, he'll go with the Officers. Okay, it's... It'll... I know. No! Of course this isn't your fault April! Don't be ridiculous. You did everything you could." Colt leans against the wall, watching his wife haphazardly pulling clothes on and trying to keep April calm. He'd known this was coming, he'd known as soon as the first ransom note had been delivered that Punk was gone, he'd just hoped that he was wrong. Now all he can hope is that the corpse he's going to identify doesn't look like his best friend, because he'd still like to be wrong.

40: Loser - Beck (AU)

"What you want?" The new Sandwich Artist is a jerk. There's no two ways about it, the guy is an asshole. Everything about him screams loser, from his badly dyed hair to the ring in his lip, to the tattoos on his hands. He's not exactly the poster boy for Subway, but he does make a hell of a sandwich.

"Whatever you think is good, man. You've not steered me wrong yet." He shakes his head at me and starts making up a sandwich. There's a queue building up behind me, and I can tell that people want me to get a move on, but I'm watching an artist at work, his long, skinny fingers elegantly arranging meat and vegetables on a footlong with more care and consideration than I've ever seen. He's truly an artist at work.

"So... Uh..." He turns to me once the cheese is melting. "You like music?" He nods at the headphones round my neck, and I laugh.

"Nah, it's a podcast." I'm not big on music, I've always been a talk radio kind of guy, and well podcasts are the new talk radio.

"Oh..." He turns back to my sandwich, but not before glaring at the queue behind me. It seems like he's taking a deep breath when he turns back to me, as though steeling himself somehow. "What podcast?"

"Maron, WTF... You know it?" I'm not too sure he will, he looks like he listens to nothing but punk rock sung by people who look just like him.

"Yeah... Yeah... I know it." He nods, wrapping my sandwich, and handing it to me. "Five dollars." I hand him the money and leave, unwrapping my sandwich as I go, immediately noticing the note on the napkin. The Sandwich Artist, Phil and he's so not a Phil, really needs to work on his flirting, but anyone who makes sandwiches this good is definitely worth giving a call.

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