He'd scored the top bunk, but there was no accompanying thrill to go with the achievement. Jonathan had stopped fighting for it when he'd realised he couldn't climb up into it anyway. No matter which way he lay, there was a loose spring jabbing him in the back, and the pillow, if something so flat and tough could be called that, smelled like it hadn't been washed in weeks.
Needless to say, everything pretty much sucked.
A lumpy bed in a dank cell was not a part of Andrew's Plan. Then again, neither was a malfunctioning jetpack. It was so typical of his luck that just when he thought things were working out, something came along that screwed things up beyond belief. Evidently something had happened to his pack so that when he'd started the jets, they'd sent him off at the wrong angle, right into the awning instead of forwards and away from Jonathan and the Slayer.
He brushed the bump on his head absently, wondering if it might need medical attention. He could have a concussion for all anyone knew, but they'd left him to languish on this stinking bunk like they didn't give a damn if he was dying or something. There was no blood, but the spot was still tender and angry, stinging when he pressed it.
They'd taken away his jetpack despite his protests. He was desperate to examine it, in hopes of finding out what had gone wrong. True, he didn't have much of a clue about the mechanics of them, but there was always the chance that something Warren had said when he'd explained the designs might come back, and he could figure out why his had turned out to be faulty.
Something in his stomach twisted when he thought of Warren. His earlier outburst was entirely uncalled for. He'd just been angry and upset and looking for someone to blame. Of course Warren wouldn't leave him. Warren had planned it all. Actually, they'd planned it all. Together. Get the money, head for the airport (minus the shortcake), get out of the country. Together. They hadn't written it down or made diagrams or charts or anything, because it was supposed to be a complete secret, but it was still their Plan.
They hadn't been able to decide where they'd go next. They'd leafed through holiday brochures and talked about the places they wanted to see, turning what should have been an easy decision into a plethora of choices, each one as exciting as the last. Eventually Warren had announced that they'd just get seats on the first available flight leaving the country and see where fate took them. Andrew had declared it a dangerously romantic idea, as long as they ended up somewhere with room service.
There were no clocks and no windows, and he wasn't wearing a watch, so there was no way of knowing how long they'd been in the cell. From the increasing buzz of activity elsewhere in the building, Andrew had guessed it was at least midmorning. He should have been out of this stupid country by now. Maybe still on the plane, maybe checking into a hotel. Maybe already...
They were supposed to be together. Like, really be together. Warren had promised.
Instead, he was stuck in lock-up, listening to Jonathan whining and trying to ignore several weeks worth of sexual tension that had been carefully timed to discharge right about now.
This was not the place to be imagining Warren's fingers ghosting over his chest, Warren's lips and tongue venturing into as-yet undiscovered territory. There was something slightly perverted about getting excited in a place like this, and it made him feel queasy.
In the bunk below him, Jonathan jabbed the underside of his mattress with a finger, distracting him from his daydream. He managed to be just a little grateful for the interruption.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Andrew did not respond. This was the first time in weeks that he and Warren had been apart for more than a couple of hours. The first time since he realised that Warren might possibly be his boyfriend. The thought brought about a dull ache deep in his gut. He missed Warren.
He wondered if Warren missed him, or if he was too busy figuring out a way to rescue Andrew. Which of course was what would happen, because Warren would stick to The Plan, and The Plan said they would be together. If he closed his eyes, he could see it play out complete with big-budget effects and triumphant rock soundtrack. Warren would blast through the outer wall of their cell, non-faulty jetpack still strapped to his back, and would fly them both to safety, just like with the rocket boots in 'Final Frontier' only with a better script and fewer wrinkles.
Somewhere underneath him, Jonathan griped about the cold. He stopped talking mid-sentence, interrupted by some sort of commotion away from their cell. Andrew raised his head to look, his stomach suddenly buzzing at the possibility of Warren bursting into the police station, taking out cops left and right as he forced his way through the building to rescue his beloved Andrew. But it turned out to be some drunk picking a fight with one of the officers. Andrew lay back down again, raising a hand to test the bump on his head and wondering how much longer he'd have to wait.
~~~~~
Needless to say, everything pretty much sucked.
A lumpy bed in a dank cell was not a part of Andrew's Plan. Then again, neither was a malfunctioning jetpack. It was so typical of his luck that just when he thought things were working out, something came along that screwed things up beyond belief. Evidently something had happened to his pack so that when he'd started the jets, they'd sent him off at the wrong angle, right into the awning instead of forwards and away from Jonathan and the Slayer.
He brushed the bump on his head absently, wondering if it might need medical attention. He could have a concussion for all anyone knew, but they'd left him to languish on this stinking bunk like they didn't give a damn if he was dying or something. There was no blood, but the spot was still tender and angry, stinging when he pressed it.
They'd taken away his jetpack despite his protests. He was desperate to examine it, in hopes of finding out what had gone wrong. True, he didn't have much of a clue about the mechanics of them, but there was always the chance that something Warren had said when he'd explained the designs might come back, and he could figure out why his had turned out to be faulty.
Something in his stomach twisted when he thought of Warren. His earlier outburst was entirely uncalled for. He'd just been angry and upset and looking for someone to blame. Of course Warren wouldn't leave him. Warren had planned it all. Actually, they'd planned it all. Together. Get the money, head for the airport (minus the shortcake), get out of the country. Together. They hadn't written it down or made diagrams or charts or anything, because it was supposed to be a complete secret, but it was still their Plan.
They hadn't been able to decide where they'd go next. They'd leafed through holiday brochures and talked about the places they wanted to see, turning what should have been an easy decision into a plethora of choices, each one as exciting as the last. Eventually Warren had announced that they'd just get seats on the first available flight leaving the country and see where fate took them. Andrew had declared it a dangerously romantic idea, as long as they ended up somewhere with room service.
There were no clocks and no windows, and he wasn't wearing a watch, so there was no way of knowing how long they'd been in the cell. From the increasing buzz of activity elsewhere in the building, Andrew had guessed it was at least midmorning. He should have been out of this stupid country by now. Maybe still on the plane, maybe checking into a hotel. Maybe already...
They were supposed to be together. Like, really be together. Warren had promised.
Instead, he was stuck in lock-up, listening to Jonathan whining and trying to ignore several weeks worth of sexual tension that had been carefully timed to discharge right about now.
This was not the place to be imagining Warren's fingers ghosting over his chest, Warren's lips and tongue venturing into as-yet undiscovered territory. There was something slightly perverted about getting excited in a place like this, and it made him feel queasy.
In the bunk below him, Jonathan jabbed the underside of his mattress with a finger, distracting him from his daydream. He managed to be just a little grateful for the interruption.
"Are you even listening to me?"
Andrew did not respond. This was the first time in weeks that he and Warren had been apart for more than a couple of hours. The first time since he realised that Warren might possibly be his boyfriend. The thought brought about a dull ache deep in his gut. He missed Warren.
He wondered if Warren missed him, or if he was too busy figuring out a way to rescue Andrew. Which of course was what would happen, because Warren would stick to The Plan, and The Plan said they would be together. If he closed his eyes, he could see it play out complete with big-budget effects and triumphant rock soundtrack. Warren would blast through the outer wall of their cell, non-faulty jetpack still strapped to his back, and would fly them both to safety, just like with the rocket boots in 'Final Frontier' only with a better script and fewer wrinkles.
Somewhere underneath him, Jonathan griped about the cold. He stopped talking mid-sentence, interrupted by some sort of commotion away from their cell. Andrew raised his head to look, his stomach suddenly buzzing at the possibility of Warren bursting into the police station, taking out cops left and right as he forced his way through the building to rescue his beloved Andrew. But it turned out to be some drunk picking a fight with one of the officers. Andrew lay back down again, raising a hand to test the bump on his head and wondering how much longer he'd have to wait.
~~~~~