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candygrammeTitle: Somebody That I Used to Know
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
candygramme
Beta:spoonlessone
Wordcount: 2,000+
Pairing Kane/Carlson
Notes: This is sad, but I couldn't help it.
It had rained on and off all day, and the clouds still hung heavy over Ojai, kneeling opressively on the red, pantiled roofs and dulling the white stucco walls that made up most of the town. Steve had gone outside earlier to stand in the rain and let it soak him through, but it was cold, not even 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and he hadn't stayed out there long.
Back in his living room, he paced a while. Almost Christmas, but he didn't feel like partying, or cooking or doing any of the stuff one usually did at Christmas. He felt old and used up.
He looked wistfully at the row of guitars all neatly lined up, and then he shrugged and went to sit at his piano. Guitars were great when you were feeling on and wanted to perform, but when you felt truly miserable, nothing worked better than a piano.
He began to play, silly old folk tunes he'd heard when he was a kid, husky voice making "Goodnight Irene" into a plaintive lament before switching to "Peggy Gordon". These were songs that were safe. His mind wandered back briefly to last Christmas, and the fun time they'd had even though things had already begun to fall apart, before shying away quickly. No good would come from dwelling on things that were gone.
He thought about his friends, all paired up and happy in their lives, Jason with his new baby, Jensen and Jared, sneaking off to spend the holidays in the sun, Jonah, playing with Riley and enjoying being back in LA, and sighed. He had his music. That was enough. It had to be, didn't it? Frowning, he let his fingers slow on the keys and stop. He should go for a run or something and get out of this funk. No point in drinking. Drink only intensified moods, and his was black enough as it was.
He rose to his feet, closed the lid of the piano and reverently brushed fingertips over the gleaming rosewood. It was old - much older than he was, but the tone of it had drawn him, the perfect resonance that satisfied him better than any modern electric piano. He'd argued with Darren about that so often. Darren reckoned that he could duplicate any sound with his synth, and Steve knew that, for him at least, that just wasn't true. He and Darren had fallen out over... No. He wouldn't go there. Peace on Earth and all that happy shit. Darren and Rosalee deserved a Christmas without him glooming all over it, and, besides, he had no real wish to listen to the 'I told you so' he knew he so richly deserved.
He turned to go put on his running gear, and was half way to the bedroom, when the doorbell rang. Carol singers, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mom? Who the fuck even knew he was here? He had half a mind to pretend he was out, but his sudden need for human contact argued, and, as he deliberated, the bell rang out again, an unmusical, shrill tone that made him grind his teeth. Scowling, he made his way through the house to find out just who was disturbing his melancholy mood.
The man leaning on his doorbell had seen better days. There were bruises and scrapes on the left side of his face, suggesting that he'd been in one too many brawls. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were broken veins in his cheeks that marred the swarthy skin. His hair was dragged back under the woolen hat that he wore, and he seemed to have dressed by guess. He reeked of stale alcohol. Steve felt a shiver go through him, all at once hot and icy cold. He made as if to close the door.
"No," he said, as if that would work.
"I..."
He had his foot in the door. The bastard had always been quick, and even drunk as a skunk his reflexes put your average human to shame. He wasn't going to let this go, was he?
"I said no." Steve leaned on the door, hoping that somehow he could stave off the impending confrontation; knowing that wasn't going to happen.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry." Christian Kane swayed a little, but the foot remained where it was. "I am, Steve. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too." Steve felt the fight go out of him. It was what it was. Chris wouldn't back down; he never did. Sighing, he finally relaxed and stood back for Chris to enter. "Wait."
Chris, caught in the act of stepping across the threshold, froze.
"Leave the bottle outside," snapped Steve. He watched as Chris fumbled in the pocket of his backpack and extracted a two thirds full bottle of Jack, pointing to the corner of the porch and nodding in satisfaction when Chris set it down without a word. "That all you got?"
"Just m'chew." Chris looked beaten, and Steve wanted to put his arms around him. Wanted to, but wasn't going to. Not this time. He was still standing, looking at him through eyes that were red and swollen. "C'mon, darlin'. I wanna make things right with you."
"The time's long past for that." Steve turned his back and walked back into the living room, sat down at the piano again and began to play 'Away in a manger.' "Besides, why would you want to, Mr. Big Star? After all, I'm only the guitar player."
He knew when Chris walked up behind him - could smell sweat and stale alcohol and ground his teeth again. They were going to be down to nubs before he was done at this rate. He heard Chris draw in a breath and waited. Sure enough, he wasn't disappointed. "You know I didn't mean it like that. C'mon, darlin', you know I need you."
Steve's hands came down on the keys in a discordant jangle of notes. Turning to skewer Chris with a glare that threatened bodily harm if he said another word, he snarled. "You stink, man. Go take a shower. If I'm gonna have to put up with you, at least you can smell decent."
There was a pause, and Steve wondered if Chris would fly off the handle or not. The world held its breath, waiting, and then Chris nodded meekly and stumbled off towards Steve's bathroom.
Chris was in the bathroom for what seemed like a lifetime to Steve. While he was gone, Steve was fighting off the need to reminisce, images of Chris, hair swirling, sweat and Jack and love as smooth skin pressed against him flickered past, reminding him of gigs gone by, when he'd thought that this was forever. He had believed in Chris, when he'd told the world that he, Steve, was the love of his life. He still believed it; he couldn't help it, even though he knew that ship had sailed long ago. Trying to avoid the memories was a sure-fire way of ensuring that they wouldn't stay away, and it wasn’t long before they flooded in. Sweaty nights on stage with sly kisses to the back of his neck, the burn of alcohol and the taste of Chris, booze and chew and coffee at six am, wincing into the new morning before they finally fell into exhausted slumber.
Determined to distract himself from the things that might have been, he made his way into the kitchen and set the coffee maker to brew, ears twitching as he listened for signs of Chris returning. He finally emerged just as Steve was reaching for the mugs, and he turned to find the man swathed in a towel, another one wrapped around his head, turban style. “I used your spare toothbrush,” he said. “Thought you’d only send me back to do it if I didn’t.”
“Damned straight.” Steve smiled a sharp-toothed smile. “You want coffee?”
“Guess so.” The wince was barely visible, but Steve saw it. “M’not drunk, ya know?”
“Maybe you’re not, but you ain’t dried out either, are you?” he responded.
“Aww, Stevo, why you gotta be that way? We’ve had good times together, haven’t we?” Chris gave him one of his pleading looks, eyes soft and lost, and Steve almost believed him – almost.
“We’ve also had some times that weren’t so great, man,” he muttered. “And I’m not gonna repeat them- not again. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t make the same mistake over and over.”
“You love me; I know you love me.” Chris was still turning on the plaintive little boy, but Steve had seen it once too often, and this time he shook his head.
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.” Chris rolled his eyes, and Steve felt a flush of anger. “One thing’s for sure, Christian Kane, I don’t like what alcohol has done to you – what it’s done to us. I’m not going there again.”
“What are you saying?” It was as if Chris didn’t believe that this time his charm wasn’t working. Steve reflected that Chris looked like he’d imagined that if he expressed contrition and crooked his little finger, he’d come running. He was done running, and the sooner he made that plain the better. Only problem was that Chris had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he tended to take refuge in a temper tantrum when his will was crossed.
Ah, well, he could weather one more temper tantrum from Chris. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen one before.
“I’m saying you’re a fucking alcoholic, and until you get clean and sober we’re done.” He watched Chris for the telltale rising tide of blood to his cheeks and hastily checked over his shoulder to see that his knives were all out of reach. “I mean it this time, Short. You gotta go get over your dependence on booze somehow. For a start it’s killing you, and for a second thing, it’s killing me.”
“Dunno what you mean. I’m as good as ever I was.” Chris’s eyes had turned flat and cold, but so far no flush was suffusing his face.
“Oh, yeah, good as ever. That’s why your show was canned, and that’s why you’ve lost your recording contract. That’s why I’m not gonna take you back until you get yourself over this.” Steve finished his coffee and crossed the room to make a production out of putting the mug into the dishwasher. “Want my advice?”
“You’re gonna give it anyway, aren’t ya?” Chris frowned.
“Too right.” That sharp, focused grin that contained no mirth crossed Steve’s features again. “You won’t take it, but I’ll give it anyway, while you get dressed and ready to bail out and go drink some more.” He nodded to himself as Chris turned to look for his clothes. “Go see Mark. He’s been along the route you need to travel. He’ll be more help than I ever could.”
“Sheppard? I don’t think I’m his favorite person right now.” Chris was climbing back into his jeans as he spoke, wet towel tossed onto the upholstery in a manner that was distinctly Kane.
“You know what? Right now, you ain’t anyone’s favorite person, Chris. Go see Mark. Make it right with him and see if he can help.”
“And if I don’t?” The scowl on Chris’s face was testament to his feelings.
“Then don’t come back.” The words fell like stones into the pool of silence between them, and left only the faintest ripple of a gasp.
There was nothing further to be said. He watched, hard-eyed, as Christian Kane turned and walked to the door, listened as he closed it behind him- gently, as if Chris were leaving him sleeping. It was only when the door was closed that Steve walked slowly over to the window and gazed out to catch a last glimpse of Christian Kane as he strode away, taking Steve's heart with him.
For a long while, he stood there at the window, lost in contemplation. Then he turned back to his piano. There was another song that needed to be written.
Author:
candygrammeBeta:
spoonlessoneWordcount: 2,000+
Pairing Kane/Carlson
Notes: This is sad, but I couldn't help it.
It had rained on and off all day, and the clouds still hung heavy over Ojai, kneeling opressively on the red, pantiled roofs and dulling the white stucco walls that made up most of the town. Steve had gone outside earlier to stand in the rain and let it soak him through, but it was cold, not even 50 degrees Fahrenheit, and he hadn't stayed out there long.
Back in his living room, he paced a while. Almost Christmas, but he didn't feel like partying, or cooking or doing any of the stuff one usually did at Christmas. He felt old and used up.
He looked wistfully at the row of guitars all neatly lined up, and then he shrugged and went to sit at his piano. Guitars were great when you were feeling on and wanted to perform, but when you felt truly miserable, nothing worked better than a piano.
He began to play, silly old folk tunes he'd heard when he was a kid, husky voice making "Goodnight Irene" into a plaintive lament before switching to "Peggy Gordon". These were songs that were safe. His mind wandered back briefly to last Christmas, and the fun time they'd had even though things had already begun to fall apart, before shying away quickly. No good would come from dwelling on things that were gone.
He thought about his friends, all paired up and happy in their lives, Jason with his new baby, Jensen and Jared, sneaking off to spend the holidays in the sun, Jonah, playing with Riley and enjoying being back in LA, and sighed. He had his music. That was enough. It had to be, didn't it? Frowning, he let his fingers slow on the keys and stop. He should go for a run or something and get out of this funk. No point in drinking. Drink only intensified moods, and his was black enough as it was.
He rose to his feet, closed the lid of the piano and reverently brushed fingertips over the gleaming rosewood. It was old - much older than he was, but the tone of it had drawn him, the perfect resonance that satisfied him better than any modern electric piano. He'd argued with Darren about that so often. Darren reckoned that he could duplicate any sound with his synth, and Steve knew that, for him at least, that just wasn't true. He and Darren had fallen out over... No. He wouldn't go there. Peace on Earth and all that happy shit. Darren and Rosalee deserved a Christmas without him glooming all over it, and, besides, he had no real wish to listen to the 'I told you so' he knew he so richly deserved.
He turned to go put on his running gear, and was half way to the bedroom, when the doorbell rang. Carol singers, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mom? Who the fuck even knew he was here? He had half a mind to pretend he was out, but his sudden need for human contact argued, and, as he deliberated, the bell rang out again, an unmusical, shrill tone that made him grind his teeth. Scowling, he made his way through the house to find out just who was disturbing his melancholy mood.
The man leaning on his doorbell had seen better days. There were bruises and scrapes on the left side of his face, suggesting that he'd been in one too many brawls. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were broken veins in his cheeks that marred the swarthy skin. His hair was dragged back under the woolen hat that he wore, and he seemed to have dressed by guess. He reeked of stale alcohol. Steve felt a shiver go through him, all at once hot and icy cold. He made as if to close the door.
"No," he said, as if that would work.
"I..."
He had his foot in the door. The bastard had always been quick, and even drunk as a skunk his reflexes put your average human to shame. He wasn't going to let this go, was he?
"I said no." Steve leaned on the door, hoping that somehow he could stave off the impending confrontation; knowing that wasn't going to happen.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry." Christian Kane swayed a little, but the foot remained where it was. "I am, Steve. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, me too." Steve felt the fight go out of him. It was what it was. Chris wouldn't back down; he never did. Sighing, he finally relaxed and stood back for Chris to enter. "Wait."
Chris, caught in the act of stepping across the threshold, froze.
"Leave the bottle outside," snapped Steve. He watched as Chris fumbled in the pocket of his backpack and extracted a two thirds full bottle of Jack, pointing to the corner of the porch and nodding in satisfaction when Chris set it down without a word. "That all you got?"
"Just m'chew." Chris looked beaten, and Steve wanted to put his arms around him. Wanted to, but wasn't going to. Not this time. He was still standing, looking at him through eyes that were red and swollen. "C'mon, darlin'. I wanna make things right with you."
"The time's long past for that." Steve turned his back and walked back into the living room, sat down at the piano again and began to play 'Away in a manger.' "Besides, why would you want to, Mr. Big Star? After all, I'm only the guitar player."
He knew when Chris walked up behind him - could smell sweat and stale alcohol and ground his teeth again. They were going to be down to nubs before he was done at this rate. He heard Chris draw in a breath and waited. Sure enough, he wasn't disappointed. "You know I didn't mean it like that. C'mon, darlin', you know I need you."
Steve's hands came down on the keys in a discordant jangle of notes. Turning to skewer Chris with a glare that threatened bodily harm if he said another word, he snarled. "You stink, man. Go take a shower. If I'm gonna have to put up with you, at least you can smell decent."
There was a pause, and Steve wondered if Chris would fly off the handle or not. The world held its breath, waiting, and then Chris nodded meekly and stumbled off towards Steve's bathroom.
Chris was in the bathroom for what seemed like a lifetime to Steve. While he was gone, Steve was fighting off the need to reminisce, images of Chris, hair swirling, sweat and Jack and love as smooth skin pressed against him flickered past, reminding him of gigs gone by, when he'd thought that this was forever. He had believed in Chris, when he'd told the world that he, Steve, was the love of his life. He still believed it; he couldn't help it, even though he knew that ship had sailed long ago. Trying to avoid the memories was a sure-fire way of ensuring that they wouldn't stay away, and it wasn’t long before they flooded in. Sweaty nights on stage with sly kisses to the back of his neck, the burn of alcohol and the taste of Chris, booze and chew and coffee at six am, wincing into the new morning before they finally fell into exhausted slumber.
Determined to distract himself from the things that might have been, he made his way into the kitchen and set the coffee maker to brew, ears twitching as he listened for signs of Chris returning. He finally emerged just as Steve was reaching for the mugs, and he turned to find the man swathed in a towel, another one wrapped around his head, turban style. “I used your spare toothbrush,” he said. “Thought you’d only send me back to do it if I didn’t.”
“Damned straight.” Steve smiled a sharp-toothed smile. “You want coffee?”
“Guess so.” The wince was barely visible, but Steve saw it. “M’not drunk, ya know?”
“Maybe you’re not, but you ain’t dried out either, are you?” he responded.
“Aww, Stevo, why you gotta be that way? We’ve had good times together, haven’t we?” Chris gave him one of his pleading looks, eyes soft and lost, and Steve almost believed him – almost.
“We’ve also had some times that weren’t so great, man,” he muttered. “And I’m not gonna repeat them- not again. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t make the same mistake over and over.”
“You love me; I know you love me.” Chris was still turning on the plaintive little boy, but Steve had seen it once too often, and this time he shook his head.
“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t.” Chris rolled his eyes, and Steve felt a flush of anger. “One thing’s for sure, Christian Kane, I don’t like what alcohol has done to you – what it’s done to us. I’m not going there again.”
“What are you saying?” It was as if Chris didn’t believe that this time his charm wasn’t working. Steve reflected that Chris looked like he’d imagined that if he expressed contrition and crooked his little finger, he’d come running. He was done running, and the sooner he made that plain the better. Only problem was that Chris had never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he tended to take refuge in a temper tantrum when his will was crossed.
Ah, well, he could weather one more temper tantrum from Chris. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen one before.
“I’m saying you’re a fucking alcoholic, and until you get clean and sober we’re done.” He watched Chris for the telltale rising tide of blood to his cheeks and hastily checked over his shoulder to see that his knives were all out of reach. “I mean it this time, Short. You gotta go get over your dependence on booze somehow. For a start it’s killing you, and for a second thing, it’s killing me.”
“Dunno what you mean. I’m as good as ever I was.” Chris’s eyes had turned flat and cold, but so far no flush was suffusing his face.
“Oh, yeah, good as ever. That’s why your show was canned, and that’s why you’ve lost your recording contract. That’s why I’m not gonna take you back until you get yourself over this.” Steve finished his coffee and crossed the room to make a production out of putting the mug into the dishwasher. “Want my advice?”
“You’re gonna give it anyway, aren’t ya?” Chris frowned.
“Too right.” That sharp, focused grin that contained no mirth crossed Steve’s features again. “You won’t take it, but I’ll give it anyway, while you get dressed and ready to bail out and go drink some more.” He nodded to himself as Chris turned to look for his clothes. “Go see Mark. He’s been along the route you need to travel. He’ll be more help than I ever could.”
“Sheppard? I don’t think I’m his favorite person right now.” Chris was climbing back into his jeans as he spoke, wet towel tossed onto the upholstery in a manner that was distinctly Kane.
“You know what? Right now, you ain’t anyone’s favorite person, Chris. Go see Mark. Make it right with him and see if he can help.”
“And if I don’t?” The scowl on Chris’s face was testament to his feelings.
“Then don’t come back.” The words fell like stones into the pool of silence between them, and left only the faintest ripple of a gasp.
There was nothing further to be said. He watched, hard-eyed, as Christian Kane turned and walked to the door, listened as he closed it behind him- gently, as if Chris were leaving him sleeping. It was only when the door was closed that Steve walked slowly over to the window and gazed out to catch a last glimpse of Christian Kane as he strode away, taking Steve's heart with him.
For a long while, he stood there at the window, lost in contemplation. Then he turned back to his piano. There was another song that needed to be written.
