Another Second Time Around
by![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laurificus, Dan/Casey, PG, 2,337 words
"I'm homeless," Casey says.
Thanks tomusesfool and angelgazing for betaing. All remaining mistakes are mine.
***
Another Second Time around
"Casey," Dan says, springing up from his chair with what he hopes is truly annoying enthusiasm. "You are the very person I was hoping would walk through that door. About three hours ago."
Casey glares at him, though the effect is mostly lost, given how badly he needs a shave and, very possibly, a hairstylist. He shrugs out of his jacket, and his shirt's a little rumpled, too--admittedly, not so that you'd necessarily notice on a normal person, but Danny's pretty sure Casey irons his clothes with the aid of a ruler and precise mathematical formulae. This is Casey's equivalent of coming in to work with his shirt on backwards and inside-out. It's certainly something to be discussed in the very near future, once Dan feels he's been suitably avenged for his morning of hell. Dealing with Dana when she's missing one of her lead writers is sort of like dealing with the Antichrist's less reasonable sister. And actually doing any writing has been virtually impossible, what with the way Jeremy keeps coming in to practice proposing to him. Whatever's happened to Casey, Danny's almost certainly had it harder, and it's only fair he gets a little compensation.
To begin, he follows Casey to get a good view of him fighting with the terrifying new espresso machine Natalie bought them as punishment for something neither of them has been able to figure out, and he keeps talking as Casey optimistically gets his cup ready. "I've got this awesome new idea for us," he says, as nothing at all happens no matter which button Casey presses. "It's a little crazy, but hear me out. I think we should write a show together. We could write it by day, present it by night. How 'bout that, huh?"
"I'm homeless," Casey says in response, which, though almost certainly not true, does quite effectively derail the conversation. He gives up on the coffee, walks straight by his computer without turning it on, and flops onto the couch. He tips his head back, and looks at Danny, all wide eyes and frowning mouth. He's this weird mixture of miserable and hopeful, the way Charlie sometimes still gets, even now, when he's had a bad day and comes to Casey to fix it.
"You certainly look it," Danny says. Casey moves his legs to give Danny enough room to sit, and then promptly puts them back, a heavy, warm weight over Danny's thighs. "Did you get kicked out for running your own meth lab? A brothel? Surely not for playing your Céline Dion CDs too loud?"
"Shut up." It gets him a smile, though, a half-sideways quirk of his mouth that says Casey is giving it up against his better judgment. "The apartment above me flooded, and not just, you know, in a small way. In the sort of way that means I, too, am partly flooded." Casey slouches down even further, until his shoulder's resting against Danny's; he's always more tactile when he's tired. And Danny leans into him, just a very little bit, because he's always stupid like that. "There are bits of my ceiling on my floor, Danny. And in my shower."
"I'm no expert," Danny says, "but that is not, traditionally, where bits of ceiling should be. Though, for the record, I don't think you meet the technical definition of homeless."
It's only as he says it that Dan figures out he's trapped on the couch, and he's only realising it at this point because his sense of dread, which apparently likes to take naps at key moments, is finally fully alert and screaming at him to run far, far away, at the kind of speed that could warp the space-time continuum.
"Maybe not technically," Casey says, and Casey not arguing more is another very, very bad sign. "But I can't stay at mine for at least the next couple of days. Ergo, I have nowhere to live." He kicks his foot against Danny's shin, very much like he's been taking lessons from Natalie in asking favours. "Unless my best friend takes pity on me."
Danny wonders why the universe never takes pity on him; in a just world, Dana would have found them slacking off by now, and killed them both. He glances hopefully at the closed door, and when it shows no signs of bursting open, he says, "Dude, I think it's really great the way you and Jeremy have gotten so close. He'll really appreciate the company--and the extra practice time."
Casey kicks him again. "I don't even know what that last part means," he says. "I also don't care. Couple days, Danny."
"See, you say that, but a couple days living with you comes in second to an eternity of being stabbed, repeatedly, in the face by a group of crazed, angry children. A close second, you understand. But second, nonetheless."
Casey laughs, warm and loud and pleased, because he knows Danny will never actually refuse him. "That is demonstrably not true," he says. "You're frightened of all children who aren't Charlie. And I admit, the last time we tried it, we had some teething problems, but that was years ago. We've both undergone substantive personal changes since then."
"You've probably made lists of them. In a book. An indexed book. An indexed book, in which all even-numbered pages are allocated to you, and odd-numbered ones to me. That, my friend, is the kind of person you are, and you are going to come into my home, and you're going to make schedules for all the cleaning activities, and an ordered system by which we will choose which TV programs we watch, and you'll start alphabetising things. And I will wish for death. And death will not come, Casey. Death will purposefully stay away, simply because it, too, is enjoying my pain and suffering."
Casey just grins at him, outrageously fucking happy. "No lists," he says. "I promise."
And because he's Casey, and the ways in which Danny is stupid about him really are limitless, Danny says, "You better bring beer. Lots and lots of beer."
***
The miracle of it is, Casey does bring beer. And he doesn't make lists. Or if he does, he makes them in his head, and Danny doesn't hear about them. And, in fairness, Dan won't deny that he's gotten better at living less like a fratboy and more like an adult. Casey probably appreciates that.
It helps, too, that they hardly spend any time in the apartment, anyway. They work long days, and often as not, go out for drinks after, but it's nice getting in a cab with him when they're done, coming straight home and making fun of awful infomercials and 80s reruns.
It's nice, too, having him there in the mornings. The espresso machine at work might have crushed his spirit, but Casey makes a truly awesome cup of coffee when not confronted by satanic machinery. By the third morning, Danny's almost happy to leave his gloriously hot shower, because he knows Casey will have a cup waiting for him in the kitchen, and after a few mouthfuls of it, he starts to suspect he might live through the day. They argued briefly over the paper on day one, but Casey's fiendish--he started reading out crossword clues while Danny was rightly explicating how it was his paper and so of course he got first call. Danny promptly got distracted and lost that fight, so now he does the crossword and Casey flips through the headlines, offering uninvited and highly disturbing commentary as he goes. Most of it's obscene; he's got a number of suggestions for Karl Rove that Danny definitely doesn't think are legal, even if they are anatomically possible. Every day, he casts the paper aside, about forty times crankier than he was when Danny came in. It certainly explains a lot about the pounding his computer normally takes first thing.
"A normal person might just stop reading," Danny says. They're waiting on the elevator, and Casey's still arguing about the drawbacks of indefinite detention, even though Danny's extremely confident he's vocally agreed with Casey on the subject many times. "You know, if it seemed likely to precipitate an untimely death."
"I'm hoping it kills me," Casey says, like a man who really is. "Then I want you to rally our fans in support, and I want you to sue the US government."
He presses the button for the elevator again, like it's personally offended him, and Danny smiles, kind of a lot, when Casey's not looking at him. It's vaguely terrifying, and weirdly comforting, and Danny doesn't like to think about why he's enjoying it so much. He suspects he didn't need to know they could do this. It's yet one more proof God hates him, because he was really very happy believing they were better off as friends, that a few drunken hookups that never went anywhere shouldn't be regrets. A more self-aware person might suspect that's at least half the reason he didn't want Casey crashing with him again, but Dan really feels that self-awareness might be overrated.
He's not entirely out of hope, anyway. Saturday they've got no work, and the potential for some disastrous argument is infinitely higher. But Charlie comes over, and they take him shopping.
"For new school clothes," Charlie says. "I'm so excited I could fall over dead."
"Keep talking, and you just might," Casey says, but he slings an arm around him as they leave the apartment. Charlie rolls his eyes at Dan, and Dan smiles at them both, and maybe wishes he didn't already feel like he was part of them.
Casey must see something in his expression, because he reaches out with his other arm and tugs Dan in. "Danny would totally help me get away with killing you," he tells Charlie. "Of the two of us, I'm undeniably his favourite."
"I disagree," Danny says.
"And even if you were," Charlie says, "it's only because I'm so much younger. I've had a lot less time to grow into my awesomeness. But comparing our respective awesomeness with our respective ages, it's inevitable that I'll surpass you soon."
He ducks out, laughing, from under Casey's arm before Casey can swat him. Casey hits Dan instead, which hardly seems fair, but Casey's laughing, too, and he doesn't stop, even after Dan elbows him in retaliation. It's a good start to the day, and the kid's still smiling when they drop him back off at Lisa's hours later. That's good, too. He's not quite at the unbearable teenage stage, but he's moodier than he used to be, more work than he was.
"He likes you," Casey says later. They're on the couch, trays of Chinese food on their laps and soccer, of all things, on the TV. There's beer on the table in front of them; Casey's been nursing the same one for about seven hours now.
"Me, too," Danny says. "Also, I hate this game. I don't know if I've mentioned."
"I don't know if you have either. I so rarely pay attention to you." He glances over at Danny and smiles a little. "You wanna watch something else?"
Danny nods. "Lines of static or the God channel would be preferable. But it's fine. Leave it on."
"Okay," Casey says. He's still looking at Danny, though. Dan tries not to twitch under his gaze, finally gives it up and scratches his neck, rubs his face.
"What?" he says. "Because if you're going to be looking at me, I'm turning the TV to something else."
Casey laughs, but it sounds more nervous than amused. He puts the carton of food on the floor and takes his time doing a little more looking. "I'm trying not to make a list out loud," he says, finally. "We got along okay this week, right? No crazy-making involved?"
"Sure," Danny says. "it was almost, you know. Fun."
"Right. Exactly. Not like last time. And if someone--if I, for example--were trying to prove to someone that things could be different, this would not be the worst place to start."
"Casey," Danny says, "are you trying to prove your substantive personal growth? I'm really willing to take your word for it." His heart's beating a little faster, though, and his voice isn't nearly as light as he intended it to be.
"I'm saying." Casey grins, shy and sweet and definitely hopeful. "I'm saying I'd maybe like to kiss you, and this time I'd like to not fuck it up. If that's okay with you. I did a lot of fucking up before, so I--you know, I understand if--"
"Well," Danny says, because Casey's gotten to the point where he'll never find a natural ending himself. Danny's still more than just a bit scared, but Casey is, too. That makes it better, somehow. "Well, no, I don't think so." He waits a beat before his own smile takes over his face. "I mean, seriously, Case, I did a lot of waiting. I totally get to make the first move."
"That seems fair," Casey says. Then Dan closes the tiny distance between them, and Casey's mouth opens beneath his, and Casey's hands close warm and sure on Danny's shoulders.
by
laurificus, Dan/Casey, PG, 2,337 words"I'm homeless," Casey says.
Thanks to
musesfool and angelgazing for betaing. All remaining mistakes are mine.***
Another Second Time around
"Casey," Dan says, springing up from his chair with what he hopes is truly annoying enthusiasm. "You are the very person I was hoping would walk through that door. About three hours ago."
Casey glares at him, though the effect is mostly lost, given how badly he needs a shave and, very possibly, a hairstylist. He shrugs out of his jacket, and his shirt's a little rumpled, too--admittedly, not so that you'd necessarily notice on a normal person, but Danny's pretty sure Casey irons his clothes with the aid of a ruler and precise mathematical formulae. This is Casey's equivalent of coming in to work with his shirt on backwards and inside-out. It's certainly something to be discussed in the very near future, once Dan feels he's been suitably avenged for his morning of hell. Dealing with Dana when she's missing one of her lead writers is sort of like dealing with the Antichrist's less reasonable sister. And actually doing any writing has been virtually impossible, what with the way Jeremy keeps coming in to practice proposing to him. Whatever's happened to Casey, Danny's almost certainly had it harder, and it's only fair he gets a little compensation.
To begin, he follows Casey to get a good view of him fighting with the terrifying new espresso machine Natalie bought them as punishment for something neither of them has been able to figure out, and he keeps talking as Casey optimistically gets his cup ready. "I've got this awesome new idea for us," he says, as nothing at all happens no matter which button Casey presses. "It's a little crazy, but hear me out. I think we should write a show together. We could write it by day, present it by night. How 'bout that, huh?"
"I'm homeless," Casey says in response, which, though almost certainly not true, does quite effectively derail the conversation. He gives up on the coffee, walks straight by his computer without turning it on, and flops onto the couch. He tips his head back, and looks at Danny, all wide eyes and frowning mouth. He's this weird mixture of miserable and hopeful, the way Charlie sometimes still gets, even now, when he's had a bad day and comes to Casey to fix it.
"You certainly look it," Danny says. Casey moves his legs to give Danny enough room to sit, and then promptly puts them back, a heavy, warm weight over Danny's thighs. "Did you get kicked out for running your own meth lab? A brothel? Surely not for playing your Céline Dion CDs too loud?"
"Shut up." It gets him a smile, though, a half-sideways quirk of his mouth that says Casey is giving it up against his better judgment. "The apartment above me flooded, and not just, you know, in a small way. In the sort of way that means I, too, am partly flooded." Casey slouches down even further, until his shoulder's resting against Danny's; he's always more tactile when he's tired. And Danny leans into him, just a very little bit, because he's always stupid like that. "There are bits of my ceiling on my floor, Danny. And in my shower."
"I'm no expert," Danny says, "but that is not, traditionally, where bits of ceiling should be. Though, for the record, I don't think you meet the technical definition of homeless."
It's only as he says it that Dan figures out he's trapped on the couch, and he's only realising it at this point because his sense of dread, which apparently likes to take naps at key moments, is finally fully alert and screaming at him to run far, far away, at the kind of speed that could warp the space-time continuum.
"Maybe not technically," Casey says, and Casey not arguing more is another very, very bad sign. "But I can't stay at mine for at least the next couple of days. Ergo, I have nowhere to live." He kicks his foot against Danny's shin, very much like he's been taking lessons from Natalie in asking favours. "Unless my best friend takes pity on me."
Danny wonders why the universe never takes pity on him; in a just world, Dana would have found them slacking off by now, and killed them both. He glances hopefully at the closed door, and when it shows no signs of bursting open, he says, "Dude, I think it's really great the way you and Jeremy have gotten so close. He'll really appreciate the company--and the extra practice time."
Casey kicks him again. "I don't even know what that last part means," he says. "I also don't care. Couple days, Danny."
"See, you say that, but a couple days living with you comes in second to an eternity of being stabbed, repeatedly, in the face by a group of crazed, angry children. A close second, you understand. But second, nonetheless."
Casey laughs, warm and loud and pleased, because he knows Danny will never actually refuse him. "That is demonstrably not true," he says. "You're frightened of all children who aren't Charlie. And I admit, the last time we tried it, we had some teething problems, but that was years ago. We've both undergone substantive personal changes since then."
"You've probably made lists of them. In a book. An indexed book. An indexed book, in which all even-numbered pages are allocated to you, and odd-numbered ones to me. That, my friend, is the kind of person you are, and you are going to come into my home, and you're going to make schedules for all the cleaning activities, and an ordered system by which we will choose which TV programs we watch, and you'll start alphabetising things. And I will wish for death. And death will not come, Casey. Death will purposefully stay away, simply because it, too, is enjoying my pain and suffering."
Casey just grins at him, outrageously fucking happy. "No lists," he says. "I promise."
And because he's Casey, and the ways in which Danny is stupid about him really are limitless, Danny says, "You better bring beer. Lots and lots of beer."
***
The miracle of it is, Casey does bring beer. And he doesn't make lists. Or if he does, he makes them in his head, and Danny doesn't hear about them. And, in fairness, Dan won't deny that he's gotten better at living less like a fratboy and more like an adult. Casey probably appreciates that.
It helps, too, that they hardly spend any time in the apartment, anyway. They work long days, and often as not, go out for drinks after, but it's nice getting in a cab with him when they're done, coming straight home and making fun of awful infomercials and 80s reruns.
It's nice, too, having him there in the mornings. The espresso machine at work might have crushed his spirit, but Casey makes a truly awesome cup of coffee when not confronted by satanic machinery. By the third morning, Danny's almost happy to leave his gloriously hot shower, because he knows Casey will have a cup waiting for him in the kitchen, and after a few mouthfuls of it, he starts to suspect he might live through the day. They argued briefly over the paper on day one, but Casey's fiendish--he started reading out crossword clues while Danny was rightly explicating how it was his paper and so of course he got first call. Danny promptly got distracted and lost that fight, so now he does the crossword and Casey flips through the headlines, offering uninvited and highly disturbing commentary as he goes. Most of it's obscene; he's got a number of suggestions for Karl Rove that Danny definitely doesn't think are legal, even if they are anatomically possible. Every day, he casts the paper aside, about forty times crankier than he was when Danny came in. It certainly explains a lot about the pounding his computer normally takes first thing.
"A normal person might just stop reading," Danny says. They're waiting on the elevator, and Casey's still arguing about the drawbacks of indefinite detention, even though Danny's extremely confident he's vocally agreed with Casey on the subject many times. "You know, if it seemed likely to precipitate an untimely death."
"I'm hoping it kills me," Casey says, like a man who really is. "Then I want you to rally our fans in support, and I want you to sue the US government."
He presses the button for the elevator again, like it's personally offended him, and Danny smiles, kind of a lot, when Casey's not looking at him. It's vaguely terrifying, and weirdly comforting, and Danny doesn't like to think about why he's enjoying it so much. He suspects he didn't need to know they could do this. It's yet one more proof God hates him, because he was really very happy believing they were better off as friends, that a few drunken hookups that never went anywhere shouldn't be regrets. A more self-aware person might suspect that's at least half the reason he didn't want Casey crashing with him again, but Dan really feels that self-awareness might be overrated.
He's not entirely out of hope, anyway. Saturday they've got no work, and the potential for some disastrous argument is infinitely higher. But Charlie comes over, and they take him shopping.
"For new school clothes," Charlie says. "I'm so excited I could fall over dead."
"Keep talking, and you just might," Casey says, but he slings an arm around him as they leave the apartment. Charlie rolls his eyes at Dan, and Dan smiles at them both, and maybe wishes he didn't already feel like he was part of them.
Casey must see something in his expression, because he reaches out with his other arm and tugs Dan in. "Danny would totally help me get away with killing you," he tells Charlie. "Of the two of us, I'm undeniably his favourite."
"I disagree," Danny says.
"And even if you were," Charlie says, "it's only because I'm so much younger. I've had a lot less time to grow into my awesomeness. But comparing our respective awesomeness with our respective ages, it's inevitable that I'll surpass you soon."
He ducks out, laughing, from under Casey's arm before Casey can swat him. Casey hits Dan instead, which hardly seems fair, but Casey's laughing, too, and he doesn't stop, even after Dan elbows him in retaliation. It's a good start to the day, and the kid's still smiling when they drop him back off at Lisa's hours later. That's good, too. He's not quite at the unbearable teenage stage, but he's moodier than he used to be, more work than he was.
"He likes you," Casey says later. They're on the couch, trays of Chinese food on their laps and soccer, of all things, on the TV. There's beer on the table in front of them; Casey's been nursing the same one for about seven hours now.
"Me, too," Danny says. "Also, I hate this game. I don't know if I've mentioned."
"I don't know if you have either. I so rarely pay attention to you." He glances over at Danny and smiles a little. "You wanna watch something else?"
Danny nods. "Lines of static or the God channel would be preferable. But it's fine. Leave it on."
"Okay," Casey says. He's still looking at Danny, though. Dan tries not to twitch under his gaze, finally gives it up and scratches his neck, rubs his face.
"What?" he says. "Because if you're going to be looking at me, I'm turning the TV to something else."
Casey laughs, but it sounds more nervous than amused. He puts the carton of food on the floor and takes his time doing a little more looking. "I'm trying not to make a list out loud," he says, finally. "We got along okay this week, right? No crazy-making involved?"
"Sure," Danny says. "it was almost, you know. Fun."
"Right. Exactly. Not like last time. And if someone--if I, for example--were trying to prove to someone that things could be different, this would not be the worst place to start."
"Casey," Danny says, "are you trying to prove your substantive personal growth? I'm really willing to take your word for it." His heart's beating a little faster, though, and his voice isn't nearly as light as he intended it to be.
"I'm saying." Casey grins, shy and sweet and definitely hopeful. "I'm saying I'd maybe like to kiss you, and this time I'd like to not fuck it up. If that's okay with you. I did a lot of fucking up before, so I--you know, I understand if--"
"Well," Danny says, because Casey's gotten to the point where he'll never find a natural ending himself. Danny's still more than just a bit scared, but Casey is, too. That makes it better, somehow. "Well, no, I don't think so." He waits a beat before his own smile takes over his face. "I mean, seriously, Case, I did a lot of waiting. I totally get to make the first move."
"That seems fair," Casey says. Then Dan closes the tiny distance between them, and Casey's mouth opens beneath his, and Casey's hands close warm and sure on Danny's shoulders.
There are 4 comments on this entry.