Driver's Seat
May. 30th, 2011 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Driver's Seat
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Designated drivers
Pairing: Might or might not be C/P
Warnings: Slash, swearing.
Notes: This isn't in my AU, but I just realized that, for absolutely no reason, I always make Charles a really, really bad driver.
"Ew!" said Pickles, viewing the squashed and oozing remains of what was quite recently a Klokateer.
"Douchebag," rumbled Nathan. "What was that? Was that THREE for this trip?"
"Four, dood," grinned Pickles, who held out his hand.
Nathan reluctantly slapped a fifty into Pickles' outstretched palm. "Douchebag," he repeated.
"Well, there's, ah, that," observed Charles.
"And what do we fucking PAY YOU FOR again?" Nathan demanded. He was still cranky over losing the nightly mangled Klokateer pool.
"My, uh, UNDERSTATED dress sense," Charles replied.
"YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING!" Nathan, ever attuned to dry humor, accused.
"Yes. You, uh, surrounded me in my office and demanded I come out PALLING AROUND with you."
"Dood, yoo didn't haf t' come," Pickles reasoned, taking a very, very long drag of something or other.
"Yes, but, then you, ah, threw me in the TRUNK of the limo and drove me to a strip club."
"You were ASKING FOR IT," Nathan concluded.
"Doods, how're we gonna get home? Dat was our last Gear dood."
"That is, ah, SIMPLE, Pickles. You will, ah, get in the limo, and I will, ah, drive you guys home."
"WUT?"
"YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING!"
"I had one beer," Charles sniffed primly.
"Dood, yoo had six beers," said Pickles.
"Oh. Uh, yeah," said Charles, suddenly counting off on his fingers. "I meant to say six. It just came out as, ah, one."
"Plus dose boilermakers...." Pickles continued.
"Those... I think you'll find that boilermakers do not COUNT as beer, as they include a whiskey chaser," Charles sniffed.
"Dude's right," Nathan agreed.
"An' da Cosmopolitan," Pickles ticked off.
"That wasn't.... All right, uh, maybe that was.... And, ah, who are YOU, Pickles, the, ah, drink toter upper.... person?"
"He has an UNCANNY MEMORY FOR CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES," Nathan agreed. "It's like a gift."
"An' dere wuz dat shit I gave yoo t' smoke, an' Gahd knows wut wuz in dat stuff!" Pickles concluded sadly.
"I was.... Wait, you don't know what's in that stuff?"
"That makes it more of a CHALLENGE," Nathan said approvingly.
"An' I mighta put somethin' in one o' yer drinks. Actually, yeh I did. I spiked yer drink. But da important t'ing is," he said, hooking a friendly arm over Charles' shoulder, "Ah'm naht sahry."
"You're not?"
"Nope," Pickles attested. "Naht at all."
"That's the important thing," Nahan agreed. "LACK OF CONSCIENCE."
Charles scowled at Pickles, making sure that the scowl went over the tops of his eyeglasses so as not to be diluted. "This, ah, this, ah, this can't be true. I am, ah, CONE BOLD STOBER. I mean, ah, BONE SOLD... Ah..."
"Den, dood, wut happened to yer tie?" asked Pickles.
Charles felt his collar. "It's ah.... It's ah...." He looked down at his shirt, and then started patting his pockets.
"Sooo, who ams goings to escorts me ands my lovelies lady homes," Skwisgaar inquired, striding up accompanied by half the female population of Beverly Hills. Which was passing strange, as they were supposed to be in Wichita.
"Ou will, ah, GET YOUR ASSES in the limo, and then in will ah, drive us home, as I am, ah, not impaired. In any way."
"Dats what we ams dos?" Skwisgaar inquired of his bandmates.
"Yeah, well, when that dude starts swearing, usually best to keep the peace, if you know what I mean," Nathan muttered conspiratorially.
Skwisgaar and his lovely ladies started cooperatively filing into the limo. One of the women giggled and, as she went in, handed Charles his tie. He somewhat ungraciously snatched it from her and wrapped it around his neck.
Finally, Nathan and Skwiagaar followed them inside. Charles looked expectantly at Pickles.
"Ah feck no, dood. Ah'm gonna sit up front an' watch," the drummer laughed.
Charles repeated his over the glasses death stare, to a similar lack of effect, and the. He and Pickles climbed I to the front of the limo.
"So, dood, have yoo ever operated a motor vehicle prior t' dis?" Pickles inquired.
"Yes! Why are you asking?" Charles asked, pushing ineffectively on the throttle.
Pickles didn't reply, but simply held up a set of keys set on a fashionable Gear keyring.
"Why didn't we buy this fucking thing in an automatic?" Charles complained.
"Dis is an automatic," Pickles grinned.
"Then why does it have a clutch?"
"Dood. Dat's da brake."
"Oh. Yeah. I ah, knew that. Quit annoying me and let me drive."
"Dood. We're still in da parkin' space."
Charles gunned the engine and found a gear. The car lurched ... Nowhere.
Pickles grinned, leaned over, and released the parking brake.
"I was gonna do that next!"
"Shure yoo were," Pickles agreed.
The limo lurched into movement. It hurtled backwards perhaps five or six feet before colliding, with a pronounced crunch, into the brick wall of the strip club. Charles frantically tried to drive back out, but only managed to stall the engine.
"Oops'" grinned Pickles.
"Crap," whispered Charles, pitting his head down on the steering wheel.
"I wouldn't worry, dood," Pickles said. "Dese things are built like a tank. He pushed a button on the dashboard. A video monitor clicked on, showing scenes of what was going on on the back seats. "See? Dey don't even know back dere."
Charles squinted at the video screen for a few moments. "Uh, that thing Skwisgaar is doing right now? Is that even possible?"
"T'ink yoo gotta be double jointed," Pickles explained.
"Ah."
"An' it helps t' have dose little IKEA wrench t'ings."
"Uh-huh."
They sat quietly for a moment.
"Ah," said Charles at length. "That stuff you gave me? That you didn't know what it was?"
"Yeh?"
"You, uh, got any more?"
"Mebbe," grinned Pickles. "Depends."
"Depends on what?"
Pickles drew something out of a pocket. It was red. "Yoo want yer tie back?" he asked.
Charles felt at his collar.
He raised an eyebrow.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Designated drivers
Pairing: Might or might not be C/P
Warnings: Slash, swearing.
Notes: This isn't in my AU, but I just realized that, for absolutely no reason, I always make Charles a really, really bad driver.
"Ew!" said Pickles, viewing the squashed and oozing remains of what was quite recently a Klokateer.
"Douchebag," rumbled Nathan. "What was that? Was that THREE for this trip?"
"Four, dood," grinned Pickles, who held out his hand.
Nathan reluctantly slapped a fifty into Pickles' outstretched palm. "Douchebag," he repeated.
"Well, there's, ah, that," observed Charles.
"And what do we fucking PAY YOU FOR again?" Nathan demanded. He was still cranky over losing the nightly mangled Klokateer pool.
"My, uh, UNDERSTATED dress sense," Charles replied.
"YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING!" Nathan, ever attuned to dry humor, accused.
"Yes. You, uh, surrounded me in my office and demanded I come out PALLING AROUND with you."
"Dood, yoo didn't haf t' come," Pickles reasoned, taking a very, very long drag of something or other.
"Yes, but, then you, ah, threw me in the TRUNK of the limo and drove me to a strip club."
"You were ASKING FOR IT," Nathan concluded.
"Doods, how're we gonna get home? Dat was our last Gear dood."
"That is, ah, SIMPLE, Pickles. You will, ah, get in the limo, and I will, ah, drive you guys home."
"WUT?"
"YOU'VE BEEN DRINKING!"
"I had one beer," Charles sniffed primly.
"Dood, yoo had six beers," said Pickles.
"Oh. Uh, yeah," said Charles, suddenly counting off on his fingers. "I meant to say six. It just came out as, ah, one."
"Plus dose boilermakers...." Pickles continued.
"Those... I think you'll find that boilermakers do not COUNT as beer, as they include a whiskey chaser," Charles sniffed.
"Dude's right," Nathan agreed.
"An' da Cosmopolitan," Pickles ticked off.
"That wasn't.... All right, uh, maybe that was.... And, ah, who are YOU, Pickles, the, ah, drink toter upper.... person?"
"He has an UNCANNY MEMORY FOR CONTROLLED SUBSTANCES," Nathan agreed. "It's like a gift."
"An' dere wuz dat shit I gave yoo t' smoke, an' Gahd knows wut wuz in dat stuff!" Pickles concluded sadly.
"I was.... Wait, you don't know what's in that stuff?"
"That makes it more of a CHALLENGE," Nathan said approvingly.
"An' I mighta put somethin' in one o' yer drinks. Actually, yeh I did. I spiked yer drink. But da important t'ing is," he said, hooking a friendly arm over Charles' shoulder, "Ah'm naht sahry."
"You're not?"
"Nope," Pickles attested. "Naht at all."
"That's the important thing," Nahan agreed. "LACK OF CONSCIENCE."
Charles scowled at Pickles, making sure that the scowl went over the tops of his eyeglasses so as not to be diluted. "This, ah, this, ah, this can't be true. I am, ah, CONE BOLD STOBER. I mean, ah, BONE SOLD... Ah..."
"Den, dood, wut happened to yer tie?" asked Pickles.
Charles felt his collar. "It's ah.... It's ah...." He looked down at his shirt, and then started patting his pockets.
"Sooo, who ams goings to escorts me ands my lovelies lady homes," Skwisgaar inquired, striding up accompanied by half the female population of Beverly Hills. Which was passing strange, as they were supposed to be in Wichita.
"Ou will, ah, GET YOUR ASSES in the limo, and then in will ah, drive us home, as I am, ah, not impaired. In any way."
"Dats what we ams dos?" Skwisgaar inquired of his bandmates.
"Yeah, well, when that dude starts swearing, usually best to keep the peace, if you know what I mean," Nathan muttered conspiratorially.
Skwisgaar and his lovely ladies started cooperatively filing into the limo. One of the women giggled and, as she went in, handed Charles his tie. He somewhat ungraciously snatched it from her and wrapped it around his neck.
Finally, Nathan and Skwiagaar followed them inside. Charles looked expectantly at Pickles.
"Ah feck no, dood. Ah'm gonna sit up front an' watch," the drummer laughed.
Charles repeated his over the glasses death stare, to a similar lack of effect, and the. He and Pickles climbed I to the front of the limo.
"So, dood, have yoo ever operated a motor vehicle prior t' dis?" Pickles inquired.
"Yes! Why are you asking?" Charles asked, pushing ineffectively on the throttle.
Pickles didn't reply, but simply held up a set of keys set on a fashionable Gear keyring.
"Why didn't we buy this fucking thing in an automatic?" Charles complained.
"Dis is an automatic," Pickles grinned.
"Then why does it have a clutch?"
"Dood. Dat's da brake."
"Oh. Yeah. I ah, knew that. Quit annoying me and let me drive."
"Dood. We're still in da parkin' space."
Charles gunned the engine and found a gear. The car lurched ... Nowhere.
Pickles grinned, leaned over, and released the parking brake.
"I was gonna do that next!"
"Shure yoo were," Pickles agreed.
The limo lurched into movement. It hurtled backwards perhaps five or six feet before colliding, with a pronounced crunch, into the brick wall of the strip club. Charles frantically tried to drive back out, but only managed to stall the engine.
"Oops'" grinned Pickles.
"Crap," whispered Charles, pitting his head down on the steering wheel.
"I wouldn't worry, dood," Pickles said. "Dese things are built like a tank. He pushed a button on the dashboard. A video monitor clicked on, showing scenes of what was going on on the back seats. "See? Dey don't even know back dere."
Charles squinted at the video screen for a few moments. "Uh, that thing Skwisgaar is doing right now? Is that even possible?"
"T'ink yoo gotta be double jointed," Pickles explained.
"Ah."
"An' it helps t' have dose little IKEA wrench t'ings."
"Uh-huh."
They sat quietly for a moment.
"Ah," said Charles at length. "That stuff you gave me? That you didn't know what it was?"
"Yeh?"
"You, uh, got any more?"
"Mebbe," grinned Pickles. "Depends."
"Depends on what?"
Pickles drew something out of a pocket. It was red. "Yoo want yer tie back?" he asked.
Charles felt at his collar.
He raised an eyebrow.
