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booshslashhavenTitle: A Hard Bargain
Fandom: Sweet
Pairing: Pete/Stitch
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1340
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Sweet doesn't belong to me.
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ftw302, you can breathe now.
"This was a terrible idea," Stitch said. Stitch had an appalling habit of nearly always sounding glum, even when he was terribly happy. When he really was depressed, the despair in his voice was powerful enough to make even Pete consider suicide.
But Pete was made of sterner stuff than he looked. "It's going to be fine," he shouted. He was shouting because presently they were riding on his scooter – Pete driving, naturally, Stitch on the back, holding on for dear life – on the M25, in the snow. As Stitch had said, this was a terrible idea, but Pete wasn't about to admit it. "We'll be home in no time."
It hadn't been snowing when they'd left for Sevenoaks, where Pete had gone to look at some guys' old eight-track player that he was selling. Pete had bargained him down to an obscenely low price and even got the guy to throw in delivery to their flat next week. Pete had a knack for bargaining.
They were supposed to be home well in advance of the storm, according to Stitch's carefully-planned out schedule. But Pete had insisted they stop at this candy shop, and they'd been there for an hour; then he took a short cut that wound up being a long-cut; then they were hungry and had to stop for dinner. And so it came about that the snow was just beginning to fall just before they even reached Swanley.
"Our exit's coming up," Stitch said. "I just saw a sign for the A2! Get in the other lane."
"I saw it!" Pete said with a sharp edge to his tone, and sighed. Being terse took a lot of energy out of him. Stitch could really get on his tits though. Why had he even bothered bringing him along today? Sullenly, he flipped on the turn indicator and took a cursory look behind them, before swerving – with a little more urgency than was needed, causing Stitch to shift dramatically in his seat – into the adjacent lane. Stitch swore under his breath. Pete smirked naughtily. Then the scooter ran over something – the visibility was too bad for Pete to see what it was – and the whole thing shuddered. He heard a distinct pop followed almost immediately by a hiss.
"What was that?" Stitch said. Pete pressed his lips together and said nothing, just guided the scooter over to the side of the motorway. "Pete?"
Pete took his helmet. "Got a puncture."
"Nooooo," Stitch said, as though someone had just told him his childhood pet dog had not in fact, run away to join the circus, but had really been struck by a car. "Will it never end?"
"Look, open the saddle bag, will you? There's a torch and a repair kit in there."
Stitch fished the items out and held the torch for him while he opened up the repair kit and kneeled down in the slush next to the scooter, cars whizzing by them in the dim, grey evening light. Pete sniffled back a runny nose and Stitch leaned over and pulled the hood of his parka over his bowed head for him.
"You're getting a cold."
"Hold that light steady," Pete mumbled. He felt along the tire, trying to find the puncture, and found a spot where he could feel cold, compressed hair pushing through. He set to work.
There was silence for a few minutes, then Stitch sighed. "I should get a car."
"I'm not giving up my scooter!"
"I'm not saying that, it's just inappropriate for some trips."
Pete made a face.
"We could have brought that eight-track player home with us if we had a car."
"Cars get flat tyres too."
"That's not what I mean."
"Also, I'm not letting you drive me anywhere. You're a terrible driver."
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are. You drive so slow you're a danger to us all. Then you sit there having mental fights with other drivers over who's going to turn first before dashing out into the road a millisecond before they do –"
"That was one time, and there was only damage to the fender!" Stitch leaned over and moved the torchlight to Pete's face. "Anyway, you're a terrible driver. You hit every hole in the road deliberately. You speed. You don't read signs."
"Hold the light steady! In that case, you don't have to ride anywhere with me, all right? You can drive yourself in your car."
They were both silent after that. Pete finished fixing the flat and put the kit and the torch away. He sat on the scooter and waited for Stitch to put his arms around his waist, but Stitch just sat there.
"Come on," he said impatiently. "You'll fall off if you don't, you big retard." Stitch hesitated for a minute before placing his hands on either side of Pete's hips, gingerly, as though Pete might explode on touch, and then clumsily wrapped his arms around him fully. Pete started the engine.
It was weird to be in such an intimate position with someone you were so hacked off with. Usually Pete loved having Stitch riding behind him for so many reasons – one being the amusing picture it presented in his mind, Stitch, long-legged and gangly, clinging onto him precariously; but also because he loved the feeling of Stitch against his back. It made him feel safe and at the same time, protective, the responsibility of driving with Stitch on board a pleasant weight on his conscience.
That was how it felt normally. But not tonight. Tonight, he couldn't wait for it to be over.
Nearly an hour later, they finally pulled up in front of their flat. Stiffly, they each dismounted the scooter and climbed upstairs. Pete headed straight towards the bathroom, shucked off his dirty, stained clothes and drew a bath.
Stitch came and stood in the doorway as he was getting in. "I don't think I've ever seen you be silent for this long," he said, a failed attempt at levity.
Pete sniffed and looked away.
"This argument is stupid," Stitch said.
"You're stupid."
"Oh, so you can speak."
Pete threw a bar of soap at him.
"What exactly are you so pissed about? That I suggested that I buy a car? That we got home late? What? What do you want me to do? If you want me to change something –"
"I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't want anything to change!"
Stitch stared at him. "Well, that's just silly."
Pete scowled. "I hate you." Stitch was silent, and Pete relented, "Right now."
Stitch leaned over, grabbed the bottle of shampoo, uncapped it, and poured a generous dollop on top of Pete's head. Pete sputtered, massaged the shampoo into his hair, and ducked underwater to rinse it out. When he came back up for air Stitch was half undressed, in an awkward position with one leg raised, partially inside his trouser leg, like a very bad tai chi pose. The special needs balancing crane.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
Stitch blinked and grabbed the wall for balance. "I thought maybe the hateful moment had passed."
Pete snorted and moved over in the tub. Stitch settled in behind him, a tight fit, his chest to Pete's back, in weird mimicry of their positions on the scooter that evening. It was a lot warmer, Pete reflected, but not really much more comfortable. He decided he didn't mind.
"So what kind of ugly car are you planning to get?"
"Maybe a van."
"Typical."
"Vans are useful. Dead useful. There's lots of cargo space. And not just for transporting eight-track players." Stitch reached around and slid his hand over Pete's neck, down to his collar bone and then his shoulder.
Pete couldn't help but laugh. "Sounds genius." He twisted his head around. "But you're gonna have to let me drive sometimes, all right?"
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Never!"
"Convince me then."
Pete smiled.
Later, Stitch admitted that he drove a hard bargain.
The End
Fandom: Sweet
Pairing: Pete/Stitch
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1340
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Sweet doesn't belong to me.
Notes:
ftw302, you can breathe now."This was a terrible idea," Stitch said. Stitch had an appalling habit of nearly always sounding glum, even when he was terribly happy. When he really was depressed, the despair in his voice was powerful enough to make even Pete consider suicide.
But Pete was made of sterner stuff than he looked. "It's going to be fine," he shouted. He was shouting because presently they were riding on his scooter – Pete driving, naturally, Stitch on the back, holding on for dear life – on the M25, in the snow. As Stitch had said, this was a terrible idea, but Pete wasn't about to admit it. "We'll be home in no time."
It hadn't been snowing when they'd left for Sevenoaks, where Pete had gone to look at some guys' old eight-track player that he was selling. Pete had bargained him down to an obscenely low price and even got the guy to throw in delivery to their flat next week. Pete had a knack for bargaining.
They were supposed to be home well in advance of the storm, according to Stitch's carefully-planned out schedule. But Pete had insisted they stop at this candy shop, and they'd been there for an hour; then he took a short cut that wound up being a long-cut; then they were hungry and had to stop for dinner. And so it came about that the snow was just beginning to fall just before they even reached Swanley.
"Our exit's coming up," Stitch said. "I just saw a sign for the A2! Get in the other lane."
"I saw it!" Pete said with a sharp edge to his tone, and sighed. Being terse took a lot of energy out of him. Stitch could really get on his tits though. Why had he even bothered bringing him along today? Sullenly, he flipped on the turn indicator and took a cursory look behind them, before swerving – with a little more urgency than was needed, causing Stitch to shift dramatically in his seat – into the adjacent lane. Stitch swore under his breath. Pete smirked naughtily. Then the scooter ran over something – the visibility was too bad for Pete to see what it was – and the whole thing shuddered. He heard a distinct pop followed almost immediately by a hiss.
"What was that?" Stitch said. Pete pressed his lips together and said nothing, just guided the scooter over to the side of the motorway. "Pete?"
Pete took his helmet. "Got a puncture."
"Nooooo," Stitch said, as though someone had just told him his childhood pet dog had not in fact, run away to join the circus, but had really been struck by a car. "Will it never end?"
"Look, open the saddle bag, will you? There's a torch and a repair kit in there."
Stitch fished the items out and held the torch for him while he opened up the repair kit and kneeled down in the slush next to the scooter, cars whizzing by them in the dim, grey evening light. Pete sniffled back a runny nose and Stitch leaned over and pulled the hood of his parka over his bowed head for him.
"You're getting a cold."
"Hold that light steady," Pete mumbled. He felt along the tire, trying to find the puncture, and found a spot where he could feel cold, compressed hair pushing through. He set to work.
There was silence for a few minutes, then Stitch sighed. "I should get a car."
"I'm not giving up my scooter!"
"I'm not saying that, it's just inappropriate for some trips."
Pete made a face.
"We could have brought that eight-track player home with us if we had a car."
"Cars get flat tyres too."
"That's not what I mean."
"Also, I'm not letting you drive me anywhere. You're a terrible driver."
"I am not!"
"Yes, you are. You drive so slow you're a danger to us all. Then you sit there having mental fights with other drivers over who's going to turn first before dashing out into the road a millisecond before they do –"
"That was one time, and there was only damage to the fender!" Stitch leaned over and moved the torchlight to Pete's face. "Anyway, you're a terrible driver. You hit every hole in the road deliberately. You speed. You don't read signs."
"Hold the light steady! In that case, you don't have to ride anywhere with me, all right? You can drive yourself in your car."
They were both silent after that. Pete finished fixing the flat and put the kit and the torch away. He sat on the scooter and waited for Stitch to put his arms around his waist, but Stitch just sat there.
"Come on," he said impatiently. "You'll fall off if you don't, you big retard." Stitch hesitated for a minute before placing his hands on either side of Pete's hips, gingerly, as though Pete might explode on touch, and then clumsily wrapped his arms around him fully. Pete started the engine.
It was weird to be in such an intimate position with someone you were so hacked off with. Usually Pete loved having Stitch riding behind him for so many reasons – one being the amusing picture it presented in his mind, Stitch, long-legged and gangly, clinging onto him precariously; but also because he loved the feeling of Stitch against his back. It made him feel safe and at the same time, protective, the responsibility of driving with Stitch on board a pleasant weight on his conscience.
That was how it felt normally. But not tonight. Tonight, he couldn't wait for it to be over.
Nearly an hour later, they finally pulled up in front of their flat. Stiffly, they each dismounted the scooter and climbed upstairs. Pete headed straight towards the bathroom, shucked off his dirty, stained clothes and drew a bath.
Stitch came and stood in the doorway as he was getting in. "I don't think I've ever seen you be silent for this long," he said, a failed attempt at levity.
Pete sniffed and looked away.
"This argument is stupid," Stitch said.
"You're stupid."
"Oh, so you can speak."
Pete threw a bar of soap at him.
"What exactly are you so pissed about? That I suggested that I buy a car? That we got home late? What? What do you want me to do? If you want me to change something –"
"I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't want anything to change!"
Stitch stared at him. "Well, that's just silly."
Pete scowled. "I hate you." Stitch was silent, and Pete relented, "Right now."
Stitch leaned over, grabbed the bottle of shampoo, uncapped it, and poured a generous dollop on top of Pete's head. Pete sputtered, massaged the shampoo into his hair, and ducked underwater to rinse it out. When he came back up for air Stitch was half undressed, in an awkward position with one leg raised, partially inside his trouser leg, like a very bad tai chi pose. The special needs balancing crane.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
Stitch blinked and grabbed the wall for balance. "I thought maybe the hateful moment had passed."
Pete snorted and moved over in the tub. Stitch settled in behind him, a tight fit, his chest to Pete's back, in weird mimicry of their positions on the scooter that evening. It was a lot warmer, Pete reflected, but not really much more comfortable. He decided he didn't mind.
"So what kind of ugly car are you planning to get?"
"Maybe a van."
"Typical."
"Vans are useful. Dead useful. There's lots of cargo space. And not just for transporting eight-track players." Stitch reached around and slid his hand over Pete's neck, down to his collar bone and then his shoulder.
Pete couldn't help but laugh. "Sounds genius." He twisted his head around. "But you're gonna have to let me drive sometimes, all right?"
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Never!"
"Convince me then."
Pete smiled.
Later, Stitch admitted that he drove a hard bargain.
The End
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:19 am (UTC)Aw, this was sweet <:) appropriate! XD! A VAN, EH!?!? I love the Image you've painted of them on the bike, Stitch clinging to wee little Pete...<3 lovely
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 01:21 am (UTC)~the Sweetmobile~ Pete will paint that on the side of the van, quite against Stitch's will.
I love the Image you've painted of them on the bike, Stitch clinging to wee little Pete...
Crying in terror ... begging for his life ...
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 02:36 am (UTC)This is so cute! Can't stay mad for too long, Pete. :3
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 04:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 05:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 07:49 am (UTC)Genius dialogue, I must say! Pete & Stitch open up a whole realm of bickering unique unto them, but it's always over music or transport, based on the fact that Noel & Julian's characters are always some part of them...
The special needs balancing crane.
Killed me. Great line. I love your style. I could so easily see a bar of soap fly across that unruly bathroom.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 08:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 08:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 03:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 09:49 pm (UTC)Do you mind if I do a bit of Brit-Picking? (Sorry!)
Fender - Is that the back of a car? Because in that case, we call it a 'bumper' or 'rear-ending the car' :)
Candy - Even though we know what it is, not many brits say Candy it's sweeties or sweets :) sometimes 'Tuffies' if you wan't to switch it around a bit.
Again, sorry - just thought I'd help you out a bit :) Lemme know if you don't want me doing this :D Love!
no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 11:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-07 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-12 09:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-12 04:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-13 05:05 pm (UTC)That line made me all soppy.
And them all soapy.