Title: Cowboy Shirt

It all started with some pics on David_Daily



Title: Cowboy shirt
Author: Tesla
Pair: DB/CK
Rating: R for m/m naughtiness
A/N: Sequel to Not Enough Beer/Whiskey River/Longneck Bottle...you get the
drift. An Interlude in the drinking tales.


For Snow and Cin




It was his shirt to start with, his rodeo shirt that he got when he went home to
see a competition. Red and white plaid, mother of pearl diamond shaped snaps
instead of buttons, over-sized on him, but the only size that was left in the store.

He wanted to wear it for the gig at the club tonight, since it was chilly. But he
couldn't find the damn shirt anywhere.

Well, that was just fucking great. He sighed. Nothing else decent was clean,
and he needed to get his happy ass to the club. Sing. Sell it. Shake it.

Not keep looking for his shirt or staring into space, wondering whether
the big guy would show up. Damn Dave and his damn puppy dog eyes,
damn himself and how he just stopped thinking. How he kept on thinking,
how he kept on replaying sense memories in his head of how the skin of
Dave's hip felt on the palm of his hand; the soft hair on the back of his head,
and how that right side grew first, down Dave's neck; how his mouth felt on
Chris' mouth, on Chris' hand, on Chris' dick.

Shit. Get your head in the game. Get your head in the game.

Song list. Song list.



Chris loved a good bar. He loved singing at a good bar, and this was just
as good as singing in Austin. The bar had been through several incarnations,
and had a kitchen that made damned good hot sandwiches---including a Philly
cheesesteak, for fuck's sake---and had big aluminum watering troughs with
crushed ice and long neck bottles. Chili was stewed for hours and served up
in old cafeteria bowls, and Chris sat at the bar eating up before the set started.
The bar had embedded silver dollars, and Chris sat, absently tracing one with
his forefinger through the varnish, over and over.

Would he come by?

A good crowd, he thought. Couple of hard core fans, some sweet girls with
pictures of Lindsey, and that's why he wouldn't show. Wouldn't show. The fucking
show, the show that they worked on, the show with him on the title.

I told him not to come to the club, Chris thought. So why would he come? I told
him that his fucking famous SFX face would take away all the attention from the
band, that it wasn't that kind of crowd. I told him that one fan girl would call another
and then, pow, I might as well be on the stage holding my dick in my hand as a
mike for all the attention I'd get.

Shit, I wouldn't show up.

I am such a fucking redneck, he thought, but he knew that when he met me.
Fuck it.


As usual, making music took all of his attention. Couldn't brood and worry about
your fucking bank account or if you changed the oil in the truck or if the star of
your show was pissed off at you. You had to work together, had to concentrate
and hit the chords, hit the notes, let it flow, baby. Let it flow.

And he got off on it, of course. That's why he started performing in the first place,
because it was just a natural high. Had the Lindsey the Lawyer hair, but he jammed
his hat on and had his holey-est jeans on, and his sumbitch boots.

Would have been nice to have his shirt, he thought.

Then, in the middle of "Crazy In Love," he saw his shirt.

On Dave.

Well, Jesus.

*******

It wasn't like Dave was a saint or anything. In fact, he could be deeply annoying with the
non sequitor bullshit and the pansy-ass purple shirts and purple sunglasses and the
seriously fucked-up sock fetish. All that shit that he kept up as a hedge between him
and the world and the front office. Chris had come into his trailer once, and heard
Dave on the phone, talking with such animation and delight that Chris felt an unfamiliar
twist in his gut. Turned out he was talking to Beth.

Thing was, he did it with Chris, but Chris did it to him, too. Chris knew he started it.
Chris did his redneck thing and Dave did his space cadet thing, and Dave was the
lead and carried the show on his back, and Chris was the semi-regular. Chris was
the one with the freedom to get some pretty damned good movie gigs, and Dave
was the one stuck with summer hiatus jammed-in featured parts.

Chris thought he had the better deal.

Chris hated thinking that shit.

Hated it because he would find himself wanting to make crazy, impulsive declarations,
make quixotic gestures, do wild things; and when he wanted to do that, he did the opposite.
Drew back into himself and avoided Dave and was an asshole. He didn't really like
being an asshole.

Dave managed to ignore Chris' bullshit most of the time, but Chris had to admit
that telling the guy not to come to the club and then being all mad because he was late---
well, shit, Chris had to admit that it was pretty fucked up shit.

So Chris had to grin at him over the heads of the audience.

Between sets, Chris went in the back of the club, near the kitchen, and grabbed
another sandwich and beer with the guys. He was not surprised that Dave lounged
up, in jeans and ballcap and relatively normal horn-rimmed glasses. Steve gave
Chris a tolerant look, and got up to go futz with the sound system.

Dave sat down and his knee nudged Chris' under the table.

"Nice fucking shirt," Chris said.

Dave looked surprised. "Hell, I thought I dressed like a circus clown."

"Look better on me," Chris said.

"Doubt that. Too big for you."

"Look even better on the floor," Chris said, drinking the last of his beer.

Dave's eyes narrowed. "Hm."

*************
Dave had driven him home, of course, because, of course, Chris was shit-faced.

Not too shit-faced. He was exaggerating it to fake the bastard out. Why, he didn't
know. Except he got off on Dave being all eye-rolling Designated Driver.

Apparently Dave figured it out, because as soon as they pulled up to Chris' house,
and Chris let them in the front door, Dave grabbed Chris' shirt and pushed him against
the living room wall for a hard, biting kiss. Chris returned it with interest, wedging his
leg between Dave's thighs and jamming his hands into the waist band of Dave's jeans.

"You are a little redneck shit," Dave said against his neck. "You know that, right?"

"Big sumbitch," Chris murmured. "Shut up." He got his hands under Dave's undershirt
and was palming the halves of Dave's back, fingertips in the groove of his spine.

Dave got a handful of Chris' hair. "The shit you tell me----I'm going to fuck you and you're
gonna shut up until I tell you to talk."

"I love it when you get all toppy," Chris panted, dragging his hands out of Dave's clothes.

Of course, it didn't work that way.

They were so hungry to be touching each other that they wrestled each other's clothes
off in the hallway and barely made it onto the couch, where they jerked each other off
while kissing frantically, kissing like they had never got to kiss before and only had
until daylight, like they were making the gay version of the show.

Chris was still twitching, long minutes after coming. "Jeeze," he told Dave, "you're
getting good at this take charge, toppy shit."

Dave had his forearm over his eyes, but he was grinning in the half light from the
hallway. "Shut up," he said. He made no move to pull his jeans up, and Chris' shirt
was unbuttoned and Chris had shoved his undershirt up to get to Dave's nipples.

"I mean, way to put me in my place," Chris said. He kicked and got his jeans off.

"Shut up," Dave said, rolling off the couch and shrugging out of his clothes.

They went to take a shower together, and crashed into Chris' bed. Chris summoned
up the last of his strength and threw his thigh and arm over Dave before sleep overtook
him.

Just as he was falling asleep, he heard Dave say, "I'm keeping the shirt."

That's what you think, big guy, Chris thought.