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crossoverficThe C3'verse: For Every KissChris That You Give Me, I Will Give You Three
(title based on Steve Carlson's cover of Be my Baby)
Author: Celtic_Forest
C3'verse fandoms and pairings: Chris/Lindsey/Eliot, Chris/Steve, Eliot/Jared, Lindsey/Steve.
Rating: 'verse rated NC-17 for some chapters.
The fictional characters belong to their respective owners, I just like them. I don't know the real people depicted, but would probably like them, and I don't intend any offense with this entirely fictional, non-profit story.
C3'verse Author Notes (you'll need to read this):
Lindsey is the character he was at the end of Angel season 2, but it's a few years later. It's like Angel season 5 never happened, but nevertheless Wolfram & Hart was destroyed and there's no price on Lindsey's head (hey, it's all fiction anyway, right?).
Eliot comes from Leverage as-is. I wouldn't change a hair on his head. Seriously.
Chapter 1: The Sky's Gonna Open
(Title from "LA Song," sung by Lindsey during his last episode on Angel, season two.)
Author: Celtic_Forest
Category: Slash
Rated: NC-17
Pairing: Chris/Lindsey/Eliot
Warning: Chris is the actor who plays the two fictional characters, so this is partially RPF
Chapter word count: 3,041
The 1956 Ford truck sputtered to a stop as though it were a last gasp. Lindsey knew she'd start up for him again, though – she always did. The days when she and the pieces of him she represented were a secret Lindsey was ashamed of were well past. He'd lived a guise that cut so deep, was so twisted, that being ashamed of himself was a taste he'd almost savored. But, flexing his right hand and looking down at the thin scar encircling his wrist, he was haunted again by the pale face of a handless man begging for death. When he released the man from the horror of what couldn't be called a life, the explosion flayed Lindsey of his façade. His truck was waiting for him in storage, never forgotten no matter how many expensive cars he'd owned since he scraped together the money to buy her. With his first turn of the key and a mumbled hypocrisy of a prayer, she roared to life and changed his. She carried him, with only his guitar and whatever could fit in a duffle bag, away from the gilded cesspool his life had become.
He'd lashed out in anger at first, before time and distance let him realize his anger covered a soul-deep regret for past atrocities (he'd been a lawyer). A life narrowed to the road and caring for the old truck gave him first perspective on, then acceptance of, his past (both recent and distant). Playing his guitar almost every night (sometimes for a paying gig, other nights just anchoring his ephemeral thoughts to a melody), eventually brought him internal peace. He was no longer the rich, amoral man he'd been, and neither was he the child who'd struggled and fought for every achievement, determined to escape the grim poverty of his birth. He'd put everything he had into being the best at what he did, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it. When he got to the top, though, he realized his success was an empty victory. On the road, calm appreciation of the world around him lead him to emanate comfort and acceptance.
That plus his singing voice and talent on the guitar got him almost enough paying gigs to live on. The rest of he gigs came from his blue eyes, pretty face, and the way he looked in torn jeans. Honesty can be a bitch, if you let it. He didn't.
Dotted yellow lines had most recently lead him to Kentucky, and a bar where he'd played a couple of songs during the lunch hour, then been hired for the night.
~~~***~~~
He hadn't been born in Kentucky, but it was home because once upon a time Eliot had imagined raising a family there. The state held people he'd loved and a remote cabin he'd set up under a fake identity long before Alec had made such a thing so easy. Back when he'd worked strictly alone.
If you'd told him back then that he should become part of a group and trust them with his life, he probably would have hit you (not that that would have been particularly unusual). He put everything he had into being the best at what he did, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it. What Eliot does had meant always working alone, until now. He was still learning to open up to other people, and was amazed at the way the tendrils affected so much in his life. He was growing and changing. It felt surprisingly good, and in the bargain he was doing good for those who needed help.
The word "family" had been thrown around within the group, but that was neither accurate nor particularly meaningful to him. He'd grown up on a succession of military bases, with a succession of military step-fathers. Each had taught him something. Weapons, combat, tactical strategy, self defense, more. With one stepfather he'd needed the self-defense, and used the combat. He'd lost contact with his mother after that. But the people in the leverage group were a team, and that – well, that meant something he understood. It meant a lot.
They weren't on a job now, though, and Eliot was taking some down time. Lord knows Hardison could be too much to take sometimes; add in Parker's ability to sneak up on him, which annoyed the Hell out of him because he snuck up on people, not the other damn way around; honest worry for Nate; feeling like a hick around Sophie, and yeah, team or no, down time could be good. He headed out to one of the bars not so close to his cabin it would be easily tied to it. He liked the place, particularly when they had decent live music.
~~~***~~~
Nashville. He lived in Nashville, and never mind that he filmed in LA. This was part of his newest reinvention of himself, though not necessarily the newest among his dreams. Maybe this time it would be enough – a recording contract with a major label and a shot at fame in another arena. If his album made it to the top, maybe he could be satisfied with himself and just be. Or maybe not. He put everything he had into being his best as an actor and in the music business, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it.
He was no stranger to introspection. He knew that he needed outside validation like he needed air to breath, and there was no such thing as enough. It was one of the reasons he counted Jack Daniel's among his closest friends. It was one of the reasons he couldn't make it work with Steve. (Not the Jack Daniel's part – that worked just fine for both of them.) Moderate success as a musician, plus Chris, were enough for Steve. Moderate fame as an actor (he'd been in 13 movies, with more coming out, had been on several tv series; he'd worked with Steven Spielberg on an award-winning mini-series, for God's sake), that, plus Steve, weren't enough for Chris.
He'd dragged Steve to Nashville, trying to combine the love of his life and his consuming desire for fame in the music business. But the trouble was, it really was a business. When he'd received a better offer than the project they were doing together, Chris had taken it, leaving Steve with nothing but a list of songs they'd written together that might never be recorded now, wasted time in a city he'd never wanted to be in, and yet another rejection from Chris. The only song Steve had given Chris the rights to sing was "More Than I Deserve." It tore him up every time, but he'd keep singing it because it was going to be a hit. Which was exactly why Steve was more than he deserved.
Chris had moved his stuff out of Steve's place a while back; they'd said their goodbye. Nashville had soured, though, no matter how many interviews he gave and still said it felt like home, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be. The truth was that when he had time, he'd get in his very expensive truck and just drive, just get away. Tonight he wound up at an out-of-the-way bar (always a bar) in Kentucky.
He heard the music before he opened the door. His boots struck the wooden floor on their way to the bar, where Chris ordered two fingers of Jack, and listened. It was good. The musician began to sing, and Chris upped his evaluation to exceptional. The guy was younger than Chris, with a good build, had kind of short, wiry-curly hair, and a pretty face for guy. He looked damned good in his torn jeans, which were paired with a worn t-shirt that inexplicably read "Dingoes Ate My Baby."
The songs were a mixture of styles: rock, country, ballad; the performer was comfortable not picking a particular style. Privately, Chris admits to himself that no matter how much he claims to still play a combination of styles – country, rock, all with soul, he's actually become simply a country singer (especially now, with his Nashville record contract). It's not just that, though. Steve was always his rock, his ballad, his blues and his soul.
~~~***~~~
When Lindsey finished his second set, he turned down offers of fun for the evening from several women, using his southern charm so they didn't leave feeling rejected. It was a surprise when two drinks on a tray appeared, because although free drinks were part of the deal offered by the manager (just so he could pay a bit less, but Lindsey didn't mind; most things roll off his back without disturbing him these days) he would have had to ask for a drink. Apparently someone had bought him these while he was packing up. With a smile for the extra money he pockets, the bartender tells him the Kentucky bourbon is from the man in the black leather jacket, and the Tennessee rye is from the guy in flannel.
The place has small, round wooden tables in front of the stage. After a thank-you wave to the man who'd run the sound and lights, Lindsey picked up both drinks and made his way to a table near the two men, who were at separate but neighboring tables. He put down both drinks, spun a chair around backward, and sat.
Lindsey picked a drink randomly. It was the bourbon, and with a small toast gesture he drank. The man looked good, with silky straight hair to his shoulders, and strong muscles apparent even through his black leather jacket. "John," Eliot said, introducing himself. Lindsey looked at both men as he replied "Lindsey," then picked up the Tennessee rye with a nod at the other man, who said "Chris." He also had shoulder-length hair, but it was curly and held at bay by a bandana. He wore an old flannel shirt, a turquoise and leather bracelet, and expensive boots.
There was silence for a few moments, which Lindsey found amusing but didn't let it show on his face. As the silence grew uncomfortable for the other two men, Lindsey took a slow swallow from each glass.
Clearing his throat, Chris asked, "Which do you like better, son?"
"I'm easy," came the reply, and the double entendre was lost on no one.
Chris looked at both men perceptively. They'd each survived a life of extreme challenges, John's physical and Lindsey's more like moral choices. Both were fighters to the core, a trait Chris knew he shared. Otherwise he couldn't recognize anything of himself in them. He couldn't picture either of them visiting their Mommas for Christmas, for example.
Eliot's scrutiny led him to two conclusions. He and Lindsey had faced deadly enemies, while Chris' demons, no less dangerous, were within himself. He also recognized an aloneness in the two men that he had felt until recently, until he'd become part of a team. With Chris it seemed recent, like he'd lost part of himself somehow. From Lindsey he got the sense of someone who'd never been able to depend on anyone other than himself, but had eventually come to an acceptance and even contentment in solitude.
With "I'm easy" hanging in the air, and each man feeling some kind of connection with the other two (though they don't understand why they would feel a bond so soon), they're faced with a decision. Make small talk, and probably go their separate ways, or follow their blood – which is headed south. When Chris squirms slightly in his chair, uncomfortable with how tight his jeans have become, Eliot laughs softly and Lindsey follows. Chris' annoyance is brief, as he sees no mockery in their faces, only understanding.
Surreal situations aren't new to Lindsey; perhaps that's why he makes the first move. Unfolding his arms from the back of the chair he's been leaning against, he stands and says, "I'm headed for the bathroom." As he turns the chair around and tucks it under the table he makes eye contact with Chris and Eliot in turn and adds, "I wouldn't mind some company."
He turns to walk away while Eliot and Chris meet each other's eyes. Their want is mirrored, and they stand to follow Lindsey. None of them gives a damn what other patrons or the bartender might think.
The bathroom doesn't have stalls, it's a single room with a lock on the door, which Eliot pushes after he and Chris enter. Lindsey allows his fingers to do what they've been itching to ever since he'd begun to feel the slow burn from the Tennessee rye. He moves to Chris and pulls his bandana off, then slides his fingers into the unruly hair, his nails barely scraping along Chris' scalp. Eliot hangs his coat on the doorknob, then steps back and strokes Lindsey's cheek with the back of his hand and fingers.
That touch sets them all on fire with the reality that they're going to do this – all three of them. Caught in the heat, they step closer, hands roaming each other's backs and shoulders. They're all the same height, give or take a boot heel. Lindsey settles his hands on the backs of their necks and gently urges Chris and Eliot towards each other as he nuzzles Eliot's ear, his breath ghosting inside. He's nibbling along Chris' jawline when Eliot and Chris kiss. They simultaneously reach to pull Lindsey's hips against them, and gasp into the kiss when their fingertips touch behind him. They dive into the kiss, mouths open and tongues dueling. Lindsey can feel the movements of their mouths as he kisses and nuzzles their faces. Chris reaches down to cup Lindsey through his jeans, while Eliot moves his hand up and under Lindsey's shirt. Chris runs his other hand through Eliot's smooth, soft hair, while Eliot tangles his fingers into Chris' and pulls him harder into the kiss.
Lindsey gasps when Eliot pinches one of his nipples, and Eliot turns to catch his open mouth in a kiss while Chris kisses a line down Eliot's neck. Chris slides his hand inside Lindsey's jeans, which are wet with pre-come. Lindsey rakes his fingernails over Eliot's length through the fabric of his jeans, while Eliot's hand dives into Chris' without preamble. With moans and gasps escaping all of them, Lindsey finally tastes Chris' mouth, while Eliot licks and sucks behind Lindsey's ear.
Suggestive pressures on shoulders requesting someone drop to their knees, or a bit of a push around hoping someone would face the wall and brace themselves are all ignored. Not drunk enough to turn this into a fight, they give up, as none of them will yield. The three rest their foreheads together as each breaths his version of an exasperated chuckle.
Each of them used one hand on another's erection and the second to flick, caress, tweak, squeeze and stroke each other's bodies. They traded kisses and mouthed each other's ears, necks, jaws and throats. It didn't seem to matter whose hands were where, it was as though they all knew exactly what the other liked best, and did it expertly – like a combination of the experience that comes with masturbation but the intensity that someone else's hand brings. It wasn't what any of them were expecting when they walked in, but it was good.
Chris came first. He hadn't been with anyone but his own hands since Steve. Eliot and Lindsey nuzzled and stroked him down from the high, while each jacked the other. Eliot came next, and after a few moments he and Chris both turned their full attention to Lindsey and drove him wild. He'd had a lot of hookups singing on the road, but this was something he'd never done, never even imagined, and he came hard into the other men's joined hands.
~~~***~~~
After the inevitable cleanup and the surprisingly warm goodbyes, Lindsey was back on the road with his guitars and equipment. Even in the rainstorm that had begun while they were inside, his girl had started for him with a cough and then the familiar roar of her engine, his faith not misplaced. Lindsey was headed west. He had a line on several gigs in LA, and would pick some up along the way. He didn't know what to think about going back to LA. It could feel almost like coming home, or it might feel like an entirely different city as he saw it from another side. Or as essentially a new person.
~~~***~~~
Eliot went back to his cabin. Walking in and shaking the rain off his coat, he felt like if he wanted to get a message to Hardison all he'd have to do was start talking to the walls. The feeling was actually kind of comforting for about thirty seconds, after which he decided to ditch the place for a while, and he started packing. He'd go somewhere he'd never been, where no one would think to look for him. He was sure Hardison didn't know *all* of his aliases, so there was no way homeland security did. He could get across the border. For some reason he'd always heard good things about Vancouver.
He threw some extra sweaters in his suitcase.
~~~***~~~
Chris' eyes widened when he saw the truck Lindsey got into. He'd had one just like it when he was a kid. He'd driven out to LA in it, with nothing else but $500 and a determination to be a star so strong that he seemed to accomplish it by sheer force of will. He'd had to sell the truck when his first tv series, Fame LA, was canceled. (He cringed to think of his acting back then. He'd been so sure he didn't need any training to do something that looked so easy.) That was right around when he got to be close friends with Steve. God, was it that long ago? So many years… Chris didn't even notice the rain washing over him, as the last time he saw Steve played out again in his mind.
(title based on Steve Carlson's cover of Be my Baby)
Author: Celtic_Forest
C3'verse fandoms and pairings: Chris/Lindsey/Eliot, Chris/Steve, Eliot/Jared, Lindsey/Steve.
Rating: 'verse rated NC-17 for some chapters.
The fictional characters belong to their respective owners, I just like them. I don't know the real people depicted, but would probably like them, and I don't intend any offense with this entirely fictional, non-profit story.
C3'verse Author Notes (you'll need to read this):
Lindsey is the character he was at the end of Angel season 2, but it's a few years later. It's like Angel season 5 never happened, but nevertheless Wolfram & Hart was destroyed and there's no price on Lindsey's head (hey, it's all fiction anyway, right?).
Eliot comes from Leverage as-is. I wouldn't change a hair on his head. Seriously.
Chapter 1: The Sky's Gonna Open
(Title from "LA Song," sung by Lindsey during his last episode on Angel, season two.)
Author: Celtic_Forest
Category: Slash
Rated: NC-17
Pairing: Chris/Lindsey/Eliot
Warning: Chris is the actor who plays the two fictional characters, so this is partially RPF
Chapter word count: 3,041
The 1956 Ford truck sputtered to a stop as though it were a last gasp. Lindsey knew she'd start up for him again, though – she always did. The days when she and the pieces of him she represented were a secret Lindsey was ashamed of were well past. He'd lived a guise that cut so deep, was so twisted, that being ashamed of himself was a taste he'd almost savored. But, flexing his right hand and looking down at the thin scar encircling his wrist, he was haunted again by the pale face of a handless man begging for death. When he released the man from the horror of what couldn't be called a life, the explosion flayed Lindsey of his façade. His truck was waiting for him in storage, never forgotten no matter how many expensive cars he'd owned since he scraped together the money to buy her. With his first turn of the key and a mumbled hypocrisy of a prayer, she roared to life and changed his. She carried him, with only his guitar and whatever could fit in a duffle bag, away from the gilded cesspool his life had become.
He'd lashed out in anger at first, before time and distance let him realize his anger covered a soul-deep regret for past atrocities (he'd been a lawyer). A life narrowed to the road and caring for the old truck gave him first perspective on, then acceptance of, his past (both recent and distant). Playing his guitar almost every night (sometimes for a paying gig, other nights just anchoring his ephemeral thoughts to a melody), eventually brought him internal peace. He was no longer the rich, amoral man he'd been, and neither was he the child who'd struggled and fought for every achievement, determined to escape the grim poverty of his birth. He'd put everything he had into being the best at what he did, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it. When he got to the top, though, he realized his success was an empty victory. On the road, calm appreciation of the world around him lead him to emanate comfort and acceptance.
That plus his singing voice and talent on the guitar got him almost enough paying gigs to live on. The rest of he gigs came from his blue eyes, pretty face, and the way he looked in torn jeans. Honesty can be a bitch, if you let it. He didn't.
Dotted yellow lines had most recently lead him to Kentucky, and a bar where he'd played a couple of songs during the lunch hour, then been hired for the night.
~~~***~~~
He hadn't been born in Kentucky, but it was home because once upon a time Eliot had imagined raising a family there. The state held people he'd loved and a remote cabin he'd set up under a fake identity long before Alec had made such a thing so easy. Back when he'd worked strictly alone.
If you'd told him back then that he should become part of a group and trust them with his life, he probably would have hit you (not that that would have been particularly unusual). He put everything he had into being the best at what he did, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it. What Eliot does had meant always working alone, until now. He was still learning to open up to other people, and was amazed at the way the tendrils affected so much in his life. He was growing and changing. It felt surprisingly good, and in the bargain he was doing good for those who needed help.
The word "family" had been thrown around within the group, but that was neither accurate nor particularly meaningful to him. He'd grown up on a succession of military bases, with a succession of military step-fathers. Each had taught him something. Weapons, combat, tactical strategy, self defense, more. With one stepfather he'd needed the self-defense, and used the combat. He'd lost contact with his mother after that. But the people in the leverage group were a team, and that – well, that meant something he understood. It meant a lot.
They weren't on a job now, though, and Eliot was taking some down time. Lord knows Hardison could be too much to take sometimes; add in Parker's ability to sneak up on him, which annoyed the Hell out of him because he snuck up on people, not the other damn way around; honest worry for Nate; feeling like a hick around Sophie, and yeah, team or no, down time could be good. He headed out to one of the bars not so close to his cabin it would be easily tied to it. He liked the place, particularly when they had decent live music.
~~~***~~~
Nashville. He lived in Nashville, and never mind that he filmed in LA. This was part of his newest reinvention of himself, though not necessarily the newest among his dreams. Maybe this time it would be enough – a recording contract with a major label and a shot at fame in another arena. If his album made it to the top, maybe he could be satisfied with himself and just be. Or maybe not. He put everything he had into being his best as an actor and in the music business, because if you want something you have to make it happen, not just wish for it.
He was no stranger to introspection. He knew that he needed outside validation like he needed air to breath, and there was no such thing as enough. It was one of the reasons he counted Jack Daniel's among his closest friends. It was one of the reasons he couldn't make it work with Steve. (Not the Jack Daniel's part – that worked just fine for both of them.) Moderate success as a musician, plus Chris, were enough for Steve. Moderate fame as an actor (he'd been in 13 movies, with more coming out, had been on several tv series; he'd worked with Steven Spielberg on an award-winning mini-series, for God's sake), that, plus Steve, weren't enough for Chris.
He'd dragged Steve to Nashville, trying to combine the love of his life and his consuming desire for fame in the music business. But the trouble was, it really was a business. When he'd received a better offer than the project they were doing together, Chris had taken it, leaving Steve with nothing but a list of songs they'd written together that might never be recorded now, wasted time in a city he'd never wanted to be in, and yet another rejection from Chris. The only song Steve had given Chris the rights to sing was "More Than I Deserve." It tore him up every time, but he'd keep singing it because it was going to be a hit. Which was exactly why Steve was more than he deserved.
Chris had moved his stuff out of Steve's place a while back; they'd said their goodbye. Nashville had soured, though, no matter how many interviews he gave and still said it felt like home, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be. The truth was that when he had time, he'd get in his very expensive truck and just drive, just get away. Tonight he wound up at an out-of-the-way bar (always a bar) in Kentucky.
He heard the music before he opened the door. His boots struck the wooden floor on their way to the bar, where Chris ordered two fingers of Jack, and listened. It was good. The musician began to sing, and Chris upped his evaluation to exceptional. The guy was younger than Chris, with a good build, had kind of short, wiry-curly hair, and a pretty face for guy. He looked damned good in his torn jeans, which were paired with a worn t-shirt that inexplicably read "Dingoes Ate My Baby."
The songs were a mixture of styles: rock, country, ballad; the performer was comfortable not picking a particular style. Privately, Chris admits to himself that no matter how much he claims to still play a combination of styles – country, rock, all with soul, he's actually become simply a country singer (especially now, with his Nashville record contract). It's not just that, though. Steve was always his rock, his ballad, his blues and his soul.
~~~***~~~
When Lindsey finished his second set, he turned down offers of fun for the evening from several women, using his southern charm so they didn't leave feeling rejected. It was a surprise when two drinks on a tray appeared, because although free drinks were part of the deal offered by the manager (just so he could pay a bit less, but Lindsey didn't mind; most things roll off his back without disturbing him these days) he would have had to ask for a drink. Apparently someone had bought him these while he was packing up. With a smile for the extra money he pockets, the bartender tells him the Kentucky bourbon is from the man in the black leather jacket, and the Tennessee rye is from the guy in flannel.
The place has small, round wooden tables in front of the stage. After a thank-you wave to the man who'd run the sound and lights, Lindsey picked up both drinks and made his way to a table near the two men, who were at separate but neighboring tables. He put down both drinks, spun a chair around backward, and sat.
Lindsey picked a drink randomly. It was the bourbon, and with a small toast gesture he drank. The man looked good, with silky straight hair to his shoulders, and strong muscles apparent even through his black leather jacket. "John," Eliot said, introducing himself. Lindsey looked at both men as he replied "Lindsey," then picked up the Tennessee rye with a nod at the other man, who said "Chris." He also had shoulder-length hair, but it was curly and held at bay by a bandana. He wore an old flannel shirt, a turquoise and leather bracelet, and expensive boots.
There was silence for a few moments, which Lindsey found amusing but didn't let it show on his face. As the silence grew uncomfortable for the other two men, Lindsey took a slow swallow from each glass.
Clearing his throat, Chris asked, "Which do you like better, son?"
"I'm easy," came the reply, and the double entendre was lost on no one.
Chris looked at both men perceptively. They'd each survived a life of extreme challenges, John's physical and Lindsey's more like moral choices. Both were fighters to the core, a trait Chris knew he shared. Otherwise he couldn't recognize anything of himself in them. He couldn't picture either of them visiting their Mommas for Christmas, for example.
Eliot's scrutiny led him to two conclusions. He and Lindsey had faced deadly enemies, while Chris' demons, no less dangerous, were within himself. He also recognized an aloneness in the two men that he had felt until recently, until he'd become part of a team. With Chris it seemed recent, like he'd lost part of himself somehow. From Lindsey he got the sense of someone who'd never been able to depend on anyone other than himself, but had eventually come to an acceptance and even contentment in solitude.
With "I'm easy" hanging in the air, and each man feeling some kind of connection with the other two (though they don't understand why they would feel a bond so soon), they're faced with a decision. Make small talk, and probably go their separate ways, or follow their blood – which is headed south. When Chris squirms slightly in his chair, uncomfortable with how tight his jeans have become, Eliot laughs softly and Lindsey follows. Chris' annoyance is brief, as he sees no mockery in their faces, only understanding.
Surreal situations aren't new to Lindsey; perhaps that's why he makes the first move. Unfolding his arms from the back of the chair he's been leaning against, he stands and says, "I'm headed for the bathroom." As he turns the chair around and tucks it under the table he makes eye contact with Chris and Eliot in turn and adds, "I wouldn't mind some company."
He turns to walk away while Eliot and Chris meet each other's eyes. Their want is mirrored, and they stand to follow Lindsey. None of them gives a damn what other patrons or the bartender might think.
The bathroom doesn't have stalls, it's a single room with a lock on the door, which Eliot pushes after he and Chris enter. Lindsey allows his fingers to do what they've been itching to ever since he'd begun to feel the slow burn from the Tennessee rye. He moves to Chris and pulls his bandana off, then slides his fingers into the unruly hair, his nails barely scraping along Chris' scalp. Eliot hangs his coat on the doorknob, then steps back and strokes Lindsey's cheek with the back of his hand and fingers.
That touch sets them all on fire with the reality that they're going to do this – all three of them. Caught in the heat, they step closer, hands roaming each other's backs and shoulders. They're all the same height, give or take a boot heel. Lindsey settles his hands on the backs of their necks and gently urges Chris and Eliot towards each other as he nuzzles Eliot's ear, his breath ghosting inside. He's nibbling along Chris' jawline when Eliot and Chris kiss. They simultaneously reach to pull Lindsey's hips against them, and gasp into the kiss when their fingertips touch behind him. They dive into the kiss, mouths open and tongues dueling. Lindsey can feel the movements of their mouths as he kisses and nuzzles their faces. Chris reaches down to cup Lindsey through his jeans, while Eliot moves his hand up and under Lindsey's shirt. Chris runs his other hand through Eliot's smooth, soft hair, while Eliot tangles his fingers into Chris' and pulls him harder into the kiss.
Lindsey gasps when Eliot pinches one of his nipples, and Eliot turns to catch his open mouth in a kiss while Chris kisses a line down Eliot's neck. Chris slides his hand inside Lindsey's jeans, which are wet with pre-come. Lindsey rakes his fingernails over Eliot's length through the fabric of his jeans, while Eliot's hand dives into Chris' without preamble. With moans and gasps escaping all of them, Lindsey finally tastes Chris' mouth, while Eliot licks and sucks behind Lindsey's ear.
Suggestive pressures on shoulders requesting someone drop to their knees, or a bit of a push around hoping someone would face the wall and brace themselves are all ignored. Not drunk enough to turn this into a fight, they give up, as none of them will yield. The three rest their foreheads together as each breaths his version of an exasperated chuckle.
Each of them used one hand on another's erection and the second to flick, caress, tweak, squeeze and stroke each other's bodies. They traded kisses and mouthed each other's ears, necks, jaws and throats. It didn't seem to matter whose hands were where, it was as though they all knew exactly what the other liked best, and did it expertly – like a combination of the experience that comes with masturbation but the intensity that someone else's hand brings. It wasn't what any of them were expecting when they walked in, but it was good.
Chris came first. He hadn't been with anyone but his own hands since Steve. Eliot and Lindsey nuzzled and stroked him down from the high, while each jacked the other. Eliot came next, and after a few moments he and Chris both turned their full attention to Lindsey and drove him wild. He'd had a lot of hookups singing on the road, but this was something he'd never done, never even imagined, and he came hard into the other men's joined hands.
~~~***~~~
After the inevitable cleanup and the surprisingly warm goodbyes, Lindsey was back on the road with his guitars and equipment. Even in the rainstorm that had begun while they were inside, his girl had started for him with a cough and then the familiar roar of her engine, his faith not misplaced. Lindsey was headed west. He had a line on several gigs in LA, and would pick some up along the way. He didn't know what to think about going back to LA. It could feel almost like coming home, or it might feel like an entirely different city as he saw it from another side. Or as essentially a new person.
~~~***~~~
Eliot went back to his cabin. Walking in and shaking the rain off his coat, he felt like if he wanted to get a message to Hardison all he'd have to do was start talking to the walls. The feeling was actually kind of comforting for about thirty seconds, after which he decided to ditch the place for a while, and he started packing. He'd go somewhere he'd never been, where no one would think to look for him. He was sure Hardison didn't know *all* of his aliases, so there was no way homeland security did. He could get across the border. For some reason he'd always heard good things about Vancouver.
He threw some extra sweaters in his suitcase.
~~~***~~~
Chris' eyes widened when he saw the truck Lindsey got into. He'd had one just like it when he was a kid. He'd driven out to LA in it, with nothing else but $500 and a determination to be a star so strong that he seemed to accomplish it by sheer force of will. He'd had to sell the truck when his first tv series, Fame LA, was canceled. (He cringed to think of his acting back then. He'd been so sure he didn't need any training to do something that looked so easy.) That was right around when he got to be close friends with Steve. God, was it that long ago? So many years… Chris didn't even notice the rain washing over him, as the last time he saw Steve played out again in his mind.
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