Breaking Down in LA

Pairing: David Boreanaz/Christian Kane
Rating: R



The night he finds the letter, he breaks open his liquor cabinet and drinks his vodka from the bottle, spilling it down his chin and ruining the purple and green shirt that’s sure to get him in the next Worst Dressed column.

He’s not entirely sure how long he sits one the tile with the note crumpled on the floor beside him, but he does know that it’s dark by the time he stumbles into Jaden’s room.

The clothes are cleaned out of the drawers. The closet has nothing but the footie pajamas that were out grown years ago that Dave couldn’t make himself throw away. The toy box is empty of anything Jaden’s played with in the last year.

It’s then, bent over the wooden toy box he had specially made to look exactly like the one he had as a kid, that he thinks of calling Chris. He goes as far as to feel in his pockets and pull out his phone before he remembers.

It’s Friday night.

Chris’ll be drinking, singing, or fucking, and if it’s like most nights, he’s doing a combination of all of them. Yeah, he’ll come if Dave calls. If David called him, he’d probably sit on the way too expensive velvet couch that he hates and insists isn’t Dave, and he’d listen to Dave fall apart. Chris cares enough that he probably wouldn’t even mention that he’d always thought it was a dumb ass idea to get married just for a kid, and if Dave really wanted a little brat that goddamn bad he should just knock someone up and be the fuck done with it.

Not that Jaime would have any kind words for Chris, either. Not now.

Nauseous and dizzy, Dave presses his forehead against the wood and drops his phone on the floor.

He’s a grown fucking man and can deal with this shit on his own.

* * * * * *

Dave sleeps on the living room couch and wakes up just to chain-smoke and slosh rum, whiskey, and tequila onto the upholstery as he dials Jaime’s cell phone and leaves one drunken message after another. It goes on for hours until he finally breaks down and cries, promising he’ll be better if she just comes home, if she just brings Jaden home, and God, doesn’t she know that his son needs him.

He stops calling her after that.

He stubs out his cigarette on couch, watching as it burns a hole, and dials the pizza place down the street, instead. Three large for delivery.

* * * * * *

It’s Monday afternoon when he turns on the ESPN classic and stares as hockey, basketball, baseball, and football games appear on his screen. He doesn’t actually remember what the last game was that he watched when the next one comes on, but it’s better than the silence.

It’s been days and his phone hasn’t rung. Dave remembers between season four and season five when it rang so often that Jaime and him would turn it off once a month just so they could have some uninterrupted family time. Phone Free Day.

He can’t remember the last time they needed one.

* * * * * *

It’s Tuesday when Dave decides he needs a shower.

He chooses the one downstairs – which really translates to ‘he’s so shit-faced he can’t make it up to the second floor.’ The one that he used to shower in when he’d come home late from shoots. He’d be tired and sweaty and sore, and only occasionally covered in some man’s cologne or some woman’s perfume.

He hasn’t used it since they filmed the finale.

He finds his extra set of pajama bottoms in the cabinet and turns on Sinatra before stepping under the spray. Normally he goes for something a little more David Lee Roth, but he doesn’t think he’s in the right mindset to hear about California girls or how he’s just a gigolo that no one cares for.

And it’s not until Dave’s standing under the water washing himself that he notices he’s hard, and realizes that he hasn’t had sex in a week.

“Haven’t gone that long since I was fucking fourteen,” he says aloud, trying to ignore the scratchy, alien sound of his voice.

When he wraps his hand around his dick, Christian in the first image he sees, under him, pushing up, biting his lips, swearing like a fucking sailor and clenching around his dick so hard it’s almost painful. He shakes his head as if the physical motion can expel Chris from his head when a wife and kid couldn’t. But now that he’s thinking about Chris, he can’t stop, and there’s no fucking point in trying. The best he can do is focus and get it over with.

Closing his eyes, he remembers the last night they were together. Dave remembers everything from the way it feels to have Chris’ mouth wrapped around him to the tight burn of Chris pushing into him. It’s that memory of Chris behind him with his hand gripping Dave’s waist so tightly it leaves bruises, so tightly that Dave spends twenty minutes on the drive home thinking up an excuse to tell Jaime, that finally makes him come. It’s remembering how Chris’ other hand wrenched Dave’s head to the side so he could bite and lick the sweat off his neck that makes it so powerful his cock is left sore and his knees are weak.

* * * * * *
.
The news hits the media on Thursday. Not that he’s reading the newspaper or watching any station that would actually report it, but he doubts the sudden ringing of his telephone has shit to do with his now nonexistent fucking career.

He doesn’t answer the phone, but he does check the caller ID. Alexis. Joss. His mom. Amy. His sister. Amy, again. In between all of those names are radio stations wanting more information and his agent wanting to talk about how to spin the story for the “right” kind of publicity. He finds that pretty fucking amusing considering it usually takes him days to actually get a hold of the bastard now that he doesn’t have his own show.

Chuckling in a way that isn’t even close enough to humor to be a mockery of it, Dave lights up a cigarette, picks up his Jim Beam, turns off the lights, and sits down in front of the television to finish watching the Yankees beat the Cubs.

* * * * * *

It’s about one in the morning when he hears the knock at his door, and it’s so fucking loud it sounds like the door’s about to come off the damn hinges.

There’s only one person that could be, and his first instinct is to just stay where he is, but there’s no way to avoid it, and he can’t stand the thought of Chris standing at the closed door waiting to be let in.

“Why didn’t you fucking call me?” Chris asks, bypassing the hello as he pushes past Dave and steps into the house. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Dave turns around and notices, really notices it for the first time in a week. Empty bottles and pizza boxes cover tables, and the air reeks of smoke and alcohol sweat. “I guess I’ve been a little distracted.”

Chris walks over to the couch and stares at it for a moment before sitting down. “Never liked this damn thing.” He opens the plastic bag in his hand and takes out a beer, tossing it to Dave before grabbing one for himself. “Why’d she leave?”

Dave cracks it open and swallows, watching as Chris kicks the shit off the table and props his feet up. “Found out about us.” Dave feels his throat tighten until it’s painful. “She’s not gonna bring it up in the divorce papers. She’s just asking for custody of Jaden without a fight.” Dave sits down next to Chris. “I’ll get every other weekend.”

Chris stares at him for a long moment. “She’s a fucking bitch.”

Reaching forward, Dave grabs the back of Chris’ head, pulling at the long ass fucking girly hair until Chris gasps, opening his mouth. He tastes like Budweiser and barbeque sauce. He tastes like almost everything Dave wants, and he can lose himself in this. He might be able to forget what a goddamn fuck-up he is. “No, she’s not.”

Chris nods his head and pushes Dave down, working his belt open. “Do you want me to stay the night?” Chris asks, pulling out Dave’s cock and gripping it hard enough to make him gasp. Chris’ mouth closes over Dave’s cock, sucking roughly.

Dave thinks of being alone in the house another night without the sound of his son’s snoring or the late night checks he does just to make sure Jaden’s okay. “Yeah, I – I don’t want to be alone.” Dave feels the tears in his eyes again and blinks them back, trying to focus on the feeling of Chris’ hot, wet mouth wrapped around his dick. It doesn’t work. “I can’t take him not being here. I can’t – I don’t want to wake up every morning without my son in the next room.”

Chris raises up his head and kisses Dave on mouth. It’s hard enough that Dave tastes blood. “I won’t let that happen to you. You got me?” Chris’ accent is thicker than usual and reminds Dave of warm, sweaty days when he was a kid. “We’ll figure this shit out.”

“How?”

“Do you trust me?” Chris asks, his eyes unblinking as he looks at Dave.

“Yeah. You know I do.” He does. Might not trust himself for shit, but he has faith in Chris.

“I’ll talk to Jaime. We’ll work it out.” And he says it like he’s sure. There’s no doubt in his mind that he can convince Jaime and make this better.

When Chris brings his hand up to cup Dave’s face, Dave presses into the touch. Chris will take care of him. Chris will take care of everything.

-End