Alternate 1/?
I'm mostly okay with RPS. I like reading it and apparently I can also write it. I am, however, getting squicky I'm-going-to-jail tingles. Sigh. Oh well.
Disclaimers: QaF and all characters, etc belong to CowLip, etc. I don't claim to know Gale Harold or Randy Harrison. This is a work of fiction and fantasy, nothing more.
When Gale Harold woke up in Brian Kinney’s bed, he wasn’t really surprised that he’d apparently fallen asleep on set.
The sheets were warm and felt kind of familiar underneath him so he turned over, away from Randy’s sleeping back, and pulled a pillow over his head. That new intern, Marla or Carla, could wake him up when it was time to shoot, or something. He sighed and burrowed into the bed, wrinkling his nose at the weird smell but trying to fall back asleep anyway.
Except he needed to take a piss.
After a couple of minutes his bladder finally won and Gale got up, groaning and squinting at the bright light-how the fuck does someone forget to turn the high beams off?-and put on Brian’s robe. He crossed the set and yanked the steel door open. The damn thing felt heavier than usual and Gale wondered if he had to start putting in extra hours working out. Because God forbid Brian fucking Kinney actually have a gut or anything.
Yawning wide enough to crack his jaw, Gale rubbed a tired hand over his face and turned an abrupt left outside the door. And because he was expecting a narrow hallway littered with thick electrical cords and extra props and all the rest of the junk that filled a set “behind the scenes,” he almost fell to his death when the very hard metal railing dug into his stomach and stopped his forward momentum.
“Shit!” Gale grabbed at the railing just in time to stop himself from diving headfirst down into what looked like a fucking flight of stairs. Now very wide awake, Gale stared at the brick stairwell that had miraculously appeared in the soundstage but all he could think about was how ridiculously glad he was that he didn’t piss himself. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered and heaved himself upright, pinching the bridge of his nose and blowing a breath.
Okay, this…was fucking weird.
But first things first: now he really needed to take a piss. Lightly biting his tongue, Gale eyed the loft.
He slid the door closed, being careful not to make too much noise, and quickly made for the bathroom on silent feet. Randy stirred and kind of snuffled against the bedclothes but didn’t wake up.
In the bathroom, Gale noted with a sick sense of dread that the toilet seemed to be fully functional.
After washing his hands and splashing water on his face, Gale stared at his reflection and decided that he was not going to think about what the fuck was happening. At least, not until he got something to eat.
Noise from the bedroom had Gale cautiously walk until the tiles became hardwood flooring. Randy Harrison sat in the middle of Brian Kinney’s bed, yawning and scratching at his crotch. Then it occurred to Gale that maybe this wasn’t Randy but Justin. Because, you know, everything’s kind of fucked up.
Gale shuffled self-consciously, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable wearing a robe that didn’t belong to him, even if it was exactly his size.
The naked guy on the bed turned to him, then slowly looked around the loft. He frowned and dragged the sheet to cover his lap. “Did we fall asleep on set?”
Gale blew out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “The toilet’s real,” he answered.
Randy stared.
Disclaimers: QaF and all characters, etc belong to CowLip, etc. I don't claim to know Gale Harold or Randy Harrison. This is a work of fiction and fantasy, nothing more.
When Gale Harold woke up in Brian Kinney’s bed, he wasn’t really surprised that he’d apparently fallen asleep on set.
The sheets were warm and felt kind of familiar underneath him so he turned over, away from Randy’s sleeping back, and pulled a pillow over his head. That new intern, Marla or Carla, could wake him up when it was time to shoot, or something. He sighed and burrowed into the bed, wrinkling his nose at the weird smell but trying to fall back asleep anyway.
Except he needed to take a piss.
After a couple of minutes his bladder finally won and Gale got up, groaning and squinting at the bright light-how the fuck does someone forget to turn the high beams off?-and put on Brian’s robe. He crossed the set and yanked the steel door open. The damn thing felt heavier than usual and Gale wondered if he had to start putting in extra hours working out. Because God forbid Brian fucking Kinney actually have a gut or anything.
Yawning wide enough to crack his jaw, Gale rubbed a tired hand over his face and turned an abrupt left outside the door. And because he was expecting a narrow hallway littered with thick electrical cords and extra props and all the rest of the junk that filled a set “behind the scenes,” he almost fell to his death when the very hard metal railing dug into his stomach and stopped his forward momentum.
“Shit!” Gale grabbed at the railing just in time to stop himself from diving headfirst down into what looked like a fucking flight of stairs. Now very wide awake, Gale stared at the brick stairwell that had miraculously appeared in the soundstage but all he could think about was how ridiculously glad he was that he didn’t piss himself. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered and heaved himself upright, pinching the bridge of his nose and blowing a breath.
Okay, this…was fucking weird.
But first things first: now he really needed to take a piss. Lightly biting his tongue, Gale eyed the loft.
He slid the door closed, being careful not to make too much noise, and quickly made for the bathroom on silent feet. Randy stirred and kind of snuffled against the bedclothes but didn’t wake up.
In the bathroom, Gale noted with a sick sense of dread that the toilet seemed to be fully functional.
After washing his hands and splashing water on his face, Gale stared at his reflection and decided that he was not going to think about what the fuck was happening. At least, not until he got something to eat.
Noise from the bedroom had Gale cautiously walk until the tiles became hardwood flooring. Randy Harrison sat in the middle of Brian Kinney’s bed, yawning and scratching at his crotch. Then it occurred to Gale that maybe this wasn’t Randy but Justin. Because, you know, everything’s kind of fucked up.
Gale shuffled self-consciously, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable wearing a robe that didn’t belong to him, even if it was exactly his size.
The naked guy on the bed turned to him, then slowly looked around the loft. He frowned and dragged the sheet to cover his lap. “Did we fall asleep on set?”
Gale blew out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “The toilet’s real,” he answered.
Randy stared.