FIC: Cowboy Casanova (2/?)
Fandom: NFL RPS
Rating: PG-13 (language, implied sex, drinking)
Pairing: Tony Romo/Jason Witten
Jason didn’t really know what either of them wanted from this. He got the feeling that Tony wanted commitment. Monogamy. Missionary position. Watching a bit of TV and then off to their Egyptian cotton floral queen-size bed. The imagined conversations horrified him.
“8:30! No wonder I’m yawning!”
Jason, however, had no idea what he wanted, but definitely not monogamy; not that Tony wasn’t a fine lad and a fine lay, but Jason wasn’t much for committed relationships.
One day, finally, Jason got the courage to bring it up - after sex, when Tony would be in a more, uh, receptive mood.
“So, uh, what is this?”
“What’s this?”
“Us,”
“You mean we?”
“Yes,” Jason groaned, “Us. We. You and me. The opposite of them. First person plural.”
Tony smirked.
“Well,” he said, shifting the thin sheet draped across his abdomen, “I think we’re dating.”
“But what does dating mean to you?” Jason asked faux-offhandedly, fixing his gaze to the ceiling.
“That we only date each other, I guess.”
Jason took a deep breath, and exhaled with a faint “Fuck my life.”
“That a problem?” Tony asked, turning on his side to face Jason, “Because I generally do sex under two circumstances: one night stands, and committed relationships. I’m not one for fuckbuddies. And seeing as we’ve had sex on more than one occasion, the one night stand option is eliminated. So, it’s either commitment, or nothing, for me.”
“Well, I don’t like commitment. I don’t like monogamy, and I am a big fan of one night stands and fuckbuddies.” Jason said.
Tony stared for a moment.
“Then this is not gonna work.” He said, playing with the airy patches on the sheets but keeping his eyes on Jason.
“Fine,” Jason spat, scrambling up from the mattress, “I hope you and your hand are together forever. Furthermore…” He tried to organize the argument in his head, but it didn’t quite work.
“Just…fuck you.” Jason shoved on his clothes and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t even wait the usual 10 seconds that it took for the other person to come after you. He just left, and only looked back once.
Okay, twice.
-----
He went to their favorite bar, him and Tony’s, who incidentally was not leaning against the record machine. This depressed Jason to the point that he asked for a bottle of straight Captain Morgan. The more he thought about what he just did, the more he drank; 30 minutes later the bottle was empty. When Jason noticed this, his eyes went wide and his thoughts chorused a single syllable: FUCK.
After about 15 more minutes, he had a fellow Captain Morgan drinker’s arm draped around him, both singing “A Pirate’s Life for Me.” Except, who the fuck knows all the words to that song, especially when drunk, so it was more along the lines of, “Yo ho, Yo ho, a pirate’s life for me! Da da da-da-da da da da, Drink up me hardies, yo ho! Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da da, Drink up me hardies, yo ho! Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!” It was after this shoddy and, apparently, louder than they thought rendition that Jason and his friend were promptly kicked on their asses from the bar.
“Man, those fuckers just…fuck them. They…suck, dude.” Jason slurred as he rose to his feet.
“Yeah,” his friend replied, dusting himself off, “Is anywhere else open right now?”
“Dude…probably.” Jason said, saliva flying at the P.
“Eh, whatever. Good to meet you though.” The man saluted from the bridge of his nose.
“See ya,” Jason now began staggering down the street. It was 3 AM on a Tuesday, and Jason had to find an open bar
-----
Jason was amazed he hadn’t been stopped by cops as he weaved down the sidewalk, looking for the friendly neon Budweiser sign. He passed the back entrance of a hotel, where an employee was smoking a cigarette in the light of a streetlamp. Jason paused. The guy wasn’t nearly bad looking.
“Hey,” he said, stumbling up to the man, “You wanna fuck?”
The man smirked, just like Tony, which briefly struck pain into Jason’s chest.
“Yeah, sure,” he opened the door, “Come with me.”
-----
Jason wished that looks were a better predictor of sexual prowess. This was one of the worse fucks he’d had, not the least because they had to make the hotel bed afterward and fluff the pillows and pretend like nothing had happened. Jason had sort of hoped that he’d sober up after angry, anonymous sex, but he hadn’t; at all.
They’d wordlessly gone their separate ways down opposite directions of the hall, and as Jason listened to his footstep’s muffled echoes, he found himself longing for meaning in sex, for knowing the other guy’s name, for cuddling afterward, for being able to laugh while awkwardly reestablishing clothes, for having breakfast the next day and trying to pretend you’re not staring at the man across the table but eventually giving up. Kind of like what he had with…but it didn’t matter anymore. This was what he liked, this was what he’d always done. He could count the number of serious relationships he’d had on one hand, and he’d known from the start in every one that they weren't his match. But Tony, Tony was different, somehow. There was a spark, or…something, something that made Jason stick around for longer than two minutes.
Jason shook his head, and lost equilibrium accordingly. He stumbled into the elevator and pressed the button.
-----
When Jason emerged from the rotating door in front of the hotel (which finding his way out of was an adventure in and of itself) there was a cop car parked just outside. He stopped suddenly, like a deer in headlights, and tried to figure out how he was going to retreat from their vision without being discovered as completely and totally trashed out of his fucking mind.
He took a step, tripped, and faceplanted into the gutter. The cops emerged from their car. Jason didn’t get up.
-----
The cops drove Jason to an alley, and dragged him to a white door. They entered, to see rows of gray cots, brick walls, and a bunch of homeless people, all of which were noticeably intoxicated.
It was a drunk tank. Jason groaned, dropped his head, and accidentally drooled. His spit splashed on the floor.
-----
A few hours later, Jason had a wristband with the number 17 written on it in Sharpie. The cops said that if he’d remain here for 15 hours, they’d refrain from filing a report on his public drunkenness. He didn’t fit in here at all. Everyone else was in beanies and several thick coats, and he was in designer jeans and a button down shirt. The people who ran the place had assigned him a cot, and all Jason wanted to do was sleep.
Not an easy task, given that he’d already been hit up for a rich variety of narcotics, some of which he’d never even heard of.
It was far too loud and bright. Jason crammed his eyes shut as hard as he could but still was unable to achieve unconsciousness. He finally swung his feet around to the side of the cot, stood up uneasily, and staggered to the front desk.
“Could I have some Aspirin, please?”
“No.” The woman said, without raising her eyes from her writing.
“Why not?”
“Against policy.”
“What the fuck do you think I’m gonna do, go in the bathroom, crush it up and snort it? Or gamble with it in a dice game, or something?”
The woman looked up from under his eyelids.
“Please go back to your cot.”
Jason knew the battle was lost. He rubbed the back of his neck and did as he was told. Sitting back down, he resolved to do what he had to to make it until morning.
Maybe when his 15 hours were up, and he got his phone back, he’d give Tony a call. Jason smiled slightly to himself, and planned what he would say. What he’d apologize for. What he knew he wanted to do, now. These thoughts drifted Jason to almost sleep.
“Hey man, you got any N-180-Unicorn?”
“I don’t even know what that is! Go away!”
-----
“Wake up.”
Jason was brought to unhappy consciousness, to the unhappy face of an unhappy woman.
“Good Lord, do you have those lights set to Expedition to the Surface of the Sun mode?!” Jason yelled, slapping a palm over his eyes.
“Your 15 hours is up. You owe us $325.”
Jason groaned.
-----
Jason emerged from the alley, stepping into the bustling sidewalk as if he’d never seen the light of day before. His eyes were squinted to almost-closed, and as he adjusted to the sun (at least, as well as he could given that he had the worst hangover ever) he realized he was in the middle of South Dallas, with no idea how to get home.
He slowly backed up into the alley, and knocked on the door. The same woman opened it.
“Yes?”
“Uh, don’t you have some kind of service to transport me home?”
“It’s called the bus.” She then slammed the door.
Jason sighed. He had wanted to wait to call Tony until after he’d changed out of his mud-covered pants and vomit-covered shirt - when had he even fucking thrown up, anyway - but at this point it seemed to be his only option.
He shuffled his phone from his pocket, and looked for Tony’s number. It rang twice before being picked up.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Tony. It’s, uh, Jason.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Jason could feel Tony smile on the other line, which warmed him from the chest out.
“Sure, where are you?”
“Uh…I’m on Marshall.”
“…why the fuck are you in Fair Park?”
“I just got out of a drunk tank.”
Tony didn’t respond, he was laughing too hard. Jason grinned. Everything was gonna be fine.
Rating: PG-13 (language, implied sex, drinking)
Pairing: Tony Romo/Jason Witten
Jason didn’t really know what either of them wanted from this. He got the feeling that Tony wanted commitment. Monogamy. Missionary position. Watching a bit of TV and then off to their Egyptian cotton floral queen-size bed. The imagined conversations horrified him.
“8:30! No wonder I’m yawning!”
Jason, however, had no idea what he wanted, but definitely not monogamy; not that Tony wasn’t a fine lad and a fine lay, but Jason wasn’t much for committed relationships.
One day, finally, Jason got the courage to bring it up - after sex, when Tony would be in a more, uh, receptive mood.
“So, uh, what is this?”
“What’s this?”
“Us,”
“You mean we?”
“Yes,” Jason groaned, “Us. We. You and me. The opposite of them. First person plural.”
Tony smirked.
“Well,” he said, shifting the thin sheet draped across his abdomen, “I think we’re dating.”
“But what does dating mean to you?” Jason asked faux-offhandedly, fixing his gaze to the ceiling.
“That we only date each other, I guess.”
Jason took a deep breath, and exhaled with a faint “Fuck my life.”
“That a problem?” Tony asked, turning on his side to face Jason, “Because I generally do sex under two circumstances: one night stands, and committed relationships. I’m not one for fuckbuddies. And seeing as we’ve had sex on more than one occasion, the one night stand option is eliminated. So, it’s either commitment, or nothing, for me.”
“Well, I don’t like commitment. I don’t like monogamy, and I am a big fan of one night stands and fuckbuddies.” Jason said.
Tony stared for a moment.
“Then this is not gonna work.” He said, playing with the airy patches on the sheets but keeping his eyes on Jason.
“Fine,” Jason spat, scrambling up from the mattress, “I hope you and your hand are together forever. Furthermore…” He tried to organize the argument in his head, but it didn’t quite work.
“Just…fuck you.” Jason shoved on his clothes and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t even wait the usual 10 seconds that it took for the other person to come after you. He just left, and only looked back once.
Okay, twice.
-----
He went to their favorite bar, him and Tony’s, who incidentally was not leaning against the record machine. This depressed Jason to the point that he asked for a bottle of straight Captain Morgan. The more he thought about what he just did, the more he drank; 30 minutes later the bottle was empty. When Jason noticed this, his eyes went wide and his thoughts chorused a single syllable: FUCK.
After about 15 more minutes, he had a fellow Captain Morgan drinker’s arm draped around him, both singing “A Pirate’s Life for Me.” Except, who the fuck knows all the words to that song, especially when drunk, so it was more along the lines of, “Yo ho, Yo ho, a pirate’s life for me! Da da da-da-da da da da, Drink up me hardies, yo ho! Da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da da, Drink up me hardies, yo ho! Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me!” It was after this shoddy and, apparently, louder than they thought rendition that Jason and his friend were promptly kicked on their asses from the bar.
“Man, those fuckers just…fuck them. They…suck, dude.” Jason slurred as he rose to his feet.
“Yeah,” his friend replied, dusting himself off, “Is anywhere else open right now?”
“Dude…probably.” Jason said, saliva flying at the P.
“Eh, whatever. Good to meet you though.” The man saluted from the bridge of his nose.
“See ya,” Jason now began staggering down the street. It was 3 AM on a Tuesday, and Jason had to find an open bar
-----
Jason was amazed he hadn’t been stopped by cops as he weaved down the sidewalk, looking for the friendly neon Budweiser sign. He passed the back entrance of a hotel, where an employee was smoking a cigarette in the light of a streetlamp. Jason paused. The guy wasn’t nearly bad looking.
“Hey,” he said, stumbling up to the man, “You wanna fuck?”
The man smirked, just like Tony, which briefly struck pain into Jason’s chest.
“Yeah, sure,” he opened the door, “Come with me.”
-----
Jason wished that looks were a better predictor of sexual prowess. This was one of the worse fucks he’d had, not the least because they had to make the hotel bed afterward and fluff the pillows and pretend like nothing had happened. Jason had sort of hoped that he’d sober up after angry, anonymous sex, but he hadn’t; at all.
They’d wordlessly gone their separate ways down opposite directions of the hall, and as Jason listened to his footstep’s muffled echoes, he found himself longing for meaning in sex, for knowing the other guy’s name, for cuddling afterward, for being able to laugh while awkwardly reestablishing clothes, for having breakfast the next day and trying to pretend you’re not staring at the man across the table but eventually giving up. Kind of like what he had with…but it didn’t matter anymore. This was what he liked, this was what he’d always done. He could count the number of serious relationships he’d had on one hand, and he’d known from the start in every one that they weren't his match. But Tony, Tony was different, somehow. There was a spark, or…something, something that made Jason stick around for longer than two minutes.
Jason shook his head, and lost equilibrium accordingly. He stumbled into the elevator and pressed the button.
-----
When Jason emerged from the rotating door in front of the hotel (which finding his way out of was an adventure in and of itself) there was a cop car parked just outside. He stopped suddenly, like a deer in headlights, and tried to figure out how he was going to retreat from their vision without being discovered as completely and totally trashed out of his fucking mind.
He took a step, tripped, and faceplanted into the gutter. The cops emerged from their car. Jason didn’t get up.
-----
The cops drove Jason to an alley, and dragged him to a white door. They entered, to see rows of gray cots, brick walls, and a bunch of homeless people, all of which were noticeably intoxicated.
It was a drunk tank. Jason groaned, dropped his head, and accidentally drooled. His spit splashed on the floor.
-----
A few hours later, Jason had a wristband with the number 17 written on it in Sharpie. The cops said that if he’d remain here for 15 hours, they’d refrain from filing a report on his public drunkenness. He didn’t fit in here at all. Everyone else was in beanies and several thick coats, and he was in designer jeans and a button down shirt. The people who ran the place had assigned him a cot, and all Jason wanted to do was sleep.
Not an easy task, given that he’d already been hit up for a rich variety of narcotics, some of which he’d never even heard of.
It was far too loud and bright. Jason crammed his eyes shut as hard as he could but still was unable to achieve unconsciousness. He finally swung his feet around to the side of the cot, stood up uneasily, and staggered to the front desk.
“Could I have some Aspirin, please?”
“No.” The woman said, without raising her eyes from her writing.
“Why not?”
“Against policy.”
“What the fuck do you think I’m gonna do, go in the bathroom, crush it up and snort it? Or gamble with it in a dice game, or something?”
The woman looked up from under his eyelids.
“Please go back to your cot.”
Jason knew the battle was lost. He rubbed the back of his neck and did as he was told. Sitting back down, he resolved to do what he had to to make it until morning.
Maybe when his 15 hours were up, and he got his phone back, he’d give Tony a call. Jason smiled slightly to himself, and planned what he would say. What he’d apologize for. What he knew he wanted to do, now. These thoughts drifted Jason to almost sleep.
“Hey man, you got any N-180-Unicorn?”
“I don’t even know what that is! Go away!”
-----
“Wake up.”
Jason was brought to unhappy consciousness, to the unhappy face of an unhappy woman.
“Good Lord, do you have those lights set to Expedition to the Surface of the Sun mode?!” Jason yelled, slapping a palm over his eyes.
“Your 15 hours is up. You owe us $325.”
Jason groaned.
-----
Jason emerged from the alley, stepping into the bustling sidewalk as if he’d never seen the light of day before. His eyes were squinted to almost-closed, and as he adjusted to the sun (at least, as well as he could given that he had the worst hangover ever) he realized he was in the middle of South Dallas, with no idea how to get home.
He slowly backed up into the alley, and knocked on the door. The same woman opened it.
“Yes?”
“Uh, don’t you have some kind of service to transport me home?”
“It’s called the bus.” She then slammed the door.
Jason sighed. He had wanted to wait to call Tony until after he’d changed out of his mud-covered pants and vomit-covered shirt - when had he even fucking thrown up, anyway - but at this point it seemed to be his only option.
He shuffled his phone from his pocket, and looked for Tony’s number. It rang twice before being picked up.
“Hullo?”
“Hey, Tony. It’s, uh, Jason.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Jason could feel Tony smile on the other line, which warmed him from the chest out.
“Sure, where are you?”
“Uh…I’m on Marshall.”
“…why the fuck are you in Fair Park?”
“I just got out of a drunk tank.”
Tony didn’t respond, he was laughing too hard. Jason grinned. Everything was gonna be fine.