Breakfast with Scot fanfic, Chapter 1
Title: Chapter 1
Fandom: Breakfast with Scot
Pairing: Eric/Sam
Rating: PG13 ish
Summary: Beginnings story
Author’s notes: More info behind the cut
Disclaimer: No ownership of characters of course
Link to all chapters unavez18.livejournal.com/2044.html
A “beginnings” fic for Breakfast with Scot (m/m pairing). Takes place after the very first scene of the movie, which is 5 years before the bulk of the movie occurs, so there really isn’t much “spoiling” in it; certainly nothing central to the plot.
Chapter 1
Fuck was the first thing Eric thought as he tried to move that morning. That was pretty much the same way he’d woken up every day for the past month, with dull aching waves radiating from his shoulder punctuated by sharper, stabbing pains each time he even thought about moving. The rest of his body felt like a completely worthless and dead weight, and as he struggled to make use of it to find his way out of the covers he decided that just about the only thing that could make life worse right then would be the absence of vicodin.
His condo seemed completely still, an emptiness borne of the fact that there was very little life within its walls. And not just because Eric was the only one there. It had a lot to do with the fact that he was doing nothing, saying nothing, and feeling nothing beyond the physical pain. He was the only thing alive in there, and he wasn’t very much alive at all.
Dressing himself was like a ritual torture, although he had to admit that undressing himself was worse. On more than a few occasions he’d actually cut himself out of a t-shirt just to avoid the struggle, which was probably why he’d been dressing like a bum off the street. If he was going to ruin his clothes, he figured it might as well be the shittiest stuff he owned.
And on many days he didn’t get dressed; it was much easier to lounge around in the same pair of shorts and t-shirt for days on end, until something would come up that would force him to go out in public-- usually a doctor’s appointment-- or someone would come over, at which point he’d be forced to admit that a shower and a change of clothing was in order.
This was one of those days. A new lawyer was coming to meet him, to help him figure out the endorsement deals that were drying up and being cancelled and whatever else lawyers did nowadays. And it was someone new, of course, because the lawyer who had handled him when he was with the Leafs had quickly made an exit. Now that he was no longer a player, he didn’t need that lawyer’s kind of help.
So now some new litigiously-inclined individual was being sent out to him; someone from the same firm who was better “suited” for him. Some jerk in a suit, more likely, Eric thought after unceremoniously washing himself off with a damp towel. He grabbed at a stretched out gray t-shirt and began the arduous process of stretching it around the cast on his arm and then over his head with a distinct feeling that today was going to be another one of those cut-himself-out-of-it days.
*
Eric had found his usual niche on the couch and was settled in, mindlessly flipping channels. He’d been sitting there so often in the past month that he swore there was an ass-shaped dent in the cushion-not that he minded; it made it all the more comfortable. But the knock forced him to get up, and even though he already knew who it would be he had the desire to be a bit of an ass. It was one of the few pleasures he had left.
“What,” he grated out harshly through the still-closed door.
“Hello, Mr. McNally. It’s Sam Miller, your new lawyer from Sampson & Delacroix . . .”
“Who?”
“The lawyer . . . the new lawyer . . . Mr. Miller . . . we spoke on the phone . . .”
Eric opened the door abruptly as it didn’t seem like the man was going to be much fun to annoy. His voice sounded smooth and fairly youthful, a definite change from the rumbling-throaty voice of the pot-bellied sports lawyer Eric had had before. Evidently, he no longer needed anyone with experience.
He blocked the entranceway for a moment so he could study the man before allowing him in.
The lawyer was thin and gangly, with arms maybe a bit too long for his body. He had sharpened features on his face and a nose too narrow and pointed to be considered attractive. He had nice lips, though, and kind eyes. And when those lips smiled in friendly greeting, very slight dimples poked out on either cheek. He was wearing a black, expensive-looking suit and a bright lavender shirt, complete with a dark-purple-and-fuchsia-striped tie.
For a moment Eric considered his outfit and what it may say about him, but quickly dismissed it. The world was too full of metrosexuals these days to make any reliable conclusion.
“May I, uh, come in?” the man asked, one eyebrow raised in impatience, although his tone was completely level.
Eric moved back from the doorway without a word.
“Well, I’m Sam Miller,” the lawyer said, extending his hand.
Eric took it briefly, then let his arm drop down to his side. “Listen, can we get this shit over with as fast as possible? I’ve got stuff to do.”
************
Sam Miller stood outside the condo of his new client and was thoroughly unimpressed. He’d never really been impressed by sports or sports figures, although of course when he was younger he’d envied the glory such “national heroes” tended to receive. But with the wisdom of age he now wondered how it was that everyone assumed it was so great to be a NHL player if at the end of the day there was a chance you could wind up with an average looking place and a horrible career-ending injury.
Though Sam had never had a blaze of glory, he had to admit that his parents had been right when they’d promised he would one day succeed above all those jocks who had teased him mercilessly during his youth. He had doubted it then-and what skinny, gawky kid wouldn’t as he watched all the better looking and more athletically inclined classmates enjoying all the luck and all the fame-but now it seemed that promised day had come.
He had a good job, a sleek sportscar, fancy clothes, and a nice condo. And though he still worked for those “jocks,” he had a power over them-they needed him. So he was satisfied, or mostly satisfied, with the life he was leading.
Sam was a good-hearted person, but he still felt a little tug of satisfaction deep inside him, remembering the way his mother had assured him while laying ice on his bruised ribs that the jerks who had used him as a punching bag would eventually lose their good looks, and their athletic abilities would one day fail them, and then they’d be left with nothing. He didn’t really know much about Eric McNally, but if by any chance he had teased and brutalized the less fortunate on his journey through life-well then perhaps he had gotten what he deserved.
He knocked on the door and waited impatiently, shifting his weight between the balls and heels of his feet.
“What!” an angry voice erupted from the other side of the door.
He’d been warned that this particular client could be an ass; he already had that reputation from his days on the ice. And he’d also heard he didn’t care too much for lawyers.
“Hello, Mr. McNally . . . I’m Sam Miller, your new lawyer from Sampson and Delacroix . . .” he began.
“Who?” Another monosyllabic burst of anger.
“The lawyer . . . the new lawyer . . . Mr. Miller . . . we spoke on the phone . . .”
Sam began to wonder if McNally had forgotten. From what he’d heard, it sounded like he was taking a lot of pain pills. A break that bad probably warranted it.
The door swung open abruptly, and the man who greeted him--although greeted was a term that should be applied loosely to the encounter--looked as though he hadn’t been out of the apartment in days. His face was darkened with unshaven and unevenly grown stubble, he was wearing faded jeans and a plain gray t-shirt, and his hair was tousled in a strange mess.
But he did have amazingly piercing blue eyes, which seemed even bluer perhaps against the dark contrast of his facial hair. He blocked the entrance, and his body was lean but still well toned, his good arm boasting shapely muscles. His other arm was constrained in a cumbersome cast and hung in a sling at his side.
He looked very angry at the intrusion, though Sam couldn’t really blame him. He’d be angry too if he was in such a get-up. He found himself wondering how Eric was even able to dress himself, and decided that must be his excuse for the unkempt appearance.
“May I, uh, come in?” Sam asked after he figured he’d waited outside politely long enough.
The man in front of him gave him a glare and stepped aside without a word.
Sam took a deep breath and extended his arm. “Well, I’m Sam Miller.”
“Listen, can we get this shit over with as soon as possible? I’ve got stuff to do,” Eric McNally responded after taking his hand with thinly veiled distaste.
Sam doubted that; it didn’t look like he’d done anything in quite a while from the looks of the place. Certainly not laundry, he concluded, as mounds of dirty clothes littered the floor.
“Well, alright then.” Sam sat down at the kitchen table, leaning forward to avoid touching a damp towel that hung across the back of the only chair not covered with stacks of mail or newspapers. “You’re still getting money from some of your endorsements, but most of those will be canceling their contracts soon, so we can go over that . . .” he began as he pulled out the file from his briefcase.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Eric interrupted him. “And seriously, do I have to be here for this shit? Can’t you just boil it all down, tell me what I need to know, and take care of the rest? That’s what you people used to do.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. He didn’t take too kindly to being called “you people,” but he was nothing if not professional. “If you’d rather I handle everything, I can, but are you sure you trust me enough to make all your decisions for you? We just met.”
Eric furrowed his brows and regarded Sam with a strange expression. Then abruptly, he swung around and headed for the fridge. “Beer?” he asked.
It was the first semi-polite thing Eric had said to him since he’d entered, and Sam figured he should take it without complaint, but instead he found himself saying, “Are you supposed to drink when you’re taking vicodin?”
Eric set his mouth into a firm grimace. “Suit yourself,” he said before twisting open a bottle and taking a swig. But then he turned to Sam with a far-away look in his eye and added, “Oh, and I doubt you can screw up my life any worse than I already have.”
And that was the first time Sam realized how sad Eric McNally really was.
***********
Next: Chapter 2
Link to all chapters unavez18.livejournal.com/2044.html