Tall, Dark, and Handsome (Mike)

[Stefan Spencer]

Stefan was beyond wasted.

Of course it was New Year's Eve night...well new year's day now technically, so at least he had a valid excuse.

He was currently stumbling down the sidewalk, falling into the street and parked cars now and then, but still making his way. Somewhere along the way he had misplaced his cane, but he leg was fay beyond hurting at this point, so he didn't notice. He couldn't remember leaving the bar and judging from the state of his clothes and the shiner forming on his right eye, it might not have been his choice to leave in the first place. Not that you could tell from the lopsided grin on his face.

"I know it's 'round here somewheres," he mumbled/slurred to himself as he made his way. He was referring to his motorcycle, which he was sure he had parked out in front of the bar, but no couldn't remember which bar it was...or where he was.

He paused for a moment, leaning up against a car parked by the road, and began fishing in his pockets for his flask. It was then that he noticed the tall dark stranger standing by the corner. Smiling, Stefan smoothed out his hair and stumbled over towards them.

"Hey there gorgeous, Hershey's makes millions of kisses a day?" he said, carefully piecing the words together which seemed to be taking a lot of effort. "Cause all I'm asking for is one from you."

The stranger was silent, but Stefan was sure (either from his ability, the booze, or his ego) that his line had made an impression. "That's alright," he said, leaning in closer. "You don't have to talk."

And that's when he took the lamp post in his arms and gave it the best kiss it'd ever receive.

[Mike Batista]

Since moving to Vermont, Mike's holiday traditions had become much more flexible. At home, Thanksgiving and Christmas, as well as Easter and Lent, had been big holidays. Church holidays, though ones the Batistas often celebrated the day before or after, as their mother's opera schedule allowed. Holidays were often performance days. But since moving across the country and acquiring a lengthy line of foster children who all celebrated differently, he did whatever was most comfortable for them. With the Stewarts, Mike put up a tree with lights and some ornaments but didn't press too hard on the whole Christmas thing. But the tree, even if it was a Christmassy thing, just made the house more cheerful.

One tradition he'd kept for over a decade though, no matter who his fosters were, was his New Year's Eve patrol. If the kids were young he got someone to sit, if they were older he just let them sleep. But once twelve-thirty came and Eve was Day, he pulled his winter gear on, spread a tarp over the backseat, tossed in a bucket, added an old warmed coat, and went Stefan fishing.

Mike never had to worry that his old friend had gotten lucky and was safe ("safe") in someone's bed - no, Stefan got much too drunk on New Year's Eve to cash any sort of check his advances wrote. He didn't have to worry about him possibly being out behind the wheel of a vehicle either, as that same astounding inebriation also meant the man could barely find his ass with both hands, as the saying went, than whatever he'd arrived in. Mike did worry about hypothermia though, and of Stefan passing out and choking on his vomit, and of being beat up too much. And he'd already told the journalist that he didn't have the kind of money necessary to bail him out of jail.

Driving slowly to better look and to avoid anyone out who'd had a little too much and no friends to take keys away, Mike wasn't out too terribly long before he let out a long sigh. Well, at least Stefan had decided to put himself in a spotlight of sorts this year. Made the search much easier. This wasn't the first inanimate object the trainer had found the man putting the moves on. Not even the first lamppost, though this was the first one during the winter. He briefly wondered who'd made the first move, but then... Stefan. Always Stefan.

Parking the car a few feet away, he left it running and got out, but not before taking out his unintelligent-but-still-camera-equipped phone and took a picture. He had quite the collection.

"Feliz Ano Nuevo, amigo," he called softly. As much as he tried to help it, an eyebrow rose and a smirk he couldn't hide spread over his face. "Stefan, I think you're done for the night, si? 'Less you 'n that lamppost are really serious."

[Stefan Spencer]

Stefan was a little busy "spreading the love" to notice when a car pulled up and parked just a few feet away from him. He did however, recognize the voice.

Stefan had not failed to notice that Mike always happened to show up on New Years. Although he was a little naive as to the reasons. He just thought that poor Mike could never find a decent party to go to. How else could his friend possibly be so relatively sober by the time Stefan stumbled across him? Perhaps it was because he had to keep an eye on his kids. Although Stefan had a daughter now, he was still reeling from discovering that fact, she stayed at Hammel or her mother's so Stefan didn't really share the kind of responsibilities that Mike had.

At one point, Stefan had tried to convince Mike that their stars must be aligned and the gods wanted them to be together? Why else would they always met up on such an important night. Of course Stefan had trouble getting that point, or any point, across on New Years.

"You'll have to get in line Mike," Stefan said as his friend approached. At least that's what he tried to say. It seemed that part of his bottom lip and tongue were stuck to the lamp post. Not that he recognize this. He just thought his new friend couldn't stand to pull away from him. Which was understandable. Still his misconception didn't change the fact that he was stuck pretty well.

Let that be a lesson to you kids. Never French kiss a lamp post on a winter's night.

[Mike Batista]

Even on the New Year's Eves that Mike didn't have fosters, he hadn't gotten drunk in decades. Mostly because he was too worried about losing his temper while in his cups, but in later years it was for health reasons as well. He still loved his brandy and dry, cold whites, but he loved his constitution more.

Sometimes when Stefan hit on him, Mike thought he was being... well, sincere. In a way that meant more than a one night stand. And as much as the older man wished Stefan would finally find someone and settle down (and maybe find other outlets than drinking), he knew it was not going to be with him. They were alike enough to be good friends, but too different to be anything more.

Whatever the inebriated journalist tried to say was ruined by the fact half his face was frozen to his erstwhile lover. A lesser man would have laughed. As it was, through his pressed lips several chuckles escaped. Mike sighed again. Pulling off his left glove, he bent over to pick up a large handful of snow, cradling it so that it melted into the cup of his hand.

Walking up to his friend, Mike patted him on the back and leaned in to take a whiff of the man's breath. Wow. Okay, yeah. Tipsy as a lord. Not that Mike had had any doubts, but Stefan was pretty far gone.

"Hold still," he instructed. Bringing the palmful of slush and cold water to Stefan's mouth, he let it dissolve the bonds sticking him to the post and caught him gently when he came away, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Time to come in from the cold, mi amigo. Let's go."

[Stefan Spencer]

Stefan never worried about loosing his temper when he was drunk. Although it did happen from time to time, it was usually for a good reason, like he was trying to save a damsel or a prince in distress. And once the bar fight was over (usually because he had been thrown out) his happy-go-lucky/flirtatious mood was always quick to return. There was a much greater chance of Stefan turning into a depressed drunk then a violent one. And that was usually only when he was home alone, so at least no one else had to suffer along with that mood.

If Stefan had not been so drunk, he would have probably complained about the cold water pulling him away from his latest lover. As it was though, Stefan only felt confusion. Where had the handsome stranger been? Had he been kissing a lamp post? Or wait, Mike was here...had he been kissing Mike?

"You gonna warm me up?" Stefan said, leaning heavily on his friend. Although his leg didn't feel any pain at the moment, it still wasn't working properly. In fact both of his legs seemed to be having trouble at the moment.

"Can I be your first mistake of the New Year?" he asked as they walked (well Mike walked, Stefan was draggedguided) back to Mike's truck. He was grinning so hard his face muscles were sure to be hurting in the morning. What was better than a night out with your best bud? Nothing, besides being invited back home with them.

[Mike Batista]

If there was one thing Mike admired about Stefan, it was that he had very little temper and tended to regain his emotional equilibrium quickly. Oh, if it had only been that easy for him. Still, if it had been Mike didn't know if he'd have cultivated the patience he had now.

There was a familiar flicker of mental rearranging in the younger man's eyes as the trainer arranged his friend for transport to the car. One floppy arm was slung over his shoulders, and a strong hand went around Stefan's hip to hold onto his belt. Apparently the usual conclusion had been drawn, that or he'd simply put aside the question of his actions and moved right into solicitations. Half-carrying the journalist the few feet to the backseat, Mike knew any answer he gave would be interpreted as some sort of acquiescence for sex. Even 'no'. Stefan was talented like that.

"You're my first something of the New Year," he agreed amiably, and popped the back door. The blue plastic tarp covered everything from the tops of the backseat to the headrests of the backs of the front seats, and on the opposite side of the floor was the bucket. Wise in the way of drunks, was Mike Batista. The heat from inside the car shimmered in the frosty air of 2014, and very gently, Mike got Stefan onto the seat. "You know the drill, mi amigo. Stay still. I'll drive slow. Be a good boy."

True to his word, the trainer drove slowly back home. Once pulled into the garage, he collected Stefan from the back, hung the bucket around his neck to catch any spills, and hauled him into his bedroom. Another tarp was already spread over the bed and the floor closest to the side near the door. Mike helped Stefan lay down on the bed, and looked down at his friend with a sigh, smiling. Every year. Like clockwork. He eased off Stefan's shoes, and then got a warm, damp washcloth and cleaned off the man's hands and face. From the kitchen, he got a blue gel pack, wrapped it in a towel, and brought it in to rest over that shiner. Closing his door so that the Stewarts wouldn't walk in on anything weird, he looked at Stefan rather sternly. "Sleep."

[Stefan Spencer]

"My knight," Stefan mumbled as Mike basically carried him back to the truck. Of course Stefan was enjoying leaning on his friend so heavily, even if he didn't realize that he actually needed the support to keep off of the sidewalk.

And yes Stefan was quite talented in turning whatever people said, or even whatever information his ability supplied him about them, into sexual advances and acceptances. Although it was mostly unconscious, and usually alcohol fueled, it supplied him with much more happiness than his actual meta ability ever had.

"Is that a fill in the blank statement?" Stefan asked, flopping onto the tarp covered seat. "You afraid I'll spill something?" He added, patting the plastic covered interior. Of course Stefan ignored both the 'stay still' and 'good boy' requests for most of the drive. He seemed to forget about personal space during the ride back with Mike, still surely Mike would find a way to keep Stefan at bay. After all he was perhaps the most experienced person in Pilot Ridge at keeping Stefan's hands off of him.

"That feel's great sweetie," Stefan said, laying in the bed with the blue gel on his eye. He hadn't even realized it hurt until his friend had placed the pack on it. "I can't sleep all alone in this big bed," he said, patting the spot beside him. "Please?" And for a moment, he looked like a two year old begging his mom to keep the light on. Really, Stefan just suddenly couldn't stand the idea of being alone and was suddenly worried that Mike meant to walk back out of the room.

[Mike Batista]

"Your keeper," Mike replied, grinning. Once Stefan was sprawled across the backseat, Mike shut the door and let himself into the driver's seat. A field between the seat rows kept unexpected (and yet very expected) hands from grabbing him at inopportune times.

Spill something? "Your guts," he said blandly as he pulled out into the street.

Once into the house and onto the bed, Mike knew his evening (morning) was far from over. "I'm not going to leave you, Stefan. I'll be right..." He sighed. Mike was very aware of what would at least try to happen if he got into bed. But he was still reasonably awake, and he could keep a field up for a good long time if it was small. Looking at his friend, he said firmly, "Stefan, if I sit next to you, no funny business. You hear me? I got kids in the house. And I have fields. You remember those, right?"

He cracked the bathroom door, leaving the light on in case Stefan had to make a run for it (or rather, he had to drag him), and shut off the other lights but for the one on the opposite side's bedside table. That lamp was clicked to medium, so he could read. Feeling like he was making a mistake, Mike did not remove any of his clothing and didn't lay down, but sat against the headboard on the other side of the bed, tarp crinkling under his shifting. Picking up his latest Spanish novel, he sat back.

"Go to sleep, Stef. You've had a long night," he said gently, with a smile.

And affection felt or not, any time he felt a hand below the waist, a field popped up to shove it back to where it belonged and sat between them for a few minutes to get the message across before it blinked out.

[Stefan Spencer]

"Keeper? Does that mean you keep me from scoring?" Stefan asked. It was amazing how many times Stefan forgot about his friend's ability when he was this wasted. You'd think after the first ten or so time of him meeting resistance he'd figure it out, then again it was New Year's.

"No funny business," Stefan slurred, giggling a bit. He wasn't the best of liars in his current condition. As soon as Mike settled himself on the bed, Stefan moved to try to get closer to his friend. "Oh your fields..." Stefan said, for a moment he looked like he was trying hard to remember the thought, but it was too hard for him to hold onto it and make the connection to the events in the truck so he gave up.

"Can I use you as a pillow? You're so soft and warm?" he asked, looking up at Mike with a half pout, half grin on his face.

[Mike Batista]

"Oh no, you do just fine at that yourself," he said.

Keeping Stefan's hands off him was more of an exercise for his fields than his old training sessions as a student. At one point he just put one up between them like one of those Amish beds with the divider down the middle. Even so trashed Mike thought flicking a lighter in the room would create a fireball Stef was amazingly persistent. It was like the entire night of partying and fighting and flirting and whatever else he'd done hadn't appreciably dimmed the man's energy now that he was horizontal in someone's bed. Mike sighed, though he smiled.

"I'm going to pretend that wasn't you calling me fat," he said with a chuckle. "If you want another blanket that's fine, but I'm off limits tonight. I'm here next to you against my better judgement, and I haven't read but three pages in keeping your grabby hands off. So Stef, be a good boy and go to sleep, okay? I'll make you eggs and salsa and coffee... later this morning. Possibly this afternoon. Just go to sleep, mi amigo. Put your cold pack over your eyes, lay back, and give your poor body a break."

[Stefan Spencer]

Stefan laughed, rolling over so that his body pressed up against Mike's as much as his fields would allow. Though his hands were finally slowing down, he still made the occasional pass. Mostly because it was just habit, but partially just because he kept forgetting about the fields.

Still the night was starting to wear on Stefan. His eyes were drooping a bit and his voice was becoming more slurred as he tired.

"Ewes not fat. Ewes just fluffy," Stefan said, his eyes starting to close. Though Mike had declined his request, he couldn't help but continue to scoot closer to his friend as he drifted off.

"You could at least entertain my dreams..." he mumbled, finally drifting off.

((wrap?))