Title: Call, Raise or Fold
Author: phobosgirl (phobosgirl@hotmail.com)
Date: 7/17/05
Rating: R
Authors notes: Feedback is more than welcome and can be sent to phobosgirl@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: This is only for fun. None of this is real nor should any implication be made based on this manuscript that I have any insider info on either of these two incredibly deliciously fine men.
Warnings: Gale/Randy RPS
Complete: yes

Call, Raise or Fold

Poker night again, and he's sitting across the table from you, laughing and smiling like he hasn't done for a long time. They're all teasing you, asking you when you're going to fuck that girl in costuming who's been giving you the eye for weeks, but you just smirk and lay out your trip kings, taking another pot, and they laugh louder and throw popcorn at you.

You love these nights with them. Loud and raucous and Sharon is a constant surprise because her mouth is more foul than anyone's. It feels like family. And quietly you're watching him for signs that his happiness tonight isn't just an act he's putting on for the rest of you.

His heart's been broken and he's too young to have that happen so badly. It could make him withdraw, he's naturally moody as it is, and you think it would be a terrible crime if the light in his eyes left so soon after you've come to love him like you have. Like somehow he makes the earth a little more solid under your feet.

How long have you coasted by on your good looks and your talented hands that could fix the sink, rewire a living room and bring back to life a long-dead engine? More years than is seemly for a man pushing up against 30, but now you've been given this chance to really begin your life, and you can't believe your luck. Finding him here, sharing this experience with him, is a bonus that has only helped you to crystallize your resolve to see it through, to put who you are and whatever talent you possess into it.

Your eyes meet his over a hand of cards that will certainly give you another win. He's laughing at something Chris just said, but he's watching you, waiting for your bid, and you're pretty sure his exuberance is genuine. It makes it easier to take his money in tonight's game, even though you'll be buying him coffee or a newspaper or a big fat piece of fruit with it over the next few weeks.

You know you'd buy him the world if it would guarantee that he's never hurt again but that's stupid, of course he will be, it's how he'll grow and you know it, so you raise him five bucks and grin at him, daring him to stay in the game.

He will, too. He's the bravest fucker you've ever met. He inspires you and makes you reach for something more, better, authentic. You'll tell him soon that you want him. Maybe even tonight, maybe the chance will come, and you find yourself suddenly craving the opportunity like a hard slice out of your gut. You take the pot again, though, laughing with them when you scoop the chips towards you, and your stomach aches in a jittery, excited way.

You've been waiting for him, for when it seems like he's ready to try again with someone new, maybe with you. You know what you'll say to him, have it all planned out like it's a monologue from your theatre days, and you hope it won't sound too plain, too simple, but really, all you want for him are simplicities. Knowing he's loved; feeling safe; feeling cherished- these are the things he's been denied for so long by the last asshole who hurt him and then left him.

You've never given those things to anyone like him before, but the way he's always looked at you has built in you something stronger, more sanguine. You feel equal to the task and the longer this evening goes on, the more certain you are that you'll make the opportunity to tell him. You're already commandeering your courage, rounding it up from every source you can find in yourself, laying it at your feet brick by brick, creating something sturdy to stand on when you face him.

You're absently stacking your chips, slipping them through your fingers and over your knuckles, a little bit of prestidigitation you learned as a kid, but the poker game has receded to the background of your attention until Hal thumps you on the arm and draws you back in. You grin sheepishly and apologize and when you meet his blue eyes across the table, he raises an eyebrow, silently asking if you're alright. Your answering smile is warm and reassuring. You're fucking fantastic.

He winks in response and this ability to communicate with him effortlessly makes you swallow hard on the emotion welling in you.

After the next hand, one which you lose spectacularly, your chance is suddenly upon you. Someone calls for a short break and everyone gets up, stretches, wanders off to your tiny kitchen looking for more beer or heads down the hallway seeking the bathroom. You watch him scratch the back of his neck as he leans close to Thea, grinning, to catch something she whispers in his ear.

She pats his shoulder like a big sister and moves away from him, smiling. Everyone loves him. It's no great task to do so.

When he turns and walks into the hallway, you glance around, making sure no one notices you, and follow him. You find him leaning against the wall, waiting for the bathroom to free up, and without a word, you take him by the arm and lead him towards your bedroom. You close the door behind you and point him at the small master bathroom suite.

He grins, kissing your cheek, muttering about how you're his hero because he thought he'd burst, and your heart trip hammers in your chest as he disappears into the john. But he's Randy and he loves to talk, so he sets up a running stream of chatter through the closed door that makes you laugh at its silliness. He's a little drunk, but then, so are you. You feel lit up inside and you know that's all his doing.

You hear him flush, his voice rising to carry over the sound, and then he's at the sink washing up and there will only be a few seconds before he comes out and finds you there waiting to tell him… well, everything.

He's laughing when he emerges. You're leaning against your beat up, ten year old dresser, your arms crossed, a look of amusement on your face. He's still talking when he strolls over to you, standing not six inches from you, and puts his hand on your arm. You love to hear his voice, will never want him to stop talking to you like this, so you just listen and nod when it's appropriate.

Finally, he finishes his thought and his words dry up, and in the companionable pause that follows, you begin.

You tell him he looks good, happy, glowing, and ask him if that means he's finally gotten over The Asshole. Yeah, he tells you, he has, and he's better off for it. He tells you not to worry about him anymore, that he'll be fine. You know he will, no matter what. It's that bravery of his; it'll never fail him when he needs it most.

Your hand covers his, the one resting lightly on your upper arm, and your voice drops when you ask him if his newfound liberation means he'll be ready to date soon. He blushes, drops his chin and tells you that he hopes it does, but that he's smarter now, wiser about everything. He says he'll be more careful next time but the timber of his voice makes it obvious that he hopes there will be a next time.

'Good,' you tell him softly, meaning it, and then you hold your breath, step off the edge and dive deep. The carefully prepared speech leaves you as if you've suddenly been struck with opening night jitters, but you manage to ask him if it's your turn.

He doesn't get it, wonders what turn you mean, 'turn to do what?' he wants to know, but your warm palm moves from his hand to his cheek and you take half a step closer. You note that maybe now there's a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

'To treat you right,' and his eyes are so fucking blue and you want to lose yourself in them. 'To try and make you happy.'

He touches your hand. You're pretty sure he can't believe what he's hearing but you still don't know if he's interested or just surprised, so you step even closer, press your body gingerly into his. Your other hand rises of its own volition and then you're cupping his face, amazed by the delicate cheekbones under the pads of your thumbs. He doesn't pull away, just stands there, looking up at you, astonishment written across his forehead.

He says your name so softly and you lean down, your lips near his ear, and tell him how you want to touch him, kiss him, the way he deserves to be touched and kissed. He's beginning to shake under your fingers, his breathing irregular, but his hands find your waist and you almost moan with relief.

Sauciness comes back into his voice and he challenges you to tell him in what way you think he deserves to be touched and kissed, and your heart speaks silly poetry when you tell him, 'like fine bone china and hardened steel, all at the same time.'

You demonstrate your meaning by crushing your mouth to his while cradling his smiling face. He made you brave and he'll make you so much more in the years to come. He'll make you crazy and angry and hopeful and smarter and older and careless and childish and exultant, and when his arms slip around your waist and grip you hard, you wonder if he'll ever let you touch ground again.

The End