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Title: Exploding Puppies II: Unexpected Gestures
Series: Exploding Puppies
Fandom: Punditslash
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Keith Oldermann
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 1115
Summary: A story mostly about talking.
Notes: Direct continuation of Exploding Puppies.
The only sign that Keith is surprised to hear back is a mostly toneless, “That was quick,” after Anderson identifies himself. He also notes, in this same expert deadpan, that doing so really wasn't all that necessary as there's probably not a person in the world who wouldn't recognize Anderson's voice, these days. Anderson doesn't bother trying to work out if he should be insulted, as he's too busy looking more carefully at the caller ID and being surprised that the message wasn't even an hour old.
“I'll just assume that's a compliment,” he says. “And I'd appreciate it if you didn't disillusion me of that notion. Where are you taking me?”
“You realize that the temptation to disillusion you just tripled, right?” Keith asks, cheerfully.
Anderson ignores him. “Where are you taking me?” he says, again.
Keith names a restaurant. Anderson knows it, knows the food is excellent, and he also knows he'd really rather not. He's liable to run into someone he knows. He says he's not in mood and doesn't elaborate, so it's not a lie. Keith only sounds amused as he gives another suggestion, so Anderson figures he's onto him.
“Never heard of it,” Anderson says. He smiles. “It sounds perfect.”
“Neither has anyone else,” Keith replies. “And even if they have, I promise to protect you from hordes of adoring fans that lurk at every corner.”
Anderson bites back a giggle. “All right,” he says. “But who's going to protect you?”
The obvious response involves teenage assassins disguised as fangirls and sent by Fox. Keith probably has three different ways to say it but uses none of them. Instead, he snorts and gives Anderson directions to a place surprisingly close by. They agree to meet in half an hour.
When Anderson hangs up, he's feeling much better then before.
The second time around is much easier then the first. A lot of the tension has gone from Anderson and conversation picks up more easily then he expected. Within ten minutes, he has Keith telling the story of a surreal experience he had involving the eighteen-year-old daughter of a federal judge who confided that he had the dubious honor of being among the men both she and her mother found desirable.
“Was the judge her mother?” Anderson asks, anticipating the punch line. Keith confirms the thought and he says, “Well, if you're ever charged with a federal crime, we know what to hope for.”
This makes Keith smile, perhaps thinking of appearing in front of that same judge while her daughter looks on in amusement. Anderson is ridiculously pleased with himself. He tells Keith about the puppy he rescued. There's no real point to the story, but that's a nonissue – it's been in the back of his mind since it happened and he wants to share it. He's distracted, for a moment, thinking of the unrestrained joy on the young lady's face when she saw her pet unharmed and the sincere gratitude of strangers.
“Hey,” Keith says, frowning at him with peculiar focus. “You're doing it, again.”
“Doing what?” Anderson asks, perplexed, still half-thinking of desperate joy in eyes filled with tears.
“That thing you do,” he replies, making an encompassing, if apparently meaningless, gesture. When Anderson shakes his head, still uncomprehending, his frown deepens. “You get this look,” he says, “and I start losing you. It happens every time we talk. Am I that uninteresting, or. . . Look, just what's going on in your head, Anderson?”
He's startled by the use of his given name. He's not sure Keith has ever used it like that before. He's not sure Keith has ever called him anything in quite that tone, before.
“Don't know,” he says, quietly, and when he sees some emotion lingering on the border between sadness and irritation and amusement on Keith's face, he barely thinks before saying, “I keep having this dream. . .”
He finds talking about it is much easier then he would have thought – before it had always seemed too private, but the distance of time peels away any reservations he might have had about sharing it. It's been several weeks, after all. So he talks with minimal difficulty about the gray street alive with glass scattered like diamond shards and walking past their million watching eyes and Keith just listens with a strange look on his face, private but open and eternally attentive.
“I'd just had it,” he finishes, uncertainly, “the last time we. . .” It's his turn to gesture expansively between them and hope that that's enough.
Keith's expression doesn't change – he remains interested but thoughtful.
“All right,” he says.
There's only a short pause before the line between his eyes softens – though it never vanishes – before he begins to tell the story of exactly how he came to be conversing with the judge's daughter to begin with. It involves the most boring high school drug bust since their invention and a local news station who felt this was more important then some piece of environmentally disastrous legislation the state government had just passed. By the time he gets to exactly what she said to the reporter – on a live broadcast, no less – Anderson doesn't even bother trying not to giggle.
They part ways outside Anderson's building. He says thanks for dinner and they make tentative plans for Anderson to return the favor next week. When he moves to go inside, Keith stops him with a hand lain heavily on his shoulder. For a while they don't say anything. Keith just looks at him, deep and careful and contemplative. Anderson looks back without blinking.
“I can't fix you,” Keith says. He flexes his fingers and moves them up the side of Anderson's neck, a little bit hesitant but never really faltering
Anderson leans into the touch and smiles. The hand wraps around the base of his skull.
“I don't need fixed,” he says. “Not really.”
Keith looks at him a moment longer then nods. They kiss, then. It's not much more then that.
“You're probably right,” he says, when it's over, which is either a second later or a lifetime. He rubs his thumb behind Anderson's ear, a gesture both strange and strangely tender before pushing both hands into his pockets. “We'll talk tomorrow?”
Anderson nods his assent. “Bye, Keith,” he says, quietly, and turns toward the door.
“Until next time.”
When Anderson dreams, that night, it's of a once crowded street, now empty and shattered. The glass on the ground is needle sharp and the sidewalk watches as he makes his way to some unknown safety. He's not sure what he'll find when get there, but he knows he's going the right direction.
Series: Exploding Puppies
Fandom: Punditslash
Pairing: Anderson Cooper/Keith Oldermann
Rating: PGish
Word Count: 1115
Summary: A story mostly about talking.
Notes: Direct continuation of Exploding Puppies.
The only sign that Keith is surprised to hear back is a mostly toneless, “That was quick,” after Anderson identifies himself. He also notes, in this same expert deadpan, that doing so really wasn't all that necessary as there's probably not a person in the world who wouldn't recognize Anderson's voice, these days. Anderson doesn't bother trying to work out if he should be insulted, as he's too busy looking more carefully at the caller ID and being surprised that the message wasn't even an hour old.
“I'll just assume that's a compliment,” he says. “And I'd appreciate it if you didn't disillusion me of that notion. Where are you taking me?”
“You realize that the temptation to disillusion you just tripled, right?” Keith asks, cheerfully.
Anderson ignores him. “Where are you taking me?” he says, again.
Keith names a restaurant. Anderson knows it, knows the food is excellent, and he also knows he'd really rather not. He's liable to run into someone he knows. He says he's not in mood and doesn't elaborate, so it's not a lie. Keith only sounds amused as he gives another suggestion, so Anderson figures he's onto him.
“Never heard of it,” Anderson says. He smiles. “It sounds perfect.”
“Neither has anyone else,” Keith replies. “And even if they have, I promise to protect you from hordes of adoring fans that lurk at every corner.”
Anderson bites back a giggle. “All right,” he says. “But who's going to protect you?”
The obvious response involves teenage assassins disguised as fangirls and sent by Fox. Keith probably has three different ways to say it but uses none of them. Instead, he snorts and gives Anderson directions to a place surprisingly close by. They agree to meet in half an hour.
When Anderson hangs up, he's feeling much better then before.
The second time around is much easier then the first. A lot of the tension has gone from Anderson and conversation picks up more easily then he expected. Within ten minutes, he has Keith telling the story of a surreal experience he had involving the eighteen-year-old daughter of a federal judge who confided that he had the dubious honor of being among the men both she and her mother found desirable.
“Was the judge her mother?” Anderson asks, anticipating the punch line. Keith confirms the thought and he says, “Well, if you're ever charged with a federal crime, we know what to hope for.”
This makes Keith smile, perhaps thinking of appearing in front of that same judge while her daughter looks on in amusement. Anderson is ridiculously pleased with himself. He tells Keith about the puppy he rescued. There's no real point to the story, but that's a nonissue – it's been in the back of his mind since it happened and he wants to share it. He's distracted, for a moment, thinking of the unrestrained joy on the young lady's face when she saw her pet unharmed and the sincere gratitude of strangers.
“Hey,” Keith says, frowning at him with peculiar focus. “You're doing it, again.”
“Doing what?” Anderson asks, perplexed, still half-thinking of desperate joy in eyes filled with tears.
“That thing you do,” he replies, making an encompassing, if apparently meaningless, gesture. When Anderson shakes his head, still uncomprehending, his frown deepens. “You get this look,” he says, “and I start losing you. It happens every time we talk. Am I that uninteresting, or. . . Look, just what's going on in your head, Anderson?”
He's startled by the use of his given name. He's not sure Keith has ever used it like that before. He's not sure Keith has ever called him anything in quite that tone, before.
“Don't know,” he says, quietly, and when he sees some emotion lingering on the border between sadness and irritation and amusement on Keith's face, he barely thinks before saying, “I keep having this dream. . .”
He finds talking about it is much easier then he would have thought – before it had always seemed too private, but the distance of time peels away any reservations he might have had about sharing it. It's been several weeks, after all. So he talks with minimal difficulty about the gray street alive with glass scattered like diamond shards and walking past their million watching eyes and Keith just listens with a strange look on his face, private but open and eternally attentive.
“I'd just had it,” he finishes, uncertainly, “the last time we. . .” It's his turn to gesture expansively between them and hope that that's enough.
Keith's expression doesn't change – he remains interested but thoughtful.
“All right,” he says.
There's only a short pause before the line between his eyes softens – though it never vanishes – before he begins to tell the story of exactly how he came to be conversing with the judge's daughter to begin with. It involves the most boring high school drug bust since their invention and a local news station who felt this was more important then some piece of environmentally disastrous legislation the state government had just passed. By the time he gets to exactly what she said to the reporter – on a live broadcast, no less – Anderson doesn't even bother trying not to giggle.
They part ways outside Anderson's building. He says thanks for dinner and they make tentative plans for Anderson to return the favor next week. When he moves to go inside, Keith stops him with a hand lain heavily on his shoulder. For a while they don't say anything. Keith just looks at him, deep and careful and contemplative. Anderson looks back without blinking.
“I can't fix you,” Keith says. He flexes his fingers and moves them up the side of Anderson's neck, a little bit hesitant but never really faltering
Anderson leans into the touch and smiles. The hand wraps around the base of his skull.
“I don't need fixed,” he says. “Not really.”
Keith looks at him a moment longer then nods. They kiss, then. It's not much more then that.
“You're probably right,” he says, when it's over, which is either a second later or a lifetime. He rubs his thumb behind Anderson's ear, a gesture both strange and strangely tender before pushing both hands into his pockets. “We'll talk tomorrow?”
Anderson nods his assent. “Bye, Keith,” he says, quietly, and turns toward the door.
“Until next time.”
When Anderson dreams, that night, it's of a once crowded street, now empty and shattered. The glass on the ground is needle sharp and the sidewalk watches as he makes his way to some unknown safety. He's not sure what he'll find when get there, but he knows he's going the right direction.