Pairing: Lance and Nick
Words: barricade; idiocy; declare; two-step


"Why, Mistuh Bah-ass, I do declare."

Lance settled his sunglasses more firmly over his eyes.  "Shut up."

Nick grinned at him.  He was wearing a t-shirt and cut-offs, and he
was all golden skin and blonde hair.

Lance hated him.  He knew what he looked like -- pale, sickly, with
bags under his eyes like he had cancer or had been hungover for
months.  There was no color of clothing that would disguise it, and
so he was wearing a yellow shirt because it made him feel better.

Didn't actually make him any better, but then, only time would, and
being out in the sun like this was supposed to help.

"So you got a plan for this, or do you just want to take each one
as it comes?"

"A plan?" Lance echoed.  "Other than wash the cars?"

"Yeah, you know, like how to soap them down and get them rinsed off
the fastest.  You do want to win, don't you?"

"Um..." Lance stuck his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts.

"Let me guess.  They told you to show up, so you did."

"Well, yeah."  Belatedly, Lance realized that Nick was taking the
"contest" part of it seriously.  "Nick, it's just washing cars."

Nick's face fell.  "You don't want to be here."

He didn't want to be anywhere.  Orlando least of all.  Three months
of training and politicking and the flights back and forth from the
U.S. to Russia and the surgery, and Lance was not jet-lagged so
much as soul-lagged.  He suspected that the Russians were stringing
him along, but he couldn't prove it.  They were running him around
in circles, he knew that much, but he had no choice but to run if
he wanted any chance at going to space.  "No... It's just..."  He
sighed, and slipped his sunglasses down far enough that he could
rub at his brow.

"Oh," Nick said.  "Lance."

Nick was staring at him, and Lance stopped, pushing the sunglasses
back up.  "Yeah."

"Is it... um... I'm no good at this tactical stuff.  Are you...
doing things?"

"Tactical?"

"Getting drunk," Nick said bluntly.

"Oh.  No.  I'm just tired."

"Tired?  Like cocaine?"

It was pretty clear what kind of background Nick had, and if he
wasn't appalled, he'd be amused.  "Tired, as in I just spent three
months of 16 hour days and 7 day weeks in Russia, then came home
and got trotted out to do the publicity two-step without a break,
and I'll be turning around and going back in a day and a half and
doing it all over again."

"Oh."  Nick looked at him more sympathetically.  "You want to sit
down?  I can handle this probably.  We won't win, but I think I can
keep us from being completely embarrassed."

"You don't need to do that.  I can do my part.  Besides..."

Nick flashed him a smile and strode off, passing the little
barricade separating their car washing area from everyone else's,
and came back a few seconds later with a chair and trailing one of
the event organizers.

He set the chair down ostentatiously, and motioned to Lance, who
wasn't about to turn it down.  He was so tired; his body seemed to
think it should make up for all the months of lost sleep at once.

The woman, however, was fluttering over him anxiously, clipboard in
hand.  "I am *so* sorry, Mr. Bass.  If we'd had any idea you'd been
ill, we would have never asked you to participate in the Celebrity
Car Wash.  We certainly don't want you to make yourself worse.  If
there's anything we can do, I'm sure we can make allowances for..."

He just wanted to close his eyes.  "I'm not sick," he said,
patiently and reasonably, because that was his life, being patient
and reasonable with everyone, because that was the image.  Nick
started to say something, and Lance did close his eyes, because no
one was talking to him, and he was wearing sunglasses, so they
couldn't see he wasn't living up to the image.  Bad boys didn't get
to go to space, except he'd been good as gold, and he hadn't gotten
to go to space either, and really, that wasn't so awful, because
space was where the aliens were and the black oil, except the space
monkeys wanted the oil for commercial purposes, which was sheer
idiocy, really, because the military implications of the oil were
far more important, and he had to do something about it, except
they hadn't *let* him go to space, so--

Something cold and wet hit him suddenly, and Lance startled awake,
without ever having realized he'd drifted off, bolting upright in
his chair, a scream on his lips.

A car was parked in front of him now, a dark red sedan, covered
with suds.  Nick was bending a little to soap up the driver's side
window, much to the delight of the driver of the car.

Lance had a nice view of Nick's back.  Nick had taken off his shirt
since earlier, and his tattoos were exposed.  He was golden tan all
over and healthy and glowing in a way Lance wasn't.

Nick had looked around when Lance gasped, and now came sauntering
over, rag in hand.  "Hello, sleepyhead.  I've gotten five cars
washed when you were resting your eyes."

"Five?" Lance asked.  "And I didn't notice anything?"

"Nope.  You were dead to the world.  How much sleep did you get
last night anyway?"

"I don't remember.  At least four hours."

"Four hours?"  Nick frowned.  "You shouldn't let them do that to
you.  Or you shouldn't do it to yourself.  One or the other."

He shrugged.  "No one's doing anything to me.  If they were, I
might sleep better.  I just... I can't get used to the time zone or
the temperature or the altitude.  I go to bed and I can't sleep. 
And when I do, I wake up a lot."

Nick gave him a sharp look, then scooped up the end of the hose off
the ground and tossed it at Lance.  "Or maybe you just need to do
more during the day.  Tire yourself out for night."

The throw fell short, a kink in the hose catching it up so that it
landed at Lance's feet instead of in his lap.  He considered
protesting, but he *had* had a nap, and aside from residual
sleepiness, he felt better than he had all day.  He picked up the
end of the hose as he stood, and then stretched.  That the
stretching process sent water all over Nick was not even a little
bit accidental.

"Hey!"

"What?" Lance asked in his best innocent voice.  Nick looked good
without a shirt.  He looked even better wet without a shirt.

"Spray the car, not me."  Nick gave him a conspiratorial look.  "We
could win this yet."

"We could?"  Lance did as directed, watching Nick even as he
circled the car with the hose.  He made it full circle, and stared
critically at the finished product.  "You know, you should rinse as
you go.  Soaping it all up at once is just asking for it to get dry
on one side, and that's not very good for the car."

Nick laughed and slung an arm around Lance's shoulders, waving
goodbye at the driver of the red sedan.  "See?  We'll do great now
that the evil mastermind is back at work."

A blue pick-up was next in line, and the driver leaned out.  "Y'all
make sure to get the tires now, boys."

"We'll be careful, sir," Nick said, and playfully pushed at Lance. 
"Back to work.  Rinse it down for me first, okay?"

"Got it."  Lance started on that, and Nick followed him with a rag
and a bucket.  By the time he got back around and got the hose
unentangled, Nick was halfway done.  He was *fast*.  Lance admired
competence in any field, even carwashing.  Competent *and*
good-looking -- now that was lethal.

He caught up with Nick and ogled his back again.  "You maybe want
to do something after this?"

Nick glanced up, barely pausing.  "I thought you needed sleep."

Lance leaned in close, pretending to check Nick's work.  "I sleep
better with someone."

"Why, Mistuh Bah-ass..."

Lance hosed him down.  Nick shook his head like a big shaggy dog,
water spraying everywhere, and Lance laughed.  He felt better than
he had in a long time.