Category: Slash, Humor, Angst
Fandom: Friends- Joey/Chandler
Rating: PG-13 (some sexual situations BETWEEN TWO MEN)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to NBC-TV and their
creators. No copyright infringement is intended and no money
will ever be made from this story.

WARNING: "Slash" means loving interaction between
characters of the same sex. If this is not your thing, please
read no further!

00000000000

"Hi, honey, I'm home!"

Chandler Bing grimaced at the singsong greeting from his
roommate, wishing that if Joey was going to annoy him every
night when he arrived he'd at least find some new material to
irritate him with. "Hi honey, please stop saying that," he
lilted back sarcastically. "Okay?"

"Why?" Joey shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a
door hook. "How else would you know it's me and not some
mugger or something?"

"That's true. Unless Nathan Lane's taken up cat burgling,"
Chandler grumbled, tapping the television remote aimlessly.

Joey opened the 'fridge and sniffed at a milk container.
"Nah. He's got a big show now, I don't think he'd have to
stoop to that level." He winced at the sour smell of bad milk
and dumped the container's contents into the sink. "Not
unless he was starving to death. Speaking of starving, do we
have any food in this house?"

Chandler sank further into the upholstery. "Yep. I left you
the beets."

Joey blinked. "The beets? Wait a minute, are you telling me
all we got in this house are beets?"

"They're top-shelf beets," Chandler insisted innocently. "A
full can of Grade A, chock full of nutrition, delicious
purple num-nums."

Joey's lower lip trembled. "But ... I don't like purple num-
nums." He searched the mostly empty shelves and pulled down
the lone can. "Man, this sucks," he said mournfully, examining the
label of an extra large can of Green Giant Sliced Beets. He
put it down with a groan. "Guess I can wait until tomorrow
morning for the food cart on the set." He shuffled into the
living room and settled down next to Chandler on the couch, a
woebegone look lining his face.

Chandler tried to concentrate on the TV, but his eyes were
drawn to his friend's miserable expression. He had planned
on keeping that last can of Chef Boy-R-Dee hidden in case of
a true emergency but ... no, he thought, forcing himself to
focus on the screen, he was going to stick to the plan, no
matter how unhappy Joey looked.

Another long, drawn-out sigh sounded in his ear and Chandler
winced. "I don't mind the hunger cramps and pain," said
Joey sadly. "But I sure wish this didn't remind me of the
time my parents sent me to bed without dinner. Boy, that was
a lousy month."

Chandler rolled his eyes. "A month. Your parents sent you
to bed without dinner for a month?"

"Yeah. But that was okay. I didn't like squid that much
back then. And that was definitely a squid month." Joey
clutched at his stomach with a moan. "I sure hope they let
me have more than half a donut tomorrow at work."

Chandler grit his teeth but in his heart, he knew resistance
was futile. "Oh, all right!" he yelled, reaching into the
sofa and pulling out the last can of Rollercoasters. "Here!
But that's it. Tomorrow we'll have to raid Monica's and
you're going in past the mouse traps."

Joey smiled brilliantly. "I knew it!" He snatched the can,
danced to the stove and laughed devilishly. "I knew you'd
never leave me with the beets."

"And why is that?" Chandler groused, wondering at warm wash
of joy he felt at the sight of Joey's glee. Joey's happiness always
made him happy for some bizarre reason, a reason he wasn't
willing to contemplate at length, truly afraid of what he might find.

Or perhaps of what he knew already lurked there.

"'Cuz you love me," replied Joey firmly, plopping the can's
contents into an already sizzling sauce pot.

Chandler whirled toward him, nearly falling off the couch.
"I what?"

So much for non-contemplation.

Joey smiled at him. "Because you ... love ... me," he
repeated happily, stirring his dinner. "And that's okay,
because I love you too."

Chandler's eyes grew huge. "You're scaring me, Joey," he
said, but in fact, it wasn't exactly fear he felt. Wonder,
confusion, elation, excitement ... but not fear. Not
exactly. How often had he fantasized about Joey, wondering
why he was having such thoughts, hating himself for them,
trying desperately to ignore his feelings by any means
necessary, even to the point of denying them all together.

Oh, only about every day they'd been living together, that's all.

"Sorry," Joey shrugged. "But facts is facts as my old
English teacher liked to say." He tasted the pasta then
picked up the pepper mill, grinding some dark flakes into the
pot. "Wait a minute ... is that right? Should that be
'facts are facts'?" Another shrug. "No wonder I don't speak
so good."

"Well," said Chandler, swallowing past a huge golf ball sized
lump in his throat. "Speak so well."

Joey dumped the steaming noodles into two bowls. "Whatever.
You like a spoon or a fork? I like spoons better myself."
He plopped down next to Chandler and handed him a dish.
"Take your choice."

Chandler stared at the proffered meal. "That's your dinner."

"Hey, I don't eat without you," Joey said indignantly. "It's
rude, right? You'd never do that to me, right?"

Chandler flushed and shook his head. "Um, no, I wouldn't,
I guess." He took the bowl. "Thanks ... pal." He paused.
"And, we are pals, right Joey? Just pals. Nothing more
than pals, and that's all we'll ever be is pals ...right?"

Hoping against hope he'd be wrong, but Chandler needed
to know just the same. His heart was thumping wildly but
he could cover that up -- he'd had a lot of practice for it in the
past few years, a day's worth for almost exactly as long as
he'd lived with Joey.

Maybe even longer.

Oblivious, Joey chewed through a mouthful of food. "Whatever
you say," he said, and grinned brightly at Chandler, his eyes
crinkling merrily at the corners. "But I think anyone who
gives up his last can of Rollercoasters is more than just a pal."

The dish trembled in Chandler's hand. "Okay," he
said, gasping for air. "What do you mean by that?" The fork
rattled against the bowl's side and the entire plate landed
on the coffee table with a "thunk." "Because if you mean
what I think you mean ... I mean, what you mean that you are
insinuating you mean, then I mean ..." he rambled frantically.

His voice trailed away as Joey deliberately put down his
dish, picked up a napkin and delicately wiped his mouth.

Chandler watched, fascinated and terrified by the sudden urge
to pull away the napkin and take that beautiful mouth beneath
his own, tongue away the tiny bits of sauce that lingered,
run his hands over Joey's sides, snake his arms around his
waist and ...

"I mean that you and I belong together," said Joey quietly,
breaking through Chandler's fog of lust. "Look, even if
we're never going to act on it, why should we kid ourselves?
I was thinking about how lost we are without each other,
about how we know what the other is thinking without even
saying it, about how we just fit together and it didn't
take long to figure out that we were meant to be together."
Joey chuckled softly. "And if it doesn't take long for me
to realize something, I figured this should be a snap for you."

"Uh, huh," Chandler stammered. "But ... uh ... I mean ... well ...."

"Okay, maybe this isn't so easy for you to figure out." Joey
smiled, then settled back to watch the baseball game that was
starting. "But we got time. Take all the time you need
because I'm definitely not into rushing things."

"What's wrong with rushing things?" asked Chandler suddenly.
"I like rushing. Nothing wrong with rushing."

"Nah," replied Joey with a shake of his head. He put his
feet up on the coffee table and tucked his hands behind his
head. "Rushing confuses people. And I don't want us to be
confused."

"Damnit Joey, what's wrong with confusion?" Chandler yelled,
leaping up and compulsively raking his hands through his
hair. "I like confusion. I live for confusion. I mean, I
moved in with you didn't I? What's more confusing than that?"

Joey watched him carefully. "Why was that confusing?"

"Because ... because I wanted ... " Chandler sat down
suddenly, breathing hard, his heart pounding painfully within
his chest.

What had it been that he'd wanted all those years ago? A
person to share the bills with? A friend? A companion? A
lover?

Or was it Joey he'd wanted, pure and simple?

"What do you want, Chandler?" Joey looked at him intently,
his eyes very bright in the dim light shining from the TV
set. "Tell me, what do you want right now, right this
minute, forgetting everything else, it's just you and me here
together ... what is it you want?"

Time stood still for what seemed like eternity, until
Chandler realized exactly what it was he'd wanted then and
still wanted now. "You," he whispered, before leaning over
and taking Joey's mouth beneath his own, no longer caring
what may come of it.

It was insanity, yes it was, but it was also what he'd been
waiting for a very, very long time. Chandler felt a shock
when their lips met, as if two wires had sparked together and
it thrilled him all the way to his toes, making them curl
with pleasure against the hardwood floor.

Gently, he licked at Joey's mouth and bit back a moan when it
flowered open beneath his touch , allowing him admittance
inside. So good, so sweet, and his tongue flicked against
Joey's teeth, as well as the soft silk of his inner cheeks
and Chandler felt the roughness of another tongue exploring
within his mouth, driving him out of his mind.

It wasn't Chandler's first kiss, but it might as well had
been and he fought against the urge to grope Joey like a
love-sick teenager. A large part of his consciousness was
intimidated by what he thought was the long line of fabulous
lovers that came before him: movie starlets, groupies, men
and women in a business that was based on beauty and desire.

Beautiful, perfect people, all of them making love to his
Joey, their fabulous lives, wealth and status something to be
envied and admired, especially by a schlub like him. That
nagging bit of insecurity bit at him harder, but Chandler
ignored it, praying it would go away.

Joey was his and ... and ...

But the more he thought about it, about all the wonderful
lovers who came before him, the further his confidence
plummeted and Chandler suddenly felt self-conscious,
inadequate ... foolish even as Joey's mouth worked his way
down Chandler's neck, his gentle hands sliding along his T-
shirt.

Feeling his not-so-perfect abs, going right for his love-
handles and ...

Horrified, Chandler stiffened. He tried to shake it off, but
the moment had disappeared as soon at it had arrived and he
inwardly groaned at his own idiocy. "Joey," he said thickly,
pulling away from his friend's touch. "Joey ... I ..."

Joey peered up at him, his eyes gone from brilliant to
deeply sad in a matter of seconds. "You weren't ready," he
said accusingly. "I told you, we can't rush this. See how
confused you are?"

"I'm sorry," said Chandler shakily, suddenly feeling like the
biggest asshole that had ever lived. If only he could
explain to Joey the reasons ...

But what was there to explain besides the fact that he was an
idiot, Chandler thought, mentally banging his head against a
very large, very hard, brick wall. "It's not you," Chandler
insisted, squeezing Joey's arm, hard. "It's most definitely
not you, or this or ..."

Joey examined him wryly. "It's all of those things. It's
okay, you don't have to explain, I know." He flopped back
against the couch, his eyes dark. A long moment of silence
followed, tense and oppressive. "So, wanna watch the Mets or
Yankees?" Joey said finally, his voice devoid of emotion.

Chandler bit back the tears that threatened, not daring to
tell Joey he didn't want to do anything at that moment but
make love to him, but the words refused to come out. A
disaster, that's what this was, but what could he do?
Something inside was holding him back and until he figured
out what that was ...

"Yankees," Chandler replied quietly leaning back, arms folded
tightly across his aching chest.

"Right," said Joey flipping the channel as the announcer's
voice sounded throughout the room.

"And that's a strike, leaving the count at zero and one,
ladies and gentlemen. One strike and two more to go."

And so the game went on.

0000000000
end

Will Chandler overcome his insecurities?
Will Joey ever finish his Rollercoasters?
Will the Yanks win?

Tell me what you think at [email protected]. :-D

Return to: mako's tank

Category: Movie/Western slash, prequel
Fandom: pre-Young Guns I
Pairing: Doc/Chavez
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Morgan Creek
Productions. No copyright infringement intended.
Archive: Anywhere that wants it, but please let me know so I
can admire and read other works. :-)
Feedback: Sure! Any other Doc/Chavez fans out there?

Title: "NIGHT DANCING" by mako
Email: makolane@a...

Two silent figures made their way through a moonlit plain on
foot, dust kicking up from their boots, one of them carrying
a blanket, the other a book and an oil lantern. They walked
side by side, arms brushing easily and took a moment before
choosing their spot, a level bit of ground scattered with
tufts of sun-dried sage.

The darker of the two, a slim young man with both Mexican and
Indian features, flapped open the blanket and laid it on the
ground, motioning for his friend to sit. "This is a good
spot," said Chavez. "No rocks."

His companion shook his head disparagingly. "I don't know why
you insist on coming out here," Doc sighed, pushing a
stubborn lock of blond hair out of his eyes. "I could've
just as easily read you some poetry back at the house."

Chavez gazed at him calmly. "Better out here. The air
cleanses away distractions, makes learning easier."

"In the middle of night? With just a lantern?" Doc asked,
disbelieving. "I can barely see."

"Stealing away out here makes other things easier too."
Chavez kissed Doc warmly on the mouth then pulled away,
smile bright against flawless brown skin. "Unless you'd like
to do this back in the bunkhouse."

Doc blinked, already aching at the loss of his lover's touch.
"No thanks. " He returned the smile. "But we can just do
that instead of all this reading. I mean, I can read to you
anywhere, even in front of Mr. Tunstall."

"I came here to learn." Chavez plopped to the ground, legs
folding gracefully beneath him. "I can teach you a few
things ... later."

A seductive hint in his voice and Doc grinned. "Teach me,
huh? Maybe I'll teach you a thing or two."

"I doubt that," replied Chavez solemnly. "Begin."

Doc fought the urge to roll his eyes. Chavez was so serious,
sometimes it was hard to keep from ribbing him. But Chavez's
childhood had been hard, even harder than Doc's, much to his
surprise. His family, no, his entire tribe, had been slaughtered
in one day, leaving Chavez, a boy no older than thirteen, alone
in a world that felt nothing for him but hatred and contempt.

He was a survivor, a lone survivor and Doc had to respect that.

Besides, he loved him too much not to.

"All right. Since you're so into the night air, how about
some Tennyson?" said Doc, settling in beside Chavez with a
pained grumble. It had been a long day herding cattle and
everything hurt, his legs and back especially but he obligingly
flipped through the poetry anthology until he found the verse he
wanted. "Here, listen to this."

Clearing his throat, Doc began:

"All night have he roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancer dancing in tune
Till a silence fell with the waking bird
And a hush with the setting moon"

When he'd finished Doc glanced at Chavez, whose eyes had
closed in contemplation. He studied him for a minute,
marveling at his dark beauty; the perfect skin, the black
silk of his hair and wondered why everyone else didn't
see the same sweetness in his features -- as well as the
goodness in his heart.

All they saw was a "damned greaser" and there was nothing Doc
could do or say that would ever change their minds.

Their loss, thought Doc as he snuggled in closer. He leaned
his head on Chavez's shoulder and stared up at the midnight
Western sky, a billion stars twinkling in an endless sea of
black. "What did you think of Tennyson?"

"I think my family had similar rituals," Chavez replied
quietly. "Night Dancing we called it. My brother loved his
drum, he'd play it even without formal celebration. My little
sisters and I would dance, but only in the darkness, since
dancing was sacred and reserved for special occasions. We
did it for fun, and that would've been frowned on." His eyes
opened, revealing a profound sadness. "I think my parents
knew, but they turned the other way. I often wonder if they
had done the same in their youth."

Doc traced a finger along his lover's knee. "Probably.
Rules are only fun if you break 'em once in a while."

Chavez turned to him, eyes bright. "You're right. And we're
breaking rules now, aren't we?"

"We ain't hurting no one," Doc insisted. "Just settin' out
for a spell. Mr. Tunstall knows he can trust us not to make
any trouble for him. Why, compared to Dirtface and ..."

"Steven, you mean?" Chavez said. "Why do you call him
Dirtface? He's not much dirtier than the rest of us."

Doc shrugged. "I dunno. Keeps him in his place."

"Names are good for that," Chavez agreed, a slight bitterness
coloring his tone. "For keeping a man in his place."

Doc bolted upright, eyes blazing. "Wait a minute," he said
angrily. "You're not comparing me callin' Steven "Dirtface"
to the names they call you, because if you are ..."

"No, love." Chavez placed a gentle finger against Doc's
lips. "I know there's affection in the names you call the
others. There's no hatred in your heart, not a touch of it.
He paused. "But sometimes there's hatred in mine.
Hatred for the killing, hatred for the names ... and it
frightens me."

"I don't blame you for hating them, Chavez. They killed your
whole family." Doc curled against him with a heavy sigh.
"Do you know what I dream sometimes? That somehow they
escaped, your parents and your brothers and sisters. And one
day, I find them and bring them home to you just so I can see
your face light up with happiness, real happiness, the kind
that lasts forever." Another sigh, this one impossibly sad.
"Guess I ain't ever gonna see that."

"Beloved, look at me." Soft, irresistible command. "And
tell me what you see."

Doc obeyed and was surprised to see happiness ... real
happiness, shining in Chavez's eyes. It was a rare and
precious sight and Doc couldn't help but reach out and kiss
him, once, twice, then again, losing himself in the taste and
feel of his lover's lips and tongue. So many times that day
he'd wanted to kiss him, every time Chavez looked his way,
always with such meaning and desire, but it was impossible,
with the others always there ... always watching.

"You make me happy," Chavez whispered against Doc's mouth,
making his lips tingle with each word. "You're my love and my
hope, my spirit horse rides with yours and when this life
ends we'll be together in the next world, more than brothers,
more than friends, even more than lovers, forever."

"Is that a poem?" Doc asked, kissing the corners of his
mouth, the wonderful shivering ache spread throughout
his body, straight down to his toes.

"No, that's merely the truth." A hand crept between Doc's
legs and he moved against it with a moan. "Do I have to
teach the white boy *everything*?"

"Yes, and ... oh!"

His pants were loosened, the caresses grew demanding and Doc
suddenly wanted more, like a starving man teased with the
tiniest of sweets. It was so much better than anything he'd
had before, such slow kisses down his neck, teasing fingers
between his thighs, driving him happily out of his mind. The
two-bit whores he'd known as a boy, even the occasional ranch
hand bringing him off in the brush, nothing had come close to
what he'd discovered with Chavez.

This was the way it was supposed to be, loving and real. No
matter what anyone else said.

Chavez's hands were everywhere, maddeningly slow, but it was
worth the torture. A hot tongue brushing his nipple and Doc
cried out, his voice lost in the vast New Mexico night. Once
they'd done it in the cool caverns to the South, his cries
echoed against the rock for what seemed like hours and they'd
giggled like children every time the sound came around again.

Pants were slid down to his knees and he liked it that way.
*Never take your pants down to your ankles* the gunfighters
always said, and Doc had lived by their rules for too long to
change now. Death came in an instant out in the badlands
and if nothing else, Doc wanted to live.

Live to be with Chavez, making love, for as long as the
bullets missed them.

"Querido," Chavez murmured against his stomach, his tongue
lapping at the droplets of sweat gathering in its hollow. A
playful nip at his thigh and Doc yelped.

"Hey!" Doc sat up and struggled against the tangle of his
pants, but Chavez shoved him back and pinned him down.

"Behave, paleface," he growled jokingly. "Or no more singing
with the missionaries for you."

Doc laughed aloud but obeyed, all coherent thought
disappearing when his cock was enveloped by the blazing
heat of Chavez's mouth. He moaned hoarsely, his fingers
raking through the sandy dirt, fists curling around sharp
bits of sage that dug into his palms, no doubt leaving them
scratched for days to come.

It was so good, so much better than anything he'd dreamt of
and his hips arched up seeking more of Chavez's touch.
Someday they'd go to town and rent a room and have the luxury
of a real bed with sheets, maybe even spend the whole night
there. That's if the innkeeper would rent to a Mexican-
Indian and a renegade ranch hand ...

Suddenly the heat disappeared and Doc groaned in agony.
"No, don't ..."

"You're thinking." Chavez chastened him lightly between
kisses. "I want you to stop thinking. I want you to feel me,
be with me and no one else."

"I'm with you. I love you," Doc protested weakly, caressing
Chavez's cheek, leaving behind a light smudge of dust.
"Please ... please go on. I ... I won't think anymore."

"Good. Now where was I? Oh, yes ... here." A pair of
strong arms encircled Doc's waist and Chavez took him inside
his mouth again, sucking fast and hard.

Doc struggled against the loving assault, not wanting the
bliss to end, but soon gave up and allowed his body to take
over, helpless to resist the orgasm that washed over him like
an ocean wave, cleansing away all his fears. This was the only
time he wasn't afraid, the only time he could have cared less
if he was going to live or die, just as long as Chavez was
with him. Loving him, and him alone.

"God, that's good," Doc panted, pulling Chavez toward him.
He nuzzled the warm neck, damp bits of silky blue-black hair
tickling his cheeks. "So good." A soft nip to the proud
chin. "Your turn now," he growled before pouncing.

He took it slowly at first, but Chavez urged him on,
practically snaking his body around his, whispering Spanish
in ear, mixed in with another language, strange and ancient.
Was it Navaho? Cherokee? Doc didn't know, but the sound was
intoxicating and he found himself aroused again, no longer
interested in taking his time.

A trail of wet kisses down the smooth belly and Doc was
about to take him when he felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

"No, querido ... like this instead." Chavez slid under him
until their eyes were level, then pulled Doc's hips firmly to
his own. "Together," he gasped as their erections touched.
"Like this."

"Yeah," Doc breathed as Chavez undulated beneath him the
movement making him shut his eyes tightly against the
pleasure. "Oh God ..."

Chavez kissed his eyelids, his voice hoarse with effort.
"This is dancing, isn't it? Our dance, here in the night,"
he whispered. "You and me, till the waking bird sings."

He had no idea how long it lasted, but Doc soon felt the
familiar lightning at the base of his spine. He came with a
cry, feeling his lover's own pleasure follow, covering him
hotly, dripping over his stomach and thighs.

Buried his face in Chavez's neck, heart thudding. "Best
dance I ever had," he murmured against his neck. "Better
than the best."

Chavez kissed him tenderly. "Nothing like breaking the rules."

Doc smiled. "Nope. Especially when you're as good at it as
we are." Another kiss followed, this one as passionate as
poetry itself. "Especially when it's with you."

--------
end :-)

Feedback is welcome at: [email protected]