It's about four a.m. on Nov. 3, in Australia right now.

So...

Happy Birthday, Cari!!

You know I adore you, you know I'm wishing you all the best for the coming year and always. *hugs*

Now, on with your pressie.

Title: Man of the Hour
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Pearl Jam (Stone Gossard/Mike McCready)
Disclaimer: This didn't happen, I don't know them, no offense intended.
Notes: McCready's POV, part of the Morpheus series, following "Friction and Harmony" and "Beautiful People."

What the fuck? I asked where I could find a place to go and listen to some music, and relax, and they direct me here? Never mind that I don't really know where here is. I'm in hell. And there's transvestites there.

I am at a goddamn campier than hell gay bar.

Wear one dress, and everyone assumes that you're gay. Okay, so I am, but still!

Ah well, I can live with this. It's not too crowded, and most importantly for Southern California in late June, there's ample AC. That's a lie, actually. Most important is that it's loud. Anything to drown the noise in my head. It's been three years since Roskilde, but the anniversary still manages to haunt me.

"Not exactly dressed for the room are you, sugar?" a soft voice drawls from behind me.

I glance back, seeing a drop-dead gorgeous transvestite. "Didn't know it was a requirement."

She smiles sweetly, and I let my eyes wander over her. Nice. Very nice. If it wasn't for the pretty boy blonde glowering at me from behind her, I'd probably be inclined to see if she'd like some company for the evening. "Just saying, darlin. If you wanted to change that, there's a store upstairs. They'll get you all settled."

I shrug, glancing at the stairs. "Seems like a lot of trouble."

She returns the shrug, giving me a smile that has much more than words in it. "Sometimes, Mr. McCready, it's nice to shed your skin and pretend for a while that you don't have to live in it."

She turns, walking back to the blonde, and I blink. I know that voice. The bartender comes over, and I glance up. "Orange juice, and I'll be right back."

Why not?

The shopkeeper is a small, very gay man who takes great delight in dressing me up. Taking into account that I in no way, shape, or form have a shapely figure, he sticks me in a mesh sleeved corset-style top, complete with padded bra, and a short denim skirt. With the fishnets and Doc Martens, I look like a very dykey hooker. Or an Avril Lavigne impersonator.

I couldn't see wearing a wig, so I've got my own very short hair. He seems pleased with it, fussing with my makeup and jewelry until I'm declared perfect. Well, I knew that already.

I wander back to the bar and pick up my very plain OJ and wander towards the dance floor.

Apparently, I'm looking pretty good in drag these days, as I'm being hit on left and right. And I think I just had my ass grabbed. Finally, I make it to the dance floor, and merge into the crowd, letting the bodies carry me to the middle as some sort of nightmarish techno crap music plays overhead.

I don't know how long I dance, or who I dance with, but finally, I need a break. I'm too old for this crap. I feel better, though. The drag queen was right in that respect. I needed to take a step back from being Mike McCready.

I should thank her if I see her again--Oh. There she is! But it looks like she and her blonde are having an argument, so I veer around them, bypass the edge of the floor and go through the seating area.

Did you ever have one of those moments when you see something out of the corner of your eye, and you know you shouldn't look, but you do anyway? Yeah.

Fucking Stone.

I see him out of the corner of my eye, and turn, thinking--Okay, honestly, I'm thinking that I might use the look-alike to scratch a twenty or so year itch. Twenty years of having him in my life, hugging me, petting me, and of wanting to nail him through the mattress.

But it's not a look-a-like. It's Stone. And he's staring at me.

Okay, gaping at me might be a better way of putting it.

Before I can come up with a good excuse for being here, his eyes narrow behind those thick lenses, and he comes to his feet. I always forget how graceful he is when we're not onstage. To look at Stone, you'd expect him to be the kind of geek who trips over his own feet when he walks, but he's actually kind of graceful.

He stalks towards me, and I fight the urge to flinch back. Which is ridiculous, when you think about it. I've faced down screaming executives, but this one slip of a guy has me cringing. Dumbass.

He stops in front of me, and his eyes flicker over me, taking in the outfit, the makeup. He took in everything, and started to laugh.

It wasn't a happy sound. It was a bitter, mocking sound. "Stone," I murmured, voice thin and desperate. I reached out my hand to touch his shoulder, and he twisted, stepped away from me before it got there. "Stone?"

"Don't." He laughed again. "Fucking twenty years, McCready. Twenty years of thinking that if you were just gay or bi, I might have had a shot to make you see how much I--to be with you. I'd console myself that it wasn't me, you were just straight."

I just stare, mouth falling open in shock, and he plows onward.

"But now I see. It was me, all along." He turns and I finally break the paralysis, grabbing his shoulder.

"Stone."

"What?" He glances at me over his shoulder, and I can see the muscles in his jaw fairly popping with tension. Great. Can I just award myself the blue ribbon for Clueless Jerk of the year now?

How the hell did I miss this? How did I not know that he was interested?

"This." I lean in, forcing him around to face me, and press a kiss to his lips.

Bad idea. Bad fucking idea, McCready.

He jerks back like I slapped him, glaring as he stalks away into the crush of people.

What the hell did I do wrong?

Fuck this shit. I am so out of here. I'll call Jeff, ask him what fucking bug is up Stone's ass. He'll know. He always does.

A shrill shriek gets my attention, and I turn to find that the drag queen, Cheyenne, is sprawled on the floor near me, holding her jaw and looking dazed. The pretty boy is standing over her with a wine bottle in hand, looking murderous.

I move forward before I can think, and notice that a few others are doing the same. One, a small redhead in leather looks like he may kill the pretty boy. He's still a few throngs of onlookers away, and I'm not. I step up, putting myself between them, and hold up my hands in the universal symbol for "not the face."

"Take it easy, we don't need this in here."

"Mike, don't-" Cheyenne slurred. "Casper-"

"Fucking lying cunt! Is this him? Is this who you're fucking behind my back?"

I glanced over and saw that the redhead was being held back by a wiry dark haired man with a thatch of wild dark hair…who happens to be Tim Burton. Which would make the redhead…Yup. Danny Elfman. Just me and the pretty boy. Casper, according to Cheyenne. "Settle down," I murmur firmly. "I'm not doing anything with anyone. You should head outside, get some air. This isn't how you want to have this conversation--in front of the whole club."

"They should know what a lying little cocktease fucker he is," Casper spat. He turned tear filled blue eyes on me. "I don't like doing this. I want things to go back the way they were, I don't want him to make me do this."

I should nod and get him away from Cheyenne. Placate the homicidal asshole, worry about it later. I've never been good at placating people. I'm in fucking Pearl Jam. Tact is not on the list of attributes we have. "He made you hit him?"

"He cheated on me. I didn't want to hit him, but how else can I teach him?"

"No one fucking made you do anything, dipshit. That's abuse, no matter how you slice it." I hear the rustle of movement behind me, and see Casper's eyes narrow. Fuck. She should have stayed down. Now we're both getting our asses kicked. "Don't." I warn sharply.

"Mike," Cheyenne's voice comes from behind me, but it's not the same. It's that familiar sound again. "Move. I'll handle it."

I turn, glancing over my shoulder. Cheyenne is back on her feet, split lip bleeding freely. She kicks off her shoes, and tugs her wig off. "Thank you," he says firmly.

I nod, starting to move when I sense rather than see Casper moving. The wine bottle sails past me, still managing to clip my temple along the way, and I stumble back, stars dancing in front of my eyes.

My ass takes the brunt of the damage, and I watch, dazed, as the drag queen moves in like a striking snake, taking a wild shot to the cheekbone, but landing two hard punches of his own. Then, my view is blocked by a really butt ugly shirt, and I look up at Stone.

"Mike? Mike, are you all right?"

I nod, hand reaching up to touch my temple. "Yeah. I'm okay." It occurs to my brain that Stone is sitting on my thighs a moment before it occurs to my dick. Damn, I'm sorry I went for the miniskirt. The hem tents up way too obviously.

Stone, being Stone, notices right away. He stares, like it's a poisonous snake rising up to strike, and I start squirming. "I'm sorry," I mutter.

His legs tighten on my thighs, and I stop, looking up at him. "What?"

"Um. You, um." He looks down and gestures vaguely.

Thank you, Stone. Because, you know, popping a hard on while you're on my lap wasn't quite humiliating enough. "In English?"

He clears his throat, and swallows hard. "Want some help with that?" he asks, eyes meeting mine.

Okay, that was a touch unexpected. "Gah?" I finally manage.

He grins, and slowly comes to his feet over me, offering me a hand up. "Come on, McCready. I've got a hotel room down the block."

I let him half hoist me up, noting absently that Cheyenne, despite having various bruises, and a hell of a split lip, was victorious. Burton is holding a napkin to her lip, hands fluttering in the air nervously.

Casper is on his way out of the club, being dragged by the feet by Elfman. I nod, letting Stone steer me along past Cheyenne, who touches my arm. "You're a good guy, McCready," he says, smiling faintly as he peers at Stone through a swollen eye. "Take care of him, Gossard."

"Planning on it. You gonna be okay, Johnny?" Stone offers him a clean handkerchief, gently mopping at a small cut by his temple, and the voice and face suddenly clicks. Johnny Depp. Drag Queen. Some days, the world is just weirder than you thought, y'know?

"Yeah, I'll get there. I was hoping he'd changed after all this time," he murmurs. "But he's never going to, and I'll just have to get over that, and move on." He flashes a bright, and totally fake smile. "Lots of other fish in the sea, savvy?"

To his credit, Stone just nods and touches his shoulder again. Who says he can't learn tact?

I follow him past the gaggles of onlookers, and up the stairs to the outside world. Stone nods a hello to Elfman as he walks back in, still looking pissed enough to chew nails. He's left Casper in the gutter, where a short dark haired elf of a man is cursing roundly at him.

"…ever come in my club again, you got that? If I see you, I call the lawyers, and trust me, asshole, you do not want to fuck with Lance's lawyers." He glances up at us, and offers Stone a smile, which immediately turns wary when he notices me. "Hey, Stone."

For such a little thing, he's actually kind of intimidating. I try for a "look, I'm harmless" smile, and am rewarded by a faint snarl.

"Who's your friend?" he asks, voice casual.

"Oh, this is my bandmate, Mike McCready," Stone says, glancing up from whatever has his attention. "Mike, this is Chris. He owns Morpheus."

He relaxes slightly and meets my eyes. "Sorry. Can't be too careful, y'know."

"Not a problem. Thanks."

"What?" Stone asks.

"Nothing," Chris says quickly. "Have a nice evening."

He wanders back inside, and Stone looks curiously at me. "I think he wanted to make sure that I wasn't someone like him," I say carefully, gesturing towards Casper.

His mouth tightens a little. "You know, last time I checked, my driver's license said I was an adult."

I shrug. "I guess he feels responsible for what goes on in his club."

"Oh."

"So, where is this hotel room you mentioned?"

He gives himself a little shake before he starts walking, like he needed to remind himself that this was real. I can totally sympathize. If it weren't for the throbbing ache in my temple, I'd be wondering if I was dreaming.

There's a small, European style inn at the end of the block. When the cab was driving me here, I'd wondered at it. Surely they couldn't do much business down in the warehouse district of town. Now, I think I understand. A nice, discreet hotel could make a killing off the well-to-do and closeted in this town.

The desk clerk barely glances up at us, just enough to make sure that we belong, I suppose. Then, he's back to reading his paper, or book or whatever, while we slip into the old fashioned cage-style elevator. How very Rocky Horror.

The room is bigger than I expected, a comfortable suite with a king sized bed dominating the tasteful décor. It's so very not Stone, though. Stone's earth tones and recyclable toilet paper, not crimson velvet.

He looks completely at a loss, standing carefully away from the bed, looking everywhere but at me.

"So," I say casually.

He jumps at my voice like I fired a gunshot next to his head. "Um. So."

Christ, how old are we? Okay, he was brave at the club. It's your turn now, Mike. Go over there and kiss him. I move quickly, unfortunately, so does he. Our arms get tangled, and I end up taking his palm to my throat, and sitting down on the bed.

"Shit. Are you okay?" he asks. He's trying for a concerned face, but the giggles kind of spoil it.

"Your concern is touching," I mutter, smiling back. His laugh has always been infectious, and now is no exception. Before I long, we're both slumped on the edge of the bed laughing until our sides hurt.

"Well, that was a clusterfuck," Stone finally manages. "We'll be lucky if we don't kill each other in bed."

"Can't you see the headlines, though?"

"Klutzy Pearl Jam members killed in sex scandal," he says cheerfully. "It'd get great press."

I can't help it. When he smiles like that, I just want to kiss him. For once, I'm not going to rein in that urge. I press my lips against the corner of his mouth, little fluttery kisses along the curve of his bottom lip.

For a heartbeat, he doesn't respond, and I feel my stomach drop. Then, his arms slide around me, and I'm on my back, with an armful of squirming Stone, kissing me like there's no tomorrow.

Somehow, with a lot of wriggling and shifting, he ends up straddling my lap, hips grinding down nicely. I could die right now, and be totally happy. Then, I feel his hand sliding up my thigh, under the skirt, and I reevaluate.

I want more.

I get it, almost immediately as his fingers curl around me slowly, stroking slowly through my underwear. I moan low in my throat, my hips jerking up towards him. Stone lifts his head, favoring me with another smile. "Like that? Y'know, I've always wondered if what the groupies said about you is true."

He moves, almost slithering off me, until he's on his knees in front of me. "They say that you don't like anything more than a good blow job." His fingers lock into the waistband of my underwear, tugging them down slowly.

I'd whimper if I had the breath, but I'm holding it.

A moment later the whimper slides out anyway, because yes, that is his tongue, sliding up my inner thigh. Fuuuuck, he's good at this.

"Why don't you slide up onto the bed? Then, you can watch me, and I won't get rug burn on my knees this early in the night," he adds, a smile curving his lips. "Just relax, let me take care of you."

I follow his instructions, and he comes to his feet, long fingers undoing his jeans, and tugging them off. "Can you turn this way?" I ask, licking my lips.

"I thought you'd never ask.," he grins.

It takes a little bit of arranging, but finally, we're both settled comfortably on the bed, and I'm bending my head, leaning in to finally taste.

Heaven. I could get lost in this, in the musky scent, the feel of my tongue on him, the slow glide of skin on skin. Then, he takes me into his mouth, and I close my eyes, and enjoy.

I arch, letting my tongue go to work, the rasp of his tongue, my tongue blending into each other, until I don't know who's doing what, it's all just a continuous buzz of pleasure, sliding through me. Moans, whispers merge in a soft chorus, punctuated my wet noises, gasps.

The pleasure builds, and we both redouble our efforts, fingers sliding back to tease further, and I tense, moaning incoherently against his cock, shuddering as his very talented mouth moves on me.

I think I scream, muffled against him, as I shake, fingers locked on his hips, pleasure blanking my mind, leaving me drained and shivering.

He sighs, fingers running over my thighs, my stomach as I catch my breath, then it's a light shift of his hips that reminds me that I'm not done yet. It's easier now, easier to focus on him, to feel the slick skin, the salty taste of him. He's close, fingers tightening on the bedspread, voice hoarse with need.

"Mike, 'm gonna-"

He doesn't get out the rest, mostly because I take that moment to slide a spit-lubed finger in him, curled just right. His voice breaks on a sharp noise, his hips jerking against me, and I swallow quickly, moaning encouragement.

Then, the room goes quiet, except for the harsh rasp of us catching our breath. I squirm up next to him, lay my head down on his heaving chest. I don't quite know what I'm supposed to say here. I know how to handle cheap fucks, but this wasn't one of them. This meant something.

He loops an arm around me, tugging me up towards the pillows, and I squirm up, unhooking the corset as I go.

Apparently, Stone doesn't see a need for words. He just snuggles into me, and I hear his breathing level out, deepening into sleep.

I guess I can live with that.

Actually, I know I can. For now, I'm with him. We'll figure the rest of the world out in the morning.

The End