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Sam knows how to improvise. Ad lib. Make things up as he goes. He had twenty years to perfect the art and even now, at the top of the world - well, at the top of the technological giant called ENCOM - he can still bullshit on the fly and make people believe it. Even when caught off-guard he immediately starts assessing the situation, mapping out his next move, and looking for any window of opportunity to jump through. He’s never a fish out of water for long.
Until he returns to his riverside shipping container of a home to find the fridge door open and catches a glimpse of an apple core, an unfinished Corona, and a squat glass bottle on the counter before a more-than-tipsy program-turn-human literally sashays up to him and kisses him full on the mouth. Stunned, Sam stumbles back and hits the hinged garage door as it swings back down, stopping it in its tracks. His backpack slides off his shoulder and lands with a muffled thud on the concrete floor next to his shuffling feet as he’s pushed up against the metal wall. He desperately hopes that Tron doesn’t know what he’s doing, but while Sam tries to figure out what the hell is happening his body shifts into automatic; when Tron slides a liquor-coated tongue along his bottom lip Sam opens his mouth and sucks it in.
His heart flips when Tron makes a low needy noise and grabs at his jacket collar while pressing his tongue deeper into his mouth. Then the rest of Sam’s mind catches up - Tron found the beer - he found the whiskey, how the fuck did he find - he’s drunk, he’s kissing me, oh fuck - and he slides his hands in between their bodies, pushes Tron away. The program stumbles back with little resistance and sways on the spot, eyes glassy and dark. Sam takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the taste of beer-Scotch in his mouth while watching Tron watch him.
“I hope you don’t go around kissing people when you’re drunk,” Sam says carefully. Tron tilts his head and narrows his eyes before flicking them down an inch. Then Sam realizes he’s licking his bottom lip and quickly looks away. He groans inwardly when he sees a broken plate on the floor. “Yeah, that’s enough excitement for one day.”
Tron stands absolutely still but his darkened eyes track Sam around the shipping container with frightening precision. Sam takes in the state of the counter before attempting to clean it up; he tosses the apple core into the trash bin under the sink, kicks the fridge door shut, empties the Corona in the sink and sets it aside for recycling, and hunts through the collection of mugs, glasses, and dishes in various states of cleanliness for the cap on the whiskey bottle. All the while he keeps an eye on Tron to make sure the program doesn't do anything else as unpredictable as the kiss - you kissed me.
He steps on a porcelain shard - right, the broken plate - and Tron flinches at the loud crunch. It seems to snap him out of some drunken reverie; after Sam caps the whiskey bottle and carefully pushes it onto the highest shelf in the cupboard he turns around to find Tron standing in front of him, pupils swollen and lips wet and shining. It’s quite a sight and Sam swallows hard, shifts uncomfortable while heat coils tightly in his chest and slides south. Still, the program’s drunk - Sam can smell it and it’s not that pleasant - and probably doesn’t know what he’s doing. Sam wishes the thought isn’t so depressing.
“Maybe you should go sit down,” he finally says, nodding towards the couch, and hopes Tron does as told.
Tron frowns, then slowly asks, “Why?”
He moves closer. Sam backs away until the counter’s rounded edge digs into the small of his back, stopping him.
“You’re drunk.”
“Why is that a reason? It’ll wear off.”
Sam huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Doesn’t work like that here. I mean, you - I don’t think distilled energy gets you shit-faced enough to go around kissing programs or-”
“But I like you.”
Sam can’t breathe. His heart beats too loudly in his chest and in his head.
Tron reaches out and brushes his thumb along the curve of Sam’s bottom lip, and Sam can’t help parting them, can’t help the shuddering exhale at the gentle caress and the prickling sensation. The program’s already stormy eyes darken considerably as he adds, “And you like me. Isn’t this what Users do?”
Sam sags against the counter, sweaty palms sliding over the surface and gripping the edge tightly. The words echo in his head as he scrambles to make sense of the sudden left turn and gain control of the situation. He’d long since given up paying attention to the butterflies in his stomach every time he saw the program, believing that all Tron will ever feel towards him is the strong camaraderie they formed while rebuilding the Grid together. And now Tron's kissing him and saying “I like you” like it’s obvious, like it's what they've been building up to all along.
Sam wants to believe him so badly, but he can't. Tron’s drunk. He probably doesn’t know what he’s saying or doing. He might not even be aware of himself. None of this is probably real.
“Look,” Sam says shakily, trying to form words. He can’t move his mouth without feeling Tron’s hand cradling the side of his face, branding his skin. “Yeah, we - we do it if we like each other. But you’re drunk, okay? You don’t know what you’re saying. What you’re - what you’re doing. You're not yourself right now, so this has to stop.”
He’s having a hard time concentrating because Tron keeps caressing his bottom lip, keeps watching his mouth move. He stands so close that Sam can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“I know what I’m saying,” Tron says and leans in, hot breath ghosting across Sam’s lips. “What I’m doing.”
Before Sam realizes it he shifts his stance, giving Tron room to press in between his legs. His heart hammers so hard the beats rattle through his bones; his chest clenches tightly as he holds his breath, wishing Tron was sober or he was just as drunk.
He wishes he took Tron back to the Grid before going to ENCOM for an impromptu meeting.
“How do I know it’s not just the booze talking?” Sam asks. Or he tries to, because Tron moves in after the first word and swallows up the rest of his question.
The acrid tang of alcohol is overwhelming but there’s a bittersweet undercurrent that Sam didn’t notice the first time. Tron slides his tongue in deep, trying to map every inch of his mouth; he’s so careful, so tender and reverent, and he leaves Sam trembling and desperate for more. No one’s ever been like that with him before and he suddenly needs it, craves it. He curls his fingers even tighter around the counter’s edge, fighting the urge to wrap them around Tron’s shirt to tug him closer.
It’s Tron who breaks the kiss, pulling back and breathing unevenly; his face is flush with arousal, eyes almost inky and lips swollen and red. Sam doesn’t know what to do with the sight or the program; he wants - oh he wants - but he can’t do it. He made far too many mistakes when he was younger and he just can’t risk making another one with Tron, his childhood hero and his other half on the Grid. Did he really just think that?
“You don’t want this?” Tron asks, his voice a low, whiskey-laced growl. He licks Sam’s lips and then mouths along his jaw, teeth grazing skin. Sam shivers, then winces when Tron presses him hard against the kitchen counter, pushing his spine right up against the edge. Then the pain almost disappears when Tron slides a hand under Sam’s jacket and down his side before wrapping around his hip; it burns like a brand and his cock gives a more than interested twitch.
“I - I want - fuck!”
Tron tilts his head and narrows his eyes, gauging the reaction, and then rolls his hips up against Sam again. This time Sam does reach out to the program, clinging to his shirt front as pleasure shocks through his system. Gasping, he looks up at the program and opens his mouth to say something - to stop, to keep going - and Tron covers it with his lips and his tongue. Sam moans from the friction and sucks hard on the program's hot, slick tongue; he wanted for so long and he’s not depriving himself any longer, not when Tron is so willing. The doubts still linger but he tries to drown them out, rocking up against the program and keening from the resulting heated surge of need.
Then Tron removes his hand from the side of Sam’s face and wraps it around his other hip. Sam knows that motion and leans forward, wrapping his arms around Tron’s neck while the program hooks his hands under Sam’s thighs and hoists him up onto the counter. His head hits the cabinet door as Tron sets him down and he pushes aside the jarring flash of pain to kiss the program again. Tron places a hand on his knee, squeezes it once before sliding his palm up, and then a glass pushed to the precarious edge of the counter falls off.
The sharp shatter cuts between them like a knife and they jerk back, with Sam hitting the cabinet door again. He swears breathlessly as he leans against the cabinet, fingers curling and uncurling at the nape of Tron’s neck. He’s hot all over and strung out, nervous needy energy humming under his skin. He hears Tron breathe shakily, feels the searing thrum in the hand resting high up on his leg; Tron’s right here, bright-eyed and flushed and unabashed about what he wants.
What he thinks he wants. Sam wishes he can shut off that part of the brain and just go with it. He just can’t ignore the taste of whiskey in his mouth.
“Sam?”
He tilts his chin down. Tron is watching him, expression a tangle of desire and confusion. Sam sighs and leans forward, dragging his fingers up the back of Tron’s head and burying them in his dark hair. He slides his other hand around the program’s neck, feels the pulse point under his palm briefly as he strokes the side of Tron’s face with his thumb. Something in his chest twists painfully as he watches Tron nuzzle against the palm of his hand, eyes fluttering shut.
“What am I gonna do with you?” Sam murmurs. “What am I gonna do with us?”
Tron answers with a low rumbling hum as he turns his head and presses his mouth to the heel of Sam’s hand. His eyes crack open and there’s a hint of clarity in them now, like he’s just starting to realize what just happened. He looks up at Sam, unblinking, and hesitantly curls his fingers against Sam’s leg. Then he closes his eyes, leans heavily against the counter, and Sam suspects he’s hitting that drowsy, sleepy stage.
“Tired?”
A slow and somewhat bemused nod answers him. Sam smiles as he tilts Tron’s face up and presses a chaste kiss to his mouth. He pulls away before Tron can reciprocate and adds, “Told you it doesn’t work the same way here. Come on.”
He pushes Tron back and the program gives way easily, swaying and blinking rapidly in a vain effort to stay alert. Sam slides off the counter and tugs him towards the couch, sidestepping the broken glass. Tron follows along willingly and offers no resistance when Sam pushes him down on the couch, but when Sam tries to go back to the kitchen counter he grabs his hand.
“Not going anywhere,” Sam says.
“But-”
“Relax. Anyway, I’m staying here tonight. No way I’m leaving you like this.” He tugs his hand back and the grip loosens. “Just getting you a glass of water, okay? You’re gonna need it, trust me.”
At the sink Sam stares at the faucet, wondering a bit wildly about tomorrow. What if Tron doesn’t remember anything? Can Sam continue working with him and pretend nothing happened? He doesn’t want to ruin what they already have but he doesn’t know how to look Tron in the eye and not remember the way the pupils dilated as they stared at him, how to forget the feel of Tron against him, the taste to the beer and whiskey-laced bittersweetness of his mouth.
Sam chances a look over his shoulder. Tron is sitting with his head bowed and a hand pressed against his forehead. What if the program does remember? Sam has no idea how much Scotch he drank but it obviously wasn’t enough; he had enough coordination, enough sense, enough clarity to express what he - you knew. You knew all this time and - and you never did anything. Never said anything. Why? You knew and you just let me... act like a fucking idiot, let me suffer and wonder and hope and give up, and you fucking knew.
His hands hurt. Sam looks down at his white knuckles and slowly releases his death grip on the counter. He feels hot under the collar, full of anger and humiliation; does he yell at Tron or run? And what will that solve?
A sliding noise yanks him out of his thoughts and Sam glances at the couch. Tron is nowhere in sight but Sam knows he’s lying down and finally succumbing to the alcohol’s effects. With a sigh he grabs the nearest clean glass and fills it with water before pulling open a drawer to find his bottle of Advil. Whatever he wants to say or do will have to wait for tomorrow, when Tron is sober and not... kissing him.
Sam’s not looking forward to tomorrow.
He treads carefully to the couch. And then he stands there, glass and two pills in hand, staring. Watching Tron curl even tighter into himself, arms tucked under his head and impossibly long legs pulled up to his chest so that he can fit on the threadbare surface. Sam feels his fingers twitch with the impulse to reach over and brush back the hair covering the program’s forehead, wants to sit down on the floor and watch him doze off; instead he sets the glass and Advil down on the coffee table next to old motorcross magazines and issues of Newsweek and National Geographic before backing away. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, freezes for a second when Tron stirs and shifts on the couch, and then quietly walks away after he settles back down.
On the patio Sam looks across the water at the city, eyes following the golden lights to the ENCOM Tower, one of his mother’s legacies. He closes his eyes and breathes in wet winter air as he rocks back and forth on his feet. The chill does wonders for the heat still coursing under his skin, soothing his overheated thoughts. An airplane roars overhead en route to LAX and he tilts his head up, following its blinking lights until it disappears in the cityscape’s glow. With a sigh he pulls out his phone and unlocks the screen. Not even a second later it vibrates and the caller ID flashes across it.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still there?”
“Uh, yeah. Actually... I think I’m staying here tonight.”
“What? Why?”
“Uh, Tron’s still here. The meeting wasn’t even an hour; don’t know why they needed me there. Could’ve handled it themselves. Anyway, I came back and he - he found my booze, Quorra.”
“You mean he’s drunk?”
“... he’s sleeping it off.”
Quorra is silent for a few seconds and then starts giggling madly. “How drunk was he? Did he do anything? Did you take pictures? Please tell me you took pictures.”
“Don't think anything he can possibly do top crawling around on all fours, trying to see the world from Marv's perspective and scaring the crap out of him.”
“Hey!”
He chuckles at the memory as he paces around the patio, watching the city light’s reflection on the river’s rippling surface. Give it a couple months and the water level will go down, taking some of the view with it. He sighs heavily and then says, “He’s asleep. I’m taking him back to the Grid first thing in the morning.”
He can hear her pout on the other end. “But I promised to show him how to use the XBox.”
“The Grid, Quorra. He has the Grid to look after. And he can’t do it drunk or hungover.” He wonders if the digitizer can translate User-specific statuses like colds and hangovers but decides he's in no hurry to test it. Kneading at his left temple, he comes to a stop and looks up at the ENCOM Tower again. “Make sure the door’s locked and don’t leave the balcony door open again.”
She's rolling her eyes at the phone. “I know, I know.”
He waits for her to say "good night, see you tomorrow" but instead freezes up when she says, “Sam, are you sure nothing else happened? With Tron?”
His heart races as he scrambles for a diversion. Why is she asking that? What does she know? Did Tron somehow drunk dial her - no, there's no landline here and he wouldn't know what a phone was anyway. Was it - did he say something during the times they were alone? Did he tell her about his feelings toward Sam?
“Why?” Sam's voice cracks and he wonders if he sounds a little too suspicious, a little too hopeful.
“You didn’t answer my question, silly. I hope his hangover won’t be as bad as mine.”
“Don’t remind me,” he replies with a relieved laugh. It really wasn’t pretty and she’s no longer allowed to have more than two cocktails at a time. “I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll get back to work setting you up in your own apartment.”
“Fine, fine. Good night, Sam.”
He ends the call and stares at the time stamp, then pockets the phone and turns around to the modified containers. His eyes skim the faded letters - Dumont Shipping, and now he grins at the impossible coincidence - and then he slowly treks back inside. He picks up his backpack and slowly pulls the garage door the rest of the way down to seal off the cold. He digs through a tiny closet next to the workshop table for a blanket to cover Tron with and then places a rusty bin on the floor next to the program’s head. Sam lingers at his side for a long moment, risking a gentle caress along the curve of his jaw and brushing hair back from where it fell over his right eye. It takes more willpower than Sam expects to step away.
He rubs his face, feeling utterly drained, and quietly moves around, turning off all the lights but the lamp on the desk. He sheds his jacket and tosses it on the armchair before climbing up the ladder to the second level. He toes off his shoes before crawling onto the waiting futon and lies there for an hour flipping his phone in his left hand and half-heartedly surfing the Web while listening to the lapping water outside and the slow even breathing down below.
Eventually he sets the phone on the floor next to his head, turns on his side, and falls asleep.
* * *
“Think you can hold it down?”
He doesn’t know if he should feel grateful that there’s nothing in the bin he set next to Tron’s head last night. He toes it to the side while watching Tron give the juice a suspicious sip. He huffs a laugh at the face Tron makes and quickly explains, "Reason why you're feeling so shitty right now's called alcohol; it fucks with your body and leaves you with the worst headache of your life. That thing you're drinking's supposed to help with the damage."
"Then why do you drink it?" Tron grumbles. He even sounds like death warmed over.
"Everyone has their reasons," Sam says, rocking back and forth on his feet while watching Tron slowly drain the glass. "I like the burn, and sometimes I like that it makes me... forget things."
He watches Tron carefully but the program doesn't seem to pick up on it. In fact he doesn't seem to recall whatever happened after getting into the whiskey. Sam doesn't feel relieved that last night never really happened but he supposes it's for the best; over time the memory will fade and things will go back to normal. He can go back to nursing his incredibly awkward crush in secret and reveling in working alongside Tron on the Grid.
His attention refocuses on the program in question, who's now staring at the empty glass with some consternation. Tron already looks significantly better, or at least enough that he won't get sick on the way back to the arcade. Sam will take whatever victories he can get out of last night's mess so he plucks the glass out of Tron's hands and heads for the sink. "Need to be at ENCOM in forty-five minutes and you were supposed to be back on the Grid yesterday-"
He almost drops the cup when Tron grabs his wrist and stops him in his tracks. His heart hammers and his mouth dries but a hot shiver works down his chest at the unexpected contact. Slowly he looks down at the long fingers wrapped around his wrist and then up at Tron's face. Tron holds his gaze for a breathless second and then glances away.
"I'm sorry... about last night."
No, no, no, you can't remember - sorry about what? Drinking my booze? Kissing me? Liking me? “For what, drinking my stuff and breaking a plate?" He laughs nervously. "It’s okay, I can just buy another-”
“You know what I mean," Tron says, and Sam's heart stutters, skips a beat. "I... shouldn’t have done that to you. Not... it was uncalled-for. I was wrong to take advantage of you-”
“Uh, you got it all backwards,” Sam says, and then keeps talking before he can stop himself. “Usually it’s the sober person who takes advantage of the drunk one.”
“But you didn’t,” Tron says in a strange, soft voice as he lets go of Sam’s wrist. “You wouldn’t. I’m sorry for putting you in that situation. If you decide not to come back to the Grid for a while, if you decide to communicate with us through the screen instead I’ll understand-”
“Hey, wait. I haven’t - you haven’t heard me out yet.” Sam looks around and then sits down on the coffee table, empty glass still in hand. He stares at the concrete floor, feeling too nervous to look the program in the eye. “I don’t know if I wanted you to remember what happened last night. It was - it was awkward, I won’t lie. And you were drunk.”
He notices Tron stiffen at the roundabout admission and swallows hard before forging on. “I didn’t know if you were aware of what you’re doing, if you even wanted me to know how you felt about me. I - I really want it, though. I wanted it for a while but....” He shrugs. “Don’t know if it’ll work. If it’s such a great idea.”
“But you still want it.”
Sam nods once, wringing his hands around the glass. What’s he so afraid of? A now sober Tron admitted that everything he said last night was true and Sam just told him the feeling was mutual. The idea shouldn’t unnerve him this much. He’s letting doubt get the best of him... and the best of Tron, too; when he chances a glance up at the program, he sees it in Tron’s face and the subtle shift in body language. Opportunity is slipping through his fingers but Sam isn’t the kind of person who lets it go by; he takes it, runs with it, and improvises whenever he hits an obstacle.
“I do,” he says. His voice wavers and he fights it and himself as he carefully adds, “If you want it.”
The program smiles and the anxiety-induced tension holding Sam hostage snaps. He takes a shaky breath and then laughs, saying, “That was a bit too dramatic-”
Tron slides forward to the edge of the couch and reaches out; fingertips caress Sam’s face and tilts his head up so that Tron can press a light kiss to his lips. Sam barely remembers to set the glass down on the table before lurching forward, hands gripping Tron’s arms tightly as he kisses back. He climbs into the program’s lap, cradling Tron’s face and grinning inwardly at the citrus aftertaste in his mouth.
“Just one thing,” he says while Tron pushes his jacket off his shoulders.
“What?”
“Next time we’re getting drunk together.”