Where We Love

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Summary: “I love that he thinks that my home is wherever he is.”

AUTHOR: Gwen
EMAIL: gwen@cryptoffic.com
RATING: R - for strongly implied m/m relationship and a little bit of language.
CHARACTER: Dale Earnhardt Jr./Tony Stewart, Dale Jr. POV
DISCLAIMER: Junior and Smoke don't belong to me. I wish them no harm, and am not making a dime off them. Just thinking out loud. :) I own NOTHING and am affiliated with NO ONE mentioned here. Not the drivers, not the teams, no one. This is all fiction and fun. In other words...NOT REAL, NOT REAL, NOT REAL. ;-)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Lest ya'll think that it's just all about sex with these two--this is just sweet Junior watching over his man. Title “Where We Love” stolen, respectfully from Oliver Wendell Holmes.
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Smoke’s house is silent as I put my key in the lock, punch in the security code, drop my duffel bag on the floor, and lean back against the door with a sigh.

Middle of the night, and I’m exhausted. There’s probably nothing I’d rather not do than press junkets. And, I know I could have stayed in New York another night and come back tomorrow, but that just hadn’t appealed to me at all. I mean, I love my sponsors, but another night of glad-handing the corporate suits would have done me in.

Besides, I missed Tony.

Find my way upstairs to the bedroom in the dark. I know this place like the back of my hand, cause I spend as much time here as I do my own home.

I’m shedding clothes as I go, eager to just crash for what few hours are left of the night. By the time I reach the bedroom, I’m down to just my jeans and, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in here. That’s what comes with having a hot-natured boyfriend, I guess.

But, when I step through the door, I forget about the cold. Forget the business trip, forget how tired I am and how late it is and every other thing that’s bugging me. All that crap just falls away.

He’s sleeping and, even though I’ve seen him like this on a thousand other nights, the sight of him like this just stops me in my tracks. 

Maybe it’s because I’ve been away for a few days. Maybe it’s because, more and more lately, I’m thinking this thing…this me and him…might be the real deal and I don’t know whether to be thrilled or scared to death. Maybe it’s that he looks so damn vulnerable and I realize I might not be the only one who’s scared. 

Whatever the fuck, I don’t really want to analyze it. I just want to take this picture of Tony and make it last. Keep it locked away, be the only person who sees it.

Hell, I probably don’t have to worry about that. I can’t think of another person in the world who would describe Tony Stewart as “vulnerable” or “scared”. 

If they did, he’d kick their ass seven ways to Sunday.

He’s left the drapes open…it’s not like anyone can get close enough to the house to bother anything. On top of the regular security gates and alarms and what-not, Tony’s got some big-ass dogs. 

The light from the moon’s all silver blue and it makes him look paler than he is. Makes that five-o-clock shadow-and-a-half that he’s so proud of really stand out. His hair’s all messed up, and he’s frowning…probably pissed off at somebody, even in his dreams.

And, see, that’s the thing. People are always talking about how Tony’s an ass, he’s always mad, always spoiling for a fight. But, those are the people who don’t really know him. I guarantee you, if Tony’s gunning for you, it’s because you’ve rattled his cage first, or because he’s coming to someone else’s defense. Especially those who can’t or won’t take up for themselves. 

I can’t tell you how many rookies on the circuit have racked up stories about Tony pulling them out of trouble somewhere along the line, or helping them through the shark-filled waters of NASCAR politics. He’s legendary for his charity work and his fans adore him. But, you don’t hear about that stuff on TV and in the papers. You just hear about how much he fights and cusses and bucks authority.

He’s just brutally honest and he don’t take any shit, that’s all. I’ll take him in my corner any day of the week.

I’ll take him in my bed, too. The sheet’s riding low on his hips and I want to touch him. And, it’s not even sexual, although I’m not about to kick him out of bed, ever. It’s just a…hell, I don’t know, I’m not good at hearts and flowers…but, it’s just having that anchor…that knowing that he’s with me, he’s mine, he’s gonna be there, no matter what.

God. I must be more tired than I thought; I’m starting to sound like something off of Lifetime Television For Women.

When I shuck my jeans and crawl in beside him, he instinctively reaches out and wraps himself around me. Warm and solid and only half awake.

“Mmmmm. You’re home.”

I love that he thinks that my home is wherever he is.

“Yeah, babe.” I barely manage to drop a kiss on the top of his head before I’m nodding off. “I’m home.”

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Gwen - gwen@cryptoffic.com