Alcohol Induced Haze

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Summary: He's not responsible for his actions while under the influence.

AUTHOR: Zippit
EMAIL: zippit@cryptoffic.com
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTER: Kyle Busch, Dale Earnhardt Jr; Kyle POV
CHALLENGE: Christmas Request 2009
COMPLETED: December 24, 2009
WORD COUNT: 1,813
WRITTEN FOR: mystik78
DISCLAIMER: If you recognize anyone in this piece, I am in no way affiliated with or know them personally. I am neither making a profit nor plan to do so. This is nothing more than an exercise in fiction. This is a result of an overactive imagination and I claim no truth to these words.
BETA: Thanks to Catw00man for the beta. All others errors are mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, I said I didn’t do Kyle but it’s what you wanted so here’s the best I could do. Sorry, princess.
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It takes him by surprise when they don’t make the Chase. By all rights his place should’ve been secured by four wins. The only more bizarre upset would’ve been if Mark Martin hadn’t made the Chase either. None of them expected the summer string of bad luck that landed them where they did. Richmond in all its short track glory had finished it off.

Everyone tells him there was nothing he could’ve done. Coach, J.D., Steve, Sam, his parents, even Kurt. In the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s not in the Chase. He’s on the outside looking in. His year hasn’t been as miserable as Junior’s but it might as well be. Nothing to show for running his mouth.

So for the ten Chase races he’s a dick on the track. Every driver hates him. Some just have more ammo. Every time they look at him there’s a hardness in their eyes. They avoid talking about him in interviews as best they can. It’s unspoken in the garage that Kyle Busch is on the shit list of everyone racing. Dickerson tries to get him to cut it out. Steve does too when he pisses off his own teammates. Coach tries to get through to him like he did with the media shit but he’s having none of it.

They can suck his balls. He’s in this for one thing and one thing only: wins. He’ll show them all. He’s better than some mediocre second rate driver. He doesn’t need the popularity. So it takes him by surprise when several cases of his favorite beer, Budweiser ironically, arrive on his doorstep the Tuesday after Homestead.

It’s not like he can’t buy his own beer. He’s well past that barrier by three years and what does he have to show for his season anyway? Not like there’s anything to celebrate. Thirteenth place, woohoo, that sure is something to write home about. When he picks up the note attached to it, it confuses him even more.

Here’s to an offseason where we don’t have to think about it until next year. Maybe we’ll actually give them a show.

-Junior

He shows it to Sam and her response is it’s nice and maybe he should stop taking everything so personal. No time to think about it because on Wednesday they’re headed to Vegas to spend time with his parents then on Thursday they’re going to spend time with her parents. His parents aren’t sure what to think of Sam from what he’s gathered. He thinks he likes it that way because he’s not sure he knows what he wants yet either.

By the time they get back, his thoughts are on Christmas and what the heck he’s going to get everyone. The NASCAR offseason isn’t really an offseason. They go from 24/7 racing to 24/7 family until the racing starts back up in January with obligations and photo shoots. So he forgets about the cases of Budweiser and the note until he needs to restock his fridge with beer.

The note’s still on top of them. He really doesn’t know what to do with it. It’s not like he cares about Junior. He’ll take the beer sure, anyone would, but what the heck is he supposed to do with the note? Is a response expected? Is this some sort of weird olive branch, and when the fuck did Junior decide he wanted to be friends?

He sticks it in his wallet and restocks the fridge. He doesn’t have time for shit like that right now. Christmas and New Years come and go but in the midst of all that chaos, he finds himself pulling the note out and staring at it. He still doesn’t get it. Once everything’s finally settled down, he gets a hold of Martin and gets Junior’s screen name. He has Junior’s cell but what do they have to talk about? He just wants this business about the freaking note done with so he can stop thinking about it.

He doesn’t take into account Junior might never be freaking on ‘cause he’s a retard. After two weeks, he caves and asks Martin what the hell?! Of course even online Junior’s locked down tighter than anyone else on the damn planet. Martin doesn’t tell him what he does, he doesn’t care, but a few days later he sees Junior’s screen name pop up.

There’s no finesse to his opener. He’s not known for it. Why start now?

You sent me Budweiser. The immediate log off he half expected happens. Well, he tried and that’s that. ‘Cause he’s not doing this over the phone and email would be stupid. Then Junior signs back on and messages him back with “meant what I said.”

He sits and stares at his screen for too long after. Fingers find the keyboard to type the one word that he can come up with. Why?

You’re a hell of a driver and we can put on a damn good show for the fans without killing each other if we wanted.

He leaves the room after that. By the time he comes back the next morning, Junior’s long signed off. He doesn’t get it. Nothing of what he expects has happened. He’s good at predictions, honestly he is. Take a look at what he can do with the car and how it’s paid off. It works on people for the most part and he’s not been too wrong yet. Junior he can’t fucking puzzle out and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Sam’s not there, visiting friends or family, when he loses it. He grabs a six pack of beer, hops in his Lexus, and heads to Junior’s place. He doesn’t crack into the six pack until he’s sitting outside Junior’s gate. He’s insane for doing this. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just fucking beer but he hates not knowing the answer. Always has. He has to know why.

He pulls up to Junior’s house after the second beer. The place was finally completed close to Homestead and it’s definitely more fitting for NASCAR’s golden boy than the one he saw on CMT Cribs. It’s not the glorified modular home it used to be. It sprawls to either side like a lumbering giant, the two stories elegant in their simplicity. He wonders how the pool’s changed if it has at all. Whatever, he doesn’t care. He pulls into the driveway and stares at the door until he’s finished a third beer.

He needs the buzz to drown out the part of him that’s shouting “what the fuck are you doing?!” It’s not like he knows. He just wants answers. Up the steps and he presses the doorbell, eyeing the lounge chair along with a swing out on the front porch. That’s almost unexpected but then not really.

The door opens to a surprised Junior. “Kyle?”

He locks his gaze on Junior, he’s not leaving until he has an answer. “Why did you send me the beer?”

Junior stares at him like he’s insane and he might be, obsessed with this nothing of an issue. He’s buzzed but not plastered and Junior being stupid is not what he needs. “Figured you could use some after how things turned out.”

Nonchalant shrug then Junior’s leaning against the edge of the door frame. He watches those eyes get shadowed by the hand Junior rubs across his forehead. He believes him. He actually believes him and he drove all his way for that? He’s an idiot. “Why?”

That earns him a quirk of the mouth and an arched eyebrow. “I don’t hate you no matter what everyone’s said. Just don’t ‘ppreciate it when you stick your nose into things you don’t know.” Another shrug of the shoulders and a lip bite too. There’s more there Junior’s not saying and it’s fucking bullshit he won’t be blunt with him face to face. He’s done with trading insults through the media. He’s drunk enough not to care about the consequences but not drunk enough to not know what he’s doing.

He reaches out and shoves Junior hard in the chest. “Don’t fucking bullshit me. What else were you gonna say? Say it to my face. We can stop playing the media game right now.”

The relaxed atmosphere changes into something tighter, warier, and that’s what he was looking for. He’s not someone to be babied and he sure as hell knows when someone’s bullshitting him. Junior rests his arms on either side of the door frame, blocking the door completely, as he glares at him. “I don’t respect you. Don’t think your talent’s worth shit if you don’t know how to treat your fans and the media. We don’t live in fucking isolation while we’re at the track, post race, after a bad finish. You’re 24 and an asshole. I’m waiting for you to grow up. You’re nothing more than a kid playing with the grownups.”

Every word has a bite to it. Perfectly clear through that hick accent. This he can handle. He’s handled this his whole life. No one takes losing to a kid half their age kindly. The fans hate him but that only fuels the fire. Let’s see how good NASCAR’s golden boy is when it comes to an actual knock down, dirty fight. Step forward and get right in Junior’s face. “At least I’m not mediocre! You’re in fucking Hendrick equipment; you should be tearing up the field with me!”

Junior’s eyes harden and the glare sent his way makes him get why Junior’s dad had the nickname “Intimidator.” Not like it has an effect on him though. He’s handled guys scarier than some redneck from North Carolina. “You don’t know shit! Never had it hard, have you? Everything handed right to you on a silver platter.”

It makes his blood boil because they say that enough, too much. He won’t take it from the nobody that’s riding on his last name alone! He fucking won’t! He reaches out to punch Junior or shove him, anything other than what happens. Somehow his hand fists in Junior’s shirt to tug him forward and his lips brush against Junior’s.

The next thing he knows he’s flat on his back on the porch, his jaw stinging like a motherfucker. Dazed and wondering what the fuck, Kyle reaches up to rub his jaw and fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark. The next thing he processes is “Get the fuck off my property” in Junior’s hick accent and he makes his eyes focus enough to see Junior scowling from the doorway right before the door slams shut. Kyle’s going to blame whatever the fuck just happened on the alcohol. Actually he’s going to blame this whole goddamned period of time on the alcohol. He picks himself up, still rubbing his jaw, gets into his car, and heads the hell home.

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Zippit - zippit@cryptoffic.com