Where We Begin is the End

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Summary: It’s a night for goodbyes.

AUTHOR: Zippit
EMAIL: zippit@cryptoffic.com
RATING: PG-13
CHARACTER: Tony Stewart/Dale Earnhardt Jr, Tony POV
CHALLENGE: Christmas Request 2008
WRITTEN FOR: luvjunebug8
COMPLETED: December 25, 2008
WORD COUNT: 1,189
DISCLAIMER: Not real; don’t know them, don’t claim to know them. Only the makings of my imagination. 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: This is a Christmas fic written for luvjunebug8. Tony’s leaving Gibbs, something I never thought I’d see, and here’s my take on it.
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Waldorf-Astoria - New York City, New York – December 5th, 2008

If you’d asked me five years ago, two even, where I’d be right now I’d have said right here if they’d have me. I’d be here ‘til I retired and considering I’d pulled that threat on them plenty of times I was lucky to still have a job. I don’t want to be here, walking onto that stage in a few hours time to give my guys a mediocre sendoff. Most of them aren’t even here because only the Champion’s crew gets to party it up in New York. They’re all probably home enjoying the holiday with the families they don’t get to see enough while I’m here in the Waldorf whiling away time ‘til the banquet.

I should’ve sent them off with a last party in the Big Apple. Instead I’m the ninth place runner up, having to sit through three hours of bull until we finally get to Jimmie. It’s not like the banquet’s anything but a way to schmooze the sponsors. Put their names up on TV for a night and they’re happy. They want wins, they want this and that, until you’re so burnt out you want to kill something. I don’t know how Junior handles it. He and Jeff have the busiest schedules in the garage and it doesn’t do a thing to kill their competitive fire each and every weekend.

It’s not gonna feel right to be up there on stage while he had the option of leaving after the Meyers Luncheon yesterday. New York’s not really his thing, though with his rockstar image you would think it would be. I don’t want to sit in a suit and tie, playing the pretty monkey for NASCAR. I wonder if I could get away with not wearing a tux tonight. Junior’s done it more times than I can count. From what I heard the only time anyone’s seen him in a tux willingly was when he did his first Dale Jr. Sports Auction. I would’ve paid good money to be there when he first came out. Smirk slightly as the New York skyline outside the Waldorf suite’s balcony window melts into the sight of a self conscious Dale Jr. striding on stage to intro the reason we’re all here tonight. Mmm, yeah, all eyes in the room would widen and a lot of people would be kicking themselves for not bringing a camera.

Sleep warm arms curls around my waist and a chin rests on my shoulder as a low southern drawl fills my ear, “ Come back to bed. Ain’t need to be anywhere yet.”

Lean back into him slightly and smile a little more when he I feel him shiver slightly because as usual he’s dressed in just his boxers. “Nothing but boxers? You really have to get over that.”

Arms tighten around me and a nip at my neck. “No damn way. You got any idea the sort of evil that could happen to me if I did that?” One day he’ll get over his obsession with not sleeping naked. The only evil things that’d happen to him are the things I’d be doing.

“You’d like my brand of evil, guarantee it.” A low chuckle as he tugs me around to kiss me softly, his hand against my cheek.

“Maybe I would, but that ain’t what’s got you staring out the window.” Let him lead me back to bed because there’s really no place I want to be more. Definitely not in a suit having to head down for the most boring dinner of the year in a little while’s time.

We’re here on NASCAR’s dime and well, we’re putting it to use the best way we know how. We haven’t left the room much at all. No matter how much he claims he’s not the type of guy you want to take home to your mother, he is. The way he knows exactly what I need right now because maybe he’s gone through this himself or maybe because he knows me. As many years as we’ve been friends, it could be both. I know that fire inside him burns just as bright as mine. Watch him tug the covers over himself while I settle on the bed beside him.

For a while there I wondered where that fire had gone cause he wasn’t the brash rookie I clashed with back in ‘98 whose father was bigger than life in so many ways. He really does have a long fuse when he’s not in the racecar. Watch his sleepy eyes close as he half burrows further under the plush covers. I can’t stay long. I never can. I do have to do a few crap media things before we head into the big ballroom where the banquet’s held so I do the one thing I can do, take him in.

He’s nearly as pale as the sheets and when I saw that episode of Shifting Gears where he’d been racing all night after his win, I’d fallen off the couch laughing. I’d always wondered how he stayed that pale when I know he never puts on sunscreen. There was my answer in no uncertain terms. Rest my hand over the scar that haunts us all. Too many ways, too soon, too many reasons. We had them all when that first flash of fear paralyzed us. Feel his pulse sliding warm against my palm, stroking a thumb across his jaw. A sleepy voice murmurs, “What?”

“Nothing.” It’s not the same living in Indiana while he’s in North Carolina. We’re both too rooted in the safety of our hometowns to leave them too willingly after all these years. But we manage. I get Harvick to look in on Dale when I know he needs someone and I can’t be there. I don’t get to watch him sleep often enough. I don’t get to do a lot of things with him which makes all the times I do even more special.

One day I’ll get to come to a banquet where he’s the one sitting up on the stage basking in the glow of his own Championship. He’ll start fidgeting after the first half hour cause we’re locked onto that stage. We can’t get up and leave unless we’re not being broadcast and we’re not allowed to mingle with everyone else. Something about it taking too long to get back to the stage afterwards. Yeah, bullshit.

Brush a kiss against his lips and pull back when he barely stirs, threading a hand through his hair. Murmur, “I’ll see you after the banquet,” then ease from the bed to change. It’s time I get ready to meet with Mike then head down to wait in the lobby for the limo NASCAR’ll be sending for us. Nothing says arriving in style like a limo. Snort softly to myself and at least I don’t have to deal with the stupid mess of hair I had. Takes less time now. One last glance in the mirror before I head out the door and off to the three most boring hours of the year I have to suffer through.

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Zippit - zippit@cryptoffic.com