Rating: I don't know yet, but knowing me, at least R
Pairing: MR/TW
Summary: AU. Trapped somewhere between angst and humour.
A/N: Never happened. Except the tiny bits that did, and those have been completely turned to my own purposes. Feedback is like a grande non-fat extra-hot tazo chai.

First part is here.


Michael’s on till the next morning, tired and bleary-eyed and not particularly looking forward to the rest of the day. He’s stuck working with someone whose name ends in ‘i', so of course she can’t quite seem to remember the component ingredients in any kind of bar drink.

“Hey,” says the next customer, not in the distracted way of most pre-caffeinated customers. Michael looks up with a fake half-smile, his fingers already on the till buttons.

Tom Welling. “Hey,” Michael answers, adding the second half of his smile.

Tom just keeps smiling back at him for two or three seconds, his eyes flicking down to the counter and back to Michael’s eyes over and over, until Michael finally decides that enough is enough.

He clicks his tongue quietly, signaling bored impatience, and then says, “What can I get for you?”

“Oh,” says Tom, blinking out of his grinning trance and -- ha -- blushing prettily. “Oh, I’ll have a cappuc-- no. Um. I’ll just get a venti dark roast.”

The person on till pours the drip coffee, and Michael has a funny suspicion that this is why Tom Welling changed his mind partway into his order. Michael announces the total and takes Tom’s crumpled blue five, hands him his change and feels Tom’s big warm fingers drag along his palm during the transfer, and yeah. Okay. So Tom Welling is into Michael. Nothing to be alarmed about there, it’s not like he or any other barista can go for more than three shifts in a row without one pervert or another hitting on them.

But Tom Welling isn’t exactly a typical barista-perv, Michael reminds himself as he goes to pour Tom’s venti dark roast. For one thing, he’s straight and married (Michael knows how to use IMDb too) and for another -- for another…

“So you, uh,” says Tom, lingering long enough to draw glares from the people behind him in line, “you’re Michael, right?”

“Yeah,” says Michael, and nods at the next person who is already edging forward. She lights into her order and Michael is vaguely aware of the way Tom is still standing at the till, just off to the side in front of the pastry case.

“And half-sweet, did I say half-sweet?”

“Yeah,” Michael nods, Tom Welling on the periphery of his vision like a large vivid hallucination. “Yeah, you did.” He calls the drink and while he’s making change, Tom steps closer again.

“Because I think we’ve met before. You just look really familiar.”

It’s such an obvious line that Michael finds himself grinning as he shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, keeping his gaze fixed on the till, the next customer.

“No, really, I’m sure we’ve --”

“We haven’t,” Michael says, and the words are oddly harsh, so much so that Brandi or Cindi or Kerri looks over at him with sudden interest. Michael half-laughs and looks over at Tom, who has gone pink-cheeked and seems hurt, like an overeager puppy whose overtures were rebuffed. “I’m -- I would remember,” Michael says, more evenly. “Meeting you. I’d remember.”

Their eyes lock for a moment, and it suddenly gets serious in Starbucks, and then the guy who’s been waiting to place his order says, loudly, “Gimme a half-caf latte. Venti. Extra shot, extra hot. *No foam*,” and Michael looks away first.

When Michael finishes taking the impatient man’s order, Tom is over by the napkins and milk, sweetening his coffee with his broad back turned.

And by the time Michael lets himself look again, Tom is gone.

***

Michael calls ICM as soon as he gets off work, walking down 70th with his cell phone against his ear. The receptionist is walking the line between a polite ‘fuck off’ and a careful interrogation of his credentials, but it’s not until Michael squints hard and manages to pull his erstwhile agent’s extension number out of the ether that she relaxes into the friendly cooing tone he used to get all the time.

“Let me just see if Ian’s available,” she says, “and then I’ll transfer you over.” Two staticky clicks and half a ring later, and Michael’s plugged back into Hollywood like he never left.

“Michael!” exclaims Ian warmly. “Man, how have you *been*, we’ve missed you!”

Yes, missed him so much that when Michael called to terminate ICM’s contract with him, they’d argued for about five minutes before conceding. “I’ve been okay,” Michael says. “I’m living up in Vancouver, actually. Funny, huh?”

Ian agrees that it’s funny with a forced laugh. “So, to what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” he asks as soon as he possibly can.

“Don’t get excited,” Michael says in a flat tone. “Nothing’s changed on my end, so unless you want to try and convince me that the rest of the universe has changed, then --”

“I still think you’re blaming us for something that we had no control over,” says Ian, finally sounding more like the guy he was last time they spoke.

“Regardless, that’s not why I called,” Michael sidesteps neatly. “I just wanted to ask you -- back when I was up for Lex Luthor, did anyone show Tom Welling my screen tests?”

“Ohh,” exhales Ian slowly and thoughtfully. “Look, I can’t tell you off the top of my head if they did. That would be in the producers’ court. But I mean, it would be strange if they had. Because from what I heard, they were having a hell of a time getting Welling to sign. I don’t they were exactly sitting around showing him films of his potential co-stars. Why do you ask?”

“Just curiosity,” says Michael.

There’s a slight pause, and Ian tries again. “Are you working at all? I know you said you wanted to get back into the theatre, I could pull some strings.”

“I’m not in the business anymore,” Michael answers. “It turns out it was just easier to leave altogether."

“But with your talent,” exhales Ian, but stops. It makes Michael smile -- for all the ass-kissing Ian does, he’s genuinely having difficulty delivering a sincere compliment. “What about writing? You used to write.”

“You’re going to go out and hawk my scripts now?” asks Michael, laughing.

“I know people who --”

“Thanks, Ian. You answered my question. I appreciate it.” He snaps his phone shut and walks faster.

His heart is racing and doesn’t quite know why.