|Humor Me| ::A Michael McIntyre Story::

:: Chapter 1.28 :: {After Parties Can Be Boring ... Sometimes}

(A/N: I would just like to point out that there is only a total of two chapters left after this one. That's right- it's that time!

It's nearly over! How do you feel about that? ;) Hope you've enjoyed it so far, and you love the last three chapters.

Thanks for sticking with me up to here, and sorry for the drama. Oh admit it- you love the drama! :D Anywho, I just wanted to warn you. Thanks!)

Michael McIntyre's POV:

As it seemed, there was only one way to avoid the large crowd of contestants, fans, and press. It was very obvious and very simple.

Hide in the corner, facing the wall. Then again, as strange as that would appear it would only draw more attention to myself.

Perhaps an even better way was to not attend at all. Then again the party had begun only shortly after the show had ended.

I shook my small champagne glass in a circular motion, swirling the liquor content. I stared it down blankly.

White wine. I took a small sip, getting pelted in the face with an icy flashing light. The paparazzi had been generous with their film this evening.

"Hey- he doesn't need this right now. Get lost." ordered a dominant, familiar, angry voice. I rubbed my eyes quickly, looking at my defender.

To my surprise, it was the unexpected Hasselhoff. He sent a half smile, giving me a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Just ignore the press buddy. They're ignorant bastards. They only care about themselves." he rolled his eyes, taking a swig of his beverage.

All they had done was take a picture. Was he hinting at something I wasn't aware of? Did they have something on me?

"Why- what are they saying?" I raised an eyebrow curiously up at the man. He shrugged, sticking a hand in his trouser pocket.

"Nothing. But they don't care where they point their nosy cameras. And you do know you can talk to me about your girl right?" he questioned.

What? Was he actually being... sincere? Nice? This was... a miracle! A complete rare moment in history. This should be filmed.

"Why do you care? We do not like eachother David." I reminded him as if it were obvious. He looked taken back by this.

"How do you mean?" he seemed genuinely confused. Did he honestly not have the same problem with me I did him?

"We never agree on anything... we argue a LOT... you're so sarcastic to me..." I listed off my issues about him.

He blinked a few times, sitting down on a bar stool near the counter. I could tell he was processing this hard.

"Michael it's our job to not get along on the show. I consider you a friend, and I'm only sarcastic cause I like you man!" he scoffed with a smile.

He liked me? He's my... friend? Was that word even in his vocabulary before this moment in time? 

"Us? Friends? Seriously? And that's why you give me advice on things?" I asked impatiently. He nodded slowly.

"I care about you. I gave you advice so you wouldn't screw things up. You deserve to be happy man." he shook his head.

He wanted me to be happy. David Hasselhoff cared about my emotions. This is the most shocking thing I've ever discovered in my life.

"Dude, you're young enough to be my son. I consider you as one." he admitted. I was like a son to him?

Well I'm thirty five... and he is fifty nine. That would have made him twenty four if I was born his child.