A/N: This was written especially for Morg.
She's hilarious and embarrassed me in the middle of Starbucks one day. This is why.
The crash of exploding glass shatters the stillness, the silence of 4:14am making the sound that much louder. It's certainly loud enough to wake both Scott and Mitch.
"Someone's breaking in!" Mitch whisper-screams, his hand blindly scrabbling over the nightstand, reaching for his phone.
Scott's already half out of bed. "Lock yourself in the bathroom," he croaks, voice sleep-heavy and slurred. "Go. Now. Run."
"What are you doing?" Mitch demands even as his fingers find the phone and he takes a few sluggish steps towards the bathroom. Scott is moving in the wrong direction, away from what little safety might be behind a locked door. "Come on!"
"Go," Scott mutters again, sounding more awake. "Gonna chase'm away." He's almost to the bedroom door now, and he reaches for the Louisville Slugger from the corner it's stashed in.
Mitch is across the room and gripping his arm before Scott finishes his sentence. "Are you fucking insane?" Rather than answer the question, Scott hoists the baseball bat onto his shoulder and raises his other hand, with Mitch still attached, in a stop gesture.
"Mitch. Go. Nobody's inside because the alarm would be going off. Bathroom, just in case, please?"
Eyes narrowed and mouth set in a thin line, Mitch stares Scott down. The alarm thing is a good point. He hadn't thought of that. Still, Scott going all LeBron on a potential murderer with that bat is quite possibly the dumbest idea the blonde's ever had. "Fine," he whispers. "But if you get beaten with your own bat I will literally pee in your mouth."
There. That'll show him. Mitch turns on his heel and angrily tiptoes to the bathroom where he stands waiting, somewhere between annoyed and terrified, for Scott to come back. It seems to take forever before he hears the familiar footsteps.
"You are so gross," Scott says, stepping into the bathroom. "Good news, no one broke in. Bad news, the gold record plaque fell off the wall and now there's glass everywhere."
Mitch stares at him. "How did it fall off the wall? We got those special anchor things so they wouldn't fall, didn't we?"
"Yeah," Scott agrees. "I dunno, home improvement isn't really my thing. Shit happens, glass breaks, I'm going back to bed."
Two nights later the piano wakes Mitch.
At first he just grumbles in his sleep. What the hell is Scott thinking playing Zimmer at this hour? "Sttttooopppppp," Mitch groans when the music continues. "You stop, too late for piano," Scott mumbles back... from right next to him.
They both sit straight up, all traces of sleep gone. Scott isn't playing the piano at oh-fuck-thirty and Mitch certainly isn't playing it; who the hell is?
"Bathroom," Scott orders, sliding out of bed and heading for the baseball bat and the door again without giving Mitch a chance to argue. Mitch doesn't argue, though he may possibly mutter threats under his breath about what he'll do if Scott gets his stupid pretty blonde head bashed in with his own bat as he perches on the edge of the tub.
Things get a little more exciting this time around because the police come. Scott insists on it. The piano had stopped as he'd left the bedroom and he hadn't found anyone inside or anything amiss, but at this point he's nervous that he's missed a point of entry or something because this is just not right. "I dunno, I don't want to bother them for nothing," Mitch tells him, though he secretly thinks it may not be a bad idea. He remembers reading something on the internet about crazy people secretly living in attics and closets and shit. Maybe they have a crazy attic-dweller.
