For minniem: "Lance/Chris AU where they travel as hobos in disguise."

Chris poked Lance in the leg with his toes as Lance tried to fish the sausage out of the bottom of the fire-pit they'd dug. It was fairly well burned, but it was their last one, so Lance was determined to rescue it. "Here. I learned this one from one of the guys at the last camp we wandered into. It's really catchy." He strummed his banjo -- the one thing, they'd both agreed, that was vital to bring with them, no matter how much it made them look like they were more well-to-do than they really should be. Neither one of them really felt much like living without music, and since the purpose of their cross-country trip as bums -- "people of no fixed employment", Chris insisted, it sounded better -- was to record the music that was coming out of the train lines and the shantytowns, it made sense for them to bring at least one instrument. "Here. 'Railroading on the Great Divide, nothing around me but Rockies and sky, there you'll find me as years go by, railroading on the Great Divide.'"

"Very nice," Lance said. "Hand me that other stick, would you? I can't get this without burning myself."

"Oh, pfft," Chris said, and reached into the coals, yanking out the sausage, dropping it nearly immediately onto the grass, yelping, and blowing on his fingers. "Ow, that's hot."

"Well, yes, idiot, it was in the fire, and fires are usually hot. I know they say that academics have their heads in the clouds, but that's a bit ridiculous."

Chris waved a hand -- the one that he hadn't reached into the fire with, which was currently in his mouth -- and said, around the singed fingers, "I used to do that all the time when I was younger and we dropped something into the fire. It's not as bad as it could be. Goes away quickly." He pulled his fingers out of his mouth and frowned at it, thoughtfully. "Then again, I had more calluses back then. Maybe this sheltered academic life has turned me soft."

"Oh, for goodness's sake." Lance rolled his eyes, and then speared the sausage with the stick he'd been using to roast it. He'd gotten good at fireside cooking since Chris had dragged him out into the countryside -- "It's research!" Chris had gushed, enthusiastically. "They won't talk to you unless they think that you're one of them." -- but he still sometimes wished for the simple amenities of life. Like a stove. Or a shower. Or indoor plumbing. Life as an anthropologist was fraught with danger and occasionally a little more hands-on than he would have liked, but he wouldn't trade it in for the world.

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