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peachyteabuck · 4 years ago

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under cover of darkness

summary: a 24-hour convenience store, the night shift, and the man who gets you through day.

a commission for @lovelycarose

pairing: eliot spencer x reader

words: 5510

trigger warnings: mentions of a break-in with canon-level violence, fluff, mentions of an unspecified chronic pain disorder

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

There are some good things about the night shift. It’s easier to balance classes and your precarious mental health, plus the pay wasn’t terrible – a few extra bucks per hour were thrown your way after eleven and before five.

So you kept with it, one earbud in so you could listen to music while the hours ticked by at a pace so slow it felt like some supervillain had not only completely frozen time – but was also determined to thaw is at room temperature.

That was another thing about the night shift – the customers. It was mostly regulars, or tourists who forgot something at home but didn’t want to spend airport prices for a travel sized container of deodorant. None of them really stick out, none interesting enough to stick in your brain for long as you mindlessly pack their various items into white plastic bags.

That is, until he starts coming in. Tall and impossible big – it’s hard not to marvel at him as if he was a breathtaking skyscraper, like you had never seen something so magnificent. His flowing dark brown hair, his tight jeans…it’s all nearly too much for eleven-at-night-you. (Also for “I haven’t had sex in so long and I think I’ve eroded the ridges on my vibrator from using it so often and holy shit I would do anything to have that man under/above me” you, a you only made stronger and more desperate by how late it was and tired you were.)

He walks around with the confidence not often seen in newcomers, your eye used to college students too drunk to stand up perfectly straight. You’re used to people stumbling around with eyes-half closed, rubbing their temples as the bright white lights feel like cheese graters shaped like ice picks against their already hurting brains. You’re used to watching them stumble around, using some Neolithic instinct to find the cool fridges where they’ll rest their faces against the glass for an oddly long amount of time before opening it up to grab as many Gatorades as they could hold before attempting to grab one or two (or five) frozen pizzas, never able to access the higher order thinking necessary to understand that maybe grabbing one of the baskets by the entrance is important.

Or, on the other end of the spectrum you’ve come to know as normal: soccer moms searching for alcohol for their husband’s post-game barbecue. Moms with large dark circles under their eyes who probably read (and watched) the Fifty Shades movie unironically but still feels weird when their husbands suggest having sex in any position besides missionary with the lights off. Moms who went to college just to meet some mediocre-looking frat boy who votes Republican just because his father did and thinks thirty seconds of oral is enough foreplay.

They don’t spend as much time in the store as the drunk/high students, but it’s still just as entertaining watching them grab the food and drink – but not before lingering in the makeup aisle, staring at bold shades of red and waterproof mascara and the bright hair dye whose advertisements have terribly applied photoshop.

No matter the type – no matter the customer – they were nothing like the man who stood on the other side of the store, staring intently at your soft drink selection. None of them were beefy men with crumpled grocery lists, permanently furrowed brows, and the most beautiful five o’clock shadow you’ve ever seen. None of them wear thick black work boots that make not a single sound as they walk around the store, none of them wear jeans that are so criminally tight around a perfect ass.

Not even a perfect ass – the perfect ass. It’s symmetrical, looking as if it was drawn by a pin-up artist in the 50’s whose specialty involves drawing super buff men in poses meant for petite, slender women with perfect curves. As he walks you half expect sparks to form on his backside as if you were in some kind of Anime, or for each individual cheek to bounce up and down on their own asynchronous accord. Normally you’d be terrified of being caught staring – of him turning around and catching your eye and mocking someone like you for having the nerve to be attracted to him.

But that doesn’t happen, because for once in your life the universe is kind to you. For once in your life you’re allowed to listen to music and stare dreamily at the hot guy who checks the ingredients on every snack dip option you have available before choosing three different ones with a small, disappointed huff.

You watch him with that same silent intensity as he fills the bright red carrier he grabbed without a sound when he first strutted in, the packaging of the items crinkling being the only way to track his location when he steps out of your eyeline. If your boss wasn’t the one on security cameras you’d be angling all of them to follow him around the store, your eyes hungry for another look at him at whatever angle and whichever quality you could get. You feel like a fangirl obsessed with some boyband, your heart rate determined by the amount of the mountain of a man you can see between displays of holiday-themed candy and cheap make up.

You’re not sure how long it is before he’s approaching your counter (time appears to have lost all meaning the second he stepped into the store), but whether it had been five minutes or five years, he still takes your breath away. As he steps closer you realize he’s fucking massive – something your grandmother (a wonderful woman, but one lacking when social situations called for, among other things, any kind of brain-to-mouth filter) would call a “shit brickhouse.” He doesn’t even need one of the baskets as he prowls the aisles – scanning every item like a lion watches the Sahara through tall grass. It’s hard to look away, to go back to the book you’ve been trying to read the same page from since long before the little automated bell above the door had announced the man’s arrival – but the only distraction before had been the tiny, exhausted voice in the back of your mind that was shaming at you for not sleeping before the night’s shift.

Now, though, the voice has quieted to allow your tired eyes to follow him, pupils tracing along every inch of him.

The man checks out without a word; shaking his head when you ask if he has a rewards card and paying in cash. When you give him $7.26 in change, your hands touch for a brief moment and you nearly stop breathing – lungs suddenly void of their capacity to hold air as sparks fly from his callous fingertips to the bottom of your spine. He pulls away, eventually, because he has to – depositing the totality of the meager amount of money you’d just handed him into the donation box plastered with facts about victims of domestic violence right next to your register.

The box is made of an opaque deep purple plastic, the coins making a loud clink sound as they crash into the near-empty container. The man stares at it for a moment, swallowing an apparent lump in his throat as his eyes go blank for a fraction of a second before he digs into his pockets and fishes out a thick wad of perfectly folded five dollar bills before stuffing them into the hastily cut slot at the top.

Neither of you say anything as he does so, you too stunned by his generosity and him too occupied with making sure he had no more money hidden in his pockets to try and muster some vague capacity for speech. Still, as he turns and leaves, you cough to clear your throat and call out a loud and slightly hoarse “thank you!” to which he just turns and gives you a small smile in return.

The moment between the pair of you is fleeting but still makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest, swelling until your lungs feel tight against your ribs as you struggle to breathe. Fuck, you think. You haven’t felt like this since middle school when Jamie told you that your Katniss braid was adorable and you followed him around for two weeks until he agreed to take you on a “date” during lunch. You don’t even know this man’s name and you’re fawning over him as if you have another girlhood crush.

God, you need to learn his name.

Luckily, you find out the next time that his name is Eliot, even though the name embroidered in red above the right pocket of his dirtied coveralls says “Evan” in a fancy looped script (whatever, you don’t question it. You regularly wore your roommate’s sweatshirt from her alma mater even though you didn’t attend the university – must be the same thing, right?). That time all he buys is hair ties and chapstick – lots of hair ties and chapstick, just another thing you don’t question – but stays to talk with you about the Robert Frost poem you were annotating.

“Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening?” he reads aloud, smiling a little as he does so. “Is that for class, or…”

“It’s for class, but I’m liking it a lot more than the other obligatory readings for my degree,” you tell him a small laugh. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

Eliot shrugs as he grabs the full bags. “Oh, ya know. Just the occasional piece. You have a good day now.”

You smile as he walks toward the exit, butterflies pounding in your stomach once more. “You too!”

God, you think as he disappears from eyeshot. You’ve got it bad, girl.

He comes in again, irregular in each way except for the fact he arrives. Sometimes he’s clean cut, standing straight as he takes his sweet time wandering the store – as if he has nowhere to be, no need to rush around.

On those days, he buys a lot of things. Duct tape, orange soda, hair ties, sour candy in all shapes and colors. He makes conversation, asking about the book you’re reading or what you’re listening to, asking about your classes when you wear a jacket embroidered with your university’s logo on the front. On those days, he waits a little – even when all his items are bagged and there’s no real reason for him to stay – picking up on anything that would give him another thread of conversation to pull at.

“Something new?” he asks when you dogear one of the first few pages of a poetry book your friend had lent you.

“Yup!” you perk up just at the sight of him, cheery now more than you had been the entirety of the day now that he’s arrived. “Told a friend of mine about the assignment I was working on the last time you were here, and she shoved this anthology into my hands.”

You like those days – you look forward to them each time you step through the large door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in large white letters that stand out against the incredibly depressing brown that’s been peeling since the day you interviewed here, spots covered sparsely by the maintenance guy who you’ve never seen. Those days are good, fun – they make you smile hours after he leaves and occupy your thoughts until you go to bed, sometimes even making it into the margins of your notebook when you’re zoning out in class.

Sometimes, though, he comes in nearly limping – at least one eye blackened and dark navy baseball cap pulled as far down his forehead as he can.

It scared you the first time, watching as he grunted with each step, every item he grabs from the shelves seeming like it pained him, his face scrunching into a wince each time he raises an arm above his ribs. You checked his items (bandages, ice packs, gauze, antifungal cream, a few first aid kits) with bated breath, terrified of making his mood worse.

It isn’t until you tell him the total, until you finally look up from your hands – that you finally look him in the eyes. They’re always warm like plate of freshly baked macaroni and cheese (and always make you feel just as gooey), but now appear to be clouded with a type of pain you can’t pin down. He doesn’t say much – or anything – as you bag his items, placing them gingerly into the paper bag as if it was an extension of him.

You try to keep a happy face throughout the entire ordeal, not wanting to push him in case what happened was particularly bad. Eliot gives you a similarly small, but earnest one in return – even if he barely hides the wince in his side as he does so.

But that was the first time things seemed a little off – your first time, specifically – and the others get easier as time passes.

At first, “easier” meant a return to days similar to the good ones – telling him things about your day as you ring up all his first-aid related items. He doesn’t respond with as much enthusiasm, doesn’t have the same witty banter – but gives you a small smile that you recognize nonetheless. But then, as the weeks bleed into months, you learn how to handle both the terrible days, the bad days, and the good days all the same.

It’s on one of the good days that he buys tampons, a piece of every kind of chocolate item you sell, and enough Acetaminophen to knock out a horse.

“Your girlfriend is very lucky,” you tell him, blushing as you bag the items. For a minute you think you’ve embarrassed him, crossed some line as a sickening silence grows between you two like mold on two-week old leftovers in a fridge that was turned off. It’s just as disgusting, too, which is why you’re so happy that he still gives you a small smile when you dare look up from where your scanner’s red line centers on the barcode of one of the tampon boxes.

“Nah, just,” Eliot’s plump lips look so kissable it makes your heart pick up. “A roommate, uh. She needs this. Her boyfriend is doing some game night thing and couldn’t pick it up. So I, uh. I got drafted.”

You give a little snort as you grab the receipt, smiling wide as you place it in the bag. “Well, your roommate is very lucky to have you.”

Eliot laughs as he grabs his stuff, cheeks heating up as he blushes. “Can I kidnap you for a little while so you can come remind her of that?”

In a rare moment of confidence, you lean forward and grin. “Is it kidnapping if I want it?”

The blush rages as he sputters a response, eyes downcast as he turns to leave. You get no witty response back, but the way he turns to wink at you as the automatic doors part is enough of a rebuttal for you to feel satisfied with your quip.

No matter what kind of mood Eliot is in, you look forward to his visits, watching and talking with him. Each evening you get ready for work you wondered if he would come in that night, if you would be able to tell him about the dumb thing this guy in one of your seminars said, or how you won an argument during bar crawl over the weekend using some of the random things he had taught you during the very conversations you now wish to have with him. It’s nice, the nicest thing you have in a long time – and somehow that doesn’t scare you, and somehow that makes you feel even better each time you see him.

But then “The Day” happens, and it changes everything.

The evening of “The Day” you woke up from your pre-work nap with this unexplainable feeling that something was going to go wrong. This feeling deep in the bottom of your stomach that you can’t quite place, one that makes the back of your knees sweat and where your ribs feel just a little tighter. Each and every sound – the cars that drive way too fast down your street, the creaking in your house, the dogs that bark obnoxiously – seem loudly, harsher than usual. When you sit up in bed when your alarm goes off it’s like you can feel the muscles in your back contract, feel the bones in your joints grind against each other. There’s some electricity in the air like when it’s right before a storm – only the sky is clear and your weather app doesn’t predict any rain until next week (and, even then, it’s only a drizzle).

At first you think it’s just a bad pain day; not bad enough to keep you home, or make you forget even the idea of doing anything besides groaning in pain in your bed and taking as many pain medications as your doctor says you’re able to. Still, it’s quite noticeable, and occupies your thoughts as you go through each part of your pre-work routine. Even as you shower, turn on your coffee pot, do the minimal make up required to make it look like you didn’t just roll out of bed or are some Victorian orphan plagued by tuberculosis and possibly a deep sadness embodied by the terrible weather that crashes outside their overcrowded London orphanage – you can’t seem to get rid of the proverbial dark cloud that settles itself between your brain and skull, clouding your thoughts and making your stomach hurt just a little.

It doesn’t get better when you get into work, either. There’s a tenseness in the air you can practically taste – electricity in the air that settles over your skin and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up straighter than the carefully constructed sales display of some B-list celebrity’s nail polish collection, the one you spent hours fussing over during one of your very rare day shifts. It somehow only gets worse when Eliot arrives, whistling some tune that normally would be wistful and happy, but given the context sounds like something straight from a horror movie trailer that invades your otherwise-sweet daydreams for weeks to come; one of those songs that everyone knows but no one knows the name of that sounds really creepy when played slowly over a clip of some old, beat-up doll being held by an adorable little blonde girl with black-out contacts in.

You don’t tell him to stop, but the tune does slow when he notices your tense state when he passes to get to the soft drink aisle. When he gives you a questioning look you just shrug, hoping he forgets (or finds it in himself not to ask) about it by the time he finds what he needs. Judging by the song, lack of list, and spring in his step – it’s a good day, one where he intends to meander around the store and grab whatever it is catches his attention. Today that appears to be anything with sugar, most notably soda in every color but orange.

At some point he finds his way closer to you – more specifically he finds his way to the chocolate aisle, which faces your register – and strikes up a conversation. It’s just small talk, and doesn’t do much to distract you from the twisting in your gut, but you appreciate his efforts nonetheless. The small talk just feels like a dead-end – a polite road to nowhere that feels pointless to engage in. Still, it’s Eliot, so you give half-hearted answers and ask half-hearted questions and hope he doesn’t press you too hard on your slightly-sour mood.

And, because it’s Eliot, he draws a few small laughs and a couple of tiny smiles and it’s…nice. It’s not the usual “Good Day,” but it’s not a bad one, either.

But then it happens. And it happens quick – all of it.

Three men, dressed head to toe in black, enter guns a blazing as if they own the place. They’re wearing masks over everywhere but their eyes, the thick, black material likely silencing their voices if they weren’t screaming at the top of their lungs.

They enter in an oddly-triangular formation – one you’d describe akin to the Charlie’s Angel’s post if you weren’t scared out of your fucking mind. One of them runs to the aisle where you keep cold medicine, the other ransacking the liquor aisle and shoving heavy glass bottles of your most expensive bottles of alcohol into the black duffel bag slung around his shoulder. The last one – the one you think is the leader – keeps his eye on you as he steps closer to where you are at the register.

It’s the scariest fucking thing to ever happen to you, and what occurs next happens too fast for you to describe.

You blink once and find that you’re staring down the barrel of a handgun that’s definitely loaded and definitely has the safety off. The end shakes just a little, as if the robber is nervous, and you wonder why he’s the one scared. Both of your hands are up in the air, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle while sweat pools at your brow and your bottom lip trembles. It’s the most terrified you’ve ever been in your entire life, and if you had enough in your stomach you throw up, you totally would’ve.

But then – Eliot.

You’re screaming at him to stop, to get away and hide and what are you doing? They’ve got a gun! Get away! You could be hurt! Eliot!

But then you realize that, holy shit, he’s actually taking the guy down. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the face. Holy shit, Eliot just punched that dude in the gut. Holy shit, Eliot just disarmed that dude while punching him.

It’s only when the guy that targeted you is screaming in pain from a dislocated shoulder that the other two realize something’s up and come rushing towards the man that stands just in front of your register. You’d scream if you weren’t stunned – eyes not sure where to look as Eliot disarms them with the grace of a professional ballet dancer at the same fucking time. He’s fierce but controlled – not breaking any bones but definitely leaving some bruises as he knocks them to the ground and kicks their guns across the carpet.

It’s then – when the inferior robbers are writhing in pain on the ground – that he grabs the leader by the collar of his black hoodie and pulls the teenager’s wincing face close to Eliot’s raging one.

“I will give you one warning,” he hisses, teeth bared like an angered wolf as he spits. “one warning to leave this place and never come back. If this,” his left hand raises to gesture to you in all your petrified glory. “Nice lady tells me that you have returned to so much as buy a single stick of gum, I will track you down and find you and make sure you pay for the damage you’ve done here today. You got that?”

The still-masked teenager immediately nods furiously, eyes wide with terror and legs already kicking at the ground to leave.

Eliot gives a small, faux smile, and shoves the kid back down onto the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. “Good, now get the Hell out of here and don’t come back.”

Without hesitation, the would-be robbers scatter as fast as their damaged legs can carry them, clutching their bags to their chests as they rush to their crappy getaway van.

If you weren’t scared shitless you’d admit you’re a little turned on at the feat, especially as Eliot flips his hair from his face as he watches them speed away.

Your boss appears a few seconds later, apparently one more to watch from his safe room in the back than to interfere. Thank Heavens Eliot was here, you think. Facing those three kids on your own – even if they were, indeed, kids – makes your blood pressure spike once more.

“Should I call the cops?” he asks, looking at the wreckage around the store. The only silent alarm is located under the counter where the register is and, given your petrified state, you weren’t one to trip it.

Eliot just sighs and shakes his head, kicking a broken bottle of whiskey that for sure was going to stain the carpet. “No, they can’t do much – those kids probably don’t have a record and I don’t think you’ll get much out of ‘em if they do find the bastards. They’re young, broke, and I don’t know how much priority your case will be given.”

Your boss sighs, rubbing his face. It’s not as if they stole more than a few hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise, but being the victim of a robbery is still both tiring and rage-inducing – especially when someone like him has gone so long without incident. “But, I, what am I supposed to do? I just-“

Eliot grabs his wallet from his back pocket, reaching into it to fish out a small, professional-looking business card that he hands to your boss. “Call the number there come sun rise and tell them Eliot referred you. They’ll help you out with whatever you need.”

The man who signs your paychecks furrows his brow and reads the block print allowed. “Leverage, Incorporated? They can help me replace what I lost?”

Eliot nods, placing a comforting hand on your boss’ shoulder. “Everything.”

Immediately the man nods and steps away to go out the back exit, leaving you and Eliot in the center of it all.

It’s then – just as you’re alone – where the sun’s just coming up and the large windows in the shop allow its warm light to bath the both of you in a beautiful soft orange. There are no other customers there, and with your boss preoccupied with calming himself down, it really does feel like it’s just you and Eliot – just the two of you with the whole world still asleep around you. It’s nice, perfect.

He’s the one to break the silence, voice gruff as he flashes you a small, shy grin. “So, uh…you want to go for coffee?”

Your heart rams in your chest even louder than when you were staring the possibility of a gunshot wound to the face, the poor organ exhausted as your brain screams at you to accept his generous offer. It takes what feels like an eternity to muster up the courage to do so, but before you can Eliot’s already speaking once more.

“Not that you, uh,” he clears his throat. “Not that you should feel, uh, pressured, or anything. I just mean like, hey, you worked all night and just went through a pretty rough event, and you’re probably tired, and probably pretty hungry as well, and a coffee place just opened up a street away that I’ve heard good things about. I’ve wanted to try it out, for a while actually, and I wanted to, uh, see if I’d have the honor of you joining me…”

“Eliot,” you laugh as you step closer, placing your hand on his face to guide his eyes to yours. “Don’t be stupid. I’d love to go with you,” he smiles and it warms every bit of you. “Just let me grab my bag and clock out, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He sputters through an “okay, sure, yeah,” before you both turn to leave – him out the front doors and you behind the large one your boss had just been hidden behind. Your hands shake just a little as you insert the little card into the dinosaur of a machine, the loud noise and sputtering sound it makes now white noise as you grab your purse and rejoin him outside.

When you arrive at the coffee shop (aptly named “The Bean Spot”) you order a caramel latte with a cheese Danish, Eliot getting a simple black coffee with cream along with a walnut muffin. You wait for your breakfast in relative silence, neither you nor Eliot sure what to say after such an event. When the food and drink are handed over to you, you find a spot tucked in the back with an excellent view of the whole place.

The coffee shop is nearly empty since it’s still so early in the morning – the only patrons coming in, getting their coffee, and zipping off to the next part of their day. It’s nice to be the only inert thing, the movements of the people around you providing a nice cover as they zip past, locking you and Eliot in your own little world as the world stretches its arms and prepares for another day of hustle and bustle.

By contrast, you and Eliot are wide awake, laughing as you swap horrible roommate stories and whatever else comes to mind. He asks about your degree but has enough class not to ask you about your graduation year (a rare feature of conversations these days), talking to you about all the books you’ve read and professors you’ve liked.

It’s odd – not bad, per say – but odd nonetheless, to be able to talk freely and openly and having him in front of you, within arm’s length as your knees barely touch under the small table. Seeing him in this space, a space more conducive to conversation and watching his hands as they pick at his blueberry scone and watching his mouth as the corners of his lips twist into a smile every so often and watching –

You blush at your own serial-killer-like thoughts, trying to suppress them with another sip of way too expensive but totally worth it coffee.

Eliot notices, because of course he does. “Hey, you alright?”

You nod, trying to calm your racing heartbeat. “Y-yeah, just-“

He smiles warmly, one hand moving to cradle your chin – to guide your downcast eyes to his. “It’s weird, seeing me in a new place, isn’t it?”

Once again, you nod. “It’s not that I don’t-“

“It’s okay,” his smile widens even as he now avoids your gaze, his hands moving to his lap as he fiddles with them. “It’s…I understand. Trust me, I get it.”

You exhale deeply, your shoulders falling a little. “I’ve thought a lot about this moment for, like, since you walked into the store for the first time…to have you here,” you gestured vaguely to the rest of the coffee shop, to the very few customers and baristas chatting about something you can’t hear and don’t care to pay attention to. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s not as if you’ve fallen short of expectations-“

Eliot gives a little chuckle, mumbling an “I sure hope so” with a glimmer in his eye that makes you want to jump on his lap and kiss him right there. Somehow, you find it in you to continue.

“It’s just super, super weird,” you tell him honestly. “And I don’t like it.”

The man in front of you leans forward, placing a hand over yours to calm you down.

“How about we get out of here,” Eliot murmurs, voice warm and thick like the caramel drizzle over your latte. “I have an espresso machine at my place, and could make you homemade baked goods a million times better than whatever you bought, and we can continue this in a space where the baristas don’t misspell my name on overpriced coffee.”

He gestures to the cup labeled Elliott, wincing as he does so. It makes you laugh, and you nod in agreement. Together you down the coffee and throw the empty cups along with the wrapping for your pastry away. It’s natural – the way the two of you move – as if you’ve known each other for a millennia, as if whatever it is between you two that’s formed is already as strong and sturdy as an oak tree.

Eliot places one of his large hands on the small of your back as you exit the cafe, thumbing at the fabric of your sweater as you wait to cross the street. It’s comforting – just a flash of the fire that he started for you back at the store a mere hours earlier, heat warming your blood from your toes and up your spine. As he guides you to his apartment his hand finds yours, his fingers fitting neatly next to yours as he points out parts of the city you’ve never slowed down enough to see.

You may not have known Eliot for very long, but even within that short amount of time (and even shorter conversations) he had become a safe house for you, one that you could easily make a home.

And, unbeknownst to the other person, the both of you intended on doing just that.

#eliot spencer x reader #eliot spencer/reader #eliot spencer fanfiction #eliot spencer #leverage #lukis does commissions #lukis writes stuff

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drizzitwrites · 6 years ago

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Football RPF Challenge - Day 11: Under the Influence

So...today's prompt is the INCREDIBLY EASY ONE (given that I have an entire 3-series AU set around "Vincent is a model who takes way too many drugs") of "under the influence."

Like, it essentially just required me to write 90% of any scenes of this AU that involve Vincent, since he is almost always under the influence in some way or another. And earlier this year I was having absolutely no problems whatsoever just sitting down for an hour or an hour and a half and just typing out scenes of the AU and not worrying about how bad they were (like back in the old days of my writing when I didn't know enough to judge myself for how good or bad my writing was), but that's changed lately. In fact, part of what I was trying to do with undertaking this exercise in writing 30 scenes in 30 days is to get back to that freeform "I don't care because it's written and I can fix it later" mentality.

But then when I sat down to actually write this today suddenly I was bombarded with a million doubts like "but WHY is Christian in this situation? Is this plausible? Is it realistic to believe that this would be happening? etc." And this is the problem I need to fight against. Because, okay...yes, in the end the events of this AU actually have to be something that could conceivably be plausible in the real life narrative, because I've chosen to let Christian just be himself--Tottenham Hotspur player who has ambitions to make a move to Barcelona sooner rather than later. He's always been career above all else and getting him from conscientious, hardworking footballer to conscientious, hardworking footballer that also somehow ends up in late night clubs and taking up with a model with a substance abuse problem does need to be a believable progression. BUT! for what I'm doing here that doesn't matter. I just need to write a scene. Write it. Be done. Slot it into place in the draft. And then when the draft is complete I go in and say "okay, is this believable? If no, can I make it believable? If yes, what do I need to do to get there."

But that is not for now. Now is for just getting the damned writing done.

So, I present you with no context whatsoever...Christian and Ben end up at a rooftop party in LA with a bunch of models and also random footballers, including their former teammate DeAndre Yedlin who in this world went back to LA after Spurs instead of to Newcastle, because that is where I need him to be.

As with all things involving this AU, things got away from me and we’re 2000 words in and haven’t yet gotten to Christian and Vincent actually crossing paths, so as of now absolutely no one involved in this scene is at all under the influence (unless you include Christian being under Vincent’s influence and having NO IDEA AT ALL ABOUT IT), but, honestly, y’all should know what to expect with me and prompts. I’ve been working on this on and off for 4 hours, and it’s 8pm on a Sunday and I’m calling it quits for today.

"This is quite the do," Ben said, sliding into one of the plush looking but decidedly uncomfortable chairs that lined the perimeter of the hotel's rooftop.

Around them, crowds of people stood in groups around small, waist-height tables, talking and laughing, all of them with drinks in hand. Further away, crowds pressed together on a makeshift dancefloor, complete with requisite DJ high up in a box, headphones on as he went about his work. The music a tangle of bass and synth, swooping and soaring as the crowd moved and swayed together as one, hands in the air.

A few metres away, the full-sized swimming pool shifted through the whole spectrum of colours, lights set in the bottom shining up and diffusing out from the water's surface to fall on the crowds of people lounging in chairs or sitting on the side with their feet dangling in the water. Every one of them with drinks in hand and the perfectly crafted features and slender bodies that Los Angeles seemed to demand.

The sun had set, but here in Los Angeles the nights were never fully dark. Even so, the entire rooftop had been strung with light. Blue and white LED lights had been strung around railings, and even the various chairs and benches featured inset lighting along the bottoms. A few floodlights had been stationed at intervals around the roof--probably a security feature to prevent anyone from stumbling headlong into the water or over the railing in the dark--but for the most part, the space was lit in blue and pink and orange and green, everything cast in an almost eerie glow.

Evening in Los Angeles, and the party was in full swing.

Ben held out a clear plastic cup towards him, but Chris waved it away. "No, thanks. It's already been a long day and we have another training session in this heat tomorrow. I definitely didn't bring enough sun cream, and I'm so burnt I think my skin is on fire."

"Right," Ben said, shoving the cup at him more emphatically, "Thus, ice water. This heat is no joke."

"Oh...Um. Thanks." Chris gratefully took the cup from Ben, plastic wet and mercifully cold against his hand, condensation already sliding down the side.

"Cheers," Ben said. He held his glass out towards Chris, and Chris rolled his eyes before pressing the rim of his cup against Ben's.

The least he could do, really, was indulge Ben the occasional eccentricity tonight. He'd agreed to accompany Chris to this ridiculous event, after all.

"I meant it," Ben said. "This is quite the do. And everyone here is bloody gorgeous. Like...I'm a footballer you know, so I'd like to think I'm decently fit, isn't it? But you look around here and everyone is absolutely lush. I was feeling a bit overdressed, what with me wearing a shirt and all, but if I'm honest I'm a bit intimidated to strip down in front of this lot."

Chris rewarded his friend with a scoff, but he understood Ben's point. Sure, he'd never thought of himself as the sort of people who made everyone in a room stop dead so they could watch him walk by or anything, but he was a Premier League footballer in his prime. He did alright, but the moment he'd stepped into this bizarre world of fashion models and beautiful people he'd spent a disproportionate amount of time feeling like the guy who'd been cast in the "before" photo.

"So where's your boy?" Ben asked.

Chris stiffened and jerked his head around to look at his friend. "My what...oh, Vincent? How should I know? Probably somewhere in all...that." He gestured to the far end of the space--flashing lights and pounding bass and people shouting the words along to some song he might have heard once or twice on the radio but didn't know.

Ben leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. He shifted around for a while, likely going through the same process Chris had a few moments before as he struggled to find an even decently comfortable position in the box-like frame. This space wasn't intended for anyone to sit for any length of time--everything designed to press people towards the swimming pool and onward past the full-service bar to the dancefloor.

He'd chosen this spot for a reason. A handful of empty chairs in a shadowy corner of the balcony as far away from the chaos of the party as he could get. Not that Chris found himself in parties of any sort with great frequency, but as a rule he liked to position himself on the fringes of things--here and present, but ready to slip away and disappear without much notice if the madness of it all got to be too much. He liked a little space to think; somewhere he could hear the other half of any conversation he might happen to fall into.

It was decidedly...not where Vincent would be. And, honestly, the fact that he knew this about someone he'd run into by random chance three times now, on two different continents, no less, was certainly...something.

"If I'm being honest..." Ben said.

Chris had long ago learned this meant he was about to say something Chris probably wasn't going to like.

"...I'm not really sure why you've dragged me all the way up here if we're just going to hang about in the dark. Like, all this is doing is making me think I need to double my work rate the next time we have a gym session. Honestly, look at these blokes."

If Chris was being honest, he had no idea either. What was it about Vincent that kept him from listening to the very logical voice in his brain screaming at him to run in the opposite direction as quickly as he could and not look back until he was a safe distance away? A rational person would have responded to Vincent's relentless barrage of messages begging Chris to come up to the roof for a party by turning his phone off, but instead, here Chris was, sitting poolside on a Los Angeles roof surrounded by models.

"You're right. We should just go. This whole scene is..." Chris shrugged. "It's not for me."

He pushed out of his chair, wincing at the pins and needles flooding down his leg from where he'd been sitting in an awkward position for too many minutes.

"Alright, mate?" Ben asked, and Chris's hiss of breath at the pain must have been audible even above the din of the crowd.

"'s fine," he said, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an attempt to get feeling back into his limbs. He reached down to retrieve the plastic cup he'd deposited on the table beside his chair, now half filled with melted ice and water, and took a drink.

"Let's just go," he said. "I'll...turn my phone off or...can you block people on WhatsApp? I assume so, yes?"

Ben laughed and shook his head at Chris as he climbed to his feet. "You remain, as always, an enigma, mate."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What it is is--" Ben started, but he was interrupted by someone calling their names.

They both whipped their heads in the direction of the voice--to their right, a figure approaching through the dim light. Average height, well-built although who wasn't around here, dark hair close-cropped to his head.

"Maaaaates," the man called out, "it is you."

American, by the accent, and Chris stretched his brain trying to place who at this event besides Vincent would have the first clue who they were. The man drew closer, emerging from the shadows into the brighter circle of light thrown out by the LEDs strung across the balcony and Chris couldn't help from breaking out into a wide grin.

He stepped forward toward the man, one arm out to wrap his former teammate in a sideways hug. "DeAndre. It's good to see you. What are you doing...?"

"I play here now," DeAndre said. "Couldn't hack it in England so they sent me back home. Or, well...close to home, I suppose. Right coast, anyway."

"I thought they called it the Left Coast." Ben joined them, and DeAndre shifted away from Chris to afford Ben a hug as well.

DeAndre Yedlin, promising US International who'd joined them at Tottenham for a minute before going to Newcastle on loan and then making the move back to MLS. He was an impressive talent, lightning quick, with good instincts and vision on the pitch. He'd played right back by trade, but was fast enough to cover space in the midfield and on the wing if need arose. He'd only been with Spurs for half a season, spending most of that time training with the youth team, although he'd started alongside Christian in a few matches during his time in London.

Chris had always liked DeAndre's easygoing manner and infectious laugh, and had enjoyed getting to know him for the few months they'd trained together, but DeAndre had never quite adapted to life in London--getting a bit too caught up in time in the big city far away from home--and, ultimately, he and Pochettino had agreed that a move out of London might be what he needed. Chris had wished him all the best, but when his loan spell had ended and Pochettino made it clear he'd have no role to play on the Spurs first team, he'd returned to the US. Chris had lost touch with him after that, the time and distance and their odd training schedules letting them drift apart.

"You look great, mate," Ben said, patting DeAndre's stomach. "Keeping up with the beautiful people of Los Angeles."

"Ha. I heard that," DeAndre said. "But no, it's good. I like it here. The weather's gorgeous every day of the year--step out the back door onto the beach, a party every night if you want it--but I know my limits now. I learned that lesson, trust me. Still. Sun, surf, sand. What's not to love?"

He stepped back and flashed them both a carefree grin. "I stopped being surprised by this city years ago, but I have to say, of all the people I expected to come across tonight, you two weren't even close to being on the list. What brings you here?"

"Pre-season tour," Chris said. "We're in town training for a week before we head out to...somewhere else"

"Minneapolis," Ben said helpfully. "Where they played the Super Bowl. It's...well I dunno exactly, but I know it's cold there."

DeAndre threw his head back and laughed, his whole body shaking with it. "To be fair, I've only played there once and, yeah, it was cold. But for real, what are you doing here?"

He gestured around him to the party, now in full swing--people drifting away from the frenzy of the dancefloor and into the swimming pool as the DJ called for a break, the speakers now blaring with some generic pop music. Chris supposed that was a fair question. As he'd already established, he wasn't even sure what he was doing here himself.

"Haven't you heard?" Ben said. "Christian's a model now."

DeAndre raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not a...piss off," Chris said to Ben. Then, to DeAndre, "I'm not a model. Far from it. I had a few events for Nike, sponsor things, you know how it is, it's not...I'm not a model."

"Yeah, man, of course," DeAndre said. "Actually, I should introduce you to my teammate Sebastian. He's just getting into modeling and he loves it. Are you staying around for a while? Let me go find him for you, he's around here somewhere."

"No, no, I don't--" Chris started, but was interrupted by DeAndre's surprised shout as someone grabbed him from behind and wrapped himself around DeAndre.

#writing #30-day football rpf challenge #football rpf #30-day writing challenge #30-day challenge #christian eriksen x vincent janssen #the model AU #I'm finally releasing parts of it into the wild #drizzit writes #thoughts on writing and life #november writing

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