#don't mind the shading it's 2am and i'm sleepy

[lizgohome]

he's my babygirl

[fairytales-of-yesterday]

My Lonely Days Are Through

A/N: okay so I finally wrote a fic! this is my first fic in like,, 4 years or so? so be gentle with me I guess lmao

I am pretty content with this though! I'm soft as hell so,,, here we go :)

@gardnerlangway this one's for you, lovely

(no editing we die like men)

A yawn escapes your lips as you stretch out and then curl back up. Tim's heart flutters as he watches you rub your nose, your brows furrowed. You're currently curled up on his couch, fast asleep. It's a typical Friday night for the two of you, one spent together. After meeting Tim when you started working in the museum a few months back, the two of you had built up a routine around each other. You would eat lunch together on your break, stay after hours working and keeping each other company, you would even go grocery shopping together on weekends. Today was no exception to your intertwined schedules. Upon leaving the museum for the day, you had grabbed a late dinner and ended up back at his apartment. You had started the night working, but the stress of the week and your recent lack of sleep had taken its toll, and you dozed off relatively quickly after 2am hit.

The soft light of the television dances colors across your face as Tim looks on in complete adoration. Your eyelashes cast tiny shadows on your cheeks as your chest rises and falls steadily. You had borrowed a shirt and some shorts from him, you both agreeing it would just make sense if you spent the night, and his eyes couldn't help but wander to where the tshirt had ridden up to expose a bit of your stomach. His breath catches in his throat as he finds himself thinking about what it would feel like to hold you there. What it would feel like to just have you close. To run his hands along your soft skin and-

"Okay wow, Tim." He quickly looks back at the bright screen of his laptop in order to rid his mind of these compromising thoughts. But, as his eyes make their way back to you, he runs a hand through his hair and breaths a quiet laugh. "I really do have it bad, don't I?"

He quickly covers his mouth though as he sees you slightly stir, not wanting to wake you. He had seen the effect the last week had had on you, his heart slowly falling more and more as each day you seemed to become a little more quiet, a little less peppy, and a little less yourself. The project you had been working on was one you were very passionate about, but it had become quite the endeavor. Though you had been thrilled to take it on, the universe had not been on your side, with people forgetting to follow through with their promises, paperwork getting mixed up, and even artifacts getting misplaced for a bit due to the lack of a proper cataloging system when the museum first opened. It nearly broke Tim's heart to see you become so unhappy with something that had made you so ecstatic before. He had done all in his power to keep you smiling, with funny stories, bad jokes, and any help he could offer, but you couldn't help still being discouraged. He had even mustered up the courage to give you a little kiss on the forehead as he left your office at one point, and the smile it brought, along with the blush that rose to your cheeks, was definitely worth the ten minutes he spent panicking over whether or not he should even attempt it. Just the memory of your flustered face makes him grin.

A small whine draws him from his thoughts. He looks up to find you rubbing your eyes and slowly pushing yourself to a sitting position. He tries his best to maintain his composure as you sleepily pull down your shirt and run your hand through your hair.

"Good morning," he chuckles quietly. You look at him in sleepy confusion before realizing what happened.

"Oh nooo," you groan, putting your face in your hands. He laughs a little louder this time, scooting over on the couch to bump your shoulder with his. You smile into your palms, your face flushing pink at the contact. He bumps you again, drawing your face away from your hands. Peeking through your fingers, you can see the soft but wide smile on his face.

"Have a nice nap?"

It's teasing, but you can see something resembling concern in his gaze. You just nod in response, running a hand through your hair. "I don't think I've ever seen you fall asleep this fast," he cautiously approaches the subject, "have you slept this week?"

The laugh that escapes you in response only makes his concern grow. He asks again, softer this time, and you look up at him with tired eyes.

"I uh... I think I got ten hours this whole week."

"Ten?"

You wince slightly at his tone, cursing yourself for not adding a few hours to make him feel a bit better.

"But that's like... two hours a night! You've gotten ten hours of sleep this whole week?" You can't tell if it's shock or sadness in his eyes. Maybe both.

"Eleven if you count the nap I just took?" You joke, trying to calm him a little. "Tim, I'm okay I promise, I've been through a lot worse, honest."

"Worse?!"

Okay, so that didn't help. But before you can say anything else to try and defend yourself, he wraps you up in a tight hug. You tense up for a second, taken by surprise, but quickly you melt into him. You don't even realize you've started crying until you hear Tim trying to comfort you.

"I'm- I'm sorry," you hiccup into his shoulder, tears beginning to stain his shirt.

He rubs your back slowly, quietly shushing you, and telling you that it's absolutely okay, and you have nothing to apologize for. You shiver at his touch, burying your face in his neck, breathing him in. You stay like that for a few minutes, you trying to stop your ragged breaths and the tears spilling from your eyes, him rubbing your back, occasionally switching to run his hands through your hair, whispering words of comfort. However, eventually you pull away with a pitiful laugh.

"Sorry about your shirt," you whisper, trying to simultaneously brush your tears off of his shoulder and wipe your eyes.

"Hey, it's completely okay. I know this week has been rough. You have every right to be upset. But, it's over now, okay? Next week'll be better, yeah? I'll make sure it is."

He's relieved to see a watery smile grace your lips. No, that's an understatement. He's almost on the verge of crying himself, never having seen you in this state before. He brings his hands up to cradle your face, wiping the still falling tears with the pads of his thumbs, somehow not noticing the deep shade of red you're turning. With his hands still around your face, he tilts your head so you're looking up at him.

"Now, what do you say I pop some popcorn and you turn on something you like?"

A breathy laugh escapes you and you nod, not really trusting your voice with him this close to you. You can see the masked worry in his features as he smiles, and you mentally kick yourself for stressing him out. But, that thought leaves you as he stands up, giving you a chaste but firm kiss on your forehead. You're eternally grateful that he goes to the kitchen immediately after bc you can't stop the blush that rises to your cheeks.

"Dear god, that boy's gonna kill me," you whisper, wrapping yourself up in one of the blankets that had been resting on the back of the couch.

You start to flip through the channels, eventually landing on a documentary, and you hear a chuckle behind you. You turn to find Tim with a bowl of popcorn in his hand, looking at you in what you could only describe as fond adoration. You flush again, and he laughs fully now, plopping down beside you. You lift the blanket, inviting him in, and he gladly accepts, scooting over close enough to bump knees with you.

You fall into a comfortable silence, both of you enraptured by the bright images on the tv. Every now and then your hands brush when trying to reach for popcorn, and you mentally curse yourself for getting so worked up over cliches, not knowing that Tim was doing the exact same thing.

You're the first to speak.

"Thank you."

It's a quiet whisper, accompanied with a shoulder bump. He bumps you back and gives you a lopsided grin.

"It's the least I could do."

“What?”

“Y/N, you've spent the last few months I've known you being so amazingly kind to me. You bring me food, you save me seats in meetings, you laugh at my jokes, you-”

You cut him off very seriously, “Okay they're good jokes, Tim.”

At that he laughs, breathlessly.

“Not good enough for you to cry in the middle of a meeting! I was trying to be quiet and you almost spit your water everywhere!”

Now you're both laughing, remembering that stupid planet joke and how you just about died of embarrassment, and before you can think or stop yourself, you say it.

“God, I love you.”

It's like all the oxygen leaves the room. Both of you are immediately gasping for breath, as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs. Before you can sputter out an apology, anything to make things go back to how they were before you blurted out what had been your most well-kept secret, Tim manages to get out,

“You… you what?”

His eyes are wide, and you're sure yours are as well. You're in love with him. You're in love with him. You had never even said it to yourself before. It had always just been little sighs, thoughts of him basically all the time, or little whispers to yourself about how bad you've got it. Never an outright, ‘I'm in love with Tim Murphy.�� No, the first time you said it just had to be right to his face.

You start to say ‘sorry, no, wait,” to say, ‘hold on I shouldn't have done that,’ but then you stop. And you look at him. Tim. Tim, with his sweet words and his brilliant mind. Tim, with his adorable laugh and beautiful smile that he had come to trust you with. Tim, with his tight hugs that make you feel safer than almost anywhere else. Tim, with his strong arms and gorgeous face and Jesus Christ his HANDS are just about the hottest things in the world like oh my god the things he could- you've gotten off track. The point is, you don't want to apologize. You don't want to take it back. You love him.

So you say it again.

“I love you.”

And then it's quiet. He looks honestly shell-shocked. You can almost see his gears turning behind his eyes, trying to figure out what to say after that. Immediately, your brain jumps to the worst possible scenario, and you begin to backtrack.

“I'm sorry. Oh my gosh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I just- you're so lovely, but you can completely ignore any of this just hap-”

And then he's kissing you. It's a short kiss, just a sweet, small one, but you're out of breath when he pulls away. You open your eyes to see him in a similar state, his face completely flushed. But he quickly finds his voice.

“I can't tell you how long I've wanted to do that.”

All you can do is laugh, still trying to remember how to breathe.

“The feeling is mutual.”

He blushes and gives a bashful smile, then hesitates again, opening his mouth, then closing it, once more unable to speak. However, he manages to regain his composure enough to ask,

“Can… can I kiss you again?”

Not even bothering you answer, you close the gap between you. You feel Tim smile against your lips, and you can't help but do the same. You don't know how it happens, but somehow you end up on his lap, straddling him. Your hands are on his chest as your lips move in sync, slowly, but desperately. Passionately. His hands make their way into your hair, and you whimper quietly into his mouth as he gives it a slight tug. Your face heats up immediately, but you just keep going, pretending it didn't happen and hoping he missed it. He definitely heard it though, and you feel him smirk against you.

Shit, that's hot … everything he does is hot.

You roll your hips experimentally to retaliate, still on top of him, and the moan that leaves his lips is one of the most beautiful sounds you ever heard. It goes straight to your core, and you let out a groan yourself. You start to roll your hips once more, desperate to draw that sound from him again, but his hands come up to your waist and stop you. You can see he’s panting, and his hair is all disheveled.

“Okay, as much as I want to do that, and I really wanna do that,” he pauses as you giggle, “you just told me that you got 10 hours of sleep this week. I promise we can continue another time, but right now, you need to sleep.”

You pout, knowing he's got a point.

“Okay, but only since you promised.”

He helps you off his lap, letting you use him as support, and gently guides you to his bedroom. He makes a big, dorky show of tucking you in, making sure you're comfortable, offering to make you a glass of water. Finally, he gives you a soft smile, says a quiet goodnight, and gives you a quick kiss on the forehead. Your face immediately flushes, and you whisper a soft goodnight back as he turns to leave.

"Wait, where are you going?"

He turns around, confused.

"The couch?"

You give him a grin, suddenly a bit shy, and wordlessly lift up the covers next to you. He stares at you for a moment, still sporting that confused expression, and then suddenly it's like a lightbulb goes off in his head.

"Oh. OH! You want..?"

You giggle sleepily at how flustered he is. Just a few minutes ago you were about to rip each other's clothes off, and now he's getting stuttery about sleeping in the same bed as you.

"I hope you like to cuddle."

At that, he smiles sheepishly, and nods without a word. You watch as he changes into pjs, his boxers and an old band tshirt, and it takes all your willpower to not start anything again. After turning the lights off, he slides into bed next to you. There's a moment of hesitation, a moment where it seems like he can't quite decide what he wants to do, but then you feel him move closer to you, and suddenly, he's holding you. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck and you can feel his smile against your skin. He presses a tender kiss to your shoulder, and you turn to press one into his hair. You both sigh, more comfortable and safe than you've ever felt in your life.

"Goodnight, Tim."

"Goodnight."

A beat.

"I love you."

You smile.

"I love you too."

[underworldbar]

Chapter One

Oh fuck.

Maybe she's had too much to drink. Maybe it's the combination of a crisp autumn night and a warm pub that just screams closeness. Maybe it's the way that he's overwhelming in the best way; the firmness of his body, the smell of his aftershave and cigarette smoke and something else utterly undefinable. All Prue knows is that she's leaning against Neil Quinn like he's the only solid thing in the world as they wait for their drinks, and she shouldn't be enjoying the feeling as much as she is.

Neil, the first person she properly met when she came to London. Neil, who took her to every early audition and waited for her each time. Neil, who bought her bubble tea when the auditions went well and beer when they went badly. Her brooding, sarcastic (so, so warm) best friend who was currently stroking tiny feather-light circles over the back of Prue’s hand where it rested on his arm as she leant against him at the bar.

They'd always been tactile. As intimidating as he could act sometimes, Neil never shows that side to Prue. He's softer with her than with anyone else, and there are myriad soft touches that they share. Different touches for different occasions, whether it's the hot summer afternoon I'm-so-relaxed head in his lap or the crowded pub standing-at-the-bar arm linked with his or the sleepy 2am drunk-on-the-sofa fingers carding through her hair. And maybe that's all it is, just two friends who are comfortable with each other. But sometimes, Prue can't help but think that there might be more weight behind those touches than just friendship.

"As nice as this is, I might need my arm back to carry these drinks," Neil almost whispers to her, voice sounding like woodsmoke and coffee and red wine and all manner of things that don't have a sound but seem to define Neil Quinn's voice perfectly. Prue blushes a faint shade of pink, hidden by the low light in the pub, and relinquishes her grip on Neil's arm in order to help carry the drinks back to their booth.

* 

"As nice as this is, I might need my arm back to carry these drinks."

Neil can barely bring himself to say the words; he doesn't want Prue to let go for a second. But he knows that if he keeps torturing himself with these touches, he'll be fighting to stop himself from getting hard standing at the fucking bar.

Delicately grips pint glasses in his fingers, trying not to spill a drop as they make their way back to the booth. He can barely acknowledge Holland's cry of "what took you so long?" as she snatches for her drink; his arm still burns from where Prue’s hand rested on it, and he can still feel the echo of her pressed up against him at the bar. They slide back into the booth, sitting side by side as Neil pours the wine for them both. House red, nothing fancy (nothing Sanford would approve of, but his cousin is currently far too preoccupied with smiling secretively at his phone to comment on Neil's choice of wine), but he's sharing a bottle with Prue and if he closes his eyes and thinks very hard, it almost feels like it's just the two of them. 

He can hear Persephone's voice echoing in his mind, asking when he's finally going to do something about his crush on Prue. She's right, of course she is. This isn't sustainable. Every day he falls for her a little more, every touch feels a little hotter, and every time he sees her, he wants her so much more than the day before. He wonders if Prue knows just how distracting she is - even in jeans and the softest jumper he's ever felt, she's distracting. Might have something to do with just how tight her jeans are, how they hug every curve...

"Yo, earth to the Quinns!" Holland, brash and barking, whirlwind even as she's sat in their booth with a pint in her hands. Neil snaps his head up to meet Hollie's eyes, and then turns to see that his cousin is still glued to his phone. With quick hands, Hollie darts out to grab Sanford's phone and secures it in her jacket pocket.

"What was that for, Niemczyk? You're committing crimes on me now?"

Holland fixes Sanford with a look, her patented don't-fuck-with-me-or-I'll-set-you-on-fire look, and simply replies, "No phones on family night."

Sanford looks around for support, gesturing wildly between Neil and Ezra and his dad, almost begging for one of them to challenge Holland. "Sorry, son," Robert says, setting a hand on Sanford's shoulder, "but even I'm not going to argue with Hollie on this one." Holland grins, nudging Robert with her shoulder and saying, "thanks, dad."

It was family night, even though only Neil, Sanford, Ezra and Robert were related by blood. Once a month, they all make a point to get everybody together. As with most things, it started at Holland's insistence, but it quickly became the highlight of Neil's month. Not just because he gets to spend a night with Prue, but because it's good to get everyone together. Fitz, currently swigging from a pint of Guinness with March's legs draped across his lap. March, not drinking but laughing soft and smoky at something Ezra is saying. Hollie, still arguing with Sanford about phones on family night and nearly knocking Robert's pint over with flailing gesticulations. And Prue, warm and soft at Neil's side, almost touching again before nudging Neil gently. "Cigarette?" she asks, and Neil takes far too long to reply because he's immediately lost in her eyes again.

*

Bastards. An unrelenting bunch of bastards. Of course, Sanford can’t exactly confess why Holland taking his phone away was such a blow – he’s spent far too long cultivating the reputation of a pleasure-seeking playboy, a hedonist, and if he tells Hollie that he wants his phone back because he’s in a secret relationship with one of Prue’s best friends then he knows that he’ll never hear the end of it – but without his phone, his lifeline connecting him to Electra, his fingers itch and he grows restless, aching for his secret lover.

He can’t pinpoint where it started. Maybe it was just something that drew them towards each other, some undefinable thing that connects them both. Sanford is long past invoking words such as ‘fate’ and ‘destiny’ but when he’s with Electra, those words feel almost appropriate. It feels as if he’s meant to be with her, and although they’re keeping things a secret for now, taking things slow and not rushing into anything, if he’s honest with himself all Sanford wants to do is leave this godforsaken (no offense) family night and rush to his lover. But now his phone resides in Hollie’s pocket, and he’s forced into being social. He doesn’t hate it; ever the social butterfly, Sanford thrives with attention on him. But he wants different attention. Wants Electra’s attention.

*

It’s far too warm inside and stepping out for a cigarette brings blessed relief to Neil. The logical, objective part of his brain tells him that it’s not that hot inside, that the heat he’s feeling is directly connected to his closeness to Prue and that he needs to do something about this. But doing something about it might lead to losing her altogether, and he can’t bring himself to lose the feeling of her body pressed up against his to keep herself warm while they smoke.

“I still think it’s sweet that you’re inviting me to family night,” Prue muses, voice half obscured from where her face is almost pressed against Neil’s chest.

Neil chuckles softly, low and deep in his chest; “You are family,” he replies, “just like Hollie and March and Fitz. Hell, Robert isn’t even my father, but I still call him ‘dad’. It’s…”

“Comfortable.” Prue finishes his sentence for him before Neil even finds the right word. And it is comfortable. It’s weird and unconventional, it’s a little awkward and jagged around the edges, but it’s comfortable and it’s family. Neil nods, knowing that Prue can feel the movement of his head from her position pressed up against him. He’s never been more grateful for her California upbringing than he is now, now that it’s an autumn night in London and she’s trying to steal as much of his warmth as she can.

They continue to smoke in comfortable silence, and when the cigarettes are extinguished in the ashtray, they still stay outside in the crisp evening air, neither one of them acknowledging what’s happening but neither one of them able to bring themselves to stop it, to part from one another and return to the group. Prue looks up at Neil, all wide eyes and golden skin and longing, a question unspoken on her lips, and Neil wants to ask the question too, more than anything, but he can’t find the words. Prue’s mouth parts softly, as if she’s preparing to spill some secret that she’s held close to her heart for years, and Neil swallows thickly, the action feeling as inevitable as a train crash.

“You two have been gone for ages,” interrupts the voice of Holland Niemczyk, lighting a cigarette of her own, “between you two disappearing and Sanford being glued to his phone, it feels like it’s only me and dad holding this family night together.”

Tearing his attention away from Prue, Neil chuckles low and deep again; “Sorry, Hollie, we were just getting a little peace and quiet.”

The moment is over, and Neil wonders if they’ll ever get another one without being interrupted by their irritating, wonderful family.