#like I want a totally empty gym where I can wander through the weight machines and figure out what sets I can build into a routine

[rimouskis]

I need more ways to incorporate discipline in my life. a lot of random factors mean very little is demanded of me in a variety of ways, and my historic lack of self-discipline evidently means I can't be relied upon

[florenceandthemachine]

@hearteyesforbuck asked:

I have been dying for a meet-cute au where Eddie takes Chris to the gym once a week and they box a little together before Eddie spars; usually Chris sits by the ring and reads but one day Eddie finds him laying on a bench, lifting an empty bar while this really cute blond guy spots him and gives him encouragement ....

guess who’s asks are still broken?

Tumblr keeps adding the “Read More” into the ask box, which breaks the entire post when I try to post it. Why is it happening? No idea, but if anyone knows how to fix it, please let me know, this is getting really old.

anyway, fun fact that I just learned about myself—if you want me to dedicate 100% of my brainpower to writing 4.5k of something in one sitting, you just throw in Christopher Diaz.

Eddie liked to think of himself as some kind of a “do it yourself” kind of dad.

Most of the time, that was a good thing.

Kitchen faucet broke? No worries, Eddie has some plumbers tape and three different YouTube videos telling him how to fix it.

Car wouldn’t start? Not a problem, Eddie bought the full repair manual offline and knows his way around a wrench.

Christopher needed forty gluten free, egg free, dairy free cupcakes for class tomorrow? Eddie was perfectly capable of... admitting when he was outmatched by a stand mixer and calling thirteen local bakeries to see if they delivered, because his car still wasn’t starting.

Point is, if there was a way he could work on something, Eddie would at least try it—and needless to say, that got a little complicated where Christopher was involved.

Eddie still wanted to do a lot of it on his own. Chris was his kid, and no one else's, and he didn’t even like being away from him while Chris was at school—he wasn’t sure if that was guilt stemming from leaving Chris as a kid, or guilt about introducing Shannon back into his life only to have her wind up dead, or guilt about... well, pick-a-thing, but he was pretty damn sensitive about what he perceived he could do to help his kid.

Which is why, when Chris’ physical therapist gave Eddie some suggestions about how Chris could work on strength training at home, Eddie dove completely into the deep end, head first, no floaties.

Working on Chris’ fine motor skills had been cake. Writing, drawing, arts and crafts, even playing video games, all helped improve Chris’ hand eye coordination (and if Eddie ran out of room on the fridge for Chris’ masterpieces and started framing them instead, well, that was his own business, no matter how nosy the busybodies at Michael’s got).

Working on his gross motor skills, though, that was another story. They could go on walks, sure, and they did every day. Eddie could hook up the trail-a-bike to his own once or twice a week so Chris could ride along with him, without worrying about his balance, but those were both leg heavy activities—and while it was great that Chris was building his core strength and leg strength, Eddie wasn’t about to just strap a wrist weight to Chris’ arms and call it a ‘well rounded workout’.

Short of more physical therapy, Eddie was at a loss as to what to do—so when Google Maps pushed him off the 101 to avoid a wreck on his way home from work and he got caught by a stop light right next to "Ricky’s Boxing Gym”, Eddie felt like his prayers had been answered.

Over the next few months, they had set up a pretty good routine. Eddie would bring Chris to the gym, they would hop into one of the many rings, and he and his son would get a half hour of quality time, three times a week. Eddie had his own set of boxing mitts, and Chris thought that spending a half hour trying to punch his dad’s hand was the most fun a kid could have after school. Chris would tire himself out and sit on the bench, drawing or reading for a while more, while Eddie would actually spar with one of the staff members, get his own workout in, and then they’d go home.

Nine times out of ten, they’d stop for ice cream or pizza, and completely undo any of the workout they had actually done, but Eddie thought that was a small price to pay for the whoop of joy Chris let out when he actually managed to hit Eddie’s glove dead center.

Eddie’s sparring partner of choice (well, after Chris) was Tommy Kinard. He was nice enough, and kept Eddie on his toes, giving him plenty of time to look over to Chris to make sure he was safe, and happy, and occupied, and (“Dad, I’m fine! Go punch someone!”) okay, maybe he was helicoptering a little bit. He hadn’t really thought it was a problem until Kinard went on paternity leave, leaving him in the capable, and brutal, hands of Boscoe.

Boscoe was a beast. He didn’t know her first name—didn’t know if she had a first name—but what she lacked in pleasantries she more than made up with strength. If Eddie was being honest, though, he kind of loved it; even after the first day they sparred together, when he wound up limping into the 118, proudly admitting to Hen that he had been beat up by a girl.

The thing was, Boscoe was intense, and while that was a good thing, it gave him less of a chance to helicopter over Chris.

Which, okay, maybe that was a good thing too. Whatever.

He knew the gym pretty well by that point, and knew the people who worked there, knew he could trust Chris with any of them—which is why when he looked up after dodging a jab from Boscoe, and saw Chris absent from his bench, he only panicked a little bit.

When he managed to take a wider look around the gym and saw a familiar pair of shoes laying down on a workout bench, the rest of him obscured by a bigger, bulkier body, that panic went from 0-60 real quick.

“Hey!”

He only barely managed to dodge a glancing blow from Boscoe as he ducked beneath the ropes, grabbing a towel to blot at his face as he hopped down. His voice was little more than a quick bark through the gym as he stepped around another group of machines, his frantic pace slowing a little as he got into earshot.

“... yeah, come on buddy, you can do it! Come on, give me one more rep! You got this little man!”

Fuck, had this stranger actually given Chris a set of weights?

His temper was white hot by the time he finally got around the front of the machine, opening his mouth to shout, to get a manager, to do something, but the words died in his throat as he took in the scene before him.

Because Chris was definitely on the bench, and he definitely had his hands on the bar—the bar that was completely devoid of weights, Eddie noticed, the same bar that had two much larger, stronger hands attached to them. Hands that were probably doing all the actual work of lifting the bar, because Chris was laying back, unable to speak, because he was giggling so hard.

The bar landed back on the rack with a dull thunk as Chris pulled his hands back, sticking them straight up in the air triumphantly as he sat up. The man behind the bar gave a big show of leaning against the frame of the bench dramatically, fanning himself, giving Eddie a full view of an employee shirt, name badge, and the gym logo stitched across the polo he was wearing.

Whelp, that was almost very embarrassing for him.

“Holy cow, that was such a good job! Man, you have got to be the strongest kid I’ve ever met in my life!”

“Dad, did you see me? Buck says I’m super strong!”

Eddie had to admit, he was a little thrown by whatever was happening here, but Chris was obviously having a good time, and he felt the white hot anger dissipate into something a little less angry and a little more embarrassed.

“That was some pretty impressive work, buddy! Have you been holding out on me?” Eddie dipped down and tossed a few playful jabs at Chris, selfish only because he wanted to prolong the joy his son was obviously feeling, but it was all worth it as he was handsomely rewarded when Chris started giggling again.

The man—Buck, Eddie gathered—laughed, drawing Eddie’s attention upward, and for a moment, his brain short circuited, because there was no way on earth a gym rat could be this... pretty.

Because damn. Buck was pretty.

Pretty enough that Eddie was easily distracted, waxing poetic (internally, thankfully) about beefy arms and a plush lip that he didn’t notice what was happening until Buck stuck a hand out, smiling, and Eddie could only guess what was going on. He reached out and took the hand, his own smile hitching as Buck’s face slipped into confusion.

“Uhh—”

“...I was asking if you wanted me to take your towel for you and get you a fresh one.”

Oh. Right. Towel.

Eddie’s face burned as he pulled the towel off his shoulder, handing it over, giving a too-tight laugh as he nodded his head. “Yes! If you could get me a new towel so I could strangle myself in embarrassment, that would be great.”

Well, at the very least, that got Buck to laugh again—death would be worth it if that was the last sound he heard. “Sorry I kind of stole your kid. He was wandering in between the machines, and it’s my first week off of the evening shift, so I just wanted to make sure he didn’t get hurt—but then he started asking about all the weights and pulleys and stuff, you have a really smart kid!”

Total Gym Hottie (Buck, his mind corrected. If he was going to drool over someone the least he could do was use their name) was complimenting his kid now, and Eddie was so star struck he was actually proud to say he didn’t stumble when Buck nudged his shoulder, head jerking back to the ring he had abandoned.

"...anyway, I think strangulation is the least of your worries, if I know that look, Boscoe has an entirely different death planned for you if you don’t get back in the ring. Go on, I’ll help little man here wheel you out on a gurney when she’s done with you.”

Buck sounded way too positive about that, and it was all Eddie could do to groan and walk back to the ring, tail between his legs.

Sure enough, even after he had the next day off, he was still sore when he walked into the 118 for his next shift.

--

Buck became easily, seamlessly, a part of their routine, in a way that probably deserved a little more insight on Eddie’s part, but insight was for suckers. At least two days out of the week, their schedules aligned—Eddie and Chris still worked on their exercises, but now it included Buck giving a dramatic play by play on the sidelines, talking up Chris like an announcer, or just otherwise causing shenanigans.

It was worth it, easily, because while Chris was certainly never a negative kid, Eddie had never seen him in brighter spirits. And Buck... well, anyone that could find a way to help out his son in a way that Chris clearly enjoyed earned an instant gold star in Eddie’s book. The fact that he was easy on the eyes wasn’t a bad thing, either.

“Diaz, I swear to God—”

Eddie only barely ducked under Boscoe’s extended hand, forcibly rooting himself back in the moment, looking guiltily back to her instead of watching Buck and Chris.

“—can you pay attention for like three minutes so I can hit you without feeling bad about it?”

Eddie tried, he really did, but it was hard. A few weeks had gone by since their initial meeting, and Eddie had gone from “wow he’s pretty” to “full high school crush” in no time flat. It wasn’t his fault, though—because what sealed the deal wasn’t the moment Buck had switched to tank tops over polos, or how happy Eddie was to spend time staring at Buck’s magnificent ass (and it was really, really magnificent, let the record show), it was how he interacted with Chris that sent him over the edge.

Buck was good with Chris, but somehow that was the understatement of the year. He was kind, and he was bubbly, and he was just in sync in a way that Eddie wasn’t even sure he had reached, and Chris was his son. Buck was patient in a way that seemed effortless, easily slowing himself down or changing what he was doing when he noticed Chris struggling, wether it was in going over a math problem while Eddie got the crap beat out of him or just showing him how some of the different machines worked.

Hell, right now, Eddie had his hands securely around Chris’ hips as he lifted the other male to a chin-up bar, helping Chris count out the pull-up’s he was doing—and while all Eddie could hear was Chris’ laughter, all he could see were the thick cords of muscle attached to Buck’s arms, lifting Chris like he weighed nothing.

Eddie wondered, not for the first time, if Buck could lift him like that.

Like she was a horrible mind reading pervert, Boscoe smacked him with an open hand—not hard enough to hurt, but not soft enough that he was going to ignore it.

“Diaz, this will be our last session together. Kinard is back next week—” Another punch, a quick jab that Eddie blocked with his forearms. “—so the least you could do is focus on me and not the apple of your eye over there.”

“Buck isn’t the apple of my—fuck—my eye, grow up.” Eddie huffed as he threw out a punch of his own, his hand knocked away violently, only barely dodging the sharp hook that Boscoe sent to him.

“God, I was talking about your kid, Diaz. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Oh.

Ignoring how red his face was, Eddie grumbled and threw another quick jab, though he missed completely as Boscoe stepped back, a grin on her face, and Eddie knew better than to trust that look. The last time he trusted that look, he had been talked into fighting bare-handed, and he still wasn’t sure his knuckles would ever really work again.

“You know, Kinard is supposed to take you back as a client, but I bet if you asked nice enough...”

Oh no.

“Hey, Buck!”

Oh no. Eddie looked up in horror as Buck easily lifted Christopher onto his shoulders—god, so much muscle—and jogged over, with the nerve to not even be out of breath when he smiled up to the pair in the ring. Eddie bit his tongue and leaned over to high five his kid, fully prepared to deal with whatever terrible thing was about to come his way.

“Kinard was supposed to take Diaz here back after he’s off leave next week, but I know he wanted to ease back into things after being away from the gym for a few months. You think you could spar with him in the interim?”

Oh, no, didn’t seem to cover it anymore. Eddie was having a hard enough time focusing on the task at hand when Buck was in the same building, he would be signing his own death certificate if he had to stare Buck in the face, and then try to hit said face. He hadn’t even seen Buck break a sweat before—he didn’t know if his little bisexual heart could take it.

He was somehow both relieved and regretful when Buck shook his head, looking plenty apologetic as he pulled Chris up and off of his shoulders, making sure that he was steady on his feet before he leaned up against the ropes. “Sorry, Eddie. I don’t really box, and besides, I think Chris and I are making real progress while you get your butt kicked. Show him the guns, Chris!” Buck said, and Chris immediately started some classic strong-man poses, Buck posing dramatically behind him, and Eddie felt his heart melt for two entirely different reasons.

Buck turned around mid pose as the door chime went off, giving Eddie ample time to count out the individual strands of muscle fiber in the moment before Buck relaxed, turning with a smile back to the gang in the ring. “Lena, that's my next client. Chris, Eddie, I’ll see you both next week, yeah?” He said with a grin before he fist bumped Chris and waved to Eddie, slipping back into Professional Buck mode. Eddie waved back, brows almost in his hairline as he looked back to Boscoe, who was scowling at him.

“So—”

“No, Diaz.”

“Wait, why not? Buck gets to call you Lena!”

“Beat me in the ring as often as Buck does and I’ll consider it.”

Eddie had his mouth open to retort when Chris cut him off, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he tilted his head. “Can I call you Lena?”

She didn’t even hesitate a moment, nodding her head seriously. “You can absolutely call me Lena, squirt.”

Chris promptly stuck his tongue out at his dad, and Eddie reacted in sort, falling to the floor of the ring as he grabbed at his chest. “The nerve! Betrayed by my own child, my own flesh and blood!”

Chris looked thoroughly unimpressed, sitting back on the bench as he started to pack up his schoolwork. “Lena, can you tell my dad to stop being such a drama queen?”

It wasn’t until they were both in the car, that Eddie, thoroughly beaten down by his son, his trainer, and his own brain for providing a play by play of Buck that day while he was in the locker room shower stall, really thought about what Buck said.

He didn’t box. Which was strange enough in a boxing gym, but whatever, there were plenty of machines that Buck could be working on instead.

But them Boscoe (god, he couldn’t even call her Lena in his head, it felt like she would figure it out and beat him to death) basically admitted that Buck regularly whooped her behind the ropes

If Buck wasn’t boxing in a boxing gym, what the hell was he doing?

--

As it turned out, Eddie didn’t have to wait long to figure it out. Barely a week had passed before Eddie had received a call from Chim, all but begging Eddie to switch shifts so he could take the girl he had been seeing out on a proper date. The switch was a no brainer—Maddie seemed like a great girl, and as much shit as he gave Chim for... well, being Chim, he obviously wanted to see his teammate happy, especially when the only thing he would have to change was a gym day from a Monday to a Sunday.

If he had known that this would be the day that sealed his fate, he probably would have reconsidered the switch all together.

The gym was packed—which probably wasn’t surprising for a weekend day, but damn, Eddie had been glad he booked a ring with Kinard ahead of time. It was nice to see a familiar face in the gym anyway, one that wasn’t trying to beat the crap out of him in the ring, and once Kinard joined up with them, it was easy to shoot the shit. Eddie congratulated him on his step into fatherhood, ruffling Chris’ hair as he did—not that Chris noticed, busy scanning through the machines for a familiar blond head.

Not that Eddie could judge, when he was doing the same thing.

“Hey, I’m gonna toss my stuff in a locker. See you out here in a sec?”

“Yeah, sounds good! Buck and Boscoe are almost done in their ring, we have it next.”

Eddie was halfway to the locker room before what Kinard had said clicked in his brain, and he immediately did a 180, making a beeline to the rings set up on the far side of the gym, easily spotting the pair when he knew what to look for.

It was no wonder that neither he nor Chris had recognized Buck when they walked in—he was literally drenched in sweat, his usually fluffy blonde hair dark and slicked to his forehead, scowling around his mouth guard as he danced around Boscoe.

Boscoe, who Eddie had never seen so worked up. Damn, she really hadn’t even had to try during his matches. Wasn’t that a blow to the ego.

No, Buck definitely wasn’t a boxer, because this was a dance. Every move he made, he made with his entire body, his energy flowing through each form, moving easily and gracefully in a way that shouldn’t have been possible with such an incredible amount of force and flat out violence. He almost felt dazed as he followed Buck’s movements, but in the best possible way, his eyes snapping back and forth as he tried to trace where one hit ended and the next began.

“Wow.”

Eddie was glad that Chris said it, because he still couldn’t find the muscles needed to pick his jaw up off the floor. He didn’t know if Chris had followed him over to the ring or if his Buck-radar was just that good, but for the time being, Eddie was more than thankful for the minute distraction as he ruffled his kids hair again.

Boscue was moving more desperately as the match continued, launching into a series of quick jabs, but even Eddie could see where that was her downfall. Buck knocked her arm back with her last punch and sent a kick straight for her shoulder, but then he twisted his entire body off of the mat and his other leg was in the air too, and Eddie instinctively sucked in a breath as Buck locked her neck between his thighs. They both came crashing down to the mat, struggling impressively until Boscoe slapped Buck’s thigh twice, and then—

—and then Buck was all smiles again, beaming as he released her and took a knee on the ring, helping her back into a sitting position, spitting out his mouth guard with an excited moment of praise for her technique.

Eddie could not compute. This was his downfall. Eddie is dead, long live Eddie.

“Holy cow, Buck! That was amazing! You’re like... you’re like a ninja crime fighting super hero!”

Well, that was one way to put it.

Buck’s head whipped around at Chris’ excited outburst, lighting up when he spotted Eddie and Chris near the bench, eagerly scooting forward into a sitting position closer to the ropes.

“Thanks, little man! That was some mixed martial arts, it’s super fun. I’ve been teaching Lena for a few years, she’s getting pretty good!”

Buck’s grin slid into something a little more proud and pleased as he looked to Eddie, and Eddie felt every muscle in his body tighten as Buck’s gaze burned through him.

“What did you think of that leg lock, Eddie? Total knock out, right?”

Oh fuck, was Buck flirting with him now? That had to have been flirty, right? Come on, Brain, do something.

“... legs.”

“...my legs?”

“Buck, your... your legs.”

Buck’s smile looked a little more pinched as Eddie groaned, shaking his head. “Okay, I, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you this or I will completely die. Can I take you out to dinner sometime? I know a great place off the strip, you’ll love it, my treat.”

The look on Buck’s face was skeptical, at best, but at least he wasn’t shutting him down, giving Eddie the benefit of the doubt (and giving him a moment to get his brain back online). “Because of my legs?”

“No. Well, okay, you have amazing legs. And arms, though, and like... a stupidly handsome face, and I would be blind not to notice those things—” shit, Eddie probably sounded like such a shallow asshole right now. “—but I’m asking because you’re really smart. And you’re kind, so kind to Chris too, and you’re patient, and... Buck, you’re really really sweet. And I would love to take you out for a dinner date the moment you can look past my apparent inability to form a single coherent thought.”

After a moment that felt much longer than the three seconds it was, Buck sighed and leaned past Eddie, looking critically to Chris. He slid down to his stomach, squinting as he dropped down to eye level with the boy. “What do you think, Chris? Should I give your dad a shot?”

Well, at the very least, Buck was asking the one person that Eddie knew he always had in his corner; and sure enough, Chris delivered. “I think so. Dad really likes you.”

That’s his boy.

“Last week he spent my whole entire physical therapy appointment telling Dr. Wilson how much help you gave me and how nice you were and how much he appreciated it. It got kinda annoying.”

...well damn, Eddie wasn’t expecting to be called out by his own kid like that, but if the suddenly soft look Buck was giving him was any indication, it might have been the necessary push to get him to understand how serious Eddie was.

Eddie tried to keep his excitement tamped down when Buck nodded, sitting back up. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you a deal. Only because you managed to ask me out before I could ask you.”

Wait, Buck wanted to ask him out anyway?

“If you can land three hits on me in three minutes—should be easy after spending a weeks with Boscoe—then you can pick the time, the place, and I’ll even talk Lena in to letting you call her Lena. But if you don’t...” Buck reached through the ropes to help Eddie up, tossing him a wrap for his hands as he did. “... then I get to pick the time, the place, and you start training with me in MMA instead of going back to boring old boxing.”

Eddie blinked at him in abject horror as Buck dipped his voice low, seeing with terrible clarity exactly where Boscoe had learned her terrifying grin.

“That way you can see my leg choke up close and personal. Deal?”

The stakes were too high, and Eddie couldn’t say no.

He was screwed.

He was elated.

But fuck, he was screwed.

(Three minutes later, Buck asked if Eddie was free on Friday at seven, promised to pick somewhere nice, and gave him a searing kiss before he disappeared into the staff locker room. Eddie, on the other hand, needed a spatula to peel himself off of the floor of the ring.

He had never been so happy that he could barely move in his life.)

[sunkissedpages]

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves- Part Twenty-Three || Tom Holland x Reader

A/N: welcome to another episode of: this is how friends with benefits act right?? this is how two people who have zero feelings for each other totally interact right?? also big thank you to @parkerstylesperalta​, @summernykole​, and that one anon for teaching me about exercise because I’m fucking clueless :))

Prompt: Enemies to lovers au (from @marvelellie‘s 1k writing challenge!!)

Summary: You work as a production assistant for the Spider-Man: Far From Home crew, or rather as Tom Holland’s handler. The two of you don’t get along very well to say the least, but you won’t quit and he can’t fire you so you’re stuck with each other.

Warnings: swearing, angst, SMUT LIKE IT COMES OUT OF NOWHERE SMUT

What I listened to while writing: this noir playlist

Word Count: 3.7k

Series Masterlist

“Stay. Please.”

Tom’s hand was warm and the new context of his touch sent a shiver down your spine. It was intentional, yet hesitant. You looked back up into his eyes and saw a combination of longing and fear staring back at you. Whether he was afraid you wouldn’t agree, or that you would, you weren’t sure.

“Stay?” you repeated and saw him give you the tiniest nod. “Like a sleepover?”

Tom chuckled and shook his head. “Only you, dork.” His eyes crinkled with his smile when you laughed. “Is that a yes?”

You nodded back at him unsurely, but it was enough for him to lead you over to the bed by the hand he was still holding. When he plopped down on the left side you gave him a look.

“That’s my side,” you said with a pout, thinking back to all the mornings you woke up next to Tom in Venice on the left side of the bed, wondering why he’d bother to change the routine now.

“I forgot you were a control freak,” he groaned, rolling over dramatically.

“I can leave,” you threatened with a scowl, trying not to let his playful words get under your skin. Too many times had he said those exact words under his breath when he thought you were out of earshot all those months ago when you couldn’t stand the sight of each other. It was hard not to let them sting now even though he was teasing.

“No, darling come here,” he pleaded with wide eyes, knowing you were one to make good on your word.

You climbed onto the bed, your rightful side of the bed with a sigh. “You drive me insane,” you muttered.

“Thank you, love, you drive me quite mad as well,” he agreed with a cheeky grin, scooting closer to you on the bed.

“It wasn’t a compliment,” you snarled as Tom laughed and toppled you so that you were lying squished in his arms.

“Ow, my fucking arm,” you complained and yanked it out from underneath him.

“Sorry,” he apologized, shifting so that the two of you could lay on the mattress more comfortably. “This is new for us.”

That was for sure. With Tom’s arms wrapped around you, you were positive he could feel your heart pounding in your chest, just as you could feel his against your back. You relaxed slightly as he began to trace mindless shapes along your body, first on your hands, then along the exposed skin of your hips where your sweatshirt had ridden up.

Goosebumps followed his fingers as they moved along the curves of your skin at a slow, gentle pace. When he felt you finally relax into him he leaned up to kiss the corner of your mouth, taking you by surprise.

“I don’t think this is how sleepovers are supposed to go,” you joked. “I’m calling my mom.”

“Just shut up and let me hold you, dammit,” he sighed in exasperation and squeezed you tighter making you laugh like you hadn’t in a decade. You ignored the way your heart ached in your chest as you did.

Tom’s alarm was a familiar, yet unwelcome sound to wake up to. You groaned and stretched your arms out above your head, noticing that the two of you had moved apart during the night. That was okay with you. It made the night before easier to swallow, made it seem like a more distant memory.

You were now on your back, only half covered by the comforter with your legs tangled in the sheets. Tom was still fast asleep on his side, completely unaware of the blaring alarm still going off on his phone. You couldn’t really blame him, your heads had barely hit the pillows before having to get up again. Still, you wouldn’t have given up last night for any amount of sleep. You smiled thinking about it now and gave him a shove to wake him up, pulling the comforter back up around you, clutching it tightly as you watched Tom roll over and open his eyes slowly.

“Morning, love,” he said sleepily with a smile when he saw you hadn’t disappeared from his side yet.

“Morning, asshole,” you returned with a smirk. His smile faltered and he quirked an eyebrow. “You gonna turn off that alarm or am I going to have to throw your phone against a wall?”

“Haz always said you were such a morning person,” he grumbled, rolling over to turn his phone off and scroll through his messages.

“What time is it?” you asked, scooting closer to him underneath the covers.

“Six-thirty,” he replied and threw off the blankets to get up. “I told Harrison I’d go with him to the gym this morning, want to come?”

That was actually the last thing you wanted to do, you’d much rather curl up right where you were and fall back to sleep, but you felt yourself nodding and heard yourself say “sure” and when you saw Tom’s face light up you knew you couldn’t take it back.

“I just need to go to my room to change.”

“We’re already running late, just wear some of my clothes,” he insisted, already rifling through his suitcase for himself, “and you can change into yours when we get back.”

“But they’ll get all sweaty.”

He chuckled lightly and threw a t-shirt and pair of sweats at you.  “That’s usually what happens when you exercise, love. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“I have loads of gray t-shirts, but if it really bothers you that much we can find a laundromat later.”

You shrugged and pulled the sweatshirt you were already wearing as pajamas over your head. You’d stopped feeling weird about changing in front of Tom by now, he’d seen you naked too many times for you to care.

When you looked back up Tom was pulling on a similar looking t-shirt, chuckling to himself.

“What?” you asked, feeling self-conscious all of the sudden.

He shook his head. “You think I’m afraid of a little sweat? After everything we’ve done together? Darling, my tongue has been-”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Thomas,” you warned, and tossed a pillow from the bed at him while trying to pull your pants up at the same time, missing completely. You felt heat prickling at the back of your neck at the thought of the memories that he’d been implying.

“Alright, alright.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Let’s go then, Harrison’s waiting for us.”

“Harry didn’t want to come?” you asked once you were in the elevator together.

“If we try and wake him up even ten minutes before we’re supposed to be on set we’ll never hear the end of it,” Tom explained. “He usually works out at night, if he works out,” he added.

“Should’ve gone with him,” you mumbled.

“What was that?” Tom asked

“Nothing,” you shook your head. “Happy to be here.”

He smiled. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

The gym was small and surprisingly empty, except for Haz who was sitting on a bench attached to one of the machines scrolling through his phone.You noticed that the walls were lined with mirrors which you hated. You never understood the appeal of having to watch yourself work out from every single angle and it made it feel as if not only everyone else in the room was watching you exercise, but you were too. It made you want to be invisible.

“Took you long enough,” Harrison said without looking up from his phone.

“Blame y/n.”

Haz jerked his head up at your name and noticed you standing next to his best friend for the first time, wearing baggy clothes and looking completely out of place.

You smacked Tom’s shoulder. “You’re the one who didn’t wake up to your alarm, jerk.” You bit your lip when you realized you’d completely given away the fact that you’d spent the night with Tom- that was if you wearing his clothes hadn’t tipped Harrison off already.

He didn’t comment, but you could tell by his expression that he thought it was a bad idea, and he wasn’t wrong.

“You’re both late,” he said matter-of-factly, standing and slipping his phone in the pocket of his shorts. “Glad you could join us, y/n.”

“Thanks, I don’t really know what I’m getting myself into,” you said nervously.

“We’ll take it easy on you,” Tom assured you.

“And who said that’s what I wanted?” you accused.

Tom stuttered. “I-I’m sorry I just-”

“I’m just kidding, please do,” you relented with a soft smile. “But you shouldn’t assume.”

“Noted.”

“What do you guys want to start with?” Harrison asked as he cracked his knuckles.

“Why don’t we do some rotations since there are three of us?” Tom suggested.

The way the boys set up the rotations were so that one person would do a burpee/squat combo, one person would do crunches, and one person would do weights and then you all would switch.

The three of you stretched first, following Harrison’s lead as he did toe-touches and windmills. You tried not to look at yourself in the mirror as you failed to reach your toes from the sitting position and caught Tom’s eye in the reflection, sending him a wink before focusing back in on Harrison.

You started on burpees and squats and Tom taught you the proper form for both, watching on even after you got the hang of it. He insisted it was to make sure you were using safe technique, but he let his eyes wander.

“Tell me, how much does ‘safe technique’ have to do with my ass?” you asked, wondering if he’d only picked squats for this exact reason.

“At least forty-two percent,” Tom said with a shit-eating grin.

“I’m wearing baggy sweatpants,” you said shaking your head.

“Yeah, and they’re my baggy sweatpants,” he whispered hotly.

You did another rep and shook your head again. “Do you ever burn out?”

“I dunno, wanna test it?”

“If you two don’t mind, I’d really like to keep my breakfast down as I work out.”

“Sorry Harrison,” you apologized, hoping the flush of embarrassment would be hidden underneath the flush already present from working out.

“All I’m saying is you better not look at my ass when it’s my turn for that rotation, Tom,” Harrison warned making you laugh.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Come off it, mate.”

You did crunches next, which you didn’t need any help with. You were definitely slower than Haz, who had been doing them before you, but you kept up a good pace, and only slowed a little bit as the time ran out. You learned the technique for handheld weights last, which Tom helped you with before going to do crunches at his own rotation.

He was impressed at how much you could lift since you were a beginner, but you explained that you had to carry a lot of boxes and things around set and that over time it’d started to get easier.

When the timer on Harrison’s phone went off you immediately jogged over to the water cooler and chugged three of the tiny cups, wanting more but holding yourself back.

“Only three more times around!” Tom cheered enthusiastically.

“You mean we have to do it again?” you panted and narrowed your eyes at him.

“Yep, three more times!”

“I hate you.”

Harrison laughed. “Come on y/n you can do it.”

“But I don’t want to!”

You couldn’t even enjoy watching Tom do his burpees as you struggled to do crunches the second time around because of the combination of anger and misery coursing through your veins. No wonder you never worked out.

++

“Fuck y/n I’m going to cum,” Tom cursed as you bobbed up and down on his cock, one hand on his hip, the other holding your hair back.

You felt your eyes go wide as his stomach muscles tensed and pulled off of him with a pop. “Not in my mouth!”

“What the fuck?” Tom hissed, eyes panicked, abs clenching harshly as he fought to hold off the inevitable. He took hold of his cock in his own hand and gave you an alarmed look. “Where am I supposed to-”

“Um, here,” you yanked Harrison’s yellow sweatshirt and your t-shirt off in one go, throwing it up behind him on the bed so that you were only in your bra. “Cum on my chest.”

Tom didn’t need to be told twice and came finally in spurts all over your your chest with horrible aim, having no regard for your bra. He let a string of profanities leave his lips as he pumped himself through it. His head fell back on the pillows in relief as he came down from his high, breathing hard.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked.

“Sorry, I’m still kind of nauseous from working out earlier,” you apologized and collapsed on Tom, laying your head on his hip and breathing rather hard yourself.

Tom couldn’t help but laugh at that, carding his hands through your hair absentmindedly. “Loser.”

“Hey, give me a break, Spider-Man, I’m an amateur.”

“Are you sore yet?”

“Everything hurts,” you groaned, head bouncing as Tom laughed. “Moving stuff around on set all day didn’t help.”

“I’m sorry love, want me to help you relax a little?”

“And how are you going to do that?” you asked cheekily, sitting up a little to look into his eyes.

“I have a few ideas,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Might involve repaying the favor you just did for me?”

“I’m definitely interested, but let me clean up first.”

You pushed yourself up and off the bed and walked to the bathroom where you turned on the sink and waited for the water to warm. You sighed as you unclipped your bra, thinking about how much of a bitch those stains were going to be to get out later. You wet a washcloth and cleaned yourself off, giving yourself a onceover in the mirror.

Your hair was a mess, eyes a little red, and eyes dark with want. You smirked at yourself. Who were you? Having casual sex and actually enjoying it? You never would’ve imagined it for yourself, yet here you were about to (fingers crossed) get eaten out by your boss for the ??? time this week.

You decided you might as well take off your jeans since you were already shirtless just to make everything easier so you peeled them off your legs along with your panties leaving you completely naked. You knew Tom would appreciate it.  

You made your way out of the bathroom with what you were hoping was more of a sultry walk than a sore one, but stopped when you saw Tom looking guilty, bottom lip pulled between his teeth anxiously.

“I know that look,” you sighed. “What is it?”

“I forgot, I’m meant to have a livestream on instagram about the film in three minutes.”

“That wasn’t on your schedule.”

“I know, Jake asked me to switch mine with his because he had some meetings or something and I forgot to tell you.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest in frustration. You knew you probably looked ridiculous standing like that completely naked in the middle of his hotel room, but you didn’t care.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry y/n. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Whatever, just put some pants on,” you muttered gesturing to his naked lower half.

“They’ll only see my face,” he protested.

“Yeah, and I’m sure Marvel will love when you accidentally flip the camera around in the middle of the stream and show the entire world your dick.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Tom admitted and rolled over to grab a pair of sweatpants off the floor before pulling them loosely onto his hips. You made for your clothes on the bed, but Tom put out his hand to stop you. “Wait, don’t leave! It won’t be long, I swear.”

You rolled your eyes and plucked a big t-shirt from the top of Tom’s suitcase to wear in the meantime, watching as he got situated on the bed.

“Just, uh, sit there and don’t say anything.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to keep my mouth shut,” you quipped back, wondering why you’d let him convince you to stay so easily.

Tom took a deep breath and pulled his phone out, fingers trembling and it hit you how nervous he was.

“Hey, Tom?” you called over from you chair in the corner. “You’ve got this. It’ll be great.”

“Thanks,” he said and took another deep breath, his thumb hovering over the screen.

You opened up your own instagram so that you could monitor the comments and pressed the little pink icon that popped up when Tom started his live.

“Hi guys, hope you’re all having a fantastic day! I’m in New York right now, on the set of Spider-Man: Far From Home, well not really on set, I’m in my hotel room right now, but you know what I mean.” He laughed and cleared his throat before continuing. “So anyway, we’re in New York City filming the last little bit and it’s been loads of fun! Getting to know everybody on set and seeing all of you guys has been so amazing! It’s really been the best time of my life.”

He continued to talk about the movie and how thankful he was for the experience but the last little bit stuck with you. I mean they were all the words he was supposed to say, but you stopped to wonder if he really meant them.

The best time of his life? Had it been the best time of yours? Your immediate instinct told you no, reminding you of how miserable you were every morning back in London, how many shitty situations you’d gotten yourself into, how many nights you spent crying on this stupid trip. But another, quieter part of you whispered about the smaller moments spent laughing with Zendaya at a cafe in Prague, sword fighting Harrison with baguettes from craft services, and of course all the little stolen moments you had with Tom. It felt like you were living on borrowed time when you were with him, and neither of you spoke your feelings aloud, but the memories you already had with him? They were yours to keep.

You realized you hadn’t been paying attention to the comments and tuned back in. Scrolling back through some of the comments to see what you’d missed.

“So I’m here to answer some of your questions about the film, I can’t go into too much detail of course, but uh yeah just hit me with them.” Tom paused for a second as the questions rolled in, trying to pick a good one. “How’s Jacob?” He smiled. “He’s great, he’s really good. Getting to work with one of my best friends is the absolute best. I can’t say enough good things about the guy, and I’m not just being nice because I know he’s watching!” He winked at the screen and scrolled through the comments some more. “Harry stop asking questions you’re with me all the time.”

Tom had been going on for over ten minutes and your patience was beginning to thin. When he started going off on a tangent about and inside joke between him and Jake Gyllenhaal you said fuck it and sent him a text that you were getting in the shower. He got the notification on his phone, but his eyes still flicked in your direction when you got up.

You knew he’d be pissed, but your chest was still sticky as was your hair, and you figured you might as well just finish yourself off since he obviously wasn’t going to do it. The shower was quiet enough not to be heard over the microphone of Tom’s phone so the only real challenge was going to be keeping yourself quiet. You waited a few minutes under the warm water just to see if he’d wrap things up and join you, but when he didn’t you took matters into your own hands, literally.

You’d barely touched yourself when your phone buzzed on the counter. You froze, waiting for it to stop, but as soon as it did it started buzzing again. The third time it started buzzing you threw up your hands and gave in, figuring whatever it was must be important if they kept trying to call you. You shook your hand dry and reached for your phone, catching it on the last ring.

“What Harrison?” you snapped into the phone after seeing his picture pop up on your screen. You instantly regretted how harsh you sounded.

“Are you in the shower?” he asked sounding confused by the running water in the background.

You bit back a curse and turned the water off, grabbing a towel from the shelf to dry yourself off. “I was, but you called me like three times in a row so I figured whatever it must be was important enough to cut it short. Why are you calling me?”

“I sent you a link to a tweet, you need to look at it immediately. I don’t know if anyone else knows yet, but it’s kind of blowing up so if they don’t already, they will soon.”

“Hold on, I’ll check it out. Will you stay on the line?”

“Yeah sure.”

Harrison’s end of the phone was quiet as he waited for you to look at the tweet. You clicked the link in the text he sent you which opened a tweet with two pictures. The caption was just ‘?????’ which didn’t make any sense until you looked at the pictures.

The first was a zoomed in aerial picture from set that looked like it had been clipped from one of Harry’s drone videos. You spotted yourself easily amongst the other crew members even though your back was turned because you were wearing Harrison’s yellow sweatshirt with the hood up. You swiped in confusion over to the second picture and it all clicked. It was a picture from Tom’s livestream, zoomed into something in the corner and almost so grainy you couldn’t tell what it was, but it was just clear enough to be able to tell that it was Harrison’s sweatshirt balled up with your t-shirt from earlier that Tom had neglected to move out of frame.

“Well shit.”

I know I say this a lot, but I have mixed feelings about this part anyway lmk what you think I always appreciate feedback!!

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[linskywords]

1M Words Week: 1 of 7

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 7

As promised, in celebration of my hitting 1M words on AO3 (possibly...tomorrow??!!??), I’m doing a week of opening snippets of stories I started at some point and haven’t finished yet. Hopefully I’ll end up writing most of these in the next million words. ☺️

This one is a Bennguin story in the timerverse (cf my 1988 timer story), where people get timers on their wrists that count down to the day they’ll meet their soulmate. The timers beep when you and your soulmate finally meet. I started this one, oh, three years ago at least, and would love to finish it someday. Read it after the cut!

Jamie celebrates his stag night alone in a hotel room in Ottawa.

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” Jordie says over Skype. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’re an all-star, but this is a travesty.”

“You could have gone to Vegas without me,” Jamie says mildly.

“So not the point,” Jordie says. “It’s the one stag night I get to throw for my little brother. The one. The only. And you’re alone in a well-lit room.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jamie says, because the hotel rooms in Ottawa are pretty nice, actually, and his roommate hasn’t arrived yet. “Beats lying in bed recovering from an appendectomy.”

“Travesty,” Jordie repeats, and looks at his watch. Jamie doesn’t need to look at a watch to see how long it is until midnight: he can see it on the timer on his arm, counting down from eight minutes and forty-one seconds. Just under nine minutes until the start of his timer day.

“What d’you think she’ll be like?” he asks Jordie.

“Brunette,” Jordie says right away. “Medium-tall. Spunky.”

Jamie furrows his brow. “Should I be concerned that you’ve thought this much about it?”

Jordie waves a hand. “Please. You totally have a type.”

“Do not,” Jamie says, though yeah, his last three regular hookups have totally fit that description. Six minutes and fifty-four seconds.

“We could be in a bar right now,” Jordie grumbles. “There could be women kissing you. Dozens of them. All the women with unzeroed timers, Chubbs. And instead you had to be an all-star.”

The bar thing actually sounds awful to Jamie. There were lots of reasons to be excited about being invited to the All-Star Game, and not having a normal stag party was not in the top five, but—and he’ll never tell this to Jordie—it might be in the top ten. The idea of dozens of women kissing him, one after the other until they all blur together, just sounds awkward and invasive.

“And you’re very proud of me, right?” he says to Jordie.

“Fuck this,” Jordie says. “I’m getting the champagne.”

Jamie doesn’t have any champagne. He sits back and watches Jordie struggle with the cork, which is better entertainment than most of the stag parties he’s been to.

Three minutes and fifteen seconds. He knows nothing is going to happen right at midnight—there’s no one here for him to meet, for one thing—but his stomach is bubbling about as much as the champagne in the bottle Jordie still hasn’t opened. As soon as the clock ticks over to midnight, it’s the day. It could happen at any time. Anyone he sees.

He wonders what it’ll be like: looking at his soulmate for the first time. What she’ll think. What if—when she looks at him and realizes she has to spend the rest of her life with him—what if she thinks—

The cork pops off the champagne, finally, and Jordie even manages to get most of the foam into a cup. “Well,” he says. “This isn’t the stag night I started planning when you were sixteen. But at least there’s champagne.”

“I don’t have champagne,” Jamie says.

The look Jordie levels at him says that that’s no one’s fault but his.

Jamie hesitates. “Jordie,” he says, and then thinks better of it.

Jordie waits for him to go on, then heaves a sigh. “Get on with it. I know what you’re like when you have something you want to get out, and you only have one minute and thirty-nine seconds left as an unzeroed person.”

“When soulmates look at each other, they always like each other, right?”

“Probably not,” Jordie says, and just when Jamie’s considering a panic attack, he adds, “but that’s not going to happen to you, because you’re not an asshole or ugly or an acquired taste in any way, so stop worrying about it and enjoy the countdown, okay?”

It doesn’t seem like a countdown is a thing that it’s possible to enjoy. Jamie watches the timer tick over from eleven seconds to ten, starts counting along with it (“Out loud, Jamie, come on, I don’t have your timer here in front of me”), ten, nine, eight (what if she hates him), seven, six (what if his timer goes off and no one else’s does and his is the one timer in the world that’s broken), five, four, three (it’s probably someone really old, like ninety, or someone horrible who’s mean to him or maybe it’s a criminal or a murderer or someone dying of a fatal disease, oh God), two, one—

Zero.

Jamie stares at his zeroed out timer and feels wound a hundred times tighter than he was before, as pumped with adrenaline as he would be if they were nineteen minutes into the third period and one point down.

“Well,” Jordie says, draining his glass of champagne, “any minute now, little brother.”

***

If Jamie expected to be able to sleep after that, he was clearly a very deluded person.

He lies awake for about two hours, practically vibrating, and then he gets up and throws on a pair of pants and a shirt and goes out into the hallway. The farther he steps away from his room, the more on-edge he feels—because in there, yeah, it was his timer day, but it was theoretical. Out here, it could actually happen. He could meet anyone, any second.

He doesn’t meet anyone. The halls are empty, except for one woman with a maid’s cart, and Jamie’s heart rate goes through the roof for a split second before it’s clear that neither of their timers are beeping.

After half an hour or so of not seeing anyone else, he goes back to his room, and this time he must finally be tired enough, because he actually falls asleep.

***

The next morning feels normal for about two and a half seconds before his mind wakes up and screams TIMER DAY TIMER DAY TIMER DAY at him, and then it’s all he can do to stumble out of bed and pull on clothing.

It’ll be okay, he tells himself as he pockets his keycard and goes down to breakfast. Your soulmate is supposed to be the person in the world who loves you most and is best suited to spend her life with you, so no matter what fantasies his mind was spinning last night, there’s not much chance of it actually being someone horrible. Or someone in her nineties. And he’s never heard of a malfunctioning timer. That was just silly.

There’s a continental breakfast, but a lot of the players are flying in this morning, so the dining room is still sparse. Jamie’s really really jumpy, because there are other people in the room now, and any of them could be it—but his timer stays quiet.

He ends up sitting with, of all people, John Tavares and Phil Kessel, and there’s not a lot of conversation. They talk about where they’re from, and Tavares asks polite questions about the Leafs, which is nice because Jamie doesn’t have to talk much. He makes his escape as soon as he can.

He doesn’t know why people look forward to their timer day. It’s torture, really, walking around and waiting for it. This would be the good thing about having gone to Vegas with Jordie: at least he’d be hungover right now and surrounded by teammates, probably sleeping till noon and then going out to breakfast en masse. There’d be a cushion between him and the world. He wouldn’t be wandering around a hotel waiting for someone to turn a corner.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t be an all-star.

His gut is still sore from the surgery a couple of weeks ago and he hasn’t gotten back to his regular workout schedule, so he goes to the hotel gym and tests himself on the weight machines. It would be pretty easy to overdo it and hurt himself, but he has both the trainer’s voice and Jordie’s in the back of his head telling him not to be an idiot, and he doesn’t. But he does let himself zone out, and for fifteen or twenty minutes he’s able to forget why he’s tense.

The hotel is more crowded when he emerges from the gym. More of the players are getting here, and Jamie walks through the lobby and smiles and nods at these players who he knows mostly as famous faces and sometimes as dangerous opponents. It’s so weird to think he’s one of them now. He’s always thought of himself as sort of middle of the pack—good enough to be in the NHL, maybe, but middle or bottom of middle once he got there, someone who works hard but who doesn’t have the natural advantages of these guys. And yet here he is. He almost wants to sneak away before someone spots him and notices that he doesn’t belong.

They have half an hour before lunch, so he goes up to his room to change. If he’s not impressing these guys now, he really won’t when he shows up at lunch in his gym shorts and tank top. He takes a quick shower and maybe spends longer on his hair than usual. But it’s not because—he’s not worried about impressing his soulmate. He wants her to see the real him. Just…maybe the real him with the best hair possible.

He leaves his room a little later than he should, hurries down the hall and around the corner, and almost runs smack into a woman.

Wow. He stops and stares at her, because she’s gorgeous, really dark hair and dark eyes and sweet creamy skin. Her eyes widen when he comes round the corner, and for a second he thinks, yes—but there’s no beeping. The timer on his wrist is silent.

“Sorry,” he says, and moves past her to go downstairs.

Get it together, he tells himself, because he really can’t assume that he’ll end up with someone like that. That’s a recipe for disaster. His soulmate has to want him, too, obviously, and so she’ll probably be someone more in his league. He just has to wait and—and go to lunch, because he’s really late now.

***

It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s late, once he goes in: all the guys are just milling around, loading up plates from the buffet and starting to sit down at the little round tables. Jamie grabs a plate and sidles up to the buffet. It’s a little awkward, not knowing anyone in the room. He nods at Marian Hossa and one of the Sedins—he’s not sure which—and accepts a serving spoon from Geno Malkin, who he’s not even sure speaks English. But Geno smiles at him, and so does everyone else, and it’s okay. He’s here for hockey, and he knows how to handle being the new guy in the room. This is the easy part of the day.

He’s scooping green beans onto his plate when he hears the beeping.

For a second he freezes. Then he looks up to find the serving staff—because that makes sense; they’re the only women in this whole room full of men. But there aren’t very many of them, and the two he sees behind the buffet don’t look like they’re searching for their timer person. And the beeping is still going on.

The whole room has fallen silent around him. Everyone’s staring at him, and Jamie feels himself flush. What if—timers aren’t supposed to malfunction, but—

But no, there are definitely two sets of beeps. He turns and follows the sound. It seems kind of far away—maybe across the room, and he moves forward. People step back to let him pass. A big knot of people part at the far side of the room, standing back to reveal—

Zdeno Chara, standing next to a young guy from Boston, the one who’s only in his second year.

Tyler Seguin.

Jamie takes one look at his face and thinks, wow, and for a second that’s all he can see. Then he remembers all the people staring at him, sees the way Tyler’s eyes are round in his face. Hears the silence in the room.

This can’t be real.

A blush rises to Jamie’s face. Tyler’s—well, he’s kind of ridiculously good-looking, but right now he looks nothing short of horrified.

“Um,” someone says off to the side, “did that just happen?” And everyone’s talking now, a low murmur running through the room. Everyone except Tyler and Jamie.

Someone clears his throat above the noise. It’s Chara, the Boston captain. “Obviously, we’d appreciate all of your discretion on this,” he says, voice sounding a little rough. Tyler nods fervently, and Jamie feels like his face is going to burn off.

“I’d better go,” he says, mumbling so that probably no one can even hear him, and he turns and speeds from the room, still holding his stupid plate of chicken.