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mulderist · 4 years ago

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Five Times Mulder Got Scully Coffee, And One Time He Didn’t

MSR || 2k words || @today-in-fic

A/N: I wrote this on the fly based on a post about types of intimacy including knowing your partner’s coffee order.

1 “we leave for the very plausible state of Oregon at 8 a.m.”

It was her first assignment with Spooky Mulder; a crisp Wednesday morning in September. From the backseat she checked her boarding pass once more while the taxi arrived at Dulles International. The red-orange sunrise broke through the distinct wing-like architecture of the main terminal building. The driver idled then popped the trunk and hoisted out her carry-on letting the wheels click to the pavement. She knew she over packed. She thanked him and adjusted the strap on her leather satchel as the cab pulled into the congested river of departure drop-offs.

The sliding doors opened with a breeze of recirculated air and she paused to let a cluster of businessmen pass by. She scanned the corridor and saw Mulder hovering near the escalators, a duffle bag at his feet. He was wearing a smart light blue shirt with a striped tie. She grinned at the fact that his dark grey suit jacket didn’t fully match his lighter dress pants. On her approach she noticed a particular boyish charm to the curl of his hair. He caught her eye and gave a wave. She quickly smiled and shifted her shoulder bag once again while she pulled her carry-on behind her.

“Good morning sunshine,” he stated while balancing two cups in a flimsy caddy, “I hope you don’t mind but I grabbed some coffee.”

“Thank you, Mulder.” She was genuinely surprised. He set the caddy down on the lid of the square trash can and pulled out a cup, handing it to her.

“How do you take it?”

“Uh, just cream and sugar.” Mulder fished around in the middle of the caddy and found her accoutrements. She slowly removed the lid and doctored up her drink.

“Not too early for you is it?” He asked after taking a sip from his cup.

“Reminds me of residency,” she said, shaking her head with a smile and pouring a splash of cream. “The line between late night and early morning was pretty hard to differentiate at times.”

“I find it’s when I’m my most productive. However the T.V. choices leave a lot to be desired,” he said with a shrug, reaching down for his well-travelled duffle bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a folder.

“Is this my debriefing?” Scully asked.

“A little light reading for the flight,” Mulder replied, watching her tuck the documents in the pocket of her shoulder bag. “C’mon, looks like we’re at the C gates.” She followed him down the corridor and to the entrance of the shuttles.

2 “I’ve heard the truth, Mulder. Now what I want are the answers.”

He offered to drive her home. She was exhausted but insisted she was fine. He squeezed her hand when she left to go find her car in the hospital parking deck.

Restlessness had set in when he arrived at home. Eyes darted to his cell phone on the desk, making sure he hadn’t missed a call. She’d call if she needed to. He shuffled through a stack of files he took from the office, looking for a particular case that matched a tip from Frohike. He flipped it open and returned to the computer keyboard, adding to the paragraph he was working on. The TV droned on in the background, coffee finished its brew cycle in the tiny kitchen.

Three taps on the door. He turned down the TV and listened then heard three more. He walked across the room and peered into the peephole then quickly flipped the lock and opened the door

“Hi,” she began, “I’m sorry I didn’t call.” She sucked her lower lip. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Come in,” he said stepping aside. She exhaled and slowly entered his apartment, brushing a wave of hair behind her ear. He quickly stacked his work and moved the pillows on the couch. She took a seat, fingers knitted tightly together in her lap. Her eyes closed as she climatized to his space. He gave her a minute and stepped into the kitchen. When returned she had pulled her hand away from her face, gracefully dabbing at her eye with her knuckle. He set two mugs down on the table and joined her.

“If you want to talk..”

“I don’t,” she said curtly, not intending to sound that short with him. “Not..not yet.” Her anger was still fresh. She was a raw nerve. He pressed his lips together and was patient. He had all the time in the world for her. Another slow exhale to steady herself and she reached for a mug. Cream and sugar. Warmth from the ceramic radiated against her hand; she felt another wave ready to break. He saw the downturn and gently took the mug from her, placing it next to his. She fought so hard but reluctantly crumbled. He embraced her; a shelter from the storm.

3 “Oh I don’t know Mulder, some things are better left unexplained.”

“So tell me more about this talking doll you found,” Mulder stated. Scully swallowed her bite of food and blinked at him.

“I never said it was a talking doll, Mulder. And besides, that was weeks ago, why are you still hung up on it?” He tossed the brown end of a french fry back into the bag and licked the salt from his thumb.

“Color me jealous.”

She stuffed a napkin in the empty fry container and added it to the trash on the table.

“Please tell me this hasn’t kept you up at night.”

“Not more so than usual,” he said with a shrug collecting their fast food wrappers. They left the outdoor seating area and started to walk down E Street. The lunch dates were a little more frequent than before. Her remission and recovery brought them closer together. Scully didn’t want to assume he missed her when she took a well-deserved weekend to herself but Mulder was shit at hiding how clingy he could be. It was all part of the process. He tapped the back of her arm and pointed at a coffee shop window. She agreed and he held the door. The wonderful aroma of roasted beans and steamed milk hit her senses. She peeked at the bakery case as he went to place their order. Mulder soon presented her with a cafe au lait and a wink. Her lips pursed as she blew on it. His gaze shifted to the perfect “o” of her mouth complimented by a subtle glossy lip tint. He then proceeded to burn his tongue as he eagerly went to drink his Sumatra roast, snapping him back to reality.

4 “Get over here, Scully”

The lights in the office were dim. He had set-up the slideshow reel to provide visual aid to a fairly vague case detail. However the only detail he was concerned with at the moment was the taste of her lips. A hint of honey from her lip balm, the whisper of milky coffee. Their cups grew cold and lonely sitting on his desk while they turned up the heat hiding amongst the shadows.

She was needy and pulled no punches. Hand rested firmly against his cheek as tongues danced and twisted. His stubble coarse against her fingertips. Last night at the ball field had ignited a spark. Remembering the feeling of his hands on her hips, cheek to cheek in the cool night air. His weight against her with each swing of the bat. He held her close once again; entwined together in a dark corner of the basement office.

“Remind me to bore you with slideshows more often,” he said, catching his breath. A warm smile crossed his face as he admired her.

“Shut up, Mulder,” she said before kissing him once again.

5 “What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong?”

Three weeks had passed. Scully discovered she was leaving small items behind; a toothbrush, a sweatshirt, a travel sized hairbrush. Evening was still the preferred time of day. Dinner, maybe a beer or a glass of wine followed by ignoring the T.V. Mulder knew just the right amount of pressure to put on the tired muscles of her neck. A rush of circulation flowed through her. She leaned back against his chest and his hands wandered followed by his lips. She loved how he tenderly nipped at her earlobe, He was hard against her lower back and she worked her advantage between his legs. Clothes were shed like new skin. He was swift to carry her from the couch into more comfortable surroundings.

The linens held her scent, the walls held their cries. Deep and passionate. Primal. Two become one. He broke first and she was quick to chase him down. Chest heaving, muscles aching in the best way. They lay together as heart rates slowed. He traced her jawline, a thumb laid claim to her full lower lip. Lust-laden eyes blinked heavily. She decided to stay. Naked, satisfied, and loved.

Morning arrived with a deep yellow glow. She slowly shook off her slumber and reached beside her, feeling an empty bed. Her ear perked up listening for the shower but heard nothing. She slid to his side of the bed and glanced at the clock. Two hours before work. Her hand clutched the bedclothes to her chest and she heard keys hit the wood table in the other room. Mulder nudged the bedroom door open. Scully smiled and ran a hand through her hair, sitting upright.

“Morning,” she said. He approached and kissed the top of her head.

“I got us some coffee. Cream and sugar, of course.”

“You’re too good to me,” she said before realizing it. There was always so much unspoken between them. Affection was a given but rarely vocalized; arousal and desire usually won out. They operated well without words. She blushed and swung her legs over the edge of the bed tucking the sheet closer.

“Hey. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

6 “We will find him -- I have to.”

She needed an out. It was too much too fast and the fuel from her anger was on fumes. Scully dried her hands on the edge of her jacket and stormed down the corridor towards the elevator. That might have been the first time she actually threw a drink at someone. A bit dramatic but she would deal with that later, right now she needed to leave.

Her cell phone chirped and she promptly ignored it. The car shuddered as it idled in the parking deck, her head lay back against the headrest, a hand on her belly. She fought against an angry sob. The caller was persistent. She tried to collect herself. Another series of rings and she finally answered.

“Agent Scully? It’s Skinner.”

“Sir?”

“Where are you right now?”

“I’m on my way home. Is something the matter?” she questioned.

“You tell me,” Skinner replied with concern. She closed her eyes and slowly caressed her belly once again. He was the only one she could trust right now. He was trying to be a friend. She exhaled and asked if he could meet her in Georgetown.

Scully sat down at a familiar cafe with small outdoor tables nervously fidgeting with her phone. She didn’t want to deal with the questions, she just wanted to find him. She wanted to talk to him about what was going on and they could figure things out together. She needed to find him. Her attention shifted as a couple walked past with a friendly golden retriever. The animal bumped its nose into her leg then happily licked her hand before it’s owners chuckled and led him back down the sidewalk.

Skinner arrived and set down two cups of coffee along with a handful of sugar packets.

“I got you decaf.” he said sincerely as he took a seat, “hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine. Thanks,” she said, reaching for the cup then removing the lid and adding half a sugar packet. Her heart ached and she was sure Skinner could see it. He was quiet, not wanting to overstep his boundaries.

“I uh, I just want you to know that I’m your ally in all of this. And if you need to talk…” he trailed off when he saw the change in her expression. She pressed her lips together.

“That means a lot, sir. Thank you.” She brushed away an errant tear and swallowed hard. They had much to discuss.

#i wrote this #msr #xf fanfic #scenes inbetween #mulder #scully #my fic

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illogicalhusbands · 5 years ago

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The Game is Afoot - pt. 3

Bill Masters x Alec Hardy Masters of Sex / Broadchurch Crossover Link to Part 2

I apologize for taking a long while to update! Me and my co-mod have had our hands full the past week with work and other projects. But I’m hoping I can get back to regular scheduling soon! We’re nearing the end of this fic now. I project the next update will probably be the last. Thank you to everyone who’s still reading this! -

“A whisk, Hardy? Really? You’ve been pining over this man for a month and you give him a bloody whisk?”

“Sod off, Miller. It’s a housewarming party and he has plenty of stuff already.”

Miller frowned. “You should at least give something that’ll leave a bigger impression on him.”

“What do I get him, then? A Victorian sofa?”

He put down the whisk and perused the section of the shop dedicated to pots and pans. Both he and Miller had been invited to Masters’ housewarming party the coming weekend and Alec had no idea what gift to get him.

“Now, now, don’t overthink this. You can always go the old-fashioned route.”

“What route is that?”

Miller grinned. “Oh, y’know. Flowers… chocolates… some good wine…”

Alec was scandalised at being reminded of when he was first invited to Miller’s house several years ago and didn’t know what was polite to bring to your friends’ houses as he never had any. “Do not go there, Miller, I swear—”

“See? You’re already a natural at this!” Alec remained silent. “You could add balloons. Or an angel cake.”

“Don’t laugh at my misery.”

Miller gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m trying to help you! Jesus Christ, you two have been circling around each other for weeks! Can’t you move it along?”

Alec rolled his eyes. “Move what along? We’re not a canoe, Miller.”

“You are being purposely obtuse!” Ellie said, shoving a finger at his chest. “You like him—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“—and he obviously fancies you—”

“Now that’s debatable.”

“And Lord knows you are in need of a good shag which, if I’m hearing correctly from the rumours, Dr. Masters is perfectly capable of giving.”

Alec went through a series of multiple shades of deep red.

“Where did I put down that whisk?” said Alec, retreating down the steps he’d gone.

Miller grabbed his arm. Her face softened. “Look at you, you big ol’ softie. Don’t give me that grouchy look. Like you said, he has plenty of stuff. I’m sure he’ll love whatever it is you’ll get cause he’ll only care about who it was from.”

Alec hung his head, suddenly taken by a breeze of honesty. “But that’s not good enough.”

Since that day at the library, he and Masters had only grown closer. It was bordering on ridiculous, really, how much they hung out and had breakfast and texted each other on the phone. And it didn’t help at all that Dr. Masters had an amazing personality to match with his confident facade. He was witty and intelligent. He had a dry sense of humour that eased Alec’s constant worries of saying something that others deem inappropriate. Masters took his rude remarks and added to them a spark of somewhat greater morbidity. Perhaps it had to do with both of them being in morbid careers, but they understood one another at a level that Alec had never experienced with anyone else. Not even his investigative partner and best friend Miller.

He was comfortable around Masters but at the same time it was frustrating to be around him. How could this incredible man continue to carry out charming conversations with him when he was only spitting out dull, dry remarks like a seventy-six year old spinster? How Masters could be friendly with him was completely beyond his comprehension, let alone try to ponder on the possibility of the doctor having a romantic attachment towards him.

Still, Miller was partly correct. By this time he’s able to fully admit to being head over heels for the man. How could he not? Here was a remarkable person who shared his sense of humour and inquired after him as if he really cared. It was a little pathetic, to be honest, for Alec to latch on to one of the first human beings to ever treat him with a bit of kindness. Masters was only the unfortunate victim of his affections.

He was infuriating with his small bowties and neat hair and his “You need to eat more, Holmes” text messages as if what Alec did was of any consequence to him. It was getting more and more difficult to appear unaffected by him.

When Alec walked into the cafe one sunny Wednesday morning, he found Masters already seated at their usual table. It was rare that the doctor arrived earlier than he did. There was a tray of scones in front of the empty seat across from him. Alec, perplexed, occupied his seat.

“I know you usually drink your tea on an empty stomach, but you shouldn’t make a habit of it,” said Masters before digging into his own club sandwich.

Alec stared wordlessly at him. He didn’t know whether it was on purpose or not, but Masters had scored another point against him. The scones were Alec’s favourites from the menu. He’d only had them a handful of times around him. Had the doctor really been paying attention to him the whole time?

Masters looked captivating in his silver dress shirt and tartan blue bowtie, teasing smirk dancing constantly on his lips. He more found it interesting now rather than irritating as he did during their first meeting. Here was the man who already knew his favourite food whereas the only things he knew about Masters were whatever information that could be gleaned from the internet or, god forbid, a dossier. It made him feel dreadful.

They settled into light conversation for the rest of the half hour. Alec hoped the rest of the meeting would remain unremarkable. They got up and walked out of the shop.

Halfway out of the door, he heard a voice from behind him. “Alec? Is that you?”

He turned to see a familiar woman with strawberry blonde hair and a fringe that swept just below her brows. For a moment he struggled to recognize her, then it clicked.

“Katie?” Alec recalled the person he’d gone on a blind date with several months ago. It was at a momentary phase in his life wherein he tried his hand at rebuilding relationships. He went on a couple of blind dates but none had really worked out well. At most he’d had a nice dinner and some company, but no one was truly able to take his attention the way… well, the way the dapper doctor currently beside him did. “It’s good to see you,” he added politely.

“Yeah? You’re looking good nowadays. Been hearing a lot about you from the news.” She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“Wish there was nothing to hear about, actually. Hearing about me is a sign of terrible news in this town. S’why no one can stand me,” he said in half-jest.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. We’re very grateful for the work you’re doing.” Katie fidgeted on the strap of her bag and sighed. “Listen, I know you’re a busy man, but I had a lot of fun on our date and I was kinda hoping you’d call…”

Alec blanched. He did not fail to notice how silent Masters was throughout this entire ordeal. “Yeah, I’m… sorry about that. The um, cases just kept coming,” he finished flatly.

Katie seemed oblivious to his tone. She was a sweet girl, but truly dull. She laid a hand on his forearm. “Yes, I understand that completely.” She gnawed on her bottom lip. “But if you ever have some free time, I’d really look forward to hanging out with you again.”

Alec didn’t know what to reply to that. This was exactly why he didn’t do romance and dating anymore. There was so much energy required and he couldn’t be bothered with all these social niceties and he didn’t have the heart to shoot her down directly, especially with Masters around to see it as that would only be doubly embarrassing for Katie. Still, he had to say something.

“Katie, um… look. I’m actually… seeing someone now.” He winced as the words came out of his mouth. Katie looked crestfallen.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” She dropped her hand. “I just didn’t expect you to… I mean, I didn’t think you…” She shook her head. “Anyway, she must be an exceptional girl and I hope you two’re happy. Do I know her?”

Alec resisted the overwhelming urge to groan out loud. Was there no way to escape this conversation? What was he even going to say?

He startled at Masters clearing his throat, momentarily having forgotten that he was still there. “Actually, he’s not dating a woman.” His hand shot out, fingers twining with Alec’s with a flourish that appeared practised, like they’d done so plenty of times before instead of being the first skin-on-skin contact Alec has had with the man he lo—greatly fancied. “But you are correct with us being very satisfied in this relationship,” Masters added in a friendly tone.

But when Alec turned to look at him, he was anything but polite. Eyes slanted and chin pushed down to his collar, regarding Katie as if she were nothing but a nuisance. Something about that look tickled Alec’s insides, a thrumming sensation pooling in his gut. Katie’s lips parted with shock before she shook herself out of it and turned back to Alec, wanting to say something more. Just when he started to revel in the warmth of Masters’ hand, he let go. Alec tried not to feel dismayed.

He was still incapable of speaking and thankfully, Masters seemed to realize this. He spoke again, “It was lovely running into you, but my little sleuth here has a lot of work to attend to. If you’ll excuse us.”

“Down, Watson,” Alec couldn’t resist teasing. This was also the first time Alec had called him that out loud.

This seemed to have done something to the man as in the next moment, Masters’ arm crept behind his back, sliding over the fabric of his cotton dress shirt, touch ghosting over the muscles of his lower back. Warmth radiated through his spine. Alec let himself bask in it, quivering in the heat. A hand fastened itself onto his waist and Masters pulled, securing him to his side. The movement was all very languid, Alec’s shoulder and ribs coming naturally to latch onto the planes of Masters’ sturdy frame. Alec was stunned—pliant against him.

He sneaked a glance up at Masters’ face. He was still staring down at Katie with a hint of amusement in his eye, a particular twinkle. The face of a winner, with Alec as the prize.

Alec was experiencing a torrent of emotions, but it was far from being unpleasant.

Finally, they walked out of the cafe and after a considerable distance was made between them and the establishment, Alec spoke.

“I am very sorry about what happened back there.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize.” Alec believed this was the first time he saw Masters looking, of all things, sheepish. “I didn’t mean to do all that but.. But it was the quickest way to get rid of her, and you were looking like you were in trouble—”

“Nononono—” Alec hurried to console him. “You did, um… help me, with that. I should thank you, I suppose.”

Masters avoided his gaze, all traces of his previous bravado vanished. “Probably shouldn’t have done it, though. Might make it hard for you to get another date. And the touching might have been too much—”

“Is that what you think?” Alec’s breaths were shallow. “Because I don’t. Want it. Another date, that is.” His cheeks radiated with sudden warmth.

“Oh. That’s… good.” A gentle smile graced Masters’ face, though he was still avoiding Alec’s gaze. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes… one that looked a lot like… Hope?

He muscled his way through the rings of nervousness forming in his throat. “And I don’t mind the um, touching.”

Masters laughed. “Good.” The cheekiness was back in his tone.

Alec could sigh at the sight of him. His eyes sparkling with amusement, thin lips curled up into a teasing smile, and the sun’s rays touching upon his hair and his skin, making Alec’s fingers tingle with the desire to touch. It was too much, but also not enough.

Still he’d be content just to have this. Masters, gleeful and teasing, beside him in the mornings challenging him and helping him out of sticky situations. Truly it was more than enough. More than he deserved.

“I’ll see you this weekend for the housewarming,” said Masters before walking in the opposite direction from where Alec was headed. Alec’s gaze trailed behind him for an eternity after.

Another day had passed. The breakfast with Masters went more or less normally and he was glad that things seemed to return to their ordinary ways. Alec arrived at the station. A burst of whispers rang through the moment he entered the room.

He glared at the other officers, drawing up to his full height to appear intimidating. But they mostly all glared back. They were also mostly coming from the women (and some men) in the room.

“What’re you all staring at? Bugger off! The safety of the town depends on it and you’re here babblin’ like children!” At this, the officers whipped their heads back down to their workstations. The sound of shuffling papers and pressed keyboards filled the room once more.

Miller greeted him at the door to his office. Alec crossed his arms. “What?”

She was beaming. “Finally! Took you long enough, sir.”

“What the deuce are you talkin’ about?”

“Please. Everyone knows about it already. No need to hide it from me.” She clapped her hands. “You and Dr. Masters are dating!”

Alec could’ve sworn his soul just left his body. “I-wh-mff!—”

Miller poked his arm. “Look at you all adorably flustered! Heard it from down the grapevine, but everyone says it comes from a very reliable source. Came straight from your mouth, they say!”

Alec could feel the mortification stretching through him. To hell with this stupid, bloody town! If the entire community heard—nay, god forbid Masters heard of this! He panicked. Masters would never speak to him again. “God, that wasn’t—! UGH. It’s not true. I was caught off guard!”

“Oh,” Miller’s face drooped down with dismay. “Well, that’s not what every body thinks.”

Alec remembered the most charming welcome he’d just received when he entered.

“What’re they all staring at me like that for? I haven’t done anything to them!”

“Not personally, no. But they’re bound to resent you in some way or another.”

“Yes, and I have no idea why.” Alec’s arms flew up and flailed.

“Surely you do,” said Miller, smirking. “Whether you like it or not, Alec Hardy, you just managed to reel in the most eligible bachelor in Broadchurch.”

#bill masters x alec hardy #bill masters #alec hardy #broadchurch #masters of sex #illogical husbands #crossover ship #ficlet #THIS TOOK OUT SO MUCH OF MY ENERGY I HOPE IT APPEASES YOU* MEURGH #leann writes #the game is afoot

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serpienten · 6 years ago

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something sweet

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky can’t stop thinking about the cute nurse in the Tower. She, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be that into him.

Warning: reader being under a lot of pressure, some language perhaps

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Well, fuck me this is long. I’m actually scared it’s gonna be boring but I genuinely hope it’s not. Some of this dialog was pretty therapeutic for me to write actually so this fic is a tad close to ma black empty heart. This was for @sgtjbuccky ‘s End of Year writing challenge and I hope I’ve done the prompt justice, Salina. Thank’s for letting me participate :D Please leave some feedback if you like what you read!

* italicized parts are flashbacks

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re the one out here whining like a baby, maybe you should shut up.”

“Do you need reminding why I’m ‘whining like a baby’? I didn’t shoot myself, that’s for sure.”

Steve rolls his eyes, arms crossed in front of his chest. “I had it under control. No need for you to play the hero.”

“Yeah, right.” Buchy scoffs. The movement makes the wound on his bicep - no, correction, it makes his whole damn body sting like a bitch. He winces slightly and a groan rumbles up his throat. “It sure didn’t look like it. Forgive me for trying to save your life.”

"I don't need you to save my life."

“Don’t play the hero, Steve.”

“I’m serious. Thank you, but no thank you."

Bucky sighs. Bruises, black and purple blotches, scrapes and gashes litter his body and if he weren’t in so much pain, and under the influence of the strongest, most useless painkillers in Bruce’s possession, he’d deck his stubborn as fuck friend in the face. The only thing giving the brunette some sort of satisfaction is that Steve doesn’t look much better than him. Just with one bullethole less.

Bucky doesn’t mind being injured.

In a twisted kind of way, every hit he takes in the field frees him more than it weighs him down. He takes every cut, each drop of blood, every twinge of pain, the ripped skin and the scars and he tries to get better because, at this point, it’s all he can do.

But that still doesn’t mean he opens his arms like Jesus and welcomes rains of bullets or a storm of flying knives to hit him full force. He doesn’t have a death wish. Anymore, at least.

But this time, this injury, is Steve’s fault. And Bucky’d rather die than not take the chance of annoying the righteous, golden boy, I’m-the-standard-come-try-getting-on-my-level Captain America.

“Aren’t you at all worried about me? I could be dying. I could be dying and it would be your fault.”

“You can call it payback for Coney Island if you want.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky huffs indignantly, “It’s been seventy fucking years. I lost an arm and am about to lose my life, I think that’s enough.”

“Of course I’m kidding.” With a sigh that revealed nothing but exhausted irritatioin, Steve fell down next to him on the bed. “Stop being such a diva about it, you’ve been through worse.”

“You li-”

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Bucky’s head whips to the side and instantly, he grimaces again. Eyes flying shut, he gently re-adjusts the ice pack on his right thigh. He hears footsteps coming closer and his posture straightens a little.

“You two look like you got hit by a plane.”

He opens his eyes to see a woman wearing a white, light coat looking down at a clipboard in her hands. A lovely shade of lipstick colors her lips, which are curled up in a teasing smile, in a beautiful tint of rose. The woman’s eyes flicker over what’s in front of her quickly and even the stupidest person in the universe could tell that she seemed to be more than just an expert in her field. Her legs are spread slightly in a confident, stable stance, soft locks of hair framing her face which - Jesus Mary and Joseph - gives him a whole new reason to feel weak in the knees.

“Hi, Y/N.” Steve lifts his hand and gives her a little wave, as much as the gash on his forearm allows.

The woman, Y/N, looks up from the clipboard and grins. Bucky’s heart stutters in his chest. “’Sup Steve.”

“Oh, you know, the usual.” Bucky looks to his side and furrows his brows at the lopsided grin on his blond friend’s face. How on earth does Steve know her and Bucky doesn’t? He gets injured tons of times more often than the man jumping out of airplanes without a parachute (a fact that, in retrospect, should definitely worry him more) and he’s never met her. Bucky’s eyes narrow and the mechanics in his left arm whir slightly as he clenches his fingers to a fist.

“Sergeant?”

“What?”

They’re both looking at him now, with equally anticipating expressions. Y/N must’ve said something because she re-adjusts to clutch the clipboard to her chest and clears her throat.

“I was asking if you’ve obtained any other serious injuries aside from the bullet wound on your bicep. I’ve seen a few cuts and scrapes, do you need me to take care of them right now or do you want to wait for Doctor Cho?”

“You- You want to look at my wounds?”

“Oh, uh, is there an issue?” Y/N’s eyebrows raised as she looks at him, taken aback.

“Wha- oh, no that’s not- I didn’t mean it to sound like that. There’s no issue. I...�� he quickly explains, yet again reminded of his injuries when pain shoots through the backs of his thighs as he hastily scoots forward a little.

Y/N’s confused frown morphs back into genuine concern when he flinches. Something inside Bucky cramped painfully at the urge to make that expression disappear. She of all people, someone as breathtaking as her, shouldn’t be concerned about someone like him.

And then, she takes a step closer.

Bucky’s eyes widen. Simultaneously, he leans back. She notices it instantly and stops in her tracks, a helplessly puzzled expression on her face. “Don’t you want me to take a look?”

His breath hitches in his throat imperceptibly at her proximity. Bucky’s quick to realize that having her touch him when he’s already making a fool of himself without her hands on him wouldn’t be the best idea. He feels his heart thumping heavily in his chest as he shakes his head slowly.

“No, no it’s fine. I’m fine. Peachy. Perfect.” Internally, Bucky cringes hard.

Get your shit together, fuck’s sake.

The image of that white, fluffy cat thingy spreading its arms in a ‘What the fuck are you doing’ kind of way flashes through his mind and for a split second he clenches his jaw.

Steve next to him almost successfully stifles a laugh.

Y/N takes a quick step back and nods. “Okay, I’ll... I’ll tell Helen to hurry.”

She shoots Steve a look of complete and utter confusion, who in return replicates the exact pose of that damned cat Bucky’d just been thinking about, before turning around and leaving the room.

Bucky sharply lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding in the first place, deflating like a balloon filled with too much air. “Oh my god...” he mutters under his breath, over and over again, voice tainted with disbelief.

“What on earth was that?” Steve regards his friend with raised eyebrows. Bucky’s slumps forward, the ice-pack scrunching weakly, wedged between his abdomen and his upper legs, and both of his hands, one silvery metal and the other tanned flesh obscuring the view of his face.

“That was me being you.” His reply is muffled, just like the low whine he lets out right after.

Bucky’s eyes are focused on the long glass wall separating the kitchen from the living room. It’s only Steve and him sitting on one of the grey, soft couches, the former flipping through a book, glasses perched on his nose.

The blond glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “Quit it, will you?”

“Quit what?”

“You know what I mean. Quit it. It’s creepy.” Steve focuses his attention back to the black ink on the book’s pages.

“Fuck you, you’re creepy.”

His friend lets out a breath. “She’s not interested. Quit it.”

“Maybe you should change the record, I think it’s broken,” Bucky says dryly, flopping down on his back, flinging one leg over the backrest of the couch. He doesn’t tear his gaze away from the glass wall, or rather, what’s behind it.

Steve doesn’t deign to look at him. Instead, he simply pushes the glasses, as useless and unnecessary they may be, up his nose and continues reading.

Some of the team members are sitting around the dining table, chattering and laughing faintly. There’s Natalia. Wanda, Sam, Tony. And Y/N.

To Bucky’s chagrin, Steve had told Sam about what had happened that day he first saw her. Ever since then, there isn’t a day Bucky doesn’t see Y/N around somewhere.

And it’s torture.

He can’t seem to be in the same room as her without embarrassing the fuck out of himself and quite frankly, it’s annoying. Steve’s and Sam’s giggles in the background don’t help at all. He constantly fumbles for words, acts insanely clumsy and, according to Tony, looks at her ‘with hearts flying out of his stupid eyes’. In his defense, he can’t exactly help it though. Her presence is addicting. She’s smart, makes him laugh (which isn’t an easy feat to achieve), smells like heaven and has a smile and laugh that threaten to make his knees buckle over every single time.

Bucky’s so into her, Steve’s started to call Wednesdays ‘Whinedays’ because Bucky has been using the blond’s free day to his whiny advantage.

Of course, all of this would be a hell of a lot easier if she were into him too.

The only issue: She isn’t.

At least that’s what he thinks.

Y/N never fails to amaze and confuse the crap out of him. She flirts with him and shoots him down the second it looks like he might make a move. She touches him sometimes, gentle brushes of knuckles against knuckles or a soft squeeze to his bicep, but as soon as he steps a little closer, she’s jumps back like he just attempted to slap her. It sort of puts a damper on the rapid beating of his heart.

Bucky heaves out a sigh and closes his eyes, raising his hands to rub them over his face.

”Are you coming tonight?”

“To Tony’s rooftop soiree? No, thank you.” Bucky tilts his head to look at his friend.

“You might enjoy yourself. Once in a while, you really should show up.” Steve says it so nonchalantly and so smoothly Bucky has to furrow his brows. Ever since the brunet had joined the team, he’d been largely given the control over when and where he wanted to go. It was a well-known fact that the former Winter Soldier disliked parties for many reasons and most people had accepted that not ten horses could drag him near big crowds. And Stark’s parties were infamous for their loudness and for being on a whole other level of anxiety-inducing. Almost everyone had accepted his wish to not be forced to attend events like that, except for the Captain.

“No,” Bucky replies, a finality in his voice that would’ve put an end to most conversations. Most.

There’s a pause. Then, Steve pushes out a sigh and puts a colorful, completely scribbled over piece of paper to mark the page in his book, setting it down on the table. He shifts his sitting position so that his whole body is now turned into the direction of his sprawled out friend.

“I know you’re strictly against parties. And I respect that- I do.” Steve says with more urgency when Bucky snorts. “But this time, it’s not that big of a deal. There aren’t many people invited, just some field agents, the team and a few others. It’s a small event. I know you can handle that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Y/N leaving. Sam waves at her just before she exits the room. His mood instantly darkens a little. With one smooth movement, both of Bucky’s feet are planted on the ground and he sits in an upright position. “Quit it, Steve. I’m not interested.”

“Go out with me. Just once. One time‘s all. Whaddaya say, doll?”

“Bucky, I...”

Serenity settles in the tower the second the little party on the rooftop starts.

It’s how Bucky likes it.

Calm. Quiet. Peaceful.

All the commotion he dislikes with a passion is safely up on the roof, far away from the living quarters and anywhere Bucky wants to be at anyways. He likes being by himself. Alone but not so lonely, wandering the seemingly never-ending hallways of the more than large building absentmindedly, until the never-ending hallways end and his absent mind decides whether to go left or right or straight ahead. Bucky’s discovered many things about the tower that way. Empty rooms that might’ve been discarded since the day the structure had been built, storage spaces, rooms with unused training machines and high windows that give a breathtaking view of the city Bucky calls home and also not.

He’s discovered many things on walks like these but, still, he’s nowhere near having discovered everything.

Tonight, he’s somewhere on the seventh floor.

He walks with the shadows dancing around him and tranquility following wherever he goes. Gaze lowered, his footfall is silent as a cat’s. Bucky knows his way around darkness like the back of his hand. After all, it’s where he’s spent most of his life. Out of sight. Surrounded by cold, calculated silence and darkness.

Left. Straightforward. Right. Right. Left.

The only source of light is the low gleaming neon emergency exit sign at the end of the hallway.

Right. Straightforward. Straightforward. Left.

That’s when he hears it.

Bucky stops in his tracks.

Furrowing his brows, he strains his ears, listens into the darkness. There’s nothing at first but then the sound’s back. It’s far away but if there’s one thing Bucky can rely on, it’s his hearing.

The brunet follows the sound, hearing it rise in volume with every step he takes and every corner he rounds. Delicate notes conjoined in a gentle melody wrap around him the closer he gets until they’re all he can hear and all he can feel, and he stands in front of a door that’s slightly ajar. There’s no light peaking through the slight crack.

Who on earth plays a piano without any light?

The melody still floats around his head and curiosity takes the better of him, prompting him to quietly push open the door.

Like countless other rooms in the building, this one has floor to ceiling windows. The city lights illuminate the room eerily and throw long shadows across the floor, but the view is something to die for.

Just like the person Bucky notices in the room next.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can...”

“No, don’t apologize, I shouldn’t even have...”

His breath hitches in his throat when he recognizes her and he’d very much like to hit himself for the stupid, loud gasp that leaves him because it startles her and cuts of the beautiful melody. Y/N whirls around and looks at him with wide eyes while Bucky takes a step forward and raises his hands reassuringly. As soon as she recognizes him, she lets out a deep breath.

“Jesus, Buck, you almost just gave me a fucking heart attack.”

“Sorry, doll,” he smiles, sheepishly. “That wasn’t my intention.”

“What was your intention then?” she sounds amused and her heartbeat is still going a little too fast and Bucky’s thankful she doesn’t seem to think he was creeping on her or anything.

“Definitely not scaring you,” he grins and takes a few tentative steps closer to where she sits at the piano. It’s the only thing in the room and for a split second, Bucky makes a mental note to ask Tony if he even knows that this room exists. “Did you walk here in the dark?”

She shakes her head and points at a flashlight lying next to her on the floor.

“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she says, “Usually, people don’t have an easy time sneaking up on me.”

“Jumpy?”

“Just very attentive. You wouldn’t stand a chance when my guard is up, Barnes.” Y/N looks up at him teasingly when he’s next to her and scoots a little to the side, making space for him on the piano stool. Bucky sits down and the stool creaks precariously under his weight. Y/N giggles softly at the skeptical look on his face. Bucky’s heart shoots to his throat at the sound.

“If it breaks, you’re buying a new one, beefy man.” She snakes her arm through his and pulls him a little closer. It’s a close fit, Bucky’s ass is half on the stool and half off but he can’t and would never want to complain about being so close to her.

“Did you just call me fat?” He feigns offense and feels his heart jump in his chest when she giggles again.

“No no no, you’re all muscle, sweetheart.” She says, a wide grin on her face as she squeezes his bicep teasingly. “I like it.”

“Really.” Bucky looks at her with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided, silly smirk on his face. “Well, aren’t you something sweet.”

On the outside, Bucky’s surprisingly calm. On the inside, however, he’s freaking out. Y/N’s so close and she’s calling him sweetheart and giggling like a literal angel and if Bucky doesn’t get up and run away right now, he’ll probably be stuck on her for all eternity. Not that he’d mind, but his heart can only take so many rejections.

Y/N’s only reply is a soft smile and she rests her head on his shoulder as silence settles once more. Bucky lets his eyes wander over the piano. She’s been playing mere seconds ago but what’s notably missing are the notes.

“How long have you been playing?”

“Since I was a child,” she replies, gently pressing down the keys while she talks. “I used to practice every day but now I only do it once in a while.”

“Why?”

“I guess I’m just too busy now. Being a nurse is more stressful than one would think.” She pauses for a moment and Bucky thinks she hesitates before continuing. “It’s not just physically, you know? Mentally, it’s no walk in the park either.”

She’s not looking at him, instead, she’s fixing her gaze on the black and white keys of the piano.

“I think you’re handling it amazingly,” he confesses, looking down at her.

Y/N chances a glance up at him, seemingly searching for something in his eyes. Perhaps she’s looking for a glint that reveals dishonesty, something that signals her that he’s making fun of her for being so weak. When she finds nothing, though, because why would Bucky be dishonest to her of all people, another sigh leaves her.

“Thanks.” Her reply is a faint whisper that he surely would’ve missed if his hearing wasn’t so advanced.

“You know,” he lifts his right hand to touch her arm that is linked with his left, “if you need someone to talk to... I just- I- I’m here if you need anything. I just want you to know that.”

All of a sudden, tears well up in her eyes. It catches Bucky off guard. It was supposed to be sweet but apparently, he’d said something wrong. He’s about to apologize but she cuts him off.

“God, Bucky, I know. I know... Thank you so much.” She buries her face in the crook of his neck and Bucky can feel her tears dripping hotly onto his skin. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t even be crying right now. It’s so stupid.”

Her sniffling and stifled sobs break his heart into millions of pieces. “It’s not stupid, Y/N.” He disentangles his arm from her to wrap it around her shoulders, voice urgent and leaving no room for protest. “It’s natural. Besides, I’m no one to judge, you know that. I’m a mess.”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Buck. If anyone’s a mess here, it’s me,” she says. “I mean, I feel guilty even being around you sometimes because all I want is to talk to you because I know you’d understand but it’d make me feel so fucking guilty. Unloading all that crap on you that literally sounds like a luxurious vacation compared to what you’ve been through.”

Y/N lifts her head to look at him and Bucky sees the streaks of tears on her cheeks. He can’t help but reach up and cup her face in his flesh palm, softly brushing over the skin of her cheek with his thumb. “Stop. You hear me? What happened in my past is the past. I’m not suffering anymore, thanks to everyone around here. You’re suffering right now. And I’ll be damned if I let my past stand in my way of helping you. Do you understand?”

She squeezes her eyes shut and Bucky feels her leaning into his touch. His heart skips another beat. “You know what else?” he says after a short pause. Y/N hums, opening her eyes to look at him questioningly. “You help me too,” he murmurs. “Just... you. I feel better when you’re around. You help a lot.”

A wet chuckle bubbles up Y/N’s throat and she lets her head fall forward, a wall of hair shielding her beautiful face from his eyes. She wraps her fingers around his right wrist and Bucky swears to all the Gods and the devil down below that he feels her lips pressing to the palm of his hand. “Charmer.”

“Nah, darlin’. Just bein’ honest.”

It’s in another moment of silence they spend in each other’s arms that he realizes something. “Hold on, is that why you said no to going out with me?” he asks tentatively, because it’s such a stupid thing to ask in a situation like this. Y/N’s cheeks blush in an adorable rosy color.

“I’m just not really doing this stuff right now. It’s not you, please believe me.”

Instead of answering, she shrugs in embarrassment. “Maybe.”

Bucky chuckles in disbelief. “Right now, I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge for thinking I wouldn’t want to listen to you.”

“Can I pick?”

Quickly, he leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, before pulling her into a bone crushing hug.

Y/N squeals in surprise at both actions and laughs while wrapping her arms around his torso.

The city lights give the room and eery glow and large shadows wrap around them like a blanket. They’re in a room on the seventh floor in the Avengers Tower while everyone else is up on the roof partying but Bucky’s never been happier than with her in his arms.

And he doesn’t think that’ll change anytime soon.

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tenroseforeverandever · 6 years ago

Text

Wonderful Tonight - Chapter 2

Characters: Tentoo; Rose Tyler; Jackie Tyler; Pete Tyler; Original Character, Wilkins from Vitex Patents

Tags: hurt/comfort; angst; romance; fluff; love; Pete’s World; sexual content; drunkenness; drunken confessions; swearing; songfic

Story Summary:

On the first anniversary of the instantaneous biological metacrisis that created him, the same day he and Rose had been unceremoniously dumped in Pete’s World, the Doctor can think of a few gazillion different ways he would prefer to spend the evening, and the Annual Vitex Gala is not one of them. All he truly wants is to spend a quiet, intimate evening at home alone with Rose. But when Rose doesn’t acknowledge the significance of the date, the Doctor finds the strain and rejection he has worked so hard to overcome surfacing again, leaving him feeling vulnerable and insecure.

A song fic, based on the song Wonderful Tonight, by Eric Clapton.

Notes:

Once again, a multitude of thanks to my brilliant betas mrsbertucci and @rose–nebula. I couldn’t do it without you!

Written for @doctorroseprompts‘s Tentoosday event.

Four Chapters, posting on Wednesdays

Read also at: AO3; Teaspoon; FF

Summary, Chapter 2:

At the Gala, the Doctor indulges in some liquid courage and makes up his mind to tell Rose what has been troubling him. –oOo–

We go to a party and everyone turns to see This beautiful lady that's walking around with me And then she asks me, “Do you feel all right?” And I say, "Yes, I feel wonderful tonight"

As they walked through the grand, double doors of the banquet hall, everyone turned to look. Murmurs and gasps of admiration spun through the crowd as they took in Rose’s beauty. Fierce pride welled up inside the Doctor, and he stood tall as he walked by her side. This perfect human was here with him, and she worked the room with such grace: the Vitex heiress. It was a side of her he rarely got to see. It didn’t matter that he barely got a “how-do-you-do” from any of the guests they paused to chat with; he was basking in Rose’s glow as much as any of them. More so. He got to go home with her at the end of the night, an arrangement he hoped would never end, not if he had anything to say about it.

Despite enjoying the relative anonymity of walking in Rose’s lovely shadow, the Doctor was unable to avoid Jackie Tyler’s scrutiny. He and Rose had somehow managed to make it to the gala well before the dinner was to be served, but that hadn’t stopped Jackie from shooting him dirty looks across the room, confirming his suspicions she blamed him for their lack of punctuality. She narrowed her eyes at him, her mascara-clumped gaze never wavering as she leaned to whisper in the ear of the woman standing next to her, gesturing with nods and frowns in his direction. The other woman turned her eyes on him as well, pursing her lips in disapproval. He felt a burn of shame creep up his neck.

Rose tugged him closer by their linked elbows. “Don’t pay any attention to her,” she whispered. “She’ll find another target in a few minutes. Look! There she goes now. Wilkens from Patents is up to his usual tricks.”

The Doctor craned his neck to peer over the top of Rose’s head and watched in wonderment as the man in question surreptitiously slipped hors d’oeuvres into his pockets. “Blimey! He must have enough packed away to provide lunches for a week!”

“Rumour has it that’s his standard M.O.” Rose chuckled. “Any function he attends, invited or not! If there’s food, he shows up. Everyone’s complaining about him.”

“Weeell, you can’t argue with resourcefulness. I think I quite like this bloke.” He smirked when Rose smacked his arm. “Poor sap,” he redirected her attention, “Jackie’s closing in. She’s going to have a field day. I’ll have to get him a drink later to thank him for being an unwitting diversion. Speaking of, why don’t I get us something from the bar? And you can go and mingle some more, see if you can find us someone actually interesting to talk to.” He unlinked their elbows and waggled his eyebrows at her as he backed away in the direction of the bar.

“I’ll do my best… That’s a hell of a challenge,” she rolled her eyes with a bright grin, “but I’ll see what I can do. I wish the Torchwood crowd were here… Oh, Doctor,” she beckoned him back to her, “just a glass of white for me. You go easy on the drinks, too. I don’t want to be carryin’ you outta here tonight.”

“Oh, my superior physiology can handle a few drinks, Rose.” Her arched brow reminded him how untrue that now was, with his current human-influenced body. But after all, it was his “birthday” (not that Ro– …anyone had cared to notice) and if he wanted to indulge… why not? “I think I deserve to let loose a little, yeah?” he sniffed.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Don’t blame me when Mum comes after you.” She shook her head and turned away from him, stopping to speak some dignitary or other… the mayor and her husband, maybe. (Someone dreary, anyway).

The Doctor walked away from Rose making a show of nonchalance as he ambled over to the bar, feeling a bit bitter and out of sorts. “A glass of white, please, erm… Jasmine,” he told the woman behind the counter, squinting at the badge she wore to determine her name. “And a couple of shots of scotch… neat.”

“What kind, sir? We have–”

“Just something strong and wet, ta.”

He hated exchanging barbs with Rose, almost more than having a full-on row. He hated seeing the silent disappointment in her eyes, hated that the true reason for their resentment was concealed behind the tension of the moment, behind shallow words that masked a deeper meaning. He and Rose were experts at not talking about the things that really mattered. And what really mattered – right now – was the significance of this day to both of them, and how they both had been “not talking” about it.

“A bit of liquid courage, comin’ up!” Jasmine poured two generous shots of something the colour of Rose’s eyes into a lowball.

The significance of the bartender’s words wasn’t lost on the Doctor. He needed to find the nerve to speak to Rose about what was bothering him. “Coward, that’s me, every time.” He downed the drink in one big swig, relishing the burn of the alcohol in his throat. Maybe it would loosen his tongue – not that his tongue really needed loosening under normal circumstances. But, weeell… needing to talk to Rose about niggling oversights and hurt feelings… that, that was when his tongue seemed to tie itself in knots.

“Thanks. That’s much better.” He nodded his appreciation to the bartender and was just pushing off to find Rose – maybe he could pull her aside to talk before dinner was served – when Wilkens came staggering up to the bar, looking very much the worse for wear after his encounter with Jackie.

“You look like you need a drink… Wilkens, is it?”

“That’s me. You hit the nail on the head, there, mate!” Wilkins folded himself over the counter of the bar and buried his face in the nest of his arms. He lifted his head up a little to peer at the Doctor. “That woman is a tyrant.”

“Jasmine!” the Doctor called. “Another, please, and one for my friend here.”

“Aw, thanks, mate!” Wilkens raised his head and sighed as the glass of amber liquid appeared in front of him. He held it up, clinking it against the Doctor’s. “Cheers!” He tipped it back, making appreciative coughing and gasping noises as he swallowed.

The Doctor gulped his drink too, a warm buzz developing in his brain.

“That took the edge off,” Wilkens spluttered, “but I think I’ll need a bit more of that to chase the memory of Jackie Tyler out my head. Hello, there!” he called to Jasmine. “Another two, please!”

“I completely understand, mate. Completely understand.”

“Oh, I doubt that…”

“Oi, you just got a tongue-lashing – not that I dismiss your suffering – but she slapped me!”

“Blimey!”

“Yup! See that beautiful woman in the crimson gown… riiiight there?” He picked up the refilled lowball, gestured with it toward Rose, who was gliding with incomparable grace around the room, dazzling dignitaries and serving staff alike.

“Ah… Rose Tyler, ain’t she somethin’? Hear she’s got ‘erself a bloke, now. Old boyfriend from ‘er past, from before she stepped forward as Pete Tyler’s long, lost daughter. Broke half of Britain’s ‘earts when that news ‘it the red tops.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows in amused satisfaction. The rest of Britain could dream on: she was his… weeell, he was hers, at least. Undoubtedly. Irrevocably.

“Cor, that’s one lucky bloke. If it wasn’t for the mother, eh? What the hell did you do to earn a slap from that hag?”

The Doctor felt a prickle of resentment, an inexplicable need to protect Jackie that made him squirm uncomfortably. “Oh, I reckon I deserved it. Accidently made her daughter,” he nodded his head toward Rose, “break curfew once. Got her home very late. But that was years ago…”

“You! You’re not…!?”

The Doctor lifted his glass in the air. “To Rose Tyler!”

“And to you, mate!” Wilkens clinked their glasses together again. “One helluva lucky bloke!”

The Doctor’s gaze was fixed on Rose as he tossed back the whiskey. Then he dropped his glass onto the bar, picked up the white wine he’d ordered for Rose, and clapped Wilkens on the back. “Yeah, I really am.”

He swaggered away from the astonished man, back to his Rose. There had been something he needed to tell her… something important. But the idea that he was the envy of half of Britain was at the forefront of his scattered thoughts, and the buzz of alcohol circulating through his veins was clouding his memory. And there she was standing before him, turning on that megawatt smile of hers, complete with the tip of her cheeky pink tongue teasing him from between her teeth.

He had to agree with Wilkens, he was one helluva lucky bloke! What a gift he’d been given. What more could he ask for on his birthday?

His birthday… it was something about his birthday. A little knot of indignation and tension tightened around his single, throbbing heart.

Rose’s face fell, responding to his change of mood, the little crease above her nose appeared again, as she stepped toward him. “Doctor, do you feel all right? You seem a little…” She reached up to cup his cheek, stroking with her thumb and he felt the tension ease, just a little.

Then, she looked into his eyes, scrutinizing. “Jesus,” she hissed through clenched teeth, “you’ve only been gone ten minutes! How much have you had? Shit! You better not let Mum catch you.”

His resentment returned full force, and he yanked her hand away from his face. The glass of wine he still held sloshed over his hand with the force of his movement and he thumped it down on the tray of a passing server. “We need to talk!” he blurted, the whiskey working its magic on his tongue.

She rubbed her wrist where he had grabbed her. “Yeah, of course…” The crease over her nose deepened, her brows tightening with hurt. “What’s this about?”

Irritated, he wiped his wine-soaked hand on the side of his trousers. “I prefer to discuss it in private!”

“Okay… sure. I don’t suppose I need to remind you, you’re the one who brought it up in the middle of the Vitex Gala... I guess we could sneak out back through the kitchen. No one would notice.”

“Right then,” he snatched her hand again, and tugged her behind him. She stumbled along, uttering squeaks of protest.

They hadn’t gone far when the background music went still and a voice over the loudspeaker announced that dinner was being served. “Shit!” Rose dug in her heels and refused to go further. “We need to go back.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of course, we do.”

“Sorry, Doctor. But we would be missed, yeah? We’ll talk later. I promise. All right? And you need to go easy on the drinks.”

“Don’t have much of a choice, then, do I?”

She pressed her lips together, her sad eyes meeting his, and offered him her elbow. “C’mon,” she sighed, “duty calls.”

They wove their way among the large, round tables to the front of the dining room, where a small stage had been set up. “This is us,” Rose said as she stopped at a table situated directly next to the stage, where they were to be seated with Jackie and Pete, and a host of other dignitaries, including the President, Harriet Jones. Rose must have seen him eyeing the stage in confusion. “Dad has speeches and presentations and such to do, so this table’s handy for that,” she explained.

The Doctor sighed. It was shaping up to be a long, miserable evening. Rose turned to him, sensing his thoughts and placed a small hand on each lapel, smoothing and straightening the fabric. “Let’s just get through dinner, yeah. Then, the one obligatory dance. Then, we can leg it outta here. Okay?”

He huffed a grudging agreement through his nose.

“Okay? You feelin’ alright?”

He scoffed and then he said, sarcasm lacing his words, “Yeah, I feel bloody wonderful tonight.”

#doctorroseprompts #ficandchips #tentoo x rose #hurt/comfort #fluff #angst #romance #love #pete's world #drunkenness #drunken confessions #strong language #songfic #eventual smuttiness #a bit #tenroseforeverandever's fic

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winterromanov · 7 years ago

Text

on wednesdays we wear pink / twissy fic

or, the four times missy was incredibly extra, and the one time she sort-of wasn’t.

-one

It takes Bill a maximum of three meetings to realise that Missy is about the most extra person she’s ever met.

“You have a room,” Bill says, eyes narrowed, “Just for hats?”

Missy looks at her like she’s simple. “Where else would I put them?”

“Um, I don’t know, maybe in a box? At the top of a wardrobe? Like a normal person?”

“I’m not a normal person,” Missy titters irritably, “I’m a Time Lady. And this Time Lady wants a room for her hats, and does not care for idiotic little humans judging her choices.”

Bill rolls her eyes at the back of Missy’s head, which she can just about see over the top of the boxes thrown at her the moment she’d walked in the TARDIS control room. A small mint green one that couldn’t possibly fit a full-sized hat sits precariously on the top. She has to walk very carefully to avoid it clattering noisily onto the floor, earning another signature death glare from Missy herself.

They stop at a locked door on the corridor and Missy pauses, reaches into her cleavage, uncovers a long brass key with a suggestive red-lipstick smirk.

Bill’s lips trip over themselves as she tries to form a somewhat coherent response, shaking her head. “You—is that really necessary? Can’t you get a keyring? Or a handbag?”

Missy pouts. Pushes her boobs up outside her blouse with her hands, the material bunching, fluttering her eyelashes. Bill throws her the dirtiest look she can muster, which kind of comes across as mildly constipated in reality. “Oh, sorry, have I got you all flustered? Bless. I forgot humans couldn’t control their sexual urges around those they find irresistibly attractive.”

“Ew!” Bill gasps, affronted. The mint green box tumbles from her grip and Missy catches it in one hand, running her tongue over her teeth. “I am not… Oh, I really don’t like you.”

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like me,” Missy says, slotting the key into the lock. She turns it in one swift motion, the door unsealing itself. “Because at present, I already have one very satisfied customer.”

Bill frowns. “I think you’ll find that Nardole isn’t exactly your number one fan, either.”

“Not the egg, you imbecile!” Missy hisses, gesturing wildly with one hand, “You know exactly who I mean. It begins with a D and ends with a…octor. Has two hearts, grey hair, screams like a little girl when he—“

Oh, that’s quite enough. Bill shudders dramatically, almost dropping all the boxes onto the floor and debates running off to the bathroom to violently throw up. No, no, this is just—she is not… “Oh my god. Oh my god. Please. No. Do not ever…”

Missy’s bottom lip juts out condescendingly. She reaches out and taps Bill’s cheek gently, her rings cool and metallic against Bill’s skin. “Mummy and daddy do it too, you know.”

Bill completely blanches and Missy laughs, grabbing one of the boxes off Bill’s pile. She tries to think of anything, literally anything, other than the Doctor and Missy shagging—she feels more violated than the time she caught Moira tugging off Greg (or was it Paul?) on the living room sofa last year. She’s never been able to look at those brown couch cushions the same way since.

She desperately tries to back track. Takes a deep breath. It’s just a Missy thing; Bill’s certain she’s made it one of her sole missions in life to make her as uncomfortable as possible. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. I’m just going to pretend that this conversation never happened.”

Missy shrugs. Blinks innocently. “If that makes you feel better.”

“Yes, it does,” Bill interrupts before she can add anything else, “And I’ve got stuff to do, so please just open the door and we can both get on with our lives.”

-x-

-two

The bus she takes to the university is nearly always late, so Bill pops her headphones in her ears and slumps against the Perspex of the shelter, humming along to Taylor Swift’s latest track and reading an advert for a new brand of deodorant. The sun reflects off her new white Doc Martens. She smiles fondly. The Doctor helped her choose them—he was actually surprisingly useful when it came to fashion advice.

The tranquillity is ruined, however, when a black vintage convertible pulls up right in front of her. The Doctor is sat in the driver’s seat, Missy riding shotgun. Both of them are wearing Ray-Bans. Bill’s jaw drops open, tugs her headphones out her ears, wonders if she’s trapped in one of those odd, surreal dreams she’s been having lately.

“Get in loser,” Missy drawls in a fake American accent, dropping her sunglasses down her nose, “We’re going shopping.”

The Doctor turns to face her. “Have you been watching Mean Girls again?”

“Yes,” Missy says, with enthusiasm, “It’s a modern masterpiece.”

“You’re not wrong, but this is getting ridiculous. How many times have you seen it now?”

Missy shrugs, examining her cuticles. She’s painted them a deep, dark shade of blue other than her left ring finger, which is exclusively silver. “Not more times than you’ve read A Christmas Carol.”

“But that’s… That’s Charles Dickens. I’ve met Charles Dickens.”

“Now,” Missy points a finger in his direction, “That is culture snobbery, and I will not stand for it.”

The argument looks as though it’s about to get heated, so Bill takes it upon herself to intervene and sidles up to the Doctor’s side of the car. According to the dashboard—there’s definitely been some tinkering there, Bill can’t remember satnavs being standard in vintage vehicles—they’ve been listening to an Ed Sheeran album called a2 + b2 = c2, which she’s pretty sure isn’t out yet, unless she’s missed something.

“What’s going on?” Bill asks, folding her arms, “Since when have you owned a car?”

The Doctor scoffs loudly, one hand clutched round the steering wheel, the other draped across the car door. “You accept the fact that I own a time machine, but a car has you confused?”

Missy flicks open a small silver cigarette case and places one between her lips, looking expectantly over at the Doctor. He sighs, reaches into his jacket pocket, brings out a little box of old fashioned matches and quickly lights it for her. She takes a long, luxurious drag; the smoke is decadently beautiful, hanging in the air, trailing back into the wind. All she’s missing is a ridiculous headscarf and she’s walked out of one of those black-and-white movies Bill watches absent-mindedly on the drama channel.

“You should have seen his last motor,” Missy burrs, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air, “Might as well have had I’m an obnoxious badly-dressed alien with an intense fetish for human culture written all over it.”

“Bessie was loyal. Much more loyal than you ever were,” the Doctor says, “And if your DVD collection is anything to go by, you can hardly chastise me for having a liking of human culture.”

Missy rolls her shoulders non-committally and throws the remainders of her cigarette overboard, landing unceremoniously in a puddle. “We could have this argument all day, my dear, but you were the one who said they had more important things to do.”

“I do,” the Doctor turns his attention back to Bill, “I just wanted to remind you about that essay I set you on the origins of supernovae. Its due tomorrow evening.”

“I know that,” Bill mutters, wondering why he’s made the effort to find her at a bus stop just to tell her that. She’s always on time with deadlines, unless an inconvenient invasion by malevolent monks gets in the way. “You could have just text me, you know.”

Missy snorts a laugh under her breath. The Doctor’s face curls into a bit of a grimace, looking down at his lap. Bill blinks back, clueless.

“What?” Bill asks, “What’s happened to your phone? You didn’t drop it into a blackhole again, did you?”

“No, no,” the Doctor reassures, “I’ve just… temporarily dislocated it.”

Missy leans over. Presses a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. “He got quite annoyed with it. Apparently he doesn’t like it when I prank call the Pope pretending to be the Guardian of Hell.”

“The Vatican get very sensitive over claims like that!” he hisses, pushing her back into her seat. Bill wonders just how she managed to get entangled in this very weird web of Time Lord panic. “Anyway. Bill. I’ll see you later.”

The car judders loudly as the Doctor applies his foot to the accelerator and changes gear. Missy elegantly pushes her sunglasses back up her nose and leans back in the leather seat, applying another coat of dark red lipstick in the rear view mirror. She pops her lips and pouts, clearly pleased with her appearance. Bill is about to call out but before the words even have chance to leave her mouth, the convertible is speeding off, leaving her standing in its wake.

“On Wednesdays we wear pink!” Missy yells out loudly, her American accented voice just audible over the top of the car engine. Her laugh somehow carries all the way down the road, despite the car a spot in the distance now. Bill sighs tetchily. She’s never going to truly understand anything about Missy, is she?

-x-

-three

The TARDIS control room is a metallic mess of tools and wiring, glass platforms thrown up exposing bare circuit boards underneath and a spattering of bolts crunching under Bill’s trainers. She sits lazily in an armchair, hydro-spanner in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, essentially at the Doctor’s beck and call. Maintenance days were slow days. That being said, there is something remarkable in seeing how everything works beneath the surface. She leans over, looking down the stairs, where the Doctor is hunched over what looks like a large computer screen with his jacket rolled up to his elbows.

“What are you doing now?” she calls out, “I did computer science at school. I could help.”

The Doctor runs a hand through his hair, tilts the screen, his head along with it. “Thanks, but it’s not that sort of computer.”

“Oh,” Bill hums, takes another sip of tea. The TARDIS groans, shifts, and Bill wonders if this is the time machine equivalent of going to the dentist. “Right.”

Her attention is diverted when she hears a vague shuffling from the other side of the control room and a soft patter of footsteps. The Doctor gently drops the scanner onto the floor, brows furrowed. “Missy?”

A moment later, she enters, dressed only in a black bikini and a welding mask. A pair of flip-flops hang loosely off her feet and she’s carrying a blowtorch in one hand and a tool kit in the other.

At this point, Bill has run out of reactions. There is literally nothing more Missy could do to surprise her. She could ride naked on the back of a giant space toad through the TARDIS corridors and she probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelid.

Missy lifts the welding mask up and wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead. The Doctor stares at her expectantly, arms folded, waiting for whatever she’s about to throw him. “My hydro-spanner is broken. Can I borrow yours?”

The Doctor shakes his head, clearly deciding not to comment on her get-up. He flicks his arm airily in Bill’s direction. Returns to work. “Bill has it.”

Missy huffs, dropping the blowtorch and the toolbox onto the floor. She pads across the control room, shoving the Doctor pointedly with her shoulder as she passes, extends her arm out to Bill. Her fingers flex keenly. Bill is about to drop it into her palm, but retracts more out of curiosity than anything else.

“What’s with the bikini?” Bill squints, “I thought you were doing repairs.”

“I am doing repairs,” Missy grits her teeth. Pings her bikini straps with her forefingers. “But it does get quite toasty down by the Eye of Harmony, so I thought I’d try and catch a tan whilst I’m at it. Now. Hydro-spanner. Gimme.”

“You’ll not get a tan down there,” the Doctor calls out, “You’ll go crispy. And remember what happened the last time you got crispy—“

Missy rolls her eyes so forcefully it could hit a high number on the Richter scale. “Shut up. I’ll stop before I turn into bacon. I just want a nice, bronzed glow for when you take me to the Maldives.”

“What—we aren’t going to the Maldives.”

Missy tuts, grabs the spanner off Bill while she’s distracted. “And you’d think I couldn’t drop a more obvious hint.”

Bill watches as Missy trots back down the stairs and hovers over the Doctor’s shoulder, murmuring something she can’t hear from such a distance, even if she strains her ears. He laughs, and she laughs back, and their faces are so close it’s like their noses are almost touching—before the Doctor reaches out and pulls her welding mask back down over her face. Missy plants both her hands on his shoulders and pushes him playfully before turning around, picking up her tools, heading back into the corridors.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re both checking out my arse,” she shouts, her voice echoing round the control room. Bill glances over to the Doctor, who is about as red as she is. She sinks back into the armchair, sips her tea, and tries her best to forget that ever happened.

-x-

-four

The makeup and beauty floor of John Lewis is absolutely packed. Bill desperately elbows her way through crowds of smart, intimidatingly beautiful women in tight suits with perfect hair, each spraying her with another intoxicating burst of expensive perfume and urging for her to try a sample. She kindly declines, eyes scanning the crowd, eventually spotting the Doctor thumbing tiny little bottles of Prada whilst a puzzled shop assistant looks on.

“Hey,” she breathes, nudging him with her shoulder. “Got your message. What’s the occasion?”

“Missy’s birthday,” he states plainly, “She mentioned she wanted perfume.”

“Birthday?” Bill queries. She sniffs a liquid in a lilac coloured bottle and for some reason, it reminds her of Heather, but she associates all nice things with Heather so that isn’t such a big surprise. “Didn’t realise you lot had birthdays.”

“Well that’s ridiculously presumptive. A hallmark of your species. Of course we have birthdays. How else would we know how old we were?”

“I didn’t think you did,” Bill shrugs, unfazed. She’s never actually found out either of their exact ages. She assumes it’s a figure around two thousand. “Do you buy her a present every year?”

The Doctor wavers, looking down at his feet. A question he does not want to answer. “Not every year. We’ve—we’ve been estranged for quite a while. I like to make the effort if she’s around.”

There are hundreds of layers to that statement that Bill can never hope to understand so she smiles, picks up another bottle, admires the pretty pastel-coloured packaging. It’s no secret that she��s scared of Missy and the things she’s done, but she can’t ignore how important she is to the Doctor. You will do anything for those you love and care for. Even if those you love and care for throw little girls into volcanoes.

The Doctor strolls away from the Prada counter and over to the Dior one, where a middle-aged woman with a tight-bun and fake-tanned skin tries to talk to him, but the Doctor simply raises a hand and looks around himself. Bill smiles apologetically—she’ll have the manners chat with him again at some point.

“Do you know what sort of scents she likes?” Bill offers, trying to help. “Is it fruity, or musky, or…”

“Flowery, I think,” the Doctor edges in quickly, too quickly, Bill stunned at just how sure he is. He coughs, tugs at his earlobe. “She always smells like flowers.”

She’s about to guide him over to the Estee Lauder counter, because they do this gorgeous one she bought for Moira on her last birthday, all dark and purple and Missy’s aesthetic down to an absolute T. But her phone buzzes in her pocket so she slides her hand into the back of her jeans, breezes over a notification.

A text from an unknown number.

Tell him I like Chanel. Noir, if they have it. And for God’s sake, don’t let him anywhere near Lush. All the smells and colours confuse him. I don’t need any more bathbombs.

Bill holds a gasp at the audacity of it, but isn’t remotely surprised. Of course she’d have her number. She glances over at the Doctor, still studying a display carefully, before tapping out a response.

This is supposed to be a surprise.

A few seconds later: I promise to look very surprised when I open it.

Bill snorts a laugh. Stuffs her phone back in her pocket and wanders back over to where the Doctor is standing. “I was thinking… maybe Chanel?”

-x-

-five

His eyes flicker over her figure as she sits at the dressing table, pulling pins out her hair and dropping them with a small porcelain clink into a white dish. Her hair hangs loose, long and dark and unbelievable, and he feels the sudden urge to run his fingers through it. Instead he sits, waits. The silk throw hung over the side of the bed feels smooth beneath his fingers. She’s humming something softly to herself, eerie and oddly familiar, but he’s unable to put his finger on it.

He exhales a long breath, like he’s about to say something, but loses the bottle. Missy stares at him in the reflection of the mirror, blue eyes unusually soft. “Something on your mind?”

“No, not…” he trails off again. Stands, walks so he’s directly behind her, strokes a stray strand of hair away from the nape of her neck. “I like it when it’s like this. When it’s just us.”

“It is you who insists on having your little pets cluttering up the place,” Missy raises an eyebrow. Her arm snakes round her shoulders until she clutches at his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. “But I do too.”

“It’s not that I don’t… I love having Bill around. She’s clever and funny, can be around you for two minutes without trying to kill you.” She smirks at that, oddly pleased. “But you’re you.”

“Ah, very specific, my dear. I know exactly what you mean.”

He chuckles, pressing a soft kiss on the top of her head. He doesn’t see the way her eyelids flutter closed. “We’ve spent so many years at each other’s throats. I hate you or you hate me, or we both hate each other, and… you know, don’t you?”

She brings his hand to her lips. Kisses the pads of his fingers, finishing at his wrist. Oh, she knows. She’s known since they first caught eyes, aged eight, standing in the entrance of the Academy with just a suitcase and two breaking hearts to keep them company. Two thousand years. Every single second leading up to now. Oh—they’re too chaotic for it to ever stay this simple, but this one moment is good enough for now.

“I know,” she says gently. “My darling Doctor. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Come to bed?” he says, one eyebrow arched, and Missy laughs. “What?”

“It’s not usually you who has to do the asking,” Missy stands, coyly sheds her dressing gown, silk pooling at her feet. She turns and he blinks slowly, pushes him over to the bed, kisses him with her hand gripping the hair on his neck. His fingers tug at her bra strap greedily.

“Oh, come on,” Missy says, “Let’s give the pet something she can really squirm about.”

She throws his trousers across the room, and her bra along with it.

#twissy #doctor who #twelve x missy #missy #the mistress #twelfth doctor #dw #fic #twissy fic #fanfic #doctor who fic

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