[ well, he doesn't have much choice but to take the risk. if he could manage it drunk, he's got at least a little hope now. there's an effort made, here, to sound halfway normal. ]
Keep your fingers crossed.
[ and, by the sounds of it, not too long later somebody's opening it up and giving the thing a go. ]
[Meanwhile Freddie's settled to a perch on the rooftop, free knee bent under him, keeping the pose from being too precarious. He'd easily be graceful enough to keep balance, sober. Drunk makes everything a little more questionable.
Although, speaking of questionable things, the lift decides to be reliable for once. John's disgourged with only some minor rattling and dubious shudders to show for the experience.]
Are you out? I don't know where I'd get a mechanic this time of night.
Yeah. [ and on his way, stalking through the main apartment (thank God Jem's out, a glance at him now definitely wouldn't be the best introduction), soon at the foot of the fire escape. it's not difficult to hear the echo of his footsteps from down here, they sound to him both like thunder and oddly absent, removed, but from up there the best radar Freddie's probably going to get on his position is whatever of the sound leaks through into the call ]
[He's quiet, then, mentally tracking John's path, working out timings, wondering what he'll notice first: the foot through the roof or the papers pinned to the wall - sketches and outlines, works in development. There's the catch of his breath and slow, steadying exhale.]
[ feet stamp stamp stamp on metal, lift him up into a space he stood in not that long ago which looked nothing like it does now and he barely notices that he's never seen it like this before, barely notices or just can't see, can't spend any mind on anything other than knowing Freddie's above his head and that he has to think, has to be calm, has to keep himself steady enough to get him down and not all the way down, not down there, not— ]
Not doing what again.
[ it's distracted, John having found Freddie's protruding foot and being suddenly unsure how to do anything about it. he's close enough now that his voice can probably be heard through the hole but he doesn't hang up, clutches the phone to his ear and just keeps talking ]
[This is into the phone. It's quiet enough that John will need to press his ear close just to hear it. In response to the other question, the foot above John's head twists and tugs. If he's not balanced, that point's about to be proven. But there's no crash from above. Even the remaining tiles seem to be fairly well set.]
[ there's a smart remark to be made. he doesn't. whether or not he's even heard goes unmarked. instead, shortly after the foot stills, there are fingers pressed around an ankle, firm, a wrap of them that doesn't tug (for all he wants to, pull him down through the roof, kill these last few minutes of uncertainty) but holds for just a few brief seconds until his hand skims up past to check at the edges of the hole Freddie's made. ]
Don't move anymore. If there's anything you can tell me about what things look like from up there, now's a good time.
[ there's an edge to his voice that's not the dangerous underslice of violence or the hardness of anger. it's too many words in too short a time. too little weight in them, conviction caught on something invisible and lacking. words that could be orders left tinted with plea. ]
[Sorry, John. He's a little drunk and his leg's a little sore where the broken tiles are scratching up against his calf and it's hard not to be flippant when he's a little (just a little, a fraction, a decimal point) scared.
John's unpressed pleading sinks in eventually.]
It looks... like a roof? Stars one direction, tiles the other. Slopes down toward the gutter. Come out, you can see. [A beat.] I won't let you fall.
[ and so his thumb, the circle of his hand, soothing along under the place where skin disappears out of reach. then he's gone, in search of the way out of the attic and onto the roof. he's not afraid of heights, but he can't say he's not afraid of falling— it's just not his blood that haunts his sleep. ]
I'm going to get you inside, Freddie.
[ you keep me up and I'll bring you in. we're fine.
John takes his first steps out onto the roof and some of the panic numbs under the anaesthetic of having Freddie's life in reach and a responsibility, a wholly selfish necessity, to keep it there. ]
[And Freddie feels, frankly, stupid and small, trapped in place like a strangely wobbly statue. Instinct would have him lashing out, worsening the situation. But he and John have been there so many times before.
He turns, holds out his hands.]
Mind the loose tiles or we'll both be frightening the pigeons in the morning.
[As John gets closer, Freddie frowns, puzzling out the tightness tugging his lips to that narrow line.]
[ he's careful. ever so. phone shoved in his back pocket, each step sure and tested but swiftly, picking his path to close the distance as quickly as he (mostly) safely can. heading for Freddie's outstretched hands. ]
—Don't.
[ it's almost unconscious, he doesn't seem to react at all to having said it, but it cuts slightly differently again: half the newfound authority as he falls back on old habits to keep him able but still there, underneath, that note of plea. don't. just... please don't.
close enough, he stretches, clasps one of Freddie's hands tight. he wears the soldier like a suit, encouragement and strength reflected in the set of his face, but even that's not enough to hide how terror sits about his eyes, in tiny creases of skin, the helpless upturn of his brow. it's inconsistent with the surety in his tread, his movements now as he settles himself low and stable in front of Freddie, between him and the decline that leads to a drop. the roof doesn't scare him. his hand is steady, no trace of a tremor or uncertainty.
one left to grip Freddie's, his other hand reaches first to place Freddie's other down on the rooftop for stability and then to attend to Freddie's leg, to the hole and how to widen it, to get them both clear. ]
[It's the hand in his that's the tell. Passing information like a synaptic twitch: John's grip unmodulated, too tight, an urgent pressure rather than a measured one. It's a grip that makes Freddie wince and want to flex his fingers free. Instead he grips tight and lets John draw him downwards until he can splay his fingers out over the tiles.
He's still, and silent, and John's afraid. Don't.]
I can't.
[Pale eyebrows lift, watching the process of John picking apart wood and shattered slate. He can't fall. He'd be caught.]
Then you wouldn't get your wish.
[Tilting his head back shows the stars to be unmoving observers, now. But, whether heavenly forces have arranged it or not, the tiles give way enough to open a keyhole through which Freddie's foot can be unlocked.]
[ the breath of relief John lets out as he shifts Freddie's foot and finds he's able to lift it free is nothing like the contained thing he'd like it to be. it shudders out of him, voices just before he runs out of air. he's up on his own feet so quickly after that that he almost catches his foot oddly on the incline, only the catch of Freddie's hand around his reminding him that he can't afford a loss of balance and so he doesn't allow himself one, rights before a loss of footing can properly threaten him.
a tug on Freddie's hand. up. you can't be out here anymore. you've been out here too long already.
he's trying for the firm direction of someone ready to be a pillar, to calm the shaken. what he gives instead is the desperation of a child to leave a dark room, to pull the hand clasped somewhere lighter and safe.
[Freddie reacts anyway, at John's almost-stumble. He might be shit in a fight but he's quick and he's not weak. John finds himself with his wrist wrapped by Freddie's palm, the muscle in his arm pulled taut in case it's called upon to brace him.
The moment passes as quick as it occurred, with Freddie shifting focus to getting himself to his feet, going with that urgent drag on his arm but slower than he might like. He works his foot round in a circle before testing its weight, and then peers down into the small abyss of the hole he's created, a momentary distraction.]
[ it's a comfort of another kind. every element, from palm to pressure to the ready tension, screams life. presence. I won't let you fall. he strengthens. roots himself to give Freddie what time he needs to know he won't fall the second he takes a step. can't hurry this last stretch, no matter how much he wants to just move.
Freddie says something. it registers as not being a question or an expression of something worrying and John's eyeline moves from a roving stare over what's visible of Freddie's face to turning to plot their route back, picking out unsafe footholds, tiles that look reliable. everything about him strains to go, but he does not tug again. mistakes are easiest made in a rush. ]
[He looks up and finds John still all coiled-spring, the pulse at his throat visible with the way his neck's twisted away and thudding a quick giveaway of underlying anxieties. Then there's the silence.
Freddie chews on his lip and takes a careful step across the break in the brickwork.]
[ and it's not something he can explain out here, with the height still a threat in his peripheries, the stars closer than they should be. the second Freddie moves John's watching him like a hawk, ready for any misstep, ready too to take steps of his own that match and mirror and only ever take him as far away as the length of two outstretched arms. ]
[ nothing is what that gets out of John. not a look, an eye roll, a smile. once it's clear Freddie's fine to move some of John's tension diverts but doesn't disappear, trained in on making sure his certainty doesn't grant him over-confidence and send him slipping. but it's not over-far to safety, thank God. all John manages: ]
[Something in Freddie bridles at the order. His head pulls up like a horse plotting to rear, and god knows he's obstinate enough to send himself skidding down the roof just to prove he fucking can. But the moment holds and then passes with nothing more than a long, warning look. After which Freddie twists his hand free of John's and steps past him (with more care than he allows to show).]
Jesus.
[But he's inside, all right? Holding the maintenance door open for John to follow.]
[ it's sharp, that first sign of Freddie ready to tear away from him or lash out. John stands with it. meets him non-combatively. all he needs is for Freddie to move, away from him or away for him he doesn't care, and when finally he does and John can turn and follow after until he's got a view of Freddie Baxter safe on more sturdy ground all the held tension coils and drops, drops fast and far.
John steps inside and keeps on going, past Freddie, through the attic to the top of the stairs where his feet pull him up short before he can try a descent, hand curled tight around the handrail and hunched over himself to catch back breath he hasn't lost. deep, silent drags of air, eyes scrunched closed against sight.
[It's awkward and... embarrassing, in it's way. Freddie's not used to witnessing such open displays of vulnerability: he avoids people who show it easily with just as much determination as he disguises it in himself. John's seen him broken, hurt, trapped, but rarely exposed.
So Freddie looks away. Back through the open door to the star-speckled night, biting down his lip as if the discomfort of this can be clamped down on, too.
But John's breath doesn't slow or grow shallow. White noise in the still room. And at some point - he's not sure when - Freddie crosses over to him. He finds himself standing at John's back, anyway, a hand rubbing over his shoulder, down his arm. Breathe.]
[ this isn't supposed to happen. not around Freddie, not around anyone. and it wouldn't be happening, ultimately, if he had any choice. if he could find a route back from the edge of too many never-sunk thoughts waiting only part-obscured in deeper water. he wants to be gone. to be as far away as he can be - but here he is, barely made it five metres, can't risk another step with legs weak enough to buckle at the knees.
he can hear the faint strains of a breathed chuckle, of his own remembered breathing ragged in his mind's ear. words that he knows but won't allow to form (G--d..e J..n—) rest waiting out of reach. and he's got to work, work hard to keep it all away. he can do this in his sleep. he can do this on his own in his bed, waking up in sweats with sobs on his breath in the early hours with nobody around to see the mess he adamantly denies he is. he can't do it here. so he doesn't move, can't move. listens to what could be a voice if he let it, listens to the echoes, fights them off.
listens, suddenly, to something else. to someone else. warm on his arm - warm, after, at his back.
being seen turns him rigid. decision, seconds later, turns him soft.
how long it takes he doesn't know, but eventually John's no longer clutching at a railing like it's the only thing keeping him whole. ]
[Like maybe that's the point of the comparison. He'll take the chance of a diversion while he pretends not to notice the way John's shoulders lift under his hands - he adds a second, fingers digging lightly into muscle, making the touch a solid and purposeful thing.
Of course he's curious. Afghanistan? There never seemed much in the way of heights in the flat desert landscapes on news reports. An older fear, then, or a newer one. It doesn't occur to Freddie to ask, but a part of him is waiting for this step out out John Watson's self-penned character to be explained.]
At least it could fly. I do know other people, by the way. Here.
[His hands slip loosely forward, tracing outlines hidden under clothes, half-way to an embrace without ever proclaiming itself as one.]
[ he's settling, easing under Freddie's touch. it helps that there's no question made of him. that they're not spinning out his lapse like a sample under a microscope. the subject eludes him, his own response a query in its own sort of way but not an insistent one: Freddie will make himself clear or he won't, John's bound to understand his meaning eventually.
he's aware that there's something to be said. some offering to be given. and that maybe he wants to make that offering, to not have it sitting in between them as a question never asked and never answered.
for now he rocks ever so slightly back on his heels, movement in place of grateful speech, into touch and closeness. ]
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Keep your fingers crossed.
[ and, by the sounds of it, not too long later somebody's opening it up and giving the thing a go. ]
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Although, speaking of questionable things, the lift decides to be reliable for once. John's disgourged with only some minor rattling and dubious shudders to show for the experience.]
Are you out? I don't know where I'd get a mechanic this time of night.
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Assuming you'll be easy to find.
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[He's quiet, then, mentally tracking John's path, working out timings, wondering what he'll notice first: the foot through the roof or the papers pinned to the wall - sketches and outlines, works in development. There's the catch of his breath and slow, steadying exhale.]
We're not doing this again.
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Not doing what again.
[ it's distracted, John having found Freddie's protruding foot and being suddenly unsure how to do anything about it. he's close enough now that his voice can probably be heard through the hole but he doesn't hang up, clutches the phone to his ear and just keeps talking ]
Are you balanced?
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[This is into the phone. It's quiet enough that John will need to press his ear close just to hear it. In response to the other question, the foot above John's head twists and tugs. If he's not balanced, that point's about to be proven. But there's no crash from above. Even the remaining tiles seem to be fairly well set.]
Think so.
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Don't move anymore. If there's anything you can tell me about what things look like from up there, now's a good time.
[ there's an edge to his voice that's not the dangerous underslice of violence or the hardness of anger. it's too many words in too short a time. too little weight in them, conviction caught on something invisible and lacking. words that could be orders left tinted with plea. ]
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[Sorry, John. He's a little drunk and his leg's a little sore where the broken tiles are scratching up against his calf and it's hard not to be flippant when he's a little (just a little, a fraction, a decimal point) scared.
John's unpressed pleading sinks in eventually.]
It looks... like a roof? Stars one direction, tiles the other. Slopes down toward the gutter. Come out, you can see. [A beat.] I won't let you fall.
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I'm going to get you inside, Freddie.
[ you keep me up and I'll bring you in. we're fine.
John takes his first steps out onto the roof and some of the panic numbs under the anaesthetic of having Freddie's life in reach and a responsibility, a wholly selfish necessity, to keep it there. ]
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He turns, holds out his hands.]
Mind the loose tiles or we'll both be frightening the pigeons in the morning.
[As John gets closer, Freddie frowns, puzzling out the tightness tugging his lips to that narrow line.]
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—Don't.
[ it's almost unconscious, he doesn't seem to react at all to having said it, but it cuts slightly differently again: half the newfound authority as he falls back on old habits to keep him able but still there, underneath, that note of plea. don't. just... please don't.
close enough, he stretches, clasps one of Freddie's hands tight. he wears the soldier like a suit, encouragement and strength reflected in the set of his face, but even that's not enough to hide how terror sits about his eyes, in tiny creases of skin, the helpless upturn of his brow. it's inconsistent with the surety in his tread, his movements now as he settles himself low and stable in front of Freddie, between him and the decline that leads to a drop. the roof doesn't scare him. his hand is steady, no trace of a tremor or uncertainty.
one left to grip Freddie's, his other hand reaches first to place Freddie's other down on the rooftop for stability and then to attend to Freddie's leg, to the hole and how to widen it, to get them both clear. ]
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He's still, and silent, and John's afraid. Don't.]
I can't.
[Pale eyebrows lift, watching the process of John picking apart wood and shattered slate. He can't fall. He'd be caught.]
Then you wouldn't get your wish.
[Tilting his head back shows the stars to be unmoving observers, now. But, whether heavenly forces have arranged it or not, the tiles give way enough to open a keyhole through which Freddie's foot can be unlocked.]
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a tug on Freddie's hand. up. you can't be out here anymore. you've been out here too long already.
he's trying for the firm direction of someone ready to be a pillar, to calm the shaken. what he gives instead is the desperation of a child to leave a dark room, to pull the hand clasped somewhere lighter and safe.
notably now, no speech. he's run out. ]
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The moment passes as quick as it occurred, with Freddie shifting focus to getting himself to his feet, going with that urgent drag on his arm but slower than he might like. He works his foot round in a circle before testing its weight, and then peers down into the small abyss of the hole he's created, a momentary distraction.]
Fucking hell.
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Freddie says something. it registers as not being a question or an expression of something worrying and John's eyeline moves from a roving stare over what's visible of Freddie's face to turning to plot their route back, picking out unsafe footholds, tiles that look reliable. everything about him strains to go, but he does not tug again. mistakes are easiest made in a rush. ]
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Freddie chews on his lip and takes a careful step across the break in the brickwork.]
Do you not like heights?
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[ and it's not something he can explain out here, with the height still a threat in his peripheries, the stars closer than they should be. the second Freddie moves John's watching him like a hawk, ready for any misstep, ready too to take steps of his own that match and mirror and only ever take him as far away as the length of two outstretched arms. ]
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[Freddie on the other hand, once he's cleared the main obstacle in his path, is mountain-goat sure of his footing: unafraid.]
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Get inside.
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Jesus.
[But he's inside, all right? Holding the maintenance door open for John to follow.]
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John steps inside and keeps on going, past Freddie, through the attic to the top of the stairs where his feet pull him up short before he can try a descent, hand curled tight around the handrail and hunched over himself to catch back breath he hasn't lost. deep, silent drags of air, eyes scrunched closed against sight.
god. God.
come on. come on, John, he's fine. ]
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So Freddie looks away. Back through the open door to the star-speckled night, biting down his lip as if the discomfort of this can be clamped down on, too.
But John's breath doesn't slow or grow shallow. White noise in the still room. And at some point - he's not sure when - Freddie crosses over to him. He finds himself standing at John's back, anyway, a hand rubbing over his shoulder, down his arm. Breathe.]
You fucking idiot.
[Quiet, no venom, but truly meant.
His back presses to John's back.]
Some fucking swan.
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he can hear the faint strains of a breathed chuckle, of his own remembered breathing ragged in his mind's ear. words that he knows but won't allow to form (G--d..e J..n—) rest waiting out of reach. and he's got to work, work hard to keep it all away. he can do this in his sleep. he can do this on his own in his bed, waking up in sweats with sobs on his breath in the early hours with nobody around to see the mess he adamantly denies he is. he can't do it here. so he doesn't move, can't move. listens to what could be a voice if he let it, listens to the echoes, fights them off.
listens, suddenly, to something else. to someone else. warm on his arm - warm, after, at his back.
being seen turns him rigid. decision, seconds later, turns him soft.
how long it takes he doesn't know, but eventually John's no longer clutching at a railing like it's the only thing keeping him whole. ]
Swan in a cardi would be shit anyway.
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[Like maybe that's the point of the comparison. He'll take the chance of a diversion while he pretends not to notice the way John's shoulders lift under his hands - he adds a second, fingers digging lightly into muscle, making the touch a solid and purposeful thing.
Of course he's curious. Afghanistan? There never seemed much in the way of heights in the flat desert landscapes on news reports. An older fear, then, or a newer one. It doesn't occur to Freddie to ask, but a part of him is waiting for this step out out John Watson's self-penned character to be explained.]
At least it could fly. I do know other people, by the way. Here.
[His hands slip loosely forward, tracing outlines hidden under clothes, half-way to an embrace without ever proclaiming itself as one.]
Just so you know.
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[ he's settling, easing under Freddie's touch. it helps that there's no question made of him. that they're not spinning out his lapse like a sample under a microscope. the subject eludes him, his own response a query in its own sort of way but not an insistent one: Freddie will make himself clear or he won't, John's bound to understand his meaning eventually.
he's aware that there's something to be said. some offering to be given. and that maybe he wants to make that offering, to not have it sitting in between them as a question never asked and never answered.
for now he rocks ever so slightly back on his heels, movement in place of grateful speech, into touch and closeness. ]
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