[It was one of the least vicious holes Freddie's torn in someone's life, leaving the boy with the full rent to pay and a stranger asleep beside him. Freddie had abandoned most of his stuff though, everything that wouldn't fit in a bag, so that probably went some way toward paying for it. He doesn't think of it in terms of cruel or kind, looking back, just necessary.]
Yeah but. Complicated. Though I suppose some of that one was my fault. I knew he was getting clingy as soon as he started calling it a relationship.
[One of the least vicious holes, bringing a stranger back to fuck your way into a breakup. It should have been more painful, on both sides: Freddie would have felt better for it.
But no, it wasn't kind.]
We'll see. And you just offered me a bed at your place, you're not going to abandon me to to the fates. You could always send over a student nurse, couldn't you, if you were busy. Actually you could send one over anyway - do you think anyone at the hospital needs a new flat? Hold that thought, I really need a piss.
[He's gone, then, incredibly nimble through the crowd for someone with his evening's alcohol intake packed away. His speech has been slowing, very gradually, for the last few minutes, the edges of his words softening, everything about him not quite so sharp. And he's not away long - easy to pick out in the shifting lights of the bar, he stops on his way back at a summons from a lanky couple slouched in a booth: a tangle of long limbs and tight outfits. He ducks his head to hear and be heard, pointing between them and, at one point, reaching to check the watch on someone elses wrist.
John's pointed at, too, by one of the pair, and Freddie glances across like he's forgotten the man exists, before shaking his head with vehement denial.
It's a couple of minutes, then, before he comes back to claim his barstool, stretching and he climbs back onto it, languid as a cat and only fractionally off his balance.] So, student nurses. There has to be someone at the hospital you think you could get unprofessional with.
[ that— changes things a bit. not enough that it's any of his business, but enough to make an adjustment in his assessment of the situation. a huff of a breath out through his nose at Freddie's assertion... but he can't exactly deny it, can he? if Freddie were really stuck, John would sort him out one way or another. You rather showed you hand there, Dr Watson. it's not a welcome voice. creeps in anyway, sing songing up in an Irish lilt around the edges of stumbling defences, and the dead man isn't wrong.
Freddie's gone by the time he's tuned it out, and he spends a moment watching his retreating back trying before ultimately deciding he's got something to drown and doing it with one of the remaining shots in that neat little circle Freddie constructed earlier. John doesn't hold that thought. might have done if he'd listened to it halfway properly, but by the time Freddie appears in view again John's still only just playing back over what he said, and the younger's midway halt puts a steady stop to that.
watching with mild interest, trying to decipher exactly what's going on - it doesn't take a genius to get the gist, but following the conversation itself ultimately proves beyond him.
he is somewhat surprised when Freddie, on return, slips straight back into the conversation with no sense of wrapping up. a beat, to tune back in to the frequency - oh. oh no, no, we're not going off down that avenue again, not when there's a perfectly suitable alternative topic sitting no more than a minute in the past and a handful of metres away. ]
Get a better offer? [ a nod back over Freddie's shoulder to the pair who'd pulled him up before, and what John's really asking is when should I head off? far be it from him to get in the way of a rendezvous. he's got half a bottle of whisky waiting at home, perfectly capable of entertaining himself. ]
[Maybe John has given something away to Freddie, in terms of what he would and wouldn't do. But the truth is that Freddie would have made the same assumption about him ages ago. Since he showed up to saw through a pair of handcuffs for him, and brought pizza.
But the assumption may not be what John thinks it is. The man's a doctor and Freddie assumes no one goes into a caring career without some curious enjoyment of picking people up after falls. Duty of care he thinks the term is, and that it's code for a profession full of people who don't know how to fix their own bleeding hearts. So Freddie doesn't think this touching display is about him at all, not really. John's just a man who picks up strays. There are enough of them, and he's not creepy about it, so it's fine. He'll figure out Freddie doesn't need rescuing, in the end.
Or Freddie will vanish, one day. One of those.]
I got an offer. I said I'd be back after I walked you home.
[There's no rush, because people will wait for Freddie. He knows this just as he knows the reasons for it, and how limited to the surface of his skin they are.]
[ the art of the arbitrary bleeding heart is a present if somewhat selective trait for John. it is, much like the rest of him, a construct, built rigid and firm around whatever he was to start (did he have it before, honest and softer?) to help distance himself from his other, less savoury parts. and, thanks to that, it comes when it's convenient - not concious decision, but at the bequest of some internal publicity rep, a subconscious scale of what does and doesn't make it into the scope of his concern.
and then there's the distinction: concern and interest are two different things. concern sends ambulances, it doesn't send John. it definitely doesn't send John with a makeshift toolkit and a bag full of pizza.
a raised eyebrow, expression flat, vaguely bemused. ]
Chivalry at its finest.
[ you're not being serious Freddie surely, he's a forty year old man he's capable, go and have fun. the expression absolutely isn't going anywhere, it's far more eloquent than he regularly manages to be ]
Yeah, that's me. If I had a coat I'd toss it over puddles.
[But he doesn't have a coat, he has two shots left and knocks them back in swift succession as an alternate guard against the cold. The drink is gradually catching at his heels. He pauses to blink his eyes back into focus, a wash of blue. John's patented flat face appears to be having no effect, because he steps down from the stool and walks around to wait.]
Unless you want to go on somewhere?
[The pre-drinking's done, John, do you want to hit a club? He almost makes the question sound serious.]
[ he's actually going to do it. is he actually going to do it? looks like he is absolutely actually intending to walk with him - hopefully only as far as the door. not that he begrudges Freddie's company, but the level of sense in the idea of a less-than-sober Freddie Baxter walking an only slightly gone, military trained John Watson home to then have to walk back himself is lacking.
until he remembers that Eudio really doesn't tend to bother with anything illegal, and his breath comes out in a sigh as he too hops down off his stool. ]
Oh, definitely. [ dry as a bone. he's ready to head off, but he does cast one more pointed glance in the direction of Freddie's final destination for the evening: it's a go on, a light release from duty, but it's just a suggestion. John's well past the point of imagining anything he says will ever have any sway over what Freddie does or doesn't decide to do with even the smallest chunk of his time. ]
[Freddie walks John just as far as the door, as expected, before curling his wrist in a flourish that indicates he can open it and go.
Then, he follows him outside. Because yes, actually, Freddie absolutely plans to walk to you your door, John. It might not be the straightest of lines, but walking is still a thing that he can do. And there's another thing he can do, too. The purpose of this exercise, perhaps.
As the chill of the October night bites at his face, he rubs his palms down his sides for warmth - then holds one out for John to take.]
Come on, then. Your place or the all-night rave up the road.
[ the offering is different to the idle attempt at earlier touch. John has the time to clock, to think, to rationalise. to know that he's got choices, and to work out that there's no real harm in making the most profitable one.
it's a very perfunctory acceptance. palm to palm, fingers wrapped flat around the back of a hand, thumb loosely hooked. but it's an acceptance all the same, an active seizing of opportunity. he hasn't stopped for it, either. may have slowed down, tempo stalled at the sudden turning of cogs made considerably less vigorous for the shots taking the punishing razor edge off his thought processes, but he keeps on walking, attention on the path ahead, as if there's nothing at all to holding hands and walking down the street.
which, for most people, there probably isn't.
it's good, this pretending it doesn't feel strange shtick. Freddie was right. right now, he almost believes it himself. ]
We'll see where our feet take us.
[ their feet will be taking them in the direction of John's place, courtesy of the light guiding steer on their joined hands if they start to stray from the his intended route ]
[Profitable is exactly the quality that Freddie intends John to focus on. He needs to touch someone or he'll be here until he's dust. Might as well be Freddie. Just his hand. He's touched him up in more intimate places for stranger reasons, after all. And while Freddie had expected some kind of protest or query, he doesn't push the fact that there's not.
Ignoring it's fine. He keeps his fingers carefully threaded with John's and - for once - lets him lead. Though, he's guessed it won't be the rave.
Letting his feet take him places is most of how Freddie lives. And the night's nice, if cold. John's walk home cuts through green spaces, where the street light's cut off by the trees, and the sudden closeness of it makes Freddie feel deeper in winter already.]
[ if there's one thing John's noticed about Eudio, it's that it doesn't skimp out on its celebrations. any excuse. there are enough parties to get him accepting dancing lessons from Sherlock. there's no chance they'd miss out on an opportunity like Christmas.
it gets him to thinking though, quiet as it is out here. the question is just out of left field enough to drag him off with it, and before he knows it he's talking again. ]
My old landlady, Mrs Hudson. She loved Christmas. We'd make an effort, spruce the flat up a bit - lights around the fireplace, bit of tinsel around the doorways. Every other day or so in the run up she'd bring up some mince pies, we'd ply her with a glass of something fancy, and we'd all sit an chat for a bit. She said it was the only time she could get us to sit still long enough to pay her any attention.
[ it's spoken with nostalgia, warm: he misses her. another string he cut. loose smile on his mouth, half an apology for the unexpected outpouring and half the remnants of lingering fondness at the memory, John casts a glance Freddie's way and does his verbal best to tug things back on track. ] Fan of Christmas?
[ some people aren't, some people love it. he's curious to know whether Freddie's asking out of hope or a hope it might've been left at home ]
[Freddie's not looking when John's focus drifts back his way. His own attention's cast downwards, examining that unacknowledged point where their fingers lock. It's nothing meaningful, just somewhere else to look other than into whatever private expression John might have harboured as he spoke.
Not that he'd shy away from that, ordinarily. His attention can be unflinching enough to make the other person blink first but. There was enough given away in John's voice. The dip of Freddie's chin keeps his own thoughts shadowed, though he pulls in a quick breath and lifts a shrugged shoulder at the question.]
Yeah, I suppose. Used to be. Parts of it anyway. The music can go to fuck after about the second week of November, I had enough of carols in the school choir - don't.
[Don't you fucking laugh John Watson, yes he was a chorister in the days before he developed a dismissive attitude to anything resembling organised 'joining in'.]
So not... all that shit. [It's not quite as fondly nostalgic as John's reminiscences, clearly. And there's no personal memory offered. Christmas was a conflicted thing in the Baxter household, and has been more so in the years he's avoided anything resembling home comforts. But he misses it, sometimes. Even if he's not so much missing what was, as what was supposed to be.
He draws in another breath, a pause for thought.] I like the build up. Lights in the dark and that. I was just thinking they could light up these trees.
[ he's about to lauggh at the first musical comment (agreed, wholeheartedly, the music absolutely can go to fuck after about the second week of November) but it's very quickly subdued, replaced by the very purposeful elevation of eyebrows up in search of his own hairline at school choir.
he doesn't, as instructed. but that doesn't mean he can't tease.
it drops steadily with progression. mm. Christmas, for a while, fell into an unimportant sort of space: didn't mean a lot, or couldn't mean a lot, or had been replayed too many times to mean much of anything. the first year back from Afghanistan it meant even less - not surprisingly, since so did everything else. but then he got one Christmas, just the one, where it worked. it all felt a bit more like home. so he can look up at the trees now, that comment in mind, and acknowledge the pulls of a smile at his mouth's corners. it's not difficult to find a little imagination, soften into the idea of walking through here a few weeks down the line to pinpricks of light blotting out the black and the inky blue.
between them, his arm and their interlocked hands are left to sway more naturally with steps as he loses track of them, head in other things. ]
You should talk to the mayor's office. It'd be nice.
[Yes, yes, school choir. He was on the athletics team until A levels, too: first place for the 200 metres at the Greater Manchester Schools Cup. He wasn't a bad student, at one time. Except, you know, in the legal sense.
Christmas, though. It's no longer a family affair (since he's been back in the North he's appeased his mother with a brief, wary morning visit, eyeing presents for people he doesn't want to see and dropping off none in return for the ones he takes: minimum wage, sorry.). But the afternoons have belonged to him and the small community of displaced people he's somehow found - in London, then in Bristol, now Manchester again. They change, the names and faces, but the sentiments the same.
And what's Eudio, if not a community of the displaced.]
I'm not going to talk to the mayor, Christ. [He casually takes the founder of the festival's name in vain. No, he's not going to talk to anyone. Thinking something might be nice is entirely different to making a public effort about it. He clicks his tongue.] That's a slippery slope. Next I'd be writing strongly worded letters to the Times and actually commenting in internet comment sections. Before you know it I'd be keeping a blog.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Yeah but. Complicated. Though I suppose some of that one was my fault. I knew he was getting clingy as soon as he started calling it a relationship.
[One of the least vicious holes, bringing a stranger back to fuck your way into a breakup. It should have been more painful, on both sides: Freddie would have felt better for it.
But no, it wasn't kind.]
We'll see. And you just offered me a bed at your place, you're not going to abandon me to to the fates. You could always send over a student nurse, couldn't you, if you were busy. Actually you could send one over anyway - do you think anyone at the hospital needs a new flat? Hold that thought, I really need a piss.
[He's gone, then, incredibly nimble through the crowd for someone with his evening's alcohol intake packed away. His speech has been slowing, very gradually, for the last few minutes, the edges of his words softening, everything about him not quite so sharp. And he's not away long - easy to pick out in the shifting lights of the bar, he stops on his way back at a summons from a lanky couple slouched in a booth: a tangle of long limbs and tight outfits. He ducks his head to hear and be heard, pointing between them and, at one point, reaching to check the watch on someone elses wrist.
John's pointed at, too, by one of the pair, and Freddie glances across like he's forgotten the man exists, before shaking his head with vehement denial.
It's a couple of minutes, then, before he comes back to claim his barstool, stretching and he climbs back onto it, languid as a cat and only fractionally off his balance.] So, student nurses. There has to be someone at the hospital you think you could get unprofessional with.
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Freddie's gone by the time he's tuned it out, and he spends a moment watching his retreating back trying before ultimately deciding he's got something to drown and doing it with one of the remaining shots in that neat little circle Freddie constructed earlier. John doesn't hold that thought. might have done if he'd listened to it halfway properly, but by the time Freddie appears in view again John's still only just playing back over what he said, and the younger's midway halt puts a steady stop to that.
watching with mild interest, trying to decipher exactly what's going on - it doesn't take a genius to get the gist, but following the conversation itself ultimately proves beyond him.
he is somewhat surprised when Freddie, on return, slips straight back into the conversation with no sense of wrapping up. a beat, to tune back in to the frequency - oh. oh no, no, we're not going off down that avenue again, not when there's a perfectly suitable alternative topic sitting no more than a minute in the past and a handful of metres away. ]
Get a better offer? [ a nod back over Freddie's shoulder to the pair who'd pulled him up before, and what John's really asking is when should I head off? far be it from him to get in the way of a rendezvous. he's got half a bottle of whisky waiting at home, perfectly capable of entertaining himself. ]
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But the assumption may not be what John thinks it is. The man's a doctor and Freddie assumes no one goes into a caring career without some curious enjoyment of picking people up after falls. Duty of care he thinks the term is, and that it's code for a profession full of people who don't know how to fix their own bleeding hearts. So Freddie doesn't think this touching display is about him at all, not really. John's just a man who picks up strays. There are enough of them, and he's not creepy about it, so it's fine. He'll figure out Freddie doesn't need rescuing, in the end.
Or Freddie will vanish, one day. One of those.]
I got an offer. I said I'd be back after I walked you home.
[There's no rush, because people will wait for Freddie. He knows this just as he knows the reasons for it, and how limited to the surface of his skin they are.]
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and then there's the distinction: concern and interest are two different things. concern sends ambulances, it doesn't send John. it definitely doesn't send John with a makeshift toolkit and a bag full of pizza.
a raised eyebrow, expression flat, vaguely bemused. ]
Chivalry at its finest.
[ you're not being serious Freddie surely, he's a forty year old man he's capable, go and have fun. the expression absolutely isn't going anywhere, it's far more eloquent than he regularly manages to be ]
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[But he doesn't have a coat, he has two shots left and knocks them back in swift succession as an alternate guard against the cold. The drink is gradually catching at his heels. He pauses to blink his eyes back into focus, a wash of blue. John's patented flat face appears to be having no effect, because he steps down from the stool and walks around to wait.]
Unless you want to go on somewhere?
[The pre-drinking's done, John, do you want to hit a club? He almost makes the question sound serious.]
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until he remembers that Eudio really doesn't tend to bother with anything illegal, and his breath comes out in a sigh as he too hops down off his stool. ]
Oh, definitely. [ dry as a bone. he's ready to head off, but he does cast one more pointed glance in the direction of Freddie's final destination for the evening: it's a go on, a light release from duty, but it's just a suggestion. John's well past the point of imagining anything he says will ever have any sway over what Freddie does or doesn't decide to do with even the smallest chunk of his time. ]
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Then, he follows him outside. Because yes, actually, Freddie absolutely plans to walk to you your door, John. It might not be the straightest of lines, but walking is still a thing that he can do. And there's another thing he can do, too. The purpose of this exercise, perhaps.
As the chill of the October night bites at his face, he rubs his palms down his sides for warmth - then holds one out for John to take.]
Come on, then. Your place or the all-night rave up the road.
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it's a very perfunctory acceptance. palm to palm, fingers wrapped flat around the back of a hand, thumb loosely hooked. but it's an acceptance all the same, an active seizing of opportunity. he hasn't stopped for it, either. may have slowed down, tempo stalled at the sudden turning of cogs made considerably less vigorous for the shots taking the punishing razor edge off his thought processes, but he keeps on walking, attention on the path ahead, as if there's nothing at all to holding hands and walking down the street.
which, for most people, there probably isn't.
it's good, this pretending it doesn't feel strange shtick. Freddie was right. right now, he almost believes it himself. ]
We'll see where our feet take us.
[ their feet will be taking them in the direction of John's place, courtesy of the light guiding steer on their joined hands if they start to stray from the his intended route ]
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Ignoring it's fine. He keeps his fingers carefully threaded with John's and - for once - lets him lead. Though, he's guessed it won't be the rave.
Letting his feet take him places is most of how Freddie lives. And the night's nice, if cold. John's walk home cuts through green spaces, where the street light's cut off by the trees, and the sudden closeness of it makes Freddie feel deeper in winter already.]
Do you reckon they do Christmas, here?
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[ if there's one thing John's noticed about Eudio, it's that it doesn't skimp out on its celebrations. any excuse. there are enough parties to get him accepting dancing lessons from Sherlock. there's no chance they'd miss out on an opportunity like Christmas.
it gets him to thinking though, quiet as it is out here. the question is just out of left field enough to drag him off with it, and before he knows it he's talking again. ]
My old landlady, Mrs Hudson. She loved Christmas. We'd make an effort, spruce the flat up a bit - lights around the fireplace, bit of tinsel around the doorways. Every other day or so in the run up she'd bring up some mince pies, we'd ply her with a glass of something fancy, and we'd all sit an chat for a bit. She said it was the only time she could get us to sit still long enough to pay her any attention.
[ it's spoken with nostalgia, warm: he misses her. another string he cut. loose smile on his mouth, half an apology for the unexpected outpouring and half the remnants of lingering fondness at the memory, John casts a glance Freddie's way and does his verbal best to tug things back on track. ] Fan of Christmas?
[ some people aren't, some people love it. he's curious to know whether Freddie's asking out of hope or a hope it might've been left at home ]
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Not that he'd shy away from that, ordinarily. His attention can be unflinching enough to make the other person blink first but. There was enough given away in John's voice. The dip of Freddie's chin keeps his own thoughts shadowed, though he pulls in a quick breath and lifts a shrugged shoulder at the question.]
Yeah, I suppose. Used to be. Parts of it anyway. The music can go to fuck after about the second week of November, I had enough of carols in the school choir - don't.
[Don't you fucking laugh John Watson, yes he was a chorister in the days before he developed a dismissive attitude to anything resembling organised 'joining in'.]
So not... all that shit. [It's not quite as fondly nostalgic as John's reminiscences, clearly. And there's no personal memory offered. Christmas was a conflicted thing in the Baxter household, and has been more so in the years he's avoided anything resembling home comforts. But he misses it, sometimes. Even if he's not so much missing what was, as what was supposed to be.
He draws in another breath, a pause for thought.] I like the build up. Lights in the dark and that. I was just thinking they could light up these trees.
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he doesn't, as instructed. but that doesn't mean he can't tease.
it drops steadily with progression. mm. Christmas, for a while, fell into an unimportant sort of space: didn't mean a lot, or couldn't mean a lot, or had been replayed too many times to mean much of anything. the first year back from Afghanistan it meant even less - not surprisingly, since so did everything else. but then he got one Christmas, just the one, where it worked. it all felt a bit more like home. so he can look up at the trees now, that comment in mind, and acknowledge the pulls of a smile at his mouth's corners. it's not difficult to find a little imagination, soften into the idea of walking through here a few weeks down the line to pinpricks of light blotting out the black and the inky blue.
between them, his arm and their interlocked hands are left to sway more naturally with steps as he loses track of them, head in other things. ]
You should talk to the mayor's office. It'd be nice.
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Christmas, though. It's no longer a family affair (since he's been back in the North he's appeased his mother with a brief, wary morning visit, eyeing presents for people he doesn't want to see and dropping off none in return for the ones he takes: minimum wage, sorry.). But the afternoons have belonged to him and the small community of displaced people he's somehow found - in London, then in Bristol, now Manchester again. They change, the names and faces, but the sentiments the same.
And what's Eudio, if not a community of the displaced.]
I'm not going to talk to the mayor, Christ. [He casually takes the founder of the festival's name in vain. No, he's not going to talk to anyone. Thinking something might be nice is entirely different to making a public effort about it. He clicks his tongue.] That's a slippery slope. Next I'd be writing strongly worded letters to the Times and actually commenting in internet comment sections. Before you know it I'd be keeping a blog.