Off Kilter
Title: Off Kilter (1/1)
Fandom: Chicago Fire
Characters/Pairing: Matt Casey, Kelly Severide, Kelly+/Matt
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1031
Disclaimer: Here
Summary: The whole evening, Matt has been unable to relax. In retrospect, at 11:30, when Severide is standing (more or less) on his doorstep, he wonders if his unease was some kind of premonition . . .
After shift, Kelly gets drunk and shows up at Matt's house. A coda to episode 1.19.
A/N: For waltzmatildah's prompt CF | Kelly/Matt | My mouth is full of words that taste as bad as you.... Prompt, title and cut text are by Birds of Tokyo (as usual ;) ).
The whole evening, Matt has been unable to relax. In retrospect, at 11:30, when Severide is standing (more or less) on his doorstep, he wonders if his unease was some kind of premonition that another shit storm was about to unfold.
Kelly’s drunk, beyond drunk, steadying himself against the brick wall.
Matt looks for the Camaro, relieved when he can’t see it anywhere, although he wonders briefly how Kelly got here. Still, concern for a co-worker's safety and actually wanting him at your front door close to midnight are two very different things. He sighs. “What now?”
“We need to talk,” Kelly slurs, loading as much moroseness as he can into words that are all strung together.
Matt rolls his eyes, the diluted outward gesture of a sense of weariness and sadness that seems to burrow deep into his bones. “You don’t think you’ve talked enough?” he asks.
“No.” Kelly’s eyes burn into his, until he sways dangerously, Matt reaching out a hand from instinct, basic concern again that, with an afterthought, he immediately retracts. “You never answered me.”
Matt closes his eyes and takes a deep, long, steadying breath. “I answered you,” he says. “You just chose to misunderstand me. I doubt you being hammered is gonna change that.” He shakes his head. “Go home, Kelly.”
Kelly sighs heavily, stands in silence for a few beats, then, quietly, all the life, the fight drained out of it, “I just want to talk, okay? I need . . .” He trails off, shakes his head. “I guess that’s not happening. Again.” He turns, stumbles slightly, then begins to walk slowly away.
It’s so tempting to just let him go, avoid whatever accusations he wants to level this time, it takes the duration of a few breaths in and out for Matt to call out, “Just say what you need to say, Severide. Let’s get this over with.”
The pause, shoulders rising and falling, matches Matt’s a few moments ago, before Kelly turns around, stares, belligerent, reproachful, sad.
“Kelly --” Matt begins more gently. He doesn’t get any further.
“You put him through that window,” he says. “You gave the orders. So how come --?” He breaks off, breathes in hard. “How come she’ll sleep with you but she won’t give me the time of day?”
“Jesus, Kelly!” Matt sighs. “We already covered this. I told you, I didn’t -”
“He was my best friend. Since fucking kindergarten! He was . . . they were like my family.” He winces. “Better than my family. How come I’m the bad guy here? I told you there wasn’t a vent. I fucking told you, and you -” He breaks off abruptly, closes his eyes tight, concentrating as he swallows a couple of times, then drops to his knees and vomits violently on the ground.
Cautiously, Matt walks towards him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Kelly shrugs it off, but something makes Matt try again and this time there’s just a flinch, a reluctance, then a moment’s accepting stillness, followed by a soft, gruff groan as Kelly hauls himself upright.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shakes his head. “I’m just gonna . . .” He indicates the street, disoriented as he attempts to follow through on his intention a second time by shuffling a couple of steps.
Matt watches him, notes his exhaustion, his defeat; realizes that under all the bluster and blame, it’s been there the whole of the last few days, maybe longer. “Don’t be an ass,” he says. “Come inside and sleep it off.”
Kelly catches his eye for a moment, considers, then sighs, nods tiredly, follows Matt to the front door, apparently getting closer to sleep with every step.
Inside, Matt shows him to the couch, gives him the same blanket that covered Heather. Kelly drops down, then sits, like he doesn’t know what to do next, eyelids drooping.
“You gonna throw up again?” Matt asks.
Kelly shakes his head, but Matt goes to the kitchen and fetches a bucket anyway. When he returns, Kelly’s lying down, eyes closed. But as he puts the bucket down by the couch, a hand grips his arm and intensely grey-green eyes open and lock with his.
“How come you’ll sleep with her, but you won’t even talk to me?”
Matt raises an eyebrow, a joke on his lips about not mixing booze and words, but Kelly’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Matt suddenly feels like he’s intruding on guarded, private, difficult thoughts that Kelly would never in a million years let him inside if he were sober; that if it weren’t so late, if their friendship weren’t so lost, he wouldn’t in a million years allow his own thoughts to linger on.
He removes Kelly’s hand from his arm, places it on the couch, “Get some sleep,” he says, in a softer tone than he’s used to his fellow lieutenant, his friend in as long as he can remember.
- - - - -
At 6:00 am, he hands a very hung-over Kelly a mug of coffee, hot, strong, black, steaming, and sits down in the armchair with his own mug while Kelly gets himself together.
“So you get how this works now?” Matt begins, knowing it’s unfair, in more than one way, but unable to stop himself.
“Huh?” Kelly mumbles, his voice as bleary as the eyes he squints slowly at Matt.
“I didn’t sleep with you either,” Matt delivers.
Seconds pass, no response, just stifled, conflicting emotions filling up the room.
Then, quietly,
“I said that out loud?”
“Yeah.”
"That was . . ." Kelly inhales. "Okay then." He finishes his coffee, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then holds out his mug. “You got any more?” he asks. “Maybe some toast or something?”
Matt looks at him questioningly, suspicious but slightly relaxing the muscles he’d braced for Kelly’s defense.
Kelly shrugs. “Can't unsay it, can I?" He almost smiles, almost seems relieved. "Coffee,” he repeats. “Please."
“You got it,” Matt says, takes the mug and goes out to the kitchen, confused, apprehensive, but whatever comes next, he figures he'll go with it: there hasn’t been this much peace between him and Kelly in months. It feels good, feels right, and like something he hasn't realized how much he's missed.
Fandom: Chicago Fire
Characters/Pairing: Matt Casey, Kelly Severide, Kelly+/Matt
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1031
Disclaimer: Here
Summary: The whole evening, Matt has been unable to relax. In retrospect, at 11:30, when Severide is standing (more or less) on his doorstep, he wonders if his unease was some kind of premonition . . .
After shift, Kelly gets drunk and shows up at Matt's house. A coda to episode 1.19.
A/N: For waltzmatildah's prompt CF | Kelly/Matt | My mouth is full of words that taste as bad as you.... Prompt, title and cut text are by Birds of Tokyo (as usual ;) ).
The whole evening, Matt has been unable to relax. In retrospect, at 11:30, when Severide is standing (more or less) on his doorstep, he wonders if his unease was some kind of premonition that another shit storm was about to unfold.
Kelly’s drunk, beyond drunk, steadying himself against the brick wall.
Matt looks for the Camaro, relieved when he can’t see it anywhere, although he wonders briefly how Kelly got here. Still, concern for a co-worker's safety and actually wanting him at your front door close to midnight are two very different things. He sighs. “What now?”
“We need to talk,” Kelly slurs, loading as much moroseness as he can into words that are all strung together.
Matt rolls his eyes, the diluted outward gesture of a sense of weariness and sadness that seems to burrow deep into his bones. “You don’t think you’ve talked enough?” he asks.
“No.” Kelly’s eyes burn into his, until he sways dangerously, Matt reaching out a hand from instinct, basic concern again that, with an afterthought, he immediately retracts. “You never answered me.”
Matt closes his eyes and takes a deep, long, steadying breath. “I answered you,” he says. “You just chose to misunderstand me. I doubt you being hammered is gonna change that.” He shakes his head. “Go home, Kelly.”
Kelly sighs heavily, stands in silence for a few beats, then, quietly, all the life, the fight drained out of it, “I just want to talk, okay? I need . . .” He trails off, shakes his head. “I guess that’s not happening. Again.” He turns, stumbles slightly, then begins to walk slowly away.
It’s so tempting to just let him go, avoid whatever accusations he wants to level this time, it takes the duration of a few breaths in and out for Matt to call out, “Just say what you need to say, Severide. Let’s get this over with.”
The pause, shoulders rising and falling, matches Matt’s a few moments ago, before Kelly turns around, stares, belligerent, reproachful, sad.
“Kelly --” Matt begins more gently. He doesn’t get any further.
“You put him through that window,” he says. “You gave the orders. So how come --?” He breaks off, breathes in hard. “How come she’ll sleep with you but she won’t give me the time of day?”
“Jesus, Kelly!” Matt sighs. “We already covered this. I told you, I didn’t -”
“He was my best friend. Since fucking kindergarten! He was . . . they were like my family.” He winces. “Better than my family. How come I’m the bad guy here? I told you there wasn’t a vent. I fucking told you, and you -” He breaks off abruptly, closes his eyes tight, concentrating as he swallows a couple of times, then drops to his knees and vomits violently on the ground.
Cautiously, Matt walks towards him, puts a hand on his shoulder. Kelly shrugs it off, but something makes Matt try again and this time there’s just a flinch, a reluctance, then a moment’s accepting stillness, followed by a soft, gruff groan as Kelly hauls himself upright.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shakes his head. “I’m just gonna . . .” He indicates the street, disoriented as he attempts to follow through on his intention a second time by shuffling a couple of steps.
Matt watches him, notes his exhaustion, his defeat; realizes that under all the bluster and blame, it’s been there the whole of the last few days, maybe longer. “Don’t be an ass,” he says. “Come inside and sleep it off.”
Kelly catches his eye for a moment, considers, then sighs, nods tiredly, follows Matt to the front door, apparently getting closer to sleep with every step.
Inside, Matt shows him to the couch, gives him the same blanket that covered Heather. Kelly drops down, then sits, like he doesn’t know what to do next, eyelids drooping.
“You gonna throw up again?” Matt asks.
Kelly shakes his head, but Matt goes to the kitchen and fetches a bucket anyway. When he returns, Kelly’s lying down, eyes closed. But as he puts the bucket down by the couch, a hand grips his arm and intensely grey-green eyes open and lock with his.
“How come you’ll sleep with her, but you won’t even talk to me?”
Matt raises an eyebrow, a joke on his lips about not mixing booze and words, but Kelly’s gaze doesn’t waver, and Matt suddenly feels like he’s intruding on guarded, private, difficult thoughts that Kelly would never in a million years let him inside if he were sober; that if it weren’t so late, if their friendship weren’t so lost, he wouldn’t in a million years allow his own thoughts to linger on.
He removes Kelly’s hand from his arm, places it on the couch, “Get some sleep,” he says, in a softer tone than he’s used to his fellow lieutenant, his friend in as long as he can remember.
- - - - -
At 6:00 am, he hands a very hung-over Kelly a mug of coffee, hot, strong, black, steaming, and sits down in the armchair with his own mug while Kelly gets himself together.
“So you get how this works now?” Matt begins, knowing it’s unfair, in more than one way, but unable to stop himself.
“Huh?” Kelly mumbles, his voice as bleary as the eyes he squints slowly at Matt.
“I didn’t sleep with you either,” Matt delivers.
Seconds pass, no response, just stifled, conflicting emotions filling up the room.
Then, quietly,
“I said that out loud?”
“Yeah.”
"That was . . ." Kelly inhales. "Okay then." He finishes his coffee, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then holds out his mug. “You got any more?” he asks. “Maybe some toast or something?”
Matt looks at him questioningly, suspicious but slightly relaxing the muscles he’d braced for Kelly’s defense.
Kelly shrugs. “Can't unsay it, can I?" He almost smiles, almost seems relieved. "Coffee,” he repeats. “Please."
“You got it,” Matt says, takes the mug and goes out to the kitchen, confused, apprehensive, but whatever comes next, he figures he'll go with it: there hasn’t been this much peace between him and Kelly in months. It feels good, feels right, and like something he hasn't realized how much he's missed.