fic: addiction
addiction
the hour, bel rowley/hector madden, r.
three times a habit ; post 106 au
Habits are hard to break. She told him she’s tired of being somebody’s mistress.
She never said she wanted to stop.
The show suffers technical difficulties, Freddie’s fired and Clarence is escorted off the premises. She sighs.
He slips into her office. “Bel.”
“Don’t speak.” She says. Her eyes are shut tight, thumb and forefinger bridging her nose. He crosses the room and what happens next is what always happens: he drawing back the curtain her hair forms, and she tilting her head back. “I said don’t-“
“You said don’t talk,” he murmurs, “I wasn’t.”
Her laugh is weak, “Then by all means continue.”
They do. They continue on her desk and on his, and on her sofa and in her bed and, once, in his too.
Afterwards, he lights a cigarette. “Marnie never lets me smoke in bed,” he quips.
She stiffens.
“I-Bel-Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She says, but she’s already swung her legs over the bed. The sheets are too pink against her skin, they wash her out.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks her, because it seems like the polite thing to do.
“What?-” She frowns, tucks her hair back. “What do you want me to say?”
A beat. “No.”
At least he’s honest, if only to her.
It’s something vaguely akin to common knowledge, now. The tabloids sneer at him as a family man, and Bill Kendal from Uncovered gives her a knowing smirk. “It’s awfully cliché.”
Her smile’s opaque. “Perhaps.”
“ITV want you to defect,” she says. Her bed’s too small for the two of them to lie comfortably, and her cigarette dangles dangerously close to his chest.
His smile is wistful, “Is that so?” His voice droops with sleep, “Should I?”
Ash lands on her sheets, and she shifts to flick it off. “I don’t think it’s a decision for us to make together.”
“Not like you not to have an opinion, Miss Rowley.”
She chuckles, twists towards him. “Well, it’s not like you to wish to listen to it, Mr Madden.”
He paces. His tie’s loose and not for the right reasons. “Hector?”
He paces.
“Mr Madden!” His halt shudders and he won’t catch her eye. “Well,” she says, lightly, watches him try to read her reaction, “I’m sure Mr Wengrow will grow into a very fine frontman.” Her head ducks, and she makes a mental note to stock up on vodka. Maybe whiskey too.
“Hey,” his thumb runs across her jaw, and it is her turn not to meet his gaze. “We’ve never had it so good.”
She snorts. “Quite.”
end.
the hour, bel rowley/hector madden, r.
three times a habit ; post 106 au
Habits are hard to break. She told him she’s tired of being somebody’s mistress.
She never said she wanted to stop.
The show suffers technical difficulties, Freddie’s fired and Clarence is escorted off the premises. She sighs.
He slips into her office. “Bel.”
“Don’t speak.” She says. Her eyes are shut tight, thumb and forefinger bridging her nose. He crosses the room and what happens next is what always happens: he drawing back the curtain her hair forms, and she tilting her head back. “I said don’t-“
“You said don’t talk,” he murmurs, “I wasn’t.”
Her laugh is weak, “Then by all means continue.”
They do. They continue on her desk and on his, and on her sofa and in her bed and, once, in his too.
Afterwards, he lights a cigarette. “Marnie never lets me smoke in bed,” he quips.
She stiffens.
“I-Bel-Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She says, but she’s already swung her legs over the bed. The sheets are too pink against her skin, they wash her out.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks her, because it seems like the polite thing to do.
“What?-” She frowns, tucks her hair back. “What do you want me to say?”
A beat. “No.”
At least he’s honest, if only to her.
It’s something vaguely akin to common knowledge, now. The tabloids sneer at him as a family man, and Bill Kendal from Uncovered gives her a knowing smirk. “It’s awfully cliché.”
Her smile’s opaque. “Perhaps.”
“ITV want you to defect,” she says. Her bed’s too small for the two of them to lie comfortably, and her cigarette dangles dangerously close to his chest.
His smile is wistful, “Is that so?” His voice droops with sleep, “Should I?”
Ash lands on her sheets, and she shifts to flick it off. “I don’t think it’s a decision for us to make together.”
“Not like you not to have an opinion, Miss Rowley.”
She chuckles, twists towards him. “Well, it’s not like you to wish to listen to it, Mr Madden.”
He paces. His tie’s loose and not for the right reasons. “Hector?”
He paces.
“Mr Madden!” His halt shudders and he won’t catch her eye. “Well,” she says, lightly, watches him try to read her reaction, “I’m sure Mr Wengrow will grow into a very fine frontman.” Her head ducks, and she makes a mental note to stock up on vodka. Maybe whiskey too.
“Hey,” his thumb runs across her jaw, and it is her turn not to meet his gaze. “We’ve never had it so good.”
She snorts. “Quite.”
end.