She'll Start By Kicking Out Of Her Shoes
I am so very, very behind on posting, mainly because I am so very, very behind on writing. But here's about a thousand words for figletofvenice, because I finally finished it, and guilt, it seems is a great motivator, even if the flu is not. Sorry I couldn't go to the gig with you. :/
Title: She'll Start by Kicking Out of Her Shoes
Pairing: Donald Scripps/James Lockwood
Rating: PG-13? I don't know. Language+alcohol+implications. I don't know what that equals.
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Alcohol consumption.
Author's Notes: 1,020 words. For Maddy, who asked for Scripps/Lockwood "...maybe they just get drunk and fuck. Or maybe Scipps joins the military and they see each other on base. Or SOMETHING. I'm not holding you to the movie ending where Lockwood dies, because I think it's dumb." So. Yeah. It lacks the actual fucking, but you have a good imagination. You can run with it. :D
She’ll Start by Kicking Out of Her Shoes
At first, when James sees him across the mess hall at breakfast, he thinks he’s imagining things, because what the fuck would Scripps be doing here, of all places? And, anyway, when he looks again, Scripps isn’t there. Of course he’s not. James shakes his head, and tries to focus.
It happens again, though, at lunch. And then, mid-afternoon, James would swear he sees him talking to one of the officers across the field where he’s doing target practice. That’s when he decides that he’s probably just seeing someone who looks like Scripps, someone new. It could happen.
Next day James’s got the afternoon and evening free - first time in over a month, and Christ does he need it - and he doesn’t exactly flee as soon as he’s dismissed, but he doesn’t stick around, either, heads straight into the nearby town, still half in uniform under his maroon jacket.
There are maybe a dozen other guys from his unit in the pub when James gets there, but he’s not in the mood for a crowd just now, so he slumps onto a stool at the corner of the bar, and hopes the bartender notices him without him having to actually wave the man over.
“Buy you a drink?”
James looks up from the grain of the counter, and either he’s actually gone mad or it really is Scripps leaning against the bar and giving him a lopsided grin.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, and that’s not exactly what he’d meant to say, but it’s good enough.
Scripps laughs, and takes the stool next to James’s. He’s taller than the last time James saw him - must be two or three years ago, now, and even longer since they’ve spent much time together - though still not quite James’s height. A little broader across the shoulders, more scruff on his jaw for all he’s got a nick on his cheekbone that looks like he shaved that morning, hair a little longer, a little lighter, like he’s spent time in the sun. But his eyes are the same, bright and amused under slightly raised brows. “Good to see you, too,” he says, and his voice has barely changed at all. “I’m doing a piece on ‘Our Young Men in the Army,’” - James can hear the quotes, though Scripps doesn’t dignify the title with the fingermarks - “and I figured may as well come here as anywhere else.”
“You’re a fucking liar, is what you are,” James says, but he doesn’t think he really means it, and Scripps only laughs again.
“I’ve got the notes to prove it, if you’d like,” he says, pats a pocket, and James can see the outline of a notebook through the material.
James can feel his mouth trying to grin, and refuses to let it. “All right,” he says instead. “Buy me a drink.”
Scripps kicks his ankle, but waves the bartender over and orders two beers.
+
“What time do you have to be back?” Scripps asks as the last of the pub’s patrons trickle out. His words aren’t slurred, despite the number of drinks he’s had, but he’s speaking a little more carefully than he has been, as if it’s more of an effort. James grins in spite of himself, remembers this from their university days.
“Breakfast,” James says, is impressed with himself when he doesn’t stumble getting off his stool.
“I’ve got a room at the hotel down the street,” Scripps says, “You can tell me more about that corporal with the imaginary wife. I’ve even got a bottle of Scotch.”
James would have said yes without the Scotch - and maybe more drinking is a bad idea, because he actually has to be on form by breakfast, not just back at the base - but Scripps doesn’t have to know that. Besides, he’s missed spending time with friends who don’t carry guns and jump for them at loud noises.
“Well, if you’ve got Scotch,” he says.
They somehow make it out to the street, half-supporting each other. Scripps steers them in the right direction, then through the door of a hotel that is nicer than James would have thought, past a stoic-looking doorman, and into an elevator that takes them up three flights.
“Nice,” James says when they stumble into the actual room. He’s a little impressed. “Expense account?” he asks.
Scripps is fumbling around in a bag, and when he turns back, bottle in hand, he’s grinning. “You bet,” he says, and holds out the bottle.
James takes it, only has a little trouble with the cap, and winces when he takes a swig. “Fuck, that’s disgusting,” he says, because it is, even if it’s the good stuff, and takes another pull.
Scripps laughs, and flops onto the bed. His face is a little pink, and James wonders if his skin would be as warm to the touch as he remembers. He thinks probably yes, but walks over and puts one palm against Scripps’s cheek, anyway. Just to check.
“Hey,” Scripps says, and he’s not laughing anymore, but he doesn’t move away, either.
“Hey.” James puts the bottle carefully on the little bedside table, next between the lamp and the Bible, and moves a little closer until his thighs hit the edge of the bed. Scripps watches him, but doesn’t say anything. “So.” James isn’t entirely sure where to go from here, always used to let Scripps make the first move, but his head is spinning and he’s not sure it’s entirely from the alcohol.
“So,” Scripps mimics, then rolls his eyes like he knows exactly what James is thinking, and says, “Fuck this,” before reaching up to yank James down onto the mattress on top of him, letting out a slight “Oof” at the weight of impact, but not seeming to care. “‘Til breakfast, right?” he asks.
James nods, says, “Yeah, breakfast,” and settles more firmly against Scripps, feeling the heat radiating from both of them.
“Good,” Scripps says, grins wide, eyes bright with more than alcohol, and, Christ, but James is fucked.
“Yeah,” James echoes, and lets Scripps pull him in.
Title: She'll Start by Kicking Out of Her Shoes
Pairing: Donald Scripps/James Lockwood
Rating: PG-13? I don't know. Language+alcohol+implications. I don't know what that equals.
Warnings: Slash, obviously. Alcohol consumption.
Author's Notes: 1,020 words. For Maddy, who asked for Scripps/Lockwood "...maybe they just get drunk and fuck. Or maybe Scipps joins the military and they see each other on base. Or SOMETHING. I'm not holding you to the movie ending where Lockwood dies, because I think it's dumb." So. Yeah. It lacks the actual fucking, but you have a good imagination. You can run with it. :D
She’ll Start by Kicking Out of Her Shoes
At first, when James sees him across the mess hall at breakfast, he thinks he’s imagining things, because what the fuck would Scripps be doing here, of all places? And, anyway, when he looks again, Scripps isn’t there. Of course he’s not. James shakes his head, and tries to focus.
It happens again, though, at lunch. And then, mid-afternoon, James would swear he sees him talking to one of the officers across the field where he’s doing target practice. That’s when he decides that he’s probably just seeing someone who looks like Scripps, someone new. It could happen.
Next day James’s got the afternoon and evening free - first time in over a month, and Christ does he need it - and he doesn’t exactly flee as soon as he’s dismissed, but he doesn’t stick around, either, heads straight into the nearby town, still half in uniform under his maroon jacket.
There are maybe a dozen other guys from his unit in the pub when James gets there, but he’s not in the mood for a crowd just now, so he slumps onto a stool at the corner of the bar, and hopes the bartender notices him without him having to actually wave the man over.
“Buy you a drink?”
James looks up from the grain of the counter, and either he’s actually gone mad or it really is Scripps leaning against the bar and giving him a lopsided grin.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, and that’s not exactly what he’d meant to say, but it’s good enough.
Scripps laughs, and takes the stool next to James’s. He’s taller than the last time James saw him - must be two or three years ago, now, and even longer since they’ve spent much time together - though still not quite James’s height. A little broader across the shoulders, more scruff on his jaw for all he’s got a nick on his cheekbone that looks like he shaved that morning, hair a little longer, a little lighter, like he’s spent time in the sun. But his eyes are the same, bright and amused under slightly raised brows. “Good to see you, too,” he says, and his voice has barely changed at all. “I’m doing a piece on ‘Our Young Men in the Army,’” - James can hear the quotes, though Scripps doesn’t dignify the title with the fingermarks - “and I figured may as well come here as anywhere else.”
“You’re a fucking liar, is what you are,” James says, but he doesn’t think he really means it, and Scripps only laughs again.
“I’ve got the notes to prove it, if you’d like,” he says, pats a pocket, and James can see the outline of a notebook through the material.
James can feel his mouth trying to grin, and refuses to let it. “All right,” he says instead. “Buy me a drink.”
Scripps kicks his ankle, but waves the bartender over and orders two beers.
+
“What time do you have to be back?” Scripps asks as the last of the pub’s patrons trickle out. His words aren’t slurred, despite the number of drinks he’s had, but he’s speaking a little more carefully than he has been, as if it’s more of an effort. James grins in spite of himself, remembers this from their university days.
“Breakfast,” James says, is impressed with himself when he doesn’t stumble getting off his stool.
“I’ve got a room at the hotel down the street,” Scripps says, “You can tell me more about that corporal with the imaginary wife. I’ve even got a bottle of Scotch.”
James would have said yes without the Scotch - and maybe more drinking is a bad idea, because he actually has to be on form by breakfast, not just back at the base - but Scripps doesn’t have to know that. Besides, he’s missed spending time with friends who don’t carry guns and jump for them at loud noises.
“Well, if you’ve got Scotch,” he says.
They somehow make it out to the street, half-supporting each other. Scripps steers them in the right direction, then through the door of a hotel that is nicer than James would have thought, past a stoic-looking doorman, and into an elevator that takes them up three flights.
“Nice,” James says when they stumble into the actual room. He’s a little impressed. “Expense account?” he asks.
Scripps is fumbling around in a bag, and when he turns back, bottle in hand, he’s grinning. “You bet,” he says, and holds out the bottle.
James takes it, only has a little trouble with the cap, and winces when he takes a swig. “Fuck, that’s disgusting,” he says, because it is, even if it’s the good stuff, and takes another pull.
Scripps laughs, and flops onto the bed. His face is a little pink, and James wonders if his skin would be as warm to the touch as he remembers. He thinks probably yes, but walks over and puts one palm against Scripps’s cheek, anyway. Just to check.
“Hey,” Scripps says, and he’s not laughing anymore, but he doesn’t move away, either.
“Hey.” James puts the bottle carefully on the little bedside table, next between the lamp and the Bible, and moves a little closer until his thighs hit the edge of the bed. Scripps watches him, but doesn’t say anything. “So.” James isn’t entirely sure where to go from here, always used to let Scripps make the first move, but his head is spinning and he’s not sure it’s entirely from the alcohol.
“So,” Scripps mimics, then rolls his eyes like he knows exactly what James is thinking, and says, “Fuck this,” before reaching up to yank James down onto the mattress on top of him, letting out a slight “Oof” at the weight of impact, but not seeming to care. “‘Til breakfast, right?” he asks.
James nods, says, “Yeah, breakfast,” and settles more firmly against Scripps, feeling the heat radiating from both of them.
“Good,” Scripps says, grins wide, eyes bright with more than alcohol, and, Christ, but James is fucked.
“Yeah,” James echoes, and lets Scripps pull him in.