Fic: Feels Like Home (Family Portrait, Part I) (Various Pairings)
This is for hiro_chan who infected me with Mama!Ryan and Papa!Gaz. I know that this is horribly late (and blame too much homework) and hope you enjoy anyway, love! :)
Title: Feels Like Home (Family Portrait, Part I)
Pairing: Gary Neville/Ryan Giggs (Rio Ferdinand/Nemanja Vidic implied)
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Don’t read this if you’re not a fan of completely random AU.
Disclaimer: Well, this would be fiction, then…Not mine, either.
Author’s Note: You might have guessed it already - little Noa is my adorable host sister’s ink and paper twin. ♥
Author’s Note II: I’ve gone all rusty, writing-wise, and honestly have no idea if this is good or not. You tell me.
The digital oven clock showed three hours and seventeen minutes - three-seventeen in the afternoon. Gary noticed and memorised it; not because anything had happened, but because nothing did. His gaze wandered over the tiled kitchen floor, over Action Man (humiliatingly defeated by lack of interest) and the colourful baby walker, standing abandoned and silent for once. Silence - it was a rare treasure in this house nowadays. And once again, he wondered just why and how on earth he, of all people, had ended up with a house full of children.
The soft rustle of a page being turned diverted his attention to the counter: Unnoticed by Ryan, who leaned there, his back to the door, Gary watched his lover studying the newspaper, a mug of what was most likely hot tea in the left hand.
His stomach made an odd little turn when he realized that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he had seen Ryan in a relaxed posture like this - instead of digging for socks that had miraculously ended up behind a cupboard, hoovering (or at least trying to with Wayne clinging to the Hoover and demanding to ride on it) and preparing lunchboxes, muttering the children’s various demands to himself: “Ole - white bread, no pâté, wonder if Wayne would eat it…well, probably not, right on then, Paul, brown bread, cheese and salad, strictly no tomatoes…”
The tea mug abruptly came down on the counter with a soft thump; and Gary heard Ryan hold his breath for the fraction of a second when he slipped his hands into the pockets of Ryan’s jeans.
“You could give a man warning, you know!”
“Didn’t want to disturb you studying them news of -” Gary managed to sneak a peek of the newspaper page Ryan had been reading, and frowned. “- X-Factor judge Simon Cowell flirtin’ with an anonymous blonde.” he finished, a little disappointed (he had expected a new report on household savings or something of equal ecological value). “Right.”
“Where’s Noa?” Ryan obviously did not want to elaborate this topic any further.
“Sleepin’ upstairs, finally.”
And when this message proved to be reason enough for the Welshman to let out a small, relieved sigh and rest the back of his head against Gary’s shoulder, Gary seized the opportunity to plant a quick kiss on his temple.
But Ryan seemed to consider this information simply too good to be true -
“She is really sleeping?”
His fingers got brave, slid out of Ryan’s pockets to play with the hem of his grey sweater. Ignoring the objection, they brushed against the skin underneath; Gary’s voice only a low growl, warm breath in Ryan’s ear, as he continued to follow his train of thought.
“’s just you and me now.”
A gentle bite in the earlobe was followed by another draw of breath; and they knew each other too well now, too long for Gary to believe that it was of pleasure alone.
“Gary, this is really not -”
“…Not what?”, Gary murmured.
“The boys will be home soon, and you don’t really want them walking in on us, do you?”
“’m sure we ‘ave five minutes…”
“The last time I heard that we ended up missing that Braveheart film.”
“While t’children was sleepin’ over at Steve and Xabi’s.”
"Gary!"
“What?”
“No!”
“I didn’t even say -”
“But you were thinking about asking them, just so we could …”
The front door flew open, and in dashed Cristiano, black curls sticking out in every possible direction: Gary, who had only been able to let go of Ryan, suddenly found himself rooted to the spot by a very determined seven-year-old holding on to his leg.
“Daddy!”
“Oi, what’s t’matter with you, young man?”
The little boy really seemed upset; panting away, he didn’t even mind Gary ruffling his hair affectionately, an act that was, under normal circumstances, as popular as broccoli or spinach for dinner.
“It’s Rio! Rio Ferdinand! He’s snogging our Nemanja!” he burst out, no longer being able to stay silent, brown eyes wide open and cheeks red with excitement.
Behind Cris’ back, on his way to the door, Ryan mouthed a silent ‘awesome!’ and raised his thumbs. Prompting, he would surely need that when he had his father-to-son talk with Nemanja, Gary thought and smiled down at the curly-haired boy clinging to his tracksuit bottoms.
“Right, you reckon we get discount in Rio’s CD store now?”
It wouldn’t be the first one, actually, there had been something a conversation when their eldest son had moved into independence - a flat just a few metres down the road; if you called “Well, then,” a manly hug and the obligatory ”If you need something…” a real conversation.
It had been awkward, for him, who hoped that Nemanja knew all the things he failed to say in that particular moment, while Ryan, on the other hand, took it all in his stride, washed the clothes for the last time (or so he hoped) and advised his son not to buy any plants because he’d forget to water them anyway.
Gary envied him for that.
A red-faced Wayne pushed his way past Ryan in the doorway and dropped his school bag to the floor. His red jumper and blue trousers were dirty and in disarray; the school tie was missing, and his nose seemed slightly swollen.
And before Gary or Ryan could even ask what on earth had happened (again):
“Sissy”, the boy spat, scowling at his younger brother.
“Am not!” came the prompt reply.
“Are too!”
“Am not!” Tears started to well up in Cristiano’s eyes.
“Are -“
“Wayne! Will you stop it!”
Gary never found out what had been said after Ryan had escorted Wayne to the living room, firmly, but not fiercely, one arm around the short-haired boy’s shoulder. He had, admittedly, intended to eavesdrop for learning purposes, but just when he had managed to pry Cristiano off his leg (“Go upstairs and play for a bit, will you, but don’t wake ‘er up!”), Paul and Ole entered the kitchen.
“…short? I’m thinking of a person…” Ole said musingly, looking anywhere in the room but in Paul’s direction.
Paul, however, stood above such things. “I might be short…” he began, then pointedly looked at his brother and paused for dramatic effects before he continued, “…but you're ugly and I still have time to grow!”
“Oh, come on, that was really lame!”
“…lame? I’m thinking of a person…” Paul interestedly studied the ceiling.
Ole, outwitted yet again, groaned in defeat and aimed to box Paul’s upper arm; but his brother ducked away and helped himself to a winners’ banana.
“Wayne had a fight with that Robbie guy,” he announced, peeling the fruit.
That explained at least something.
“What about?”
Ole giggled. “He called him ‘Shrek’.”
“Well, and he’s kinda right, isn’t he? I mean, he doesn’t really live in a swamp, but his room…”
Gary saw the amused sparkle in Paul’s eyes and could tell that this was just one of those jokes big brothers had to make - it was their way of showing affection. He doubted, however, that Wayne would be as insightful.
He was in for a surprise.
It happened two hours later that they, in the aftermath of a wild football game with Ole and Paul, outside in the garden, two against two, with Noa, now most audibly awake, as cheering crowd, that two exhausted little boys found themselves sitting next to each other on the front lawn.
Wayne, the future hope of Everton FC, looked at Cristiano, the rising star of Manchester United; steel blue eyes met big, brown ones -
“Sorry,” said Wayne, very quietly, and smiled shyly.
And Gary watched from the kitchen window how Cristiano’s face lit up in an instant, while Ryan in the background sang “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…” to a thrilled, enthusiastically rowing Noa.
Wayne’s following transfer to United, and the resulting selling of Ole to Everton (sealed with Gary writing ‘Sir Alex’ on the back of an old bill from Tesco’s) was Topic Number One at the dinner table, and the rematch heatedly discussed, as each team claimed the victory for themselves - carried away by the spirit of the game, they had eventually forgotten to count the goals.
“Paul cheated,” Wayne insisted even later, snuggled up in one corner of the couch, eyes already half-closed; and Cristiano nodded tiredly, taking his thumb out of is mouth.
“He kept telling knock-knock jokes,” he added, and turned his attention back to the television.
Next to Gary, Ryan chuckled, deep and content, and took his hand, entwining their fingers.
Cristiano had fallen asleep, thumb still in his mouth; Wayne snored quietly in his corner of the sofa. Ryan’s thumb caressed the palm of Gary’s hand - upstairs, Noa was rocking her bed, and someone listened to Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender”. Gary smiled.
And was perfectly content that he, of all people, had ended up with a house full of children.
Title: Feels Like Home (Family Portrait, Part I)
Pairing: Gary Neville/Ryan Giggs (Rio Ferdinand/Nemanja Vidic implied)
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Don’t read this if you’re not a fan of completely random AU.
Disclaimer: Well, this would be fiction, then…Not mine, either.
Author’s Note: You might have guessed it already - little Noa is my adorable host sister’s ink and paper twin. ♥
Author’s Note II: I’ve gone all rusty, writing-wise, and honestly have no idea if this is good or not. You tell me.
The digital oven clock showed three hours and seventeen minutes - three-seventeen in the afternoon. Gary noticed and memorised it; not because anything had happened, but because nothing did. His gaze wandered over the tiled kitchen floor, over Action Man (humiliatingly defeated by lack of interest) and the colourful baby walker, standing abandoned and silent for once. Silence - it was a rare treasure in this house nowadays. And once again, he wondered just why and how on earth he, of all people, had ended up with a house full of children.
The soft rustle of a page being turned diverted his attention to the counter: Unnoticed by Ryan, who leaned there, his back to the door, Gary watched his lover studying the newspaper, a mug of what was most likely hot tea in the left hand.
His stomach made an odd little turn when he realized that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he had seen Ryan in a relaxed posture like this - instead of digging for socks that had miraculously ended up behind a cupboard, hoovering (or at least trying to with Wayne clinging to the Hoover and demanding to ride on it) and preparing lunchboxes, muttering the children’s various demands to himself: “Ole - white bread, no pâté, wonder if Wayne would eat it…well, probably not, right on then, Paul, brown bread, cheese and salad, strictly no tomatoes…”
The tea mug abruptly came down on the counter with a soft thump; and Gary heard Ryan hold his breath for the fraction of a second when he slipped his hands into the pockets of Ryan’s jeans.
“You could give a man warning, you know!”
“Didn’t want to disturb you studying them news of -” Gary managed to sneak a peek of the newspaper page Ryan had been reading, and frowned. “- X-Factor judge Simon Cowell flirtin’ with an anonymous blonde.” he finished, a little disappointed (he had expected a new report on household savings or something of equal ecological value). “Right.”
“Where’s Noa?” Ryan obviously did not want to elaborate this topic any further.
“Sleepin’ upstairs, finally.”
And when this message proved to be reason enough for the Welshman to let out a small, relieved sigh and rest the back of his head against Gary’s shoulder, Gary seized the opportunity to plant a quick kiss on his temple.
But Ryan seemed to consider this information simply too good to be true -
“She is really sleeping?”
His fingers got brave, slid out of Ryan’s pockets to play with the hem of his grey sweater. Ignoring the objection, they brushed against the skin underneath; Gary’s voice only a low growl, warm breath in Ryan’s ear, as he continued to follow his train of thought.
“’s just you and me now.”
A gentle bite in the earlobe was followed by another draw of breath; and they knew each other too well now, too long for Gary to believe that it was of pleasure alone.
“Gary, this is really not -”
“…Not what?”, Gary murmured.
“The boys will be home soon, and you don’t really want them walking in on us, do you?”
“’m sure we ‘ave five minutes…”
“The last time I heard that we ended up missing that Braveheart film.”
“While t’children was sleepin’ over at Steve and Xabi’s.”
"Gary!"
“What?”
“No!”
“I didn’t even say -”
“But you were thinking about asking them, just so we could …”
The front door flew open, and in dashed Cristiano, black curls sticking out in every possible direction: Gary, who had only been able to let go of Ryan, suddenly found himself rooted to the spot by a very determined seven-year-old holding on to his leg.
“Daddy!”
“Oi, what’s t’matter with you, young man?”
The little boy really seemed upset; panting away, he didn’t even mind Gary ruffling his hair affectionately, an act that was, under normal circumstances, as popular as broccoli or spinach for dinner.
“It’s Rio! Rio Ferdinand! He’s snogging our Nemanja!” he burst out, no longer being able to stay silent, brown eyes wide open and cheeks red with excitement.
Behind Cris’ back, on his way to the door, Ryan mouthed a silent ‘awesome!’ and raised his thumbs. Prompting, he would surely need that when he had his father-to-son talk with Nemanja, Gary thought and smiled down at the curly-haired boy clinging to his tracksuit bottoms.
“Right, you reckon we get discount in Rio’s CD store now?”
It wouldn’t be the first one, actually, there had been something a conversation when their eldest son had moved into independence - a flat just a few metres down the road; if you called “Well, then,” a manly hug and the obligatory ”If you need something…” a real conversation.
It had been awkward, for him, who hoped that Nemanja knew all the things he failed to say in that particular moment, while Ryan, on the other hand, took it all in his stride, washed the clothes for the last time (or so he hoped) and advised his son not to buy any plants because he’d forget to water them anyway.
Gary envied him for that.
A red-faced Wayne pushed his way past Ryan in the doorway and dropped his school bag to the floor. His red jumper and blue trousers were dirty and in disarray; the school tie was missing, and his nose seemed slightly swollen.
And before Gary or Ryan could even ask what on earth had happened (again):
“Sissy”, the boy spat, scowling at his younger brother.
“Am not!” came the prompt reply.
“Are too!”
“Am not!” Tears started to well up in Cristiano’s eyes.
“Are -“
“Wayne! Will you stop it!”
Gary never found out what had been said after Ryan had escorted Wayne to the living room, firmly, but not fiercely, one arm around the short-haired boy’s shoulder. He had, admittedly, intended to eavesdrop for learning purposes, but just when he had managed to pry Cristiano off his leg (“Go upstairs and play for a bit, will you, but don’t wake ‘er up!”), Paul and Ole entered the kitchen.
“…short? I’m thinking of a person…” Ole said musingly, looking anywhere in the room but in Paul’s direction.
Paul, however, stood above such things. “I might be short…” he began, then pointedly looked at his brother and paused for dramatic effects before he continued, “…but you're ugly and I still have time to grow!”
“Oh, come on, that was really lame!”
“…lame? I’m thinking of a person…” Paul interestedly studied the ceiling.
Ole, outwitted yet again, groaned in defeat and aimed to box Paul’s upper arm; but his brother ducked away and helped himself to a winners’ banana.
“Wayne had a fight with that Robbie guy,” he announced, peeling the fruit.
That explained at least something.
“What about?”
Ole giggled. “He called him ‘Shrek’.”
“Well, and he’s kinda right, isn’t he? I mean, he doesn’t really live in a swamp, but his room…”
Gary saw the amused sparkle in Paul’s eyes and could tell that this was just one of those jokes big brothers had to make - it was their way of showing affection. He doubted, however, that Wayne would be as insightful.
He was in for a surprise.
It happened two hours later that they, in the aftermath of a wild football game with Ole and Paul, outside in the garden, two against two, with Noa, now most audibly awake, as cheering crowd, that two exhausted little boys found themselves sitting next to each other on the front lawn.
Wayne, the future hope of Everton FC, looked at Cristiano, the rising star of Manchester United; steel blue eyes met big, brown ones -
“Sorry,” said Wayne, very quietly, and smiled shyly.
And Gary watched from the kitchen window how Cristiano’s face lit up in an instant, while Ryan in the background sang “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream…” to a thrilled, enthusiastically rowing Noa.
Wayne’s following transfer to United, and the resulting selling of Ole to Everton (sealed with Gary writing ‘Sir Alex’ on the back of an old bill from Tesco’s) was Topic Number One at the dinner table, and the rematch heatedly discussed, as each team claimed the victory for themselves - carried away by the spirit of the game, they had eventually forgotten to count the goals.
“Paul cheated,” Wayne insisted even later, snuggled up in one corner of the couch, eyes already half-closed; and Cristiano nodded tiredly, taking his thumb out of is mouth.
“He kept telling knock-knock jokes,” he added, and turned his attention back to the television.
Next to Gary, Ryan chuckled, deep and content, and took his hand, entwining their fingers.
Cristiano had fallen asleep, thumb still in his mouth; Wayne snored quietly in his corner of the sofa. Ryan’s thumb caressed the palm of Gary’s hand - upstairs, Noa was rocking her bed, and someone listened to Elvis Presley’s “Love Me Tender”. Gary smiled.
And was perfectly content that he, of all people, had ended up with a house full of children.