The Oddest Things
Notes: Just wanted to write a little more about Grell and Alan. Their friendship amuses me terribly. Not the thing I owe Kit, but that's coming too. Aaaas soon as I can figure it out. May just write little shots. Whooo rambling xD
“You’re getting married?”
It was eight a.m. on a Monday. The boss was on the warpath. There was a great possibility that his partner was drunk, and had made up a ridiculous rumour that had spread like wildfire around the agency - really, it was just sort of stupid, wasn’t it? Grell Sutcliff wasn’t the marrying type.
“Mhm.” The redhead hunched over his desk, staring at the blank report. “... Fuck. I don’t know what William wants me to write in this. These new reports are very bloody incriminating. How do you make ‘stabbed the fucker in the eye’ sound less incriminating?”
“I’d drop the word ‘fucker’ for one thing.” Alan settled at the edge of Grell’s desk, leaning over to read the small print. “What do you mean, ‘I’m getting married’? I thought you were seeing that Italian agent.”
“He fell off a rooftop Saturday. Not so pretty with a mouth that could double for a train tunnel. Here, what does it say here ‘method of execution’? Is Will off his bloody rocker?” Grell huffed, pushing the report away and off the desk, where it blended with the tiles. “I’m not writing those stupid things out.”
“It’s not William’s decision; I think Head Office is making him - you know, I know you’re stalling. Who are you getting married to?” Alan frowned when Grell turned away. This was not his usual behaviour - anyway, why wouldn’t he tell him something so important? He and Grell were friends. Bar Eric, he was his closest friend which... actually, that made him seem a bit sad. He needed more friends.
‘Make more friends’ went onto his mental to-do list, but until he buckled down and did it, he was going to pester Grell. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of the back of his neck, giving it a squeeze. “Answer me, Sutcliff.”
“Barnett’s widow,” Grell mumbled, his shoulders hunching. “The redhead.” He reached behind him, squeezing Alan’s fingers when they pressed into his neck. “You bastard, stop pressing.”
“I’m trying to think whether you’re being sarcastic or not. Why on earth would you get married to someone whose husband you killed? Isn’t that a bit Victorian for you?”
Grell didn’t say anything at first, then he sighed. Alan pulled his hand away, sliding off the desk to kneel in front of him. He guided his face up, slapping his cheek once, then twice, to Grell’s annoyed hiss. The third slap never made contact - Grell grabbed his wrist and held it tight.
“Just checking to see if you’re delusional,” Alan said cheerfully. “You’ve not answered me.”
“Because. Two things. I can get an in into the Phantomhives if I marry her. Executing Vincent will be piss-easy. Second thing, she’s pretty interesting. Think she knows who I am.” Grell’s fingers gentled on his wrist, his thumb stroking across the pulse point, worrying at a scabbed-over gash there; training the new recruits was always so dangerous.
“That’s generally a bad thing.” But Alan sighed, and pushed his hand through Grell’s wild hair, to pull it out of his eyes. “But. If you’re going to be an idiot, you might as well be an idiot with tradition - I’m throwing you a stag do. I suppose I’m the best man?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t want a crabby, dried-up, horny little shrimp to be their best man?” His words were soft, laced with affection; you should never listen to what Grell said, anyway, but his voice. Alan always did, and they were friends. “I’d love that.”
“The same person who wouldn’t want a flamboyant, blatantly ridiculous, sex-crazed, snake-like giant to be theirs. Boring people, in other words. Or sane ones. You really do need to be crazy to do this kind of work.”
Alan pulled away. His fingers stroked through Grell’s hair, amusing himself with how easily it set, no matter how you combed it - it popped around his face, hard, spiky edges, flopping over his forehead and his ears and his collar, much too long to be fashionable and straight.
He’d never expected him married. Grell was many things, but not marriage material.
. . .
The stag-do wasn’t like Grell expected, and thank God for that.
There was a car, parked behind the Agency, in a secluded corner by the back entrance that nobody really took any notice of. It overlooked the moors, fresh with colourful flowers in splotches of yellow and purple and white. Alan sat on the bonnet, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. Four or six wine bottles stood on the roof of the car, cooling as the night dragged on.
“Thought about getting you a stripper,” Alan commented, “but I don’t think there’s one that does both genders.”
Grell laughed, flicking a card into the pile.
He had absolutely no idea what they were playing - if they were playing at all. Most of the conversation had been on far more interesting things than a card game.
“Christ, William’s face if you bought a stripper. You should’ve, we could’ve wrapped her up in a bow and dropped her into his chair.” The possibility of freaking him out was worth whatever strippers cost these days. Grell filed the idea away for Christmas; grinned at Alan.
“I think he’s stuck to that chair. Maybe set her on top of a filing cabinet or something. Spread her out on his desk.” Alan paused, trying to think of where else the stripper could be placed in William’s office. “... The suit of armor by the door.”
“No better way to offend his British sensibilities than with a naked woman.”
Alan smiled, but it never did reach his eyes these days. He thought too much about that man.
Grell shouldn’t have brought him up, but he did. He flicked another card into the same pile, and took a sip from the lukewarm wine - wine on a stag do, it really did smack of Alan’s planning - and asked: “How’s Eric?”
“Young, in love. If he asks me to help him with his wedding vows, I may have to run him over.” Alan kept his voice light, but he slapped the card down into the centre pile.
“You’re the one who took English as an A-level. He wouldn’t ask if you’d taken History, or Mathematics, or Physics.”
Alan stared at the cards between them, then shuffled them together. “... I wish I knew what he saw in her,” he chanced, his voice small and soft. “I mean, I am happy for him, I am. But, just - why her, and not me?”
“I dunno. I’d pick you in a heartbeat, sweetheart.”
“... Huh. So that’s why.” Alan chuckled, setting the cards aside and holding out his arms. Without words, Grell shifted over to slip his arms around him, twisting and wiggling until he could lay back against the windshield. Alan’s body pressed back against his, hard and bony and all around unpleasant, but it was worth it. That’s what friends were for, wasn’t it?
“Bastard. I’ve changed my mind, I won’t pick you,” Grell pouted. Alan’s head thudded back against his chest, his eyes on the stars, quiet. “.. Though, I wouldn’t give up hope, darling. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I think you’ll end up with Eric, eventually.”
“Yes, walking him down the a-“
Grell cupped his hand over his mouth, pressing down gently. “No. Together romantically. If there’s a person you’re meant to be with - someone you love with all your heart, someone you can’t stop thinking about - then eventually, you’ll end up with him. Romance novels wouldn’t be so popular otherwise. Anyway,” his voice brightened a little, despite Alan biting down on his fingers, “I don’t think he’s that impartial to you. Remember when I was pretending to be your boyfriend from France? He kept glaring at me.”
“Because you had your tongue down my ear, and a French accent. Public affection and the French are two of the things he can’t stand,” Alan ran his tongue over his teeth, wincing a little. Skin didn’t particularly go well with wine.
“I meant after that, when I was being good and holding your hand. He kept looking up and scowling. So, you know. Maybe all hope isn’t lost.”
Alan turned his head, resting his cheek against Grell’s breast pocket - he could hear his heart beating beneath him, could feel how warm he was when he passed his hand over his chest. Whatever Eric chose to believe about boyfriends, he hadn’t had any in a while. You couldn’t really have boyfriends when you were in love with someone else. Not serious ones. That’s where Grell came in.
If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that Grell was Eric, just for a night. That was always fun.
“So, when’s the big day?”
Grell shrugged.
Alan rolled his eyes. “You’re going to make a wonderful husband.”
“You’re getting married?”
It was eight a.m. on a Monday. The boss was on the warpath. There was a great possibility that his partner was drunk, and had made up a ridiculous rumour that had spread like wildfire around the agency - really, it was just sort of stupid, wasn’t it? Grell Sutcliff wasn’t the marrying type.
“Mhm.” The redhead hunched over his desk, staring at the blank report. “... Fuck. I don’t know what William wants me to write in this. These new reports are very bloody incriminating. How do you make ‘stabbed the fucker in the eye’ sound less incriminating?”
“I’d drop the word ‘fucker’ for one thing.” Alan settled at the edge of Grell’s desk, leaning over to read the small print. “What do you mean, ‘I’m getting married’? I thought you were seeing that Italian agent.”
“He fell off a rooftop Saturday. Not so pretty with a mouth that could double for a train tunnel. Here, what does it say here ‘method of execution’? Is Will off his bloody rocker?” Grell huffed, pushing the report away and off the desk, where it blended with the tiles. “I’m not writing those stupid things out.”
“It’s not William’s decision; I think Head Office is making him - you know, I know you’re stalling. Who are you getting married to?” Alan frowned when Grell turned away. This was not his usual behaviour - anyway, why wouldn’t he tell him something so important? He and Grell were friends. Bar Eric, he was his closest friend which... actually, that made him seem a bit sad. He needed more friends.
‘Make more friends’ went onto his mental to-do list, but until he buckled down and did it, he was going to pester Grell. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of the back of his neck, giving it a squeeze. “Answer me, Sutcliff.”
“Barnett’s widow,” Grell mumbled, his shoulders hunching. “The redhead.” He reached behind him, squeezing Alan’s fingers when they pressed into his neck. “You bastard, stop pressing.”
“I’m trying to think whether you’re being sarcastic or not. Why on earth would you get married to someone whose husband you killed? Isn’t that a bit Victorian for you?”
Grell didn’t say anything at first, then he sighed. Alan pulled his hand away, sliding off the desk to kneel in front of him. He guided his face up, slapping his cheek once, then twice, to Grell’s annoyed hiss. The third slap never made contact - Grell grabbed his wrist and held it tight.
“Just checking to see if you’re delusional,” Alan said cheerfully. “You’ve not answered me.”
“Because. Two things. I can get an in into the Phantomhives if I marry her. Executing Vincent will be piss-easy. Second thing, she’s pretty interesting. Think she knows who I am.” Grell’s fingers gentled on his wrist, his thumb stroking across the pulse point, worrying at a scabbed-over gash there; training the new recruits was always so dangerous.
“That’s generally a bad thing.” But Alan sighed, and pushed his hand through Grell’s wild hair, to pull it out of his eyes. “But. If you’re going to be an idiot, you might as well be an idiot with tradition - I’m throwing you a stag do. I suppose I’m the best man?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t want a crabby, dried-up, horny little shrimp to be their best man?” His words were soft, laced with affection; you should never listen to what Grell said, anyway, but his voice. Alan always did, and they were friends. “I’d love that.”
“The same person who wouldn’t want a flamboyant, blatantly ridiculous, sex-crazed, snake-like giant to be theirs. Boring people, in other words. Or sane ones. You really do need to be crazy to do this kind of work.”
Alan pulled away. His fingers stroked through Grell’s hair, amusing himself with how easily it set, no matter how you combed it - it popped around his face, hard, spiky edges, flopping over his forehead and his ears and his collar, much too long to be fashionable and straight.
He’d never expected him married. Grell was many things, but not marriage material.
. . .
The stag-do wasn’t like Grell expected, and thank God for that.
There was a car, parked behind the Agency, in a secluded corner by the back entrance that nobody really took any notice of. It overlooked the moors, fresh with colourful flowers in splotches of yellow and purple and white. Alan sat on the bonnet, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his tie undone. Four or six wine bottles stood on the roof of the car, cooling as the night dragged on.
“Thought about getting you a stripper,” Alan commented, “but I don’t think there’s one that does both genders.”
Grell laughed, flicking a card into the pile.
He had absolutely no idea what they were playing - if they were playing at all. Most of the conversation had been on far more interesting things than a card game.
“Christ, William’s face if you bought a stripper. You should’ve, we could’ve wrapped her up in a bow and dropped her into his chair.” The possibility of freaking him out was worth whatever strippers cost these days. Grell filed the idea away for Christmas; grinned at Alan.
“I think he’s stuck to that chair. Maybe set her on top of a filing cabinet or something. Spread her out on his desk.” Alan paused, trying to think of where else the stripper could be placed in William’s office. “... The suit of armor by the door.”
“No better way to offend his British sensibilities than with a naked woman.”
Alan smiled, but it never did reach his eyes these days. He thought too much about that man.
Grell shouldn’t have brought him up, but he did. He flicked another card into the same pile, and took a sip from the lukewarm wine - wine on a stag do, it really did smack of Alan’s planning - and asked: “How’s Eric?”
“Young, in love. If he asks me to help him with his wedding vows, I may have to run him over.” Alan kept his voice light, but he slapped the card down into the centre pile.
“You’re the one who took English as an A-level. He wouldn’t ask if you’d taken History, or Mathematics, or Physics.”
Alan stared at the cards between them, then shuffled them together. “... I wish I knew what he saw in her,” he chanced, his voice small and soft. “I mean, I am happy for him, I am. But, just - why her, and not me?”
“I dunno. I’d pick you in a heartbeat, sweetheart.”
“... Huh. So that’s why.” Alan chuckled, setting the cards aside and holding out his arms. Without words, Grell shifted over to slip his arms around him, twisting and wiggling until he could lay back against the windshield. Alan’s body pressed back against his, hard and bony and all around unpleasant, but it was worth it. That’s what friends were for, wasn’t it?
“Bastard. I’ve changed my mind, I won’t pick you,” Grell pouted. Alan’s head thudded back against his chest, his eyes on the stars, quiet. “.. Though, I wouldn’t give up hope, darling. Maybe I’m a romantic, but I think you’ll end up with Eric, eventually.”
“Yes, walking him down the a-“
Grell cupped his hand over his mouth, pressing down gently. “No. Together romantically. If there’s a person you’re meant to be with - someone you love with all your heart, someone you can’t stop thinking about - then eventually, you’ll end up with him. Romance novels wouldn’t be so popular otherwise. Anyway,” his voice brightened a little, despite Alan biting down on his fingers, “I don’t think he’s that impartial to you. Remember when I was pretending to be your boyfriend from France? He kept glaring at me.”
“Because you had your tongue down my ear, and a French accent. Public affection and the French are two of the things he can’t stand,” Alan ran his tongue over his teeth, wincing a little. Skin didn’t particularly go well with wine.
“I meant after that, when I was being good and holding your hand. He kept looking up and scowling. So, you know. Maybe all hope isn’t lost.”
Alan turned his head, resting his cheek against Grell’s breast pocket - he could hear his heart beating beneath him, could feel how warm he was when he passed his hand over his chest. Whatever Eric chose to believe about boyfriends, he hadn’t had any in a while. You couldn’t really have boyfriends when you were in love with someone else. Not serious ones. That’s where Grell came in.
If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that Grell was Eric, just for a night. That was always fun.
“So, when’s the big day?”
Grell shrugged.
Alan rolled his eyes. “You’re going to make a wonderful husband.”