144
these trousers seem to love your floor
History Boys (Scripps/Lockwood)
3,033 words, rated PG-13. This story combines Lockwood's future from the play and the film, to some extent - he goes into the army, but comes back. Maybe he'll grow up to be a magistrate. Because of this, I guess this story could be classified as slightly AU. The title is from the song My Backwards Walk, by Frightened Rabbit. Thanks to kawaii_tenshi27 for the beta - any remaining errors are my own.
Lockwood comes back from the army callused, harder. Gone is the gawky boy with red trainers and badges pinned to his lapel, and in his place is someone almost unrecognizable - long hair shaved to fuzz, lips chapped, shoulders squared. There’s still that snub nose, though, and the strong, long-fingered hands.
December, 1991
Lockwood comes back from the army callused, harder. Gone is the gawky boy with red trainers and badges pinned to his lapel, and in his place is someone almost unrecognizable - long hair shaved to fuzz, lips chapped, shoulders squared. There’s still that snub nose, though, and the strong, long-fingered hands.
Scripps is waiting for him at the bus station. The bench is cold against his thighs, and he taps his pen against his notebook, but doesn’t write anything. He’s got an article due in two days, but he can’t focus at the moment. Lockwood’s got a duffle slung over one shoulder as he descends the bus’s grimy stairs, posture straight and tall and somehow casual. Scripps hasn’t seen him in almost three years, but even in army fatigues, Scripps picks him out right away.
“Thanks,” Lockwood says, halting in front of Scripps. “For the lift, I mean.” His voice isn’t cold, exactly, but it’s not warm either. He shrugs with one shoulder, and the mannerism immediately puts Scripps more at ease. Some things haven’t changed, then.
“Jimmy,” Scripps starts, but trails off. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Your mum called me, and I don’t mind.” Scripps has always liked Lockwood’s mum.
Lockwood just nods, his hands white-knuckled on the handles of his duffle.
November, 1983
Lockwood calls him a month in, and laughs at the formal way he answers the phone. They’ve seen each other twice since the term started, but not more than in passing, so Scripps can’t help but be surprised.
“Scrippsy, mate, you have to loosen up a bit,” Lockwood says, and chuckles. Scripps can see the way he’s probably leaning back in his desk chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, phone lodged between his chin and his shoulder, arms wrapped tight over his chest. He’d sat that way in Hector’s classes every day, his face bemused and slightly haughty. “Fancy a drink? I’ve been staring at the same fucking page for a hour.”
Scripps doesn’t say, and I’m the one you call? because he’s always got on well with Lockwood. They share a certain sarcastic view of life. He may think it, but he knows better than to say it.
“What, tired of Oxford already?” he asks, instead. “And after all that pain to get here, too.”
“Oh, shut your gob, Scripps, and have a drink with me.” Scripps imagines the way Lockwood is probably rolling his eyes, letting his head loll against the back of the chair, and it makes him laugh.
“Sure, Jimmy,” he says. Like he was going to say no. “Where?”
“Mine? I’ve got a bottle of scotch and two glasses - well, one glass and a mug, anyway.”
And Lockwood’s room is something else entirely from a table at the pub and a few pints. He’s just not entirely sure that he cares.
February, 1984
“Look, I’m not saying the poor sod deserved it, exactly, but that wasn’t the point at the time,” Dakin is saying. He punctuates his sentence by downing the rest of his pint, and slamming the glass down on the table. Scripps is leaning his chin on the table, and the reverberations make his teeth clack together uncomfortably.
He’s pretty fucking drunk, but he doesn’t think that made any sense. Of course, he’s not precisely sure what the first half of the story was, but he doesn’t think that really matters.
“I’m afraid I haven’t a fucking clue what you’re talking about,” he says, and makes sure to carefully enunciate.
“I’m not sure who you think is listening to you, Dakin,” Crowther says, “because Akthar passed out fifteen minutes ago, Timms went for a piss at half eleven and hasn’t been back, and the rest of us are too drunk to give a fuck.”
“I second,” Lockwood says, and Scripps rolls his head until he can see Lockwood leaning back in his chair, his face flushed. He looks at Scripps and raises his eyebrows, but Scripps doesn’t have the brain cells at the moment to interpret it. He watches the way Lockwood’s eyes search his face, but if Lockwood is looking for anything in particular, Scripps is neither sure what it is nor if he finds it.
July, 1986
Lockwood goes into the army a month after finals and the end of their last term. He’s supposed to stay for a minimum of five years, after basic training, but that sounds almost like forever.
Scripps sits in a chair and watches him pack. Lockwood’s mum is at work, and his sister’s gone off to Uni this year, so there’s no one to see him off except Scripps. Lockwood doesn’t have a dad, and that’s probably half the reason he needed the army to pay his tuition in the first place. Lockwood doesn’t like to talk about it, and Scripps has always thought it better not to ask.
“It’s not like I’ll never be back,” Lockwood says, but he doesn’t look up. “You knew this was coming.”
“I did.” That doesn’t make it better. Scripps looks at his hands - ink stains up the side of his palm from writing in his notebook, callused fingertips. It’s somehow better than watching Lockwood stuff his personal effects into a canvas bag in the middle of the empty floor. “Still, you have to admit that it feels rather sudden.”
“I’ll write,” Lockwood says, and he touches Scripps face, light fingertips on his cheek. Scripps looks up; he hadn’t realized Lockwood had even stood up. “And you’d better fucking write. It is your specialty, after all.” When Lockwood pulls his hand away, Scripps grabs it between his palms. Lockwood’s skin is warm and dry. Familiar. “Walk me to the bus stop, Don.”
“Jimmy - okay,” Scripps says. Lockwood smirks, and tugs him up.
March, 1985
“Oh, fuck it,” Lockwood says, and hauls Scripps back into his dorm room by the collar of his cardigan. Scripps stumbles, thrown off balance, but then Lockwood pushes him up against the door. It slams closed with his weight against it, and Scripps lets out an oof of quickly exhaled air. Lockwood’s hair is disheveled where he’s been running his hands through it, and his shirtsleeves are pushed up past his elbows, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Scripps’ cardigan.
“I -” Scripps starts, but then Lockwood’s mouth is warm and wet and on his. He hears the muffled noise that he makes in the back of his throat, something trapped between surprise and understanding, but his hands are pressing into Lockwood’s ribcage on either side, and he can feel the way Lockwood shudders at the touch.
Lockwood is breathing heavily when he pulls back, and Scripps doesn’t say anything. He’s searching Lockwood’s face, the hectic spots of color high up on his cheeks, the shine of saliva on his lips. Lockwood is smirking, and Scripps realizes that he can still feel Lockwood’s ribs through his shirt, the way his chest expands and contracts with his breathing.
“I’ve been waiting to do that since second term last year,” Lockwood says, eventually, and Scripps sort of knew.
“I sort of knew,” he says, and Lockwood snorts.
“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes. “And yet you still made me wait a year.”
Scripps shrugs, back pressed against the door, but he tightens his fingers in the fabric of Lockwood’s shirt and doesn’t push him away.
June, 1989
Lockwood’s been in the hospital a week by the time Scripps finds out. He gets a letter in the mail from Lockwood, jumbled in with his bills and newspapers. They don’t exchange letters quite as often as they did, not since Lockwood went back on duty, so Scripps is surprised. He stares at the familiar handwriting, and thinks about all the times he’d watched Lockwood write papers, his letters formed neatly and lined up evenly. Lockwood has always had the best handwriting of anyone in their form. He carefully opens the envelope, and unfolds the paper.
Don, it starts. The letters are slightly shakier than Scripps is used to seeing - uneven in size and shape. It puts Scripps on edge even before he reads the rest.
I’d have called, but I wasn’t sure I could say it all out loud. I sound wretched at the moment anyway.
I just thought you’d want to know you were right.
His eyes skim the rest of the page, skating past full sentences to pick out words like gutshot, and transfusion, and fourteen stitches. His fingers curl into the edge of the paper, wrinkling it, but he barely notices.
Lockwood ends the letter with, I still miss you,
Jimmy.
Scripps spends that day in his church, hard wooden pew under him, staring at the letter open in his lap. He’s not sure how many times he rereads it. He doesn’t pray, exactly, because there’s nothing to pray for. Lockwood’s going to be fine, it turns out, no praying needed. That doesn’t keep Scripps from staying in the church longer than he might otherwise, listening to the silence.
September, 1985
Posner comes round for lunch every few months, and they chat, catch up. Scripps isn’t surprised that out of everyone, he keeps up with Posner the most easily except for Lockwood.
“So who is this that you’re fucking?” Posner asks, and Scripps almost chokes on a sip of water. They’ve just gotten their entrees, and Scripps is grateful Posner waited until the waitress was out of hearing range to ask.
“What?” he replies, but he’s actually not that shocked. He and Lockwood have been fucking for almost six months now, and someone was bound to notice eventually. Posner’s always been more observant than most of the rest of them, in any case.
Posner doesn’t even bother to answer, just gives him a withering look that makes Scripps grin.
“You really want to know?” Scripps asks, and laughs at the way Posner looks at him.
“Of course I fucking want to know. If I get to be the first to hear who you’d finally break celibacy for, all the better to hold it over Dakin’s head.” Posner grins and shrugs; he’d gotten over his infatuation, for the most part, in the intervening years, and they got along in general, but that didn’t mean Posner wouldn’t relish the chance to one-up Dakin.
“I’m glad that’s all that this means to you,” Scripps says. “It really puts our relationship in perspective.” He can see that Posner’s about to protest, so he just says, instead, “It’s Lockwood. I’m fucking Lockwood.”
“What - you mean - Lockwood? James Lockwood?” Posner’s eyes widen comically, and Scripps can’t keep from laughing.
“The very one.” He gives Posner a few moments to collect himself, taking a bite of his salad.
“Well,” Posner says, eventually. “There’s one I wouldn’t have guessed. I hope you’re happy.”
Scripps thinks of Lockwood sleeping in his bed while he writes an essay, books spread around on the floor, notepad in his lap. He thinks of Lockwood’s strong hands on his back, Lockwood’s hair tickling his neck. “I am, actually,” he says.
November, 1987
Lockwood has leave for the first time in sixteen months. He’s only off for 72 hours, and they spend approximately the first 24 of those hours fucking. Scripps rubs his hands over the fuzz on top of Lockwood’s head, and says, “I really fucking missed you.”
He’s almost surprised that the words make it past his lips, but he doesn’t regret them.
“Likewise,” Lockwood says, and props himself up on one elbow to lean over Scripps, looking down at him.
Scripps raises his eyebrows at Lockwood and smiles, wrapping a hand around the back of Lockwood’s neck and pulling him down.
They don’t exactly fight when Lockwood has to leave again, but Scripps leans against the wall in the hallway and watches Lockwood pack again.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this for,” he says, and he finds that he means it. Sixteen months is a long time to wait for 72 hours. It’s a long time.
“I know,” Lockwood says. He says it like it hurts to, like the words are forced between clenched teeth. “But I have to go back. I agreed to.”
“Just don’t get hurt,” Scripps says, and he feels like an utter sap even thinking it.
“I won’t,” Lockwood says. Scripps just rolls his eyes.
August, 1986
It’s not until after Lockwood’s gone that Scripps thinks about the crucial question of what this is. He’s always avoided actual thinking about it, because, for the most part, Lockwood was around to distract him. There wasn’t much time, or point. Now it’s been a month, and it occurs to Scripps that he’s never actually fucked anyone else. There’d been some kissing, that first year and a half, a girl in his tutorial, and another he met through hallmates of his, but other than that there’s only Lockwood. He doesn’t know if he should be surprised or not.
“Scripps. What’re you thinking about?” Dakin asks, dragging his fingers through the perspiration beading on the outside of his pint glass. “You’ve gone all quiet on me, mate.”
“Nothing,” Scripps says, because for one, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and for two, he’s pretty sure Dakin wouldn’t actually want to hear it.
“That’s complete shit and you know it, but I’ll let you get away with it, for now.” Dakin grins at him, that same charming smile he’s had for as long as Scripps has known him.
“Don’t worry, it wouldn’t be interesting to you, in any case.” Scripps takes a swallow of his own pint, and arches an eyebrow at Dakin, who laughs.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
October, 1988
Scripps goes out on the pull exactly twice. He thinks he should be allowed; Lockwood’s been gone for more than two years, and there’s still more than two years until he’s back for good, and Scripps hates it. He hates that he still wakes up and expects Lockwood to be there, with his fucking cocky smile and ready wit. He should be able to move on. So he goes on the pull.
He doesn’t pick anyone up, though. He sits at the bar with a glass of scotch and his notepad, and just watches.
“Can I buy you a drink?” asks a tall, slim man with blond hair. Scripps had seen him looking over, seen the way his eyes lingered, and thought, I could have him. Scripps thinks that, some other time, he might’ve even done it, maybe.
“I’m sorry,” he says, instead, with a half-smile. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Later, he’ll tell Posner over lunch, “I told him I wasn’t sure I could wait for him, but, y’know, I still am. It’s like I can’t help it.”
And Posner smiles sadly at him, and says, “Sometimes you can’t, I suppose.”
“The pain, Pos, right? The pain.” He smiles back at Posner, and concentrates on ripping his napkin up into tiny pieces.
“Exactly,” Posner says. “Now you get it.”
May, 1986
“It’s too hot to think,” Lockwood says from Scripps’ bed, and Scripps wipes the back of his hand over his forehead, rubbing excess sweat into the fabric of his pants.
“It’s too hot to move,” Scripps says, “and yet, I still have an essay due in the morning that I’ve only just started writing.” His research is spread around him on the floor in half open books piled on top of each other, bits of colored paper slipped in-between the pages he wants to remember, and he sits cross-legged in the center of the madness.
“You’re slipping, Scrippsy.” Lockwood laughs, and flops back onto the sheets. Scripps can see the sweat shine on his bare chest, and has to remind himself that schoolwork waits for no man. “Used to be, you did your work on the day it was assigned. Perfect student, you.”
“Sure. I wasn’t having sex, either. Then you forced your way into my life, and all that changed.” Scripps braces his notebook on one knee, and stares at his opening paragraph.
Lockwood rolls onto his stomach, propping his head on the palms of his hands and peering at Scripps over the edge of the mattress. His fringe is curling slightly in the humidity, and the curve of his shoulders creates hollows behind his bare collarbones. He makes a pretty picture. Scripps shouldn’t even be looking right now.
“I’d say an improvement all around, then.” Lockwood grins crookedly and waggles his eyebrows. Scripps just sends him a glare, which is, all in all, not particularly effective.
“Just let me write this fucking paper, and then I’ll do whatever you want,” Scripps says, sighing.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Lockwood says, and laughs.
December, 1991
Scripps drives toward Lockwood’s mum’s house without even thinking about it. It’s not until he feels Lockwood’s hand, gentle on his wrist, that he realizes it. They’re at a stoplight, and Scripps looks over at Lockwood.
“Is there somewhere else you wanted to go?” he asks, and Lockwood looks out the window, biting into his bottom lip. Scripps gives him time, watching his mouth, the way his teeth dig in.
“Let’s - can we go to yours?” Lockwood asks, and he glances at Scripps, face uncertain. Scripps tries to pretend he hasn’t been waiting for that from the moment Lockwood stepped off the bus.
“I - yes. Fuck yes.”
He ends up pressing Lockwood up against the counter in his small kitchen, pushing his shirt up over his head to look at the little puckered scar diagonally below and to the left of his belly button.
“Jesus,” he says, not even thinking about blasphemy, and brushes his fingers over the raised tissue, paler and thicker than the surrounding skin. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Lockwood just shakes his head, winds his fingers into the hair at the back of Scripps’ head, and tugs his face up. Lockwood is several inches taller, even leaning back against the counter, and so Scripps hooks his fingers into the waistband of Lockwood’s army fatigues and goes onto his tiptoes.
“I’m alive,” Lockwood says, against his mouth. “Back for good.”
Scripps says, “It’s about fucking time.”
History Boys (Scripps/Lockwood)
3,033 words, rated PG-13. This story combines Lockwood's future from the play and the film, to some extent - he goes into the army, but comes back. Maybe he'll grow up to be a magistrate. Because of this, I guess this story could be classified as slightly AU. The title is from the song My Backwards Walk, by Frightened Rabbit. Thanks to kawaii_tenshi27 for the beta - any remaining errors are my own.
Lockwood comes back from the army callused, harder. Gone is the gawky boy with red trainers and badges pinned to his lapel, and in his place is someone almost unrecognizable - long hair shaved to fuzz, lips chapped, shoulders squared. There’s still that snub nose, though, and the strong, long-fingered hands.
December, 1991
Lockwood comes back from the army callused, harder. Gone is the gawky boy with red trainers and badges pinned to his lapel, and in his place is someone almost unrecognizable - long hair shaved to fuzz, lips chapped, shoulders squared. There’s still that snub nose, though, and the strong, long-fingered hands.
Scripps is waiting for him at the bus station. The bench is cold against his thighs, and he taps his pen against his notebook, but doesn’t write anything. He’s got an article due in two days, but he can’t focus at the moment. Lockwood’s got a duffle slung over one shoulder as he descends the bus’s grimy stairs, posture straight and tall and somehow casual. Scripps hasn’t seen him in almost three years, but even in army fatigues, Scripps picks him out right away.
“Thanks,” Lockwood says, halting in front of Scripps. “For the lift, I mean.” His voice isn’t cold, exactly, but it’s not warm either. He shrugs with one shoulder, and the mannerism immediately puts Scripps more at ease. Some things haven’t changed, then.
“Jimmy,” Scripps starts, but trails off. He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Your mum called me, and I don’t mind.” Scripps has always liked Lockwood’s mum.
Lockwood just nods, his hands white-knuckled on the handles of his duffle.
November, 1983
Lockwood calls him a month in, and laughs at the formal way he answers the phone. They’ve seen each other twice since the term started, but not more than in passing, so Scripps can’t help but be surprised.
“Scrippsy, mate, you have to loosen up a bit,” Lockwood says, and chuckles. Scripps can see the way he’s probably leaning back in his desk chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, phone lodged between his chin and his shoulder, arms wrapped tight over his chest. He’d sat that way in Hector’s classes every day, his face bemused and slightly haughty. “Fancy a drink? I’ve been staring at the same fucking page for a hour.”
Scripps doesn’t say, and I’m the one you call? because he’s always got on well with Lockwood. They share a certain sarcastic view of life. He may think it, but he knows better than to say it.
“What, tired of Oxford already?” he asks, instead. “And after all that pain to get here, too.”
“Oh, shut your gob, Scripps, and have a drink with me.” Scripps imagines the way Lockwood is probably rolling his eyes, letting his head loll against the back of the chair, and it makes him laugh.
“Sure, Jimmy,” he says. Like he was going to say no. “Where?”
“Mine? I’ve got a bottle of scotch and two glasses - well, one glass and a mug, anyway.”
And Lockwood’s room is something else entirely from a table at the pub and a few pints. He’s just not entirely sure that he cares.
February, 1984
“Look, I’m not saying the poor sod deserved it, exactly, but that wasn’t the point at the time,” Dakin is saying. He punctuates his sentence by downing the rest of his pint, and slamming the glass down on the table. Scripps is leaning his chin on the table, and the reverberations make his teeth clack together uncomfortably.
He’s pretty fucking drunk, but he doesn’t think that made any sense. Of course, he’s not precisely sure what the first half of the story was, but he doesn’t think that really matters.
“I’m afraid I haven’t a fucking clue what you’re talking about,” he says, and makes sure to carefully enunciate.
“I’m not sure who you think is listening to you, Dakin,” Crowther says, “because Akthar passed out fifteen minutes ago, Timms went for a piss at half eleven and hasn’t been back, and the rest of us are too drunk to give a fuck.”
“I second,” Lockwood says, and Scripps rolls his head until he can see Lockwood leaning back in his chair, his face flushed. He looks at Scripps and raises his eyebrows, but Scripps doesn’t have the brain cells at the moment to interpret it. He watches the way Lockwood’s eyes search his face, but if Lockwood is looking for anything in particular, Scripps is neither sure what it is nor if he finds it.
July, 1986
Lockwood goes into the army a month after finals and the end of their last term. He’s supposed to stay for a minimum of five years, after basic training, but that sounds almost like forever.
Scripps sits in a chair and watches him pack. Lockwood’s mum is at work, and his sister’s gone off to Uni this year, so there’s no one to see him off except Scripps. Lockwood doesn’t have a dad, and that’s probably half the reason he needed the army to pay his tuition in the first place. Lockwood doesn’t like to talk about it, and Scripps has always thought it better not to ask.
“It’s not like I’ll never be back,” Lockwood says, but he doesn’t look up. “You knew this was coming.”
“I did.” That doesn’t make it better. Scripps looks at his hands - ink stains up the side of his palm from writing in his notebook, callused fingertips. It’s somehow better than watching Lockwood stuff his personal effects into a canvas bag in the middle of the empty floor. “Still, you have to admit that it feels rather sudden.”
“I’ll write,” Lockwood says, and he touches Scripps face, light fingertips on his cheek. Scripps looks up; he hadn’t realized Lockwood had even stood up. “And you’d better fucking write. It is your specialty, after all.” When Lockwood pulls his hand away, Scripps grabs it between his palms. Lockwood’s skin is warm and dry. Familiar. “Walk me to the bus stop, Don.”
“Jimmy - okay,” Scripps says. Lockwood smirks, and tugs him up.
March, 1985
“Oh, fuck it,” Lockwood says, and hauls Scripps back into his dorm room by the collar of his cardigan. Scripps stumbles, thrown off balance, but then Lockwood pushes him up against the door. It slams closed with his weight against it, and Scripps lets out an oof of quickly exhaled air. Lockwood’s hair is disheveled where he’s been running his hands through it, and his shirtsleeves are pushed up past his elbows, his fingers clutching at the fabric of Scripps’ cardigan.
“I -” Scripps starts, but then Lockwood’s mouth is warm and wet and on his. He hears the muffled noise that he makes in the back of his throat, something trapped between surprise and understanding, but his hands are pressing into Lockwood’s ribcage on either side, and he can feel the way Lockwood shudders at the touch.
Lockwood is breathing heavily when he pulls back, and Scripps doesn’t say anything. He’s searching Lockwood’s face, the hectic spots of color high up on his cheeks, the shine of saliva on his lips. Lockwood is smirking, and Scripps realizes that he can still feel Lockwood’s ribs through his shirt, the way his chest expands and contracts with his breathing.
“I’ve been waiting to do that since second term last year,” Lockwood says, eventually, and Scripps sort of knew.
“I sort of knew,” he says, and Lockwood snorts.
“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes. “And yet you still made me wait a year.”
Scripps shrugs, back pressed against the door, but he tightens his fingers in the fabric of Lockwood’s shirt and doesn’t push him away.
June, 1989
Lockwood’s been in the hospital a week by the time Scripps finds out. He gets a letter in the mail from Lockwood, jumbled in with his bills and newspapers. They don’t exchange letters quite as often as they did, not since Lockwood went back on duty, so Scripps is surprised. He stares at the familiar handwriting, and thinks about all the times he’d watched Lockwood write papers, his letters formed neatly and lined up evenly. Lockwood has always had the best handwriting of anyone in their form. He carefully opens the envelope, and unfolds the paper.
Don, it starts. The letters are slightly shakier than Scripps is used to seeing - uneven in size and shape. It puts Scripps on edge even before he reads the rest.
I’d have called, but I wasn’t sure I could say it all out loud. I sound wretched at the moment anyway.
I just thought you’d want to know you were right.
His eyes skim the rest of the page, skating past full sentences to pick out words like gutshot, and transfusion, and fourteen stitches. His fingers curl into the edge of the paper, wrinkling it, but he barely notices.
Lockwood ends the letter with, I still miss you,
Jimmy.
Scripps spends that day in his church, hard wooden pew under him, staring at the letter open in his lap. He’s not sure how many times he rereads it. He doesn’t pray, exactly, because there’s nothing to pray for. Lockwood’s going to be fine, it turns out, no praying needed. That doesn’t keep Scripps from staying in the church longer than he might otherwise, listening to the silence.
September, 1985
Posner comes round for lunch every few months, and they chat, catch up. Scripps isn’t surprised that out of everyone, he keeps up with Posner the most easily except for Lockwood.
“So who is this that you’re fucking?” Posner asks, and Scripps almost chokes on a sip of water. They’ve just gotten their entrees, and Scripps is grateful Posner waited until the waitress was out of hearing range to ask.
“What?” he replies, but he’s actually not that shocked. He and Lockwood have been fucking for almost six months now, and someone was bound to notice eventually. Posner’s always been more observant than most of the rest of them, in any case.
Posner doesn’t even bother to answer, just gives him a withering look that makes Scripps grin.
“You really want to know?” Scripps asks, and laughs at the way Posner looks at him.
“Of course I fucking want to know. If I get to be the first to hear who you’d finally break celibacy for, all the better to hold it over Dakin’s head.” Posner grins and shrugs; he’d gotten over his infatuation, for the most part, in the intervening years, and they got along in general, but that didn’t mean Posner wouldn’t relish the chance to one-up Dakin.
“I’m glad that’s all that this means to you,” Scripps says. “It really puts our relationship in perspective.” He can see that Posner’s about to protest, so he just says, instead, “It’s Lockwood. I’m fucking Lockwood.”
“What - you mean - Lockwood? James Lockwood?” Posner’s eyes widen comically, and Scripps can’t keep from laughing.
“The very one.” He gives Posner a few moments to collect himself, taking a bite of his salad.
“Well,” Posner says, eventually. “There’s one I wouldn’t have guessed. I hope you’re happy.”
Scripps thinks of Lockwood sleeping in his bed while he writes an essay, books spread around on the floor, notepad in his lap. He thinks of Lockwood’s strong hands on his back, Lockwood’s hair tickling his neck. “I am, actually,” he says.
November, 1987
Lockwood has leave for the first time in sixteen months. He’s only off for 72 hours, and they spend approximately the first 24 of those hours fucking. Scripps rubs his hands over the fuzz on top of Lockwood’s head, and says, “I really fucking missed you.”
He’s almost surprised that the words make it past his lips, but he doesn’t regret them.
“Likewise,” Lockwood says, and props himself up on one elbow to lean over Scripps, looking down at him.
Scripps raises his eyebrows at Lockwood and smiles, wrapping a hand around the back of Lockwood’s neck and pulling him down.
They don’t exactly fight when Lockwood has to leave again, but Scripps leans against the wall in the hallway and watches Lockwood pack again.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can do this for,” he says, and he finds that he means it. Sixteen months is a long time to wait for 72 hours. It’s a long time.
“I know,” Lockwood says. He says it like it hurts to, like the words are forced between clenched teeth. “But I have to go back. I agreed to.”
“Just don’t get hurt,” Scripps says, and he feels like an utter sap even thinking it.
“I won’t,” Lockwood says. Scripps just rolls his eyes.
August, 1986
It’s not until after Lockwood’s gone that Scripps thinks about the crucial question of what this is. He’s always avoided actual thinking about it, because, for the most part, Lockwood was around to distract him. There wasn’t much time, or point. Now it’s been a month, and it occurs to Scripps that he’s never actually fucked anyone else. There’d been some kissing, that first year and a half, a girl in his tutorial, and another he met through hallmates of his, but other than that there’s only Lockwood. He doesn’t know if he should be surprised or not.
“Scripps. What’re you thinking about?” Dakin asks, dragging his fingers through the perspiration beading on the outside of his pint glass. “You’ve gone all quiet on me, mate.”
“Nothing,” Scripps says, because for one, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and for two, he’s pretty sure Dakin wouldn’t actually want to hear it.
“That’s complete shit and you know it, but I’ll let you get away with it, for now.” Dakin grins at him, that same charming smile he’s had for as long as Scripps has known him.
“Don’t worry, it wouldn’t be interesting to you, in any case.” Scripps takes a swallow of his own pint, and arches an eyebrow at Dakin, who laughs.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
October, 1988
Scripps goes out on the pull exactly twice. He thinks he should be allowed; Lockwood’s been gone for more than two years, and there’s still more than two years until he’s back for good, and Scripps hates it. He hates that he still wakes up and expects Lockwood to be there, with his fucking cocky smile and ready wit. He should be able to move on. So he goes on the pull.
He doesn’t pick anyone up, though. He sits at the bar with a glass of scotch and his notepad, and just watches.
“Can I buy you a drink?” asks a tall, slim man with blond hair. Scripps had seen him looking over, seen the way his eyes lingered, and thought, I could have him. Scripps thinks that, some other time, he might’ve even done it, maybe.
“I’m sorry,” he says, instead, with a half-smile. “I’m waiting for someone.”
Later, he’ll tell Posner over lunch, “I told him I wasn’t sure I could wait for him, but, y’know, I still am. It’s like I can’t help it.”
And Posner smiles sadly at him, and says, “Sometimes you can’t, I suppose.”
“The pain, Pos, right? The pain.” He smiles back at Posner, and concentrates on ripping his napkin up into tiny pieces.
“Exactly,” Posner says. “Now you get it.”
May, 1986
“It’s too hot to think,” Lockwood says from Scripps’ bed, and Scripps wipes the back of his hand over his forehead, rubbing excess sweat into the fabric of his pants.
“It’s too hot to move,” Scripps says, “and yet, I still have an essay due in the morning that I’ve only just started writing.” His research is spread around him on the floor in half open books piled on top of each other, bits of colored paper slipped in-between the pages he wants to remember, and he sits cross-legged in the center of the madness.
“You’re slipping, Scrippsy.” Lockwood laughs, and flops back onto the sheets. Scripps can see the sweat shine on his bare chest, and has to remind himself that schoolwork waits for no man. “Used to be, you did your work on the day it was assigned. Perfect student, you.”
“Sure. I wasn’t having sex, either. Then you forced your way into my life, and all that changed.” Scripps braces his notebook on one knee, and stares at his opening paragraph.
Lockwood rolls onto his stomach, propping his head on the palms of his hands and peering at Scripps over the edge of the mattress. His fringe is curling slightly in the humidity, and the curve of his shoulders creates hollows behind his bare collarbones. He makes a pretty picture. Scripps shouldn’t even be looking right now.
“I’d say an improvement all around, then.” Lockwood grins crookedly and waggles his eyebrows. Scripps just sends him a glare, which is, all in all, not particularly effective.
“Just let me write this fucking paper, and then I’ll do whatever you want,” Scripps says, sighing.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Lockwood says, and laughs.
December, 1991
Scripps drives toward Lockwood’s mum’s house without even thinking about it. It’s not until he feels Lockwood’s hand, gentle on his wrist, that he realizes it. They’re at a stoplight, and Scripps looks over at Lockwood.
“Is there somewhere else you wanted to go?” he asks, and Lockwood looks out the window, biting into his bottom lip. Scripps gives him time, watching his mouth, the way his teeth dig in.
“Let’s - can we go to yours?” Lockwood asks, and he glances at Scripps, face uncertain. Scripps tries to pretend he hasn’t been waiting for that from the moment Lockwood stepped off the bus.
“I - yes. Fuck yes.”
He ends up pressing Lockwood up against the counter in his small kitchen, pushing his shirt up over his head to look at the little puckered scar diagonally below and to the left of his belly button.
“Jesus,” he says, not even thinking about blasphemy, and brushes his fingers over the raised tissue, paler and thicker than the surrounding skin. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Lockwood just shakes his head, winds his fingers into the hair at the back of Scripps’ head, and tugs his face up. Lockwood is several inches taller, even leaning back against the counter, and so Scripps hooks his fingers into the waistband of Lockwood’s army fatigues and goes onto his tiptoes.
“I’m alive,” Lockwood says, against his mouth. “Back for good.”
Scripps says, “It’s about fucking time.”