Work Text:
June 20, 17:31 UTC, London
“So, you’re the guy, huh?” Greg asks, eyeing the man opposite him warily. In retrospect, it’s probably not the most intelligent thing to say, but the ongoing silence in the car was starting to drive him mad. And there is only so much jostling in his seat he can do to ease his nerves a bit.
‘The guy’ seems completely unfazed by all of this. He only raises his eyebrows. “The guy?” he asks, infuriatingly calm. Maybe he’s used to sitting in uncomfortable silence. Maybe that’s something you have to learn to live with in his line of work. In Greg’s line of work, silence is basically a death sentence. He’s not sure this small talk is any better, though.
“Yeah, you know,” Greg says, hiding his embarrassment behind a cough, “the professional.”
“You’re allowed to say bodyguard, Mr. Davies,” the man answers. There is just the slightest hint of a smile playing around his lips. Internally, he is probably laughing at Greg’s reluctance to use actual words, but, ever the professional, he lets none of it show on the outside. It makes Greg angry.
Most of it makes him angry, actually. None of this whole thing was his idea to begin with. And, in his modest opinion, it’s a pretty shit idea at that. It was his agency that forced professional protection on him after some rather worrying letters they got from a yet unknown sender, who, going by their messages, seems murderously obsessed with him. “It’s only until the investigation progresses,” his agent told him this morning, when they first involved him in the plan that they had conceived together with the investigating authorities.
Greg hopes investigation progresses swiftly, because he’s not sure he’ll make it through several years of having a random guy following him around everywhere he goes. What’s he supposed to do when he needs to take a piss? Let the guy watch him while he’s having a slash? Seems weirdly sexual.
If he’s being honest, the thing that scares Greg the most is admitting to himself that he has reached a level of fame where these precautions are necessary. Sure, he knew that he had gotten comfortably famous when the first memes about him got flushed into his timeline. But, while seeing a bunch of strangers lose their minds about what t-shirt he is wearing had been peculiar, yes, it had also, all in all, been harmless.
Now, though, that some psycho is apparently trying to get him for what? - Existing? It’s harder to deny the ever-growing effect his fame has on his day-to-day life. In the worst possible way.
That’s what makes him angry. How is it fair that he’ll have to live his life in constant unease, following irritating safety precautions, while other people can just cross the street unbothered? And, because the real cause for the whole situation isn’t here, blaming his agent and bodyguard will have to do in the meantime.
The bodyguard, who is still looking at him with infuriatingly twitchy lips. Greg scoffs. “I was just trying to be careful.”
The man nods. “One can never be too careful.” It sounds somewhat condescending. He still looks amused. His face is devoid of any emotion, but Greg can tell by the way his eyes glint.
Greg gets the strong urge to strangle him. He’s not sure his agent would approve. And, annoyingly, Greg doesn’t even have a proper excuse when the man’s amusement and jabs are all so infuriatingly subliminal. It would only serve to make Greg look like a lunatic. Maybe someone ought to protect him from himself.
The conversation fizzles out after that. Greg looks out of the window, so he won’t have to look at the other’s face. Rows of houses and cars pass by. The presence of another person in the car is making him nervous. He feels like he needs to fill the silence, but he doesn’t know what to say.
“You don’t look like a bodyguard,” he says after a while. It’s a thought that’s been bothering him since they first met, all about two hours ago. Greg always imagined bodyguards to be tough. Tall, with a lot of muscles and an intimidating black suit. And, while the man is tall, not as tall as Greg mind you, but tall compared to normal people, he’s none of the other things. He’s…pretty average, if Greg is being honest. Middle-aged, with greying hair and beard. An average face and an average body. No muscles, instead slightly tube-shaped. He is wearing a suit, though, even if it’s a lot more ill-fitted than the suits in the movies normally look.
The guy hums. It’s an annoyingly calm sound that’s been driving Greg insane ever since he first heard him utter it in his agent’s office. “I’m not supposed to look like a bodyguard,” he reminds Greg.
“Right,” Greg shifts awkwardly in his seat. “So, what’s the whole deal about that then? How am I supposed to introduce you?”
The man shrugs. “You can say I’m a friend or an assistant. Most people use the latter. Or you’re allowed to come up with something else.”
Now it’s Greg’s turn to hum. His lips split into a gleeful grin. “Can I introduce you as my boyfriend?”
To his credit, not a single muscle on the guy’s face twitches. “If you want.”
Greg stares at him for a few more seconds, willing him to break under his intense stare. He doesn’t. Greg leans back. “Perhaps we’ll save that for a later day.”
The man hums again. “Perhaps.”
August 27, 10:41 UTC, London
“Mr. Horne, would you be so kind as to bring us a coffee?” Greg asks over his shoulder.
Horne is sitting just one table over from where they’ve settled in the little café. It’s not awfully crowded this early in the morning, so they have their corner of the room to themselves. Outside, the first drops of a summer shower are splashing against the window.
Horne’s face twitches just for a second, then he nods. “Of course.” He pushes back his chair to make his way to the counter.
“Thank you,” Greg singsongs after his retreating back. Then, he turns to grin at Roisin, who is giving him her usual eyeroll.
“You’re not supposed to treat him as your coffee boy,” she points out.
Greg just shrugs. “He doesn’t mind.”
“I’m not sure there is a lot he can say about it.”
“He could,” Greg argues. “I’m sure he knows some fancy combat techniques he could use to fight me.” Greg assumes he must, at least. So far, there has been little indication that his bodyguard, Horne, as he’s apparently called, is capable of doing anything except motionlessly standing around in a corner. If anything, Greg’s belief that the man is able of protecting him has only waned. Which is mostly connected to Horne’s whole…vibe.
Recently, his dark suits have been swapped for casual street wear whenever they’re outside for private meetings. Greg couldn’t believe his eyes when he first saw the man’s awful shirts. And it’s only gotten worse from there. It seems all the man owns are horrible clothes with references to movie franchises that are older still than Greg.
Greg thinks it’s hardly professional. What will people think when they see him constantly hanging around with a hairy guy in weird sweaters? He checked the online forums at some point. Just out of curiosity. Pictures of the two of them have gotten around, naturally. Some say they are friends; some say they are colleagues. None suggest that Horne is his bodyguard, which is probably the whole point of the operation, which makes Greg even angrier. Now, he doesn’t even have a reason to be upset about the whole thing.
Horne is still stoic, barely says anything. But Greg can always tell just what he’s thinking by how his lips and eyebrows twitch. He’s often amused, yet stays infuriatingly professional, no matter the situation.
Greg has tried many things over the last few weeks to break the man’s patience: He’s made many jokes at his expense. He swamped him with stupid tasks that he could have easily done himself. Yet Horne stayed calm and collected every time. Not a single crack in his patient façade. It’s driving Greg absolutely insane.
Roisin shakes her head. “You know that’s not what I mean.” She points over to the till, where Horne is currently in conversation with the barista. “You’re paying him. How is he supposed to say anything against you?”
Greg huffs. “Technically, it’s my agent who is paying him.”
Roisin sighs. “Greg, what if something happens while he’s out running some stupid errand for you?”
Greg crosses his arms defensively. He hates it when she’s making valid points. Not that he would ever admit that. “What, somebody’s supposed to kill me in the ten seconds he’s gone to get me a coffee?”
Greg’s knows, of course, that he’s being childish. What’s the point of giving him protection if he loses it 90% of the time? But it’s been weeks and Greg is desperate for some time off. Some time off worrying, some time off having someone constantly following him around. He wants time for himself. He wants to walk into a room without Horne having to check it for him first. He wants to get out of a car without someone right next to him, guiding him where to walk, practically manhandling him. It’s laughable, isn’t it? A man of his stature should be able to protect himself.
And what is Horne going to do, anyway? Throttle them with his oversized sweaters? It’s ridiculous.
Roisin seemingly wants to object, but thankfully Greg is saved by the arrival of their coffee. Horne places the two cups in front of them before fading into the back again. Greg picks up his spoon and raises his eyebrows at Roisin, as if to say ‘See? Nothing happened.’ Roisin lets out another sigh.
“Oh, and Mr. Horne,” Greg turns around to give the man another sly smile.
“Yes?”
Greg can see Roisin rolling her eyes in the background. “Could you also get me one of those muffins? The one with chocolate?”
Despite Greg’s close inspection, Horne’s face stays absolutely emotionless. He nods. “Of course, sir.” Then he’s off again.
September 1, 10:32 UTC, London
Bridget pops up out of nowhere. One second, Greg is strolling down the busy shopping street, looking for something to get for his mum’s birthday; the next he’s finding himself face-to-face with a gigantic hat and an overly smiley Bridget. Or he would be, weren’t it for the body which has inserted itself between the two.
It’s honestly a funny sight: Horne in front of him, trying to shield him from a person half his size and stature. Horne himself barely reaches to Greg’s neck. If Greg wanted to, he could tuck him right under his chin. Today’s pink elephant sweater is the cherry on top of the whole picture. If this were a guard dog situation, Horne would be a poodle, Greg thinks. Funny-looking and definitely not helping in keeping his owner safe by chasing the pigeons around the garden.
“Greg!” Bridget exclaims, the various chains and necklaces around her neck jingling happily. She leans forward, trying to wrap her arms around him, and frowns when Horne’s shoulder keeps getting in the way.
“Sorry,” Greg says with a laugh. “He gets a little overprotective sometimes.” Turning to Horne, he says, “you can step down now.”
Horne throws a look back and forth between the two, then he nods. He stands at the side awkwardly, while Greg and Bridget finally make proper introductions. He keeps his stiff pose, even when Greg and Bridget get caught up in their small talk for nearly half an hour.
“And he’s really a bodyguard?” Bridget whispers, eyeing Horne curiously. Horne doesn’t seem to hear her, or he pretends not to. “Doesn’t look like it, does he?”
“Nah, but looks are apparently not what’s important.” Greg sighs.
“Well, let’s just hope he’s better at his work than he is at looking intimidating,” Bridget says. They both peer over at where Horne is currently making intense eye contact with a pigeon. In that moment Horne really does remind Greg of a dog.
He sighs again. “Yeah,” he agrees. He can’t help but think of their old neighbour’s poodle, who would chase all pigeons with enthusiasm but stayed soundly asleep while burglars cleared out the entire house.
September 10, 16:09 UTC, London
It’s coming down in buckets. Greg stares tiredly at the streaming rain and the droplets of water constantly dripping from the roof of the tent they’re shielding under. Outside, the crew is trying to salvage some of the camera equipment. Greg grabs the cup of hot tea in his hands a little tighter. It’s also freezing cold.
“Fucking shit weather,” he says to no one in particular.
Next to him, Horne hums. He’s also facing the rain, eyes unfocused, looking at something in the distance. He must be freezing his balls off, since he’s still just wearing his suit.
“Must be the worst day of the entire year,” Greg continues without real reason. He’s bored out of his mind. The entire day has been rainy like this. They’ve barely managed to film a single scene. All he’s been doing is standing around and drinking tea until his fucking bladder bursts.
Horne shifts. “It’s my birthday today.”
Greg laughs. He stops, when there’s no further reaction coming from the other man. His head snaps around. “Oh shit, really?”
Horne nods, without taking his eyes off the horizon.
Greg studies him for a second. There is something unsettling about the idea of someone spending their birthday with him like this - without Greg knowing. Somehow, he would have expected for Horne to take the day off. Then again, in his profession, it’s probably not something easily done. Greg wonders if he should have gotten the other man something. He wouldn’t know what, but it could have been a nice gesture.
Greg turns his head back to look into the distance too. “And here I was, forcing you to be out in this shit weather with me,” he laughs.
Horne doesn’t say anything. The only sound is the shouting of the camera crew in the distance and the steady pattern of the rain on the tarpaulin above them.
“Are you celebrating?” Greg asks after a while.
Horne does another of his stupid hums. “No.”
Greg furrows his brow. “Come on, really?” He elbows the other man in the side good-heartedly. It earns him only a slightly stronger furrow of Horne’s brow. “Nothing going on?”
Horne shakes his head. He seems reluctant to talk about it. Greg knows very little about his personal life, but then again, he might not have a lot of that when most of his time is spent following Greg around the city all day. “Might go to the pub with a couple of my mates on the weekend. But no, no celebration.”
Greg huffs. “Well, that’s bullshit.” He hesitates. “How about I take you to dinner then?” He doesn’t really understand where it’s coming from. They’re certainly not at the stage of familiarity where they would go to dinner together. Well, apart from the many dinners they already shared out of pure necessity. Where they would sit in uncomfortable silence, Greg having his dinners normally and Horne shoving entire meals down his throat at ultra speed. Still, it’s different - just happening to eat together and inviting someone to go to dinner with you.
Horne must think the same, because the suggestion gets the other to finally look at Greg. “Oh, you don’t need to-,” he starts.
“Nah, nah, nah,” Greg interrupts him. “None of that. Let me take you to dinner.”
Something weird happens then. Horne, who has always looked so composed, blushes. A slight tinge of red spreads from the tip of his ears, all the way down to his neck. Greg watches in fascination. He can’t deny that it’s a good look on the other man. It’s funny, he thinks, that this would be the thing to crack the impenetrable walls of his bodyguard, when none of his insults could. Who would think that Mr. Horne could get flustered so beautifully?
“Okay,” Horne says, nodding as if to convince himself. A small smile settles on his lips. The sight catches Greg off-guard. Something twists funnily inside his stomach. He brushes it off.
“Okay,” he echoes and smiles as well.
September 14, 16:19 UTC, London
“It’s just my little side-project, so to say, but I would appreciate it greatly if you could have a look,” the guy says, shuffling some papers in his hands.
Greg is tired. He was supposed to be out of the studio an hour ago. But then they had to push back his interview because of some technical difficulties. It’s no one’s fault really, but he already started the day on not enough sleep, and by now he’s wearing thin. The situation with his stalker has gotten worse. His agency keeps receiving not only creepy but downright frightening messages. The police are still clueless. Greg keeps waking at night, feeling like someone is watching him from the darkness. He might start going crazy.
He stares down at the guy, barely comprehending a word he says. He just wants to go home and have a lie down on his sofa.
“So maybe if you could read through the papers that would be-”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Davies has to leave now, or he’ll be late for his next appointment.” There is suddenly a hand on his arm. It’s warm. Greg stares down at it and then up at Horne, who has materialised at his side.
“Oh, of course, of course, I’m ever so sorry,” the guy stutters.
Horne smiles curtly. “It’s fine. You can get in touch with Mr. Davies’ agent if you need anything else.” He nods and begins to guide Greg out of the room. Greg thinks he hears an uncertain goodbye somewhere in his back.
As soon as they leave the room, the hand on his arm disappears. Weirdly, Greg misses its warmth and comforting weight. He shakes his head. He’s thinking nonsense. He needs to sleep. He runs a tired hand over his face. “Shit, did I forget an appointment for today? I thought that radio thing was only tomorrow?” He can’t imagine making it through another few hours of polite conversation.
“Oh, there isn’t,” Horne says, as the elevator doors close behind them. “You just looked like you needed an out of that conversation.”
“Oh,” Greg says. “Er, that’s- thanks.” The machinery above them begins to whir and they finally descend. He studies Alex’s face in the brightness of the neon light. The other man is pointedly not looking at him. Instead, his eyes are fixed on the display above the door.
It’s weird to think about how good Horne must have gotten at reading him to be able to tell when he needs a break. It’s comforting in some way. The same way that Horne’s hand on his arm felt comforting. The same way it feels comforting to know that Horne has his back. It means the world to Greg, when nothing else in his life seems to make sense right now.
Greg doesn’t know how to say any of those things though. Not without making it sound weird. So instead, he lets out a deep breath. He smiles carefully. “Thanks,” he says again.
Horne’s lips twitch, his eyes fly to Greg’s for just a second. “Just doing my job.”
September 17, 20:17 UTC, London
“Fuck,” Greg says for what feels like the hundredth time that day. He angrily sets down his laptop, which causes his cup to topple over and spill coffee everywhere. “Fuck,” he repeats, more heartedly.
Horne, who had been out in the hallway, doing God knows what, pokes his head into the room at that. “Everything okay?” he asks. He seems on edge for a second, as if expecting an attacker to jump from behind the door. Then he takes in the scene of Greg, who is frantically trying to stop the spreading coffee puddle and relaxes.
“Yeah, yeah it’s fine,” Greg says, cursing again as some of the liquid drops onto the floor. The studio is not going to be happy about the coffee stains in their carpet.
Horne steps closer, picking up some napkins from a nearby table and helping Greg get rid of the mess. He’s calm, doesn’t say anything else, just as he always is.
“Thanks,” Greg says, still flustered and a little bit pissed-off by the accident. It should be nothing, but with everything else that’s going on, his tolerance limit has been practically non-existent lately.
Greg is scared. There is no other way of putting it. He’s scared that something will happen. On the other hand, he’s also scared that nothing will happen, that he’ll have to keep doing this forever.
Horne hums. “All good now?” It’s a loaded question.
Greg let’s out a deep breath. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders.
“Yeah, all good, it’s just that-” he groans as he picks up the laptop, staring at the still half-empty page. He should focus on the things in his life that he can actually fix. “I need to write this introduction, but I just can’t get the words to fucking work.” He runs a hand through his hair, probably destroying all the work make-up did in the process. “It’s driving me insane.”
Horne frowns. “Do you need someone to talk it through with you?”
“You don’t need to-” Greg starts automatically. Then he stops. He looks up at Horne, who looks back at him. Earnest and open. What harm could it be? “Yeah, actually, that would be great.”
“Okay.” Horne settles next to him on the sofa. It looks a bit weird, wrong somehow. He seems stiff, slinging his arm around his knee nervously, like he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs. Greg has to force his eyes away, back to his laptop screen.
“So, it starts with this rant about survival shows and then we go into talking about Love Island,” Greg explains before starting to act out the things he’s written. Horne listens, nods and hums in a few places.
“And see, the problem is, I don’t know how to connect any of that to the politics bit,” Greg finally rants. It feels good to have someone to throw his ideas at.
Horne weighs his head thoughtfully. “What about saying something about how modern politics is just like a survival show?” he suggests slowly.
Greg is just in the process of opening his mouth to brush it off, but then he stops. “Huh,” he says. “Yeah, actually, that’s not too bad.” He leans down to type something into his script. Then he reads over it one more time. Finally, the lines seem to make sense.
He looks up at Horne, who is eyeing him warily. “Thank you, Mr. Horne,” Greg says, smiling. It’s a little awkward and uncertain.
Timidly, Horne’s lips lift into a smile as well. It’s nice. The skin around his eyes crinkles and it shows just a hint of a row of wonky teeth. “Alex,” he says.
To his great embarrassment, Greg is too busy being enchanted by the man’s smile to pay his words any mind. “Huh?” he says.
“Alex,” Horne repeats. “You can call me Alex.” He looks at his feet. “If-if you like,” he adds, hastily.
“Oh,” Greg says. He swallows dryly. “Of course, Alex.”
Hor- Alex smiles, slowly getting back to his feet. “I should get back. I think the security officer wanted to have a chat with me,” he says.
“Sure, sure,” Greg stammers. He feels a little hot. Somehow nothing is making much sense to him. “We, um, we should do this again some time,” he offers.
Alex stops at the door to look back at him. He smiles again. “We should,” he agrees. Then he’s out of the door, leaving a very confused Greg behind.
September 30, 19:55 UTC, London
“You ready, Mr. Davies?” the bald security guy asks. Greg had instantly decided that he didn’t like him when he arrived at his flat this morning. He’s short with a strong build. His shirt stretches over mountains of muscle. He has a short neck and strong brow. He looks a bit like a pit bull in human form.
All in all, he looks just like bodyguards in movies do. All in all, he’s probably the complete opposite of Alex. Alex, who is indisposed because of personal matters. Greg vaguely remembers something about a wedding. Of course, Alex would spend his own bloody birthday working, but drop everything for a friend’s wedding, Greg thinks sourly.
“Yeah,” Greg says distractedly, going over his lines one more time. He feels uncharacteristically nervous. Maybe because he didn’t get the chance to talk the script through with Alex beforehand. That activity had become somewhat of a ritual over the last couple of weeks. A ritual, which Greg has been enjoying greatly. And not only because Alex is surprisingly good at writing and coming up with funny stuff, but also because it means he gets to see the other man smile more often. An action that seems to be missing entirely from his replacement’s vocabulary.
He looks up at the security guy. “Sorry, shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
The man nods, folding his hands and waiting at the door. His shirt stretches dangerously. His professional, expensive-looking, black dress shirt. He doesn’t make any comment about the shakes of a lamb’s tail expression. His eyes don’t twinkle mischievously. His eyes are just as hard as his expression.
Greg lets out a sigh. “Ready,” he says, slamming his laptop shut.
The guy nods again and motions for Greg to follow him. He doesn’t put his hand at the small of Greg’s back. Not that Greg would want him to. He’s just become so accustomed to Alex’s little gestures. Instead, the guy stalks right in front of him, stiff like a human cabinet.
They arrive at the set. The director gives him a warm smile. “Break a leg,” she says before hurrying off to somewhere else.
“Don’t need to. Already been cast,” Greg mutters under his breath, more out of instinct than anything.
The security officer just looks at him with a blank expression. His lips don’t twitch. His eyes don’t twinkle, like it’s just the two of them who are in on a joke. “Excuse me?” he says.
Greg lets out another sigh. It’s all wrong. It’s all wrong when Alex isn’t here. “Doesn’t matter.”
He wonders what will happen when all of this is over. Greg might never see Alex again. He can’t think about that right now.
November 5th, 15:41 UTC, London
It’s weird how sometimes things you have been preparing for can still take you completely by surprise. Theoretically Greg knew of course that he was in danger. That was what he had a bodyguard for after all. But it’s like that thing with medical check-ups. You know it’s the sensible thing to do them, but you never seriously expect anything to be actually wrong.
Greg somehow never considered the possibility that somebody was actually out to get him. That is until someone shoves him to the floor at a fan event.
Greg’s shoulder hits the cold concrete and, for a second, he’s too disoriented to think straight. He blinks as a pair of feet swim into focus. Someone is standing in front of him. Shoes shuffle over the muddy ground as two people struggle to get the upper hand in a heated fight.
Greg raises his head, only to be assaulted by a blinding headache. Something warm drips down the side of his face. He raises his hand. It comes back red. He stares down at the fluid. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that the sight should concern him. But he doesn’t feel anything right now.
The people in front of him have now manoeuvred in such a way that they’re facing Greg’s way. One of them has the other in a firm grip, bending their arm onto their back and pushing their upper body towards the ground.
Slowly it registers with Greg that one of them is Alex. But it’s not the Alex Greg knows. The soft look is gone from his features, replaced by a hard, calculating expression. His movements are practiced and precise as he keeps the attacker under control.
Greg stares. He can’t take his eyes away. Somebody grabs him by the shoulder, trying to get him to safety, but Greg can’t move. He’s transfixed by Alex’s movements. By how professional, how competent he suddenly looks. For a second, Alex’s eyes find his. Piercing blue. Greg swallows dryly. Blood rushes in his ears.
He doesn’t recognise the other man. He looks scary, though. He’s tall and there is that look in his eyes – rabid, like a cornered animal. A shiver rolls down Greg’s back.
More people arrive, then. Security begins to swarm the whole scene. Someone takes the attacker off of Alex. He is dragged somewhere else. The spectators are ushered away. Somebody calls for a medic.
“You okay?” Alex’s face is suddenly right in front of him. His eyes are now full of concern. The soft expression is back. His eyebrows are knitted together. He extends his hand for Greg to take and helps him back onto his feet. He holds onto Greg for a while longer, which is probably a good idea.
Greg feels a little unsteady on his feet. Some of it is probably shock. Still, the whole situation doesn’t seem entirely real to him. The noises in the background are just an unfocused echo. He feels as if he’s watching his body from the outside. He can’t feel any pain.
Maybe he can blame the first words that leave his mouth on the circumstances, then. “That was hot.”
Alex falters for a moment, then he laughs softly. It’s a grounding, relieving sound after the insaneness of the last minutes. His eyes crinkle. “You probably have a concussion.” His hand reaches out for Greg’s head, only to stop at the last second. Greg desperately wishes he would touch him like he probably intended to. “We should get you checked out.”
Greg huffs. The motion hurts his ribcage. Slowly, his senses seem to return to him. “Is it weird if I say that I really want to kiss you right now?”
Alex blushes and looks away shyly. It’s such a weird picture when Greg saw him take down a man without any hesitation not five minutes ago. “Maybe we should keep that for when you’re not bleeding from a head wound?”
Greg barks a laugh. With his senses returning comes the pain too. His head is killing him, and slowly but surely, the situation is beginning to sink in. The dread is hanging over him like a dark cloud. He’s sure it’s going to come down on him soon enough.
He smiles. His face hurts as he does. “Perhaps,” he agrees.
December 7, 18:57 UTC, London
“Your sister called,” Alex says when he steps into the room from the kitchen.
Greg raises his head from where he’s lounging on the sofa. He’s been doing nothing else all day. Actually, he was supposed to work on a script. But it’s so easy to get distracted when Alex is here. “Ah, fuck, is it about the birthday party? I told her I’m not sure they would want to have two grumpy old men around.”
Alex hums, sitting himself down on the armrest of the sofa. “One grumpy old man. And one regular one,” he teases.
Greg rolls his eyes. “I’m telling you, mate. You’re gonna get grumpy real fast. You’ve never been at one of their parties.”
Alex’s lips twitch. “That might be. I don’t think it will be able to turn me old, though.”
“Fuck off,” Greg says, throwing one of the sofa pillows at him. He still laughs.
Alex laughs too. “I might, before you turn me old.” His hand automatically goes in search of Greg’s. Their fingers intertwine. “Not sure if not showing is much better, though. Your sister did sound quite cross at the suggestion.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly.
Greg sighs theatrically. “If only I had a bodyguard who could protect me from my sister’s wrath.”
Alex laughs again, bending down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Mm, not sure that’s something I could protect you from.” He cocks his head. “Also, not your bodyguard anymore.”
It’s a game they’ve been playing constantly, ever since that lunatic attacked Greg at the convention and subsequently went behind bars. Ever since Alex had finally been relieved of his contract with Greg’s agent. Ever since Alex has been coming over to sleep at Greg’s flat more regularly. Greg doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of it.
“No,” he smiles slyly. His hand tugs at Alex’s collar, pulling him down a second time. “But you are mine.”
Alex smiles into the kiss. “Not sure I can argue with that.”