#ab fics

Alfie had learned, very quickly, that December was the worst time to be long-distance. 

London was already doing too much – lights everywhere, people everywhere, couples everywhere – and every little thing seemed to remind him that you weren’t there. Not curled up on his sofa. Not stealing his hoodies. Not laughing in the kitchen while he burnt something he swore was “meant to look like that.”

So when Chip brought up Christmas on the podcast, he was already in a mood. 

Not a bad one – just that low-level irritation where everything felt a bit off. He was sprawled on the sofa like always, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, mic slightly crooked because he never sat still long enough for it to stay neat. 

“So,” Chip said, way too casually. “Christmas.”

Alfie sighed. “Why are we doing this?”

Cal laughed. “You don’t like Christmas now?”

“I like Christmas,” Alfie said quickly. “I just- it’s long this year, innit.”

Chip tilted his head. “Why’s that then?’

Alfie glances at him suspiciously. “Why you moving like this?’

Cal shrugged. “Just asking.”

Alfie rubbed his face, then leaned back. “It’s just long cause I haven’t seen my Mrs in a bit. That’s it.”

Chip nodded as if he had been waiting for that. “You missing her?”

Alfie scoffed. “Obviously.”

He shook his head, laughing at himself. “Nah, I’m actually down bad. It’s embarrassing.”

Cal grinned. “Go on then.” 

Alfie ran a hand through his hair. “She’s back home, innit. Where we grew up. And I’m here freezing my arse off in London.”

He paused, then added, quieter, “I just miss her, is all.”

Your stomach flipped from where you were sitting at the top of the fake stairs, legs crossed, hands clenched in your lap. Chip had warned you they would push him a bit, but hearing it out loud still hit different. 

“I miss just… being around her,” Alfie went on, shrugging like he didn’t want to admit it. “Even doing nothing. Just chilling.” 

Cal made a noise. “That’s kinda cute.”

Alfie groaned immediately. “Don’t do that. I sound like a dickhead.”

“But it’s true,” Chip said, eyes flicking behind Alfie for half a second. 

Alfie laughed. “Yeah, well, I wish she was here. That’s all.”

That was your cue. 

You slipped down the steps quietly, heart smashing against your ribs. You came up behind the sofa just as Alfie leaned forward again. 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Me too.” 

The silence was instant.

Alfie blinked. Once. 

Then turned slowly around. 

“…Nah.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

His eyes went wide and he stood up so fast his mic tugged at his hoodie. “You’re taking the piss.” 

Chip burst out laughing. 

“You’re actually fucking joking,” Alfie said, staring at you like he thought you might disappear. “What the fuck?”

You laughed. “Surprise.” 

He froze for half a second – then absolutely launched himself over the sofa. 

There was zero grace involved. He clipped the armrest, nearly tripped, and still somehow made it to you, arms wrapping around you so hard you squeaked. 

“Oh my days,” he laughed into your shoulder. “You’re here. You’re actually fucking here.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Merry Christmas.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still gripping your jacket. 

“How the fuck did you get here?”

“Chip and Cal,” you said. 

He spun around immediately. “You lot are evil.”

Chip grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Alfie shook his head, laughing, then turned back to you, hands back on your waist like he still didn’t quite believe it. “I can’t believe this. I was literally just saying I missed you.”

“I know,” you said gently. “I heard.”

He scoffed, overwhelmed, then pulled you back into his chest. “Nah, you’re actually the best.” 

Cal cleared his throat. “You know we’re still recording, yeah?”

Alfie didn’t even look at him. “I don’t give a fuck.”

He held you tighter, voice lower now. “You’ve made my whole year.”

You smiled. “Good.”

The YoungLA event is loud in that specific influencer way – music thumping just low enough to talk over, drinks everywhere, people dressed like they definitely planned their outfit a week in advance. Alfie’s got his arm loosely around your waist, thumb drawing lazy circles like he does when he’s overstimulated and pretending he’s not.

You’re half-listening to someone talk about protein shakes when you feel him tense slightly beside you.

You don’t even have to look.

You just now. 

And then you hear her. 

“Hi,” she says, leaning in far too close to Alfie, hand brushing his arm like it’s an accident. “You’re AB, right?”

He blinks, a little slow, already uncomfortable. “Uh- yeah?”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her hand. 

It stays there. 

You straighten immediately. 

“Hello?” you say, sweet voice sharp around the edges. 

Both of them look at you. 

The girl smiles at you like you’re an inconvenience. “Sorry, I was just-” 

“He’s taken,” you say calmly. No raised voice. No drama. Just a fact. 

You slid your arm properly around Alfie’s waist now, possessive without trying. 

Alfie, bless him, does absolutely nothing to stop you. 

In fact, he leans into you. 

“Yeah”, he adds helpfully, nodding. “This is my girlfriend.”

The girl’s fake smile falters. “Oh. I didn’t know.”

You glance down at Alfie’s hand on your waist, then back at her. “That’s interesting, because he’s been standing with me the entire time”

Alfie lets out a small, badly contained laugh and immediately hides it by pretending to cough into his fist. 

The girl’s jaw tightens. She looks Alfie up and down once more, clearly annoyed that he hasn’t said anything else/ 

“Well,” she says, tone sharp now, “you didn’t have to be rude.”

You smile, polite and deadly. “I wasn’t. I was being clear.”

She rolls her eyes, mutters something under her breath, and storms off toward the bar and a group of girls, shoulders stiff. 

The second she’s gone, Alfie turns to you, eyes wide and impressed. 

“That was sick,” he says, grinning. “You’re crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You looked like you were about to combust.”

“I was,” he admits. “Thanks for saving me. I didn’t know what to say.”

You poke his chest. “You could’ve said no.” 

“Yeah, but you’re better at it,” he says, hands finding your hips again. “I like it when you do that thing.”

“What thing?” 

“Where you go all calm and scary,” he says fondly. “Possessive behaviour.”

You snort, “You’re such an idiot.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple, soft and public and intentional. “Your idiot. And you’re my scary girlfriend.” 

You tuck yourself back into his side, satisfied. 

Across the room, the girl glances back once from her group of friends, sees Alfie still glued to you, kissing you, and she huffs again and turns round. 

You’re a known regular. 

Not in the way that screams for attention, not loud or needy or desperate to be seen. It’s quieter than that. The kind of regular who’s greeted by name, whose coat is already being taken before you’ve finished stepping out of it, whose usual drink appears without you needing to ask. 

Alfie always notices when you come in. 

He tells himself it’s part of the job – security means awareness, means remembering faces, tracking movement, knowing who belongs and who doesn’t. But he notices you before anything else: the way the door opens, the slight change in the room’s rhythm, the way his shoulders tense before he even realises why. 

And then you look at him. 

You always do. 

The first time you say his name, he’s completely caught off guard. 

“Evening, Alfie.” 

He’s mid-round, and he looks down at you, brain stalling for just a second too long, because customers don’t usually know his name. Not like that. Not casually, like it belongs in their mouth. 

“Uh-yeah. Evening,” he manages, clearing his throat. 

You smile, warm and amused, eyes flicking over him in a way that makes his chest tighten. “New jacket?”

It’s barely anything. An offhand comment. But his mind short-circuits anyway. 

“Oh-uh-yeah. I mean. No. Well. It is new, but-” he cleared his throat again, suddenly very interested in the edge of the doorframe. “Just doing my rounds.” 

And then he was gone, disappearing toward the back corridor like the building itself had swallowed him. 

You watch him retreat with a grin you don’t bother hiding. 

You think it’s adorable. 

George clocks it almost immediately. He always does- nothing happens at Side Table without George noticing. 

“You’re not very subtle, Alf,” he says later, leaning against the bar with a smirk, polishing a glass. 

Alfie snorts. “Don’t know what you’re on about.”

Chris joins in from where he’s adjusting a table setting that wasn’t to his standards. “You went bright red.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” George says. “She says your name, and you vanish like a startled cat.” 

Alfie straightens, jaw tightening. “She’s a customer.”

“And?”

“What would Harry say?” he says firmly. “I don’t cross lines. Especially not with someone like her”

Someone like her. 

Rich, confident, untouchable. The kind of woman who knows she owns every room she walks into without trying. 

He tells himself that you just enjoy the game. That you flirt because it’s easy, because you can, because people like you collect attention the way others collect coats at the door. 

He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything that you come in more often after that. 

The night you arrive with a man at your side, Alfie notices immediately. 

Of course he does. 

You’re laughing, head tipped towards him, your hand brushing his arm as you speak. Alfie’s stomach drops before his brain catches up. Boyfriend, it supplies automatically, sharp and unwelcome. 

He shifts his position without thinking, moving deliberately away from your table. Professional. Detached. He keeps his distance, eyes forward, hands clasped behind his back. 

You notice. 

From your seat, it feels like hitting a wall you didn’t see coming. 

“He’s being weird,” you mutter to your friend, leaning in conspiratorially.  “I swear he hates me now.”

Your friend snorts into his drink. “The scary bouncer? Hate you? Be serious.”

“He used to talk to me,” you say. “Well. Barely. But now he won’t even look at me. And I look cute tonight,” you pouted, taking another sip of your drink. 

“You’re overthinking.”

“Am I?” You glance over again, heart sinking when Alfie pointedly looks away. “Because I thought we were… I don’t know. Friendly.” 

Your friend follows your gaze, eyes lighting up. “Is that him?”

“Yeah.”

He hums thoughtfully. “He’s hot.”

“I know,” you hiss, mortified. “And I don’t know how to flirt harder without embarrassing myself. What if he thinks I’m annoying?”

“I doubt that.” 

You don’t sound convinced. “What if I’ve been reading it wrong the whole time?” 

Across the room, Alfie steps in to handle a situation near the bar – raised voices, tension snapping tight. You watch him shift instantly, presence expanding, voice low and commanding. Intimidating. Unyielding. The room bends around him without resistance. 

And yet. 

It’s the same man who mumbles and disappears when you smile at him because he’s starting to blush. 

The contrast hits you square in the chest, and you fall a little harder. 

Later, on your way to the bathroom, you pass him in the corridor. You smile, soft and hopeful.

He barely reacts. 

You feel stupid all the way to the sink. 

Alfie’s in the kitchen near closing, leaning back against the stainless-steel counter while Will boxes up staff food. 

The rush has died down. The hum of the extractor fan fills the quiet. James is perched on a stool, picking at fries and scrolling through his phone. 

Arthur wanders in, loosening his apron strings. “Table twelve left a nice tip,” he says casually. “That girl who always comes in, the posh one.” 

Alfie stills before he can stop himself. 

Arthur continues, oblivious. “Chris asked me to fill in for a waiter who was out sick, and her boyfriend was chatting my ear off about holidays. Couldn’t get away, so worth it though for that tip.” 

Boyfriend.

The word lands heavier than it should. He suspected it, but having it confirmed by someone else made him feel sick.

Will glances at Alfie briefly – noticing his stillness – but says nothing. 

Alfie nods once, controlled. “Right.”

He doesn’t say anything else because if he opens his mouth again, he might say something he can’t take back. 

He forces a neutral expression. Picks up his food and leaves before anyone can see the shift in him. 

Later that night, as he locks up, he tells himself to let it go. 

You were never his to lose in the first place. 

The night you finally confront him feels different from the start. 

The restaurant is quieter than usual – a slow weekday, lights dimmed low, staff already beginning to wipe down tables. You linger near the door instead of heading straight out. 

Alfie notices immediately. 

He always does. 

“You alright?” he asks, stepping closer, telling himself he was just doing his job, he was just making sure a customer was okay. 

You tilt your head, studying him like you’re trying to solve something. “Can I ask you something?” 

His stomach tightens. “Sure.”

“Why did you switch up on me?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s confused. Soft. 

He exhales slowly. Looks past you for a second, like he’s checking the room even though he doesn’t need to. Nobody else is left in the restaurant. 

“I didn’t switch up.”

“You did.” You say gently. “You used to talk to me. You used to… I don’t know. Be less distant.”

He rubs the back of his neck, jaw tight.

“I thought,” you start, then stop, waiting for him to speak first.

He sighs, quieter now. “I know you’re with him.” 

“With-?” You blink. “Oh my god.” 

“I didn’t want to make things awkward,” he continues, words coming more steadily than when he started. “Didn’t want to cross a line. You’re a regular. You come here a lot. And I’m supposed to keep things simple and safe.” 

“With my boyfriend?” you say, and then you burst out laughing – bright and incredulous. “Alfie. He’s gay.”

He freezes.

“…Oh.”

You step closer, still smiling. “He’s been trying to set me up with someone for weeks.”

There’s a beat where Alfie just processes that. The relief is so sharp it almost makes him dizzy. 

“Oh,” he says again, softer.

You nudge his arm lightly. “You really thought I’d bring my boyfriend here and then flirt with you.”

His ears burn. “Didn’t know you were flirting.” 

Your eyebrows lift. “Alfie. I was being so obvious.”

He huffs out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Look, I’m not… I’m not great at this.”

“At what?”

He meets your eyes properly now, and there’s no intimidation in them at all. Just something careful. Honest. 

“At knowing when I’m allowed to want something.” He says quietly.

Your chest tightens. 

“I see you come in,” he continues, more certain. “And I notice. Every time. I tell myself it’s just the job, that I’m just doing what I’m paid to do. But it’s not.”

His voice lowers. 

“You say my name and I forget what I was doing. You smile at me and I spend the rest of the night trying not to look for you, to see it again.”

Your breath catches. 

“I didn’t think someone like you would be serious about someone like me,” he admits. “So I stayed in my lane.”

You step closer until there’s barely any space between you. 

“Alfie,” you murmur. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks.”

His hand finds your waist instinctively this time, not hesitant – grounding. “You’ve had it,” he says. 

The kiss isn’t rushed. 

It starts soft, a question, but when you lean into him, he answers it fully. Warm, steady, careful but sure. One hand at your waist, the other brushing gently along your jaw like he’s memorising the feel of you. 

When you pull back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Can I walk you home?”

You nod. 

You come in one afternoon when the restaurant is closed, sunlight spilling through the windows. 

Alfie’s leaning against the bar, jacket slung over a chair, laughing with George. He looks up when the door opens, and his face softens instantly. 

“There she is,” he says, grinning at you. 

Alfie crosses the room in three strides and presses a kiss to your temple. Easy. Familiar. 

Still watching the door. Always watching. 

Security!Alfie Buttle who knows every face that walks in the door

Security!Alfie Buttle who doesn’t raise his voice unless he has to

Security!Alfie Buttle who watches the floor when everyone else is busy

Security!Alfie Buttle who who keeps secrets better than anyone

Security!Alfie Buttle who pretends not to notice staff relationships

Security!Alfie Buttle who’s intimidating on shift but surprisingly gentle off it

Security!Alfie Buttle who notices when staff look uncomfortable

Security!Alfie Buttle who knows your usual table

Security!Alfie Buttle who walks you out when it’s late

Security!Alfie Buttle who speaks more to you than he does to anyone he’s on shift with

Security!Alfie Buttle who memorises your face by your second visit

Security!Alfie Buttle who opens the door for you without asking

The days when she walked in her very familiar and comfortable cheerio uniform, through the hallways head held high. The days when her dad loved her and didn't resent her. The days when she was standing on top of the human pyramid, smiling, picture perfect, winning the approval of Coach Sue Sylvester herself.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, she allowed herself to cry silently for a while before quickly wiping the tears away. She misses that world. The one wherein she's happy.

She returns to writing, to where she could submerge into her past, her memories of joy and success. The place where no one was disappointed at her, when people still paid attention. 

She sighed, she stood up, took her papers and pen. She held her head high as she went out the library only to trip over something when she was almost near the exit.

She was flat on her face, her papers scattered everywhere. 

"Shit."

Just when she thought life couldn't get any worse! She gathered all her strength to make an effort in redeeming her scattered papers. She was a real mess.

Out of nowhere, a person knelt down and helped her organize the rest of her papers. A boy with black curls, toned skin and a rather generous smile.

He offered a hand and helped Quinn Fabray up.

"Thanks." Quinn mumbled.

The boy smiled and put out his hand one more time,