#ofthehappygenerations

❝Do you have anything useful to say?❞

Harry says, bitingly, an injured animal snapping at anything and anyone that stopped to help it. It wasn’t like there weren’t many people who tried to reach out to him and pull him back from the edge but he drove them back with the agility of a matador. He felt like the whole town was rubbernecking and watching him like he was a slow dreadful motor-crash. And he didn’t appreciate it.

He rests his head on the desk once more, eyes fixed on the familiar wood grain. He didn’t like leaving the office anymore. He was safe in his wood-paneled shag-carpeted kingdom. Here there were things to do, people to talk to, stimulus of many kinds. Home was a place of desolation where the only thing to do was think and the only thing to think of was them. Him and her. Especially him. God forbid he isn’t around if and when Cooper comes back.

That’s why he’s there, that’s why he’s stopped drinking, that’s why he’s sitting in his office even when he feels the sickest he’s ever felt. He has to be there in case something happens. It’s just that he feels so damn terrible today he wonders if Hank Williams wasn’t woofing when he insinuated you could die of a broken heart. It’s the hope that keeps him from dropping dead on the spot, sheer will power that keeps his heart pumping and his mind going.

“Can you…” Sentence Starters

I don't know, DID you fall into a wormhole? A bubbling well in the woods? Found a portal in somebody's basement?

Cooper, epitome of cool and collected that he truly is, keeps that deer in headlights look plastered to his face, and he’s waiting for Albert to say something else, anything else, only to realize that Albert is waiting for him to speak, and now there’s been a good handful of seconds dedicated to awkward silence, and ----

Dale’s gaze drops.  The ball is stuffed into his inner coat pocket - he looks ashamed.  Embarrassed.  He glances back at Albert, mouth opening slightly as if he is going to say something.  Shuts it.  Opens.  Shuts.  Dale’s eyes flicker around, wondering if anyone is here to see, if anyone is paying attention to this interaction.  Then, he turns back to Albert, though he can’t quite keep his eyes raised higher than the agent’s chest for more than a second at a time.

       ‘the winter sky... how can anyone SLEEP?’ to be fair, it was likely either to sleep when you didn’t drink so much strong coffee.

Time since Dale’s birthday seems to have blurred. The domesticity of their stay in Harry’s home almost felt like a thick blanket over his thoughts and actions which made it very hard to keep his original rise and shine schedule. Yes, he was healing and was allowed his freedom to sleep, eat and be merry but there was something off about the whole thing.

A gentle touch. A warm hand to Albert’s shoulder grips in order to get the other man’s attention. Deep brown eyes filled with cautious concern search Rosenfield’s face as Cooper tries to find his words.

Dale shivers at that first, gentle brush of Albert’s lips against his skin, unable to tear himself away from the sight. Albert’s face is taut with concentration and he’s never looked so beautiful as when he sucks Dale’s fingers into his mouth and, God, to feel that mouth kissing every inch of him, to run his own hands across Albert’s body and make him whimper with surprise and pleasure, like Dale can’t stop himself from doing now - all his efforts to regain his composure undone by nothing more than the feel of Albert’s teeth nipping his knuckles. Arousal floods him until he aches, and suddenly all he can think about is getting down onto that bed and kissing Albert ragged, burning away every lingering trace of doubt.