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So weâre basically taking it as read that Pos has lots of lesbian friends, being a soft cat and poetry loving gay, so picture this if you will:
Pos, with a gaggle of his closest literature nerd friends, trying and failing to find the room on campus theyâve booked for their bi-monthly book club before their hourâs up.
The students of his school/college watching in bemusement as Professor Posner hares across the quad with a bunch of a dozen women in tow yelling âLetâs go, lesbians!!â
One of those students catching a flash of the incident on camera and uploading it to Vine.
Pos getting home to find his darling husband Scripps giggling on the sofa for some reason that doesnât become apparent until Scripps marshals their cats to the kitchen with a cheery âletâs go, lesbians!â
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Number 18 - I don't know if you write for this ship but Posner/Scripps please
I have NEVER WRITTEN THIS PAIRING BEFORE and I got a drabble idea for this and then it kind of⊠ballooned. But thank you it was so lovely to write and I hope you like it!!!! It takes place in the mid-2000s, bout twenty years after the end of the film and itâs canon compliant except not because unlike Alan fucking Bennett I decided Pos deserved to be happy at some point. Enjoy <3
(also thank you @klaudiartâ and @kieren-fucking-walkerâ for the positive reinforcement as I was writing!)
)read it on Ao3(
(Warnings for references to canon CSA, homophobia and religious guilt)
âPos?âThe man, but a semi-reminiscent profile at the end of the hall, turns around and in doing so cements his recognition. Wide blue eyes blink behind wire-framed specs, round as the mouth that flops open beneath.ââŠDon?â
âSo⊠still writing?â
The bottle is half empty, the glasses soon to follow, both shining with a politely reserved gleam in low light. âPolitely reservedâ seems to be a theme tonight. Scripps nods, swishing his wine around like posh tossers do with brandy. Feels apt, given theyâve been small-talking their way through a stilted conversation like posh tossers for the last half hour. âYeah, yeah. Well, if you can call it that. Journalism, you know? Not the proper stuff.âPosner smiles- a mischievous little twist, aged in maturity but not modesty since their school days. âProper journalism? Or are there rumours of an undercover celebrity in my school I ought to know about?âOof. Scripps groans, clutching his heart as he slumps back into the well-worn sofa. âDavey, you wound me- to think Iâd fall so far from graceâŠââOh, shush,â Posner tuts, sipping his own wine, teasing smirk still firmly in place. âIf you want to make your living stalking Cheryl Cole, thatâs your lookout.ââSurprised you know who that is.ââI could say the same about you.ââYeah, well, I work in the media- whatâs your excuse?âPosnerâs eyebrow quirks with his smile. âIâm a flaming homosexual,  dear.âNot even a tremor. Scripps canât help but grin. âOh, aye. Never did grow out of that then, eh?ââNo,â says Posner primly, crossing his legs. âAnd I donât intend to.ââGood lad.âThereâs something guarded in the smile Pos offers. He canât put his finger on what, exactly, and for all he knows he might be pulling observations out of his arse; after twenty years, his Pos-reading goggles are probably a mite foggy. But, thatâs what tonightâs all about, he supposes. Reconnecting.Some Dutch courage ought to help with that.âSo,â he says, mirroring Pos in tone and awkwardness as he reaches for the bottle. âRefill?â
âMy god,â he laughs, and the crinkles round his eyes are new but the gleam in them is a fond memory. âScrippsy, itâs- what brings you here?â
"What dâyou think? Work, work, work,â Scripps responds, grin stretching his face as his feet carry him without being asked, closing the ever shorter stretch of hall as if pulled by gravity.
âYou? Working?â Posner quips, a lot closer than he ought to be- itâs about that moment that Scripps realises he isnât the only one advancing. âWill wonders never cease?â
âCheeky sod,â he says, face hurting.
Pos rolls his eyes. âYou love it.â
Christ. He really does.
âSo, as long as youâre âworkingâ,â says Posner, graciously not miming the air quotes in his voice. âMight you have a gap in your busy schedule for a drink with an old friend?â
If he didnât heâd bloody well make one. âReckon I can manage that. Whereâs good?â
âRound here? Absolutely bloody nowhere,â Pos snorts, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The big round things are dated even by what Dakin calls Scrippsâ âold man glamâ standards, but he wears them well. âPersonally, when the need to drown my sorrows arises I find my sofa and a bottle of Tesco plonk is the way to go.â
âSâpose the sofaâs where weâre bound, then- but Iâll bring the booze. Sainsburyâs finest.â
Pos whistles, eyebrow quirking mischievously. âPushing the boat out.â
âWell, itâs a special occasion,â Scripps shrugs, playing it off as a joke. Heâs likely not fooling anybody. âNot every day you bump into an old mate. Got an address? Or is this infamous sofa in the skip round back?â
âAnd where are you living? Back seat of your car?â
âDonât be daft. Catâs got the back; I kip in the boot.â
Pos beams, squeezing his books close to his chest. Heâs holding rather a lot of them- Scripps feels rude for not offering to take some, but shrugs off the instinct. Thatâs the sort of thing you do for ladies, or when youâre walking somewhere with someone, not during an impromptu catch-up with an old school mate in the hall⊠right? âWell, youâll be pleased to know my sofaâs in a flat,â Pos continues, drawing Scripps back to the present and away from inner debates on the in and outs of chivalry. âFour walls and a roof.â
âBig spender.â
âLooks like weâve both gone up in the world, eh, Sainsburyâs?â Pos teases, shifting his books onto one arm so he can playfully shove Scripps with the other. It actually rocks him back a little; olâ Pos isnât quite the weedy scamp he was twenty years ago. âSo, are we on?â
âWeâre on,â Scripps confirms, smile hurting his face as Pos, with bright eyes and a brighter grin, grabs Scrippsâ hand and plonks it down atop his book pile. He carefully selects a pen from the neatly arranged row in his cardigan pocket, and with it jots an address on the back of Scrippsâ hand in pretty green ink.
âEight oâclock?â Pos asks, and maybe itâs just Scrippsâ imagination but it seems thereâs a new tentativeness in his voice.
âEight oâclock,â Scripps agrees.
âGood,â says Posner, voice thick with⊠anticipation? Fear? Hope? Impossible to tell. âDrinks are on you.â
âArenât they always?â
They share a smile, softer than the previous- it feels bashful, coy. Feels like the sort of smile theyâd have been better suited to sharing when they were both fresh-faced sprogs in school uniforms. Well, they are in a school corridor, so at least thereâs that. And Pos is hugging books to his chest like a shield over his little spaniel heart. Smooth away some creases and do away with the sensible cardigans, and they could very well be schoolboys again. Scripps certainly feels like one.
And then Pos clears his throat, and nods. âWell, then⊠See you later.â
Scripps nods, pulling his hand back and resisting the urge to cup it to his chest. âEight?â
âEight.â
âWouldnât miss it.â
He nods and bids goodbye, eyes following Pos as he turns his back and walks away. Watching him because itâs good to see him, he reasons. Good to see the defeated slump gone from his shoulders, good to see him healthy and seemingly happy in his own skin.
Thereâs no such simple explanation for the way his heart skips a beat when Pos turns round for a last smile.
âWhoâs this?â
Pos laughs, pouring another glass. âFred.â
âThatâs not a cat name.â
âNo, but itâs a good one!â
Scripps gives him a look as he scratches the catâs ears, well aware that the loud purring makes it hard to deliver with gravitas. âYou would think so, wouldnât you, Laura.â
Pos ducks his head, giggling bashfully- and a tad tipsily. âHeh. Thought I was being subtle.â
âAs a brick.â Scripps oofs as the cat, with a steady wiggle of his hindquarters, launches himself from the coffee table and onto his lap, winding him with his bulk. âSpeaking of; what are you feeding this lad?â
Waving his hand dismissively, Pos tucks his feet up beneath him as he nestles into the arm of the sofa with his wine cupped in both hands like a mug of tea. âOh, hush. Heâs my oldest friend- I need someone to spoil.â
Scripps hesitates, glad of the catâs presence; gives him something else to look at, something to do with his hands as he mulls that statement over. Itâs been easy to forget tonight, looking at Pos all grown-up, what a lonely boy he was. Heâd thought⊠well, heâs not sure what heâd thought. Obviously he doesnât have a live-in fella, this isnât the one-bed walk-up of a taken man, but he seems so much taller now, seems to carry himself without the weight of the world on his shoulders and he thought at least heâd have⊠someone. People; friends, close colleagues, raucous girlfriends he met when they crashed his favourite gay club and initially despised but grew invested in. People heâs close to, people who sleep over when they talk into the night, people he buys presents for on birthdays, people who check in on him. And maybe he does, maybe Scripps is just reading unheeded pessimism into that comment, but⊠the shy hunch of Posâ shoulders tell him that even if he does have those sort of people, he likely doesnât know it.
âSoâŠâ says Scripps, watching Fredâs paws as they knead his stomach like bread. âThere isnât anyone, then?â
Pos smiles dryly, sipping his wine. âIâm not hiding a fella in the breadbin, if thatâs what youâre asking.â
Scripps snorts, cupping the catâs chubby face and rubbing it to a chorus of happy purrs. âYeah, well, sâpose thereâs merits to being unattached.â
âSpeaking from experience?â
âOh, yeah. Practically a monk, mate- although technically that ship sailed a while back.â He digs his fingers into the fur of Fredâs pudgy belly, grinning as the great hairy thing flops down on his lap like a happy puddle. âThis is the most action Iâve seen in months.â
âMonths? Oof, lucky sod,â Pos huffs, adjusting his specs. âWait âtil youâre pushing the three year mark. Then youâll be considered for monkhood.â
Scripps gives him a commiserating mumble, glancing up at him. âDonât meet many decent blokes, then?â
âA few,â Pos shrugs, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. âSâpose the timing never feels right. Other things need be considered, things itâd be⊠best not to show off.â
Ah. Scripps nods slowly along with his ponderous rubs of Fredâs fluffy belly, not meeting Posâ eyes. âYâknow⊠peopleâre a lot more understanding of that sort of thing these days.â
Pos snorts. âNot with teachers theyâre not. They get so much as a sniff and theyâll assume Iâm, wellâŠâ Scripps can see him glance his way out of the corner of his eye. âA Hector.â
âWhich youâre not.â
âNo. Or at least, not in that respect,â says Pos. âIâd be lying if I said I never thought about him. And there are some things, the way he taught, IâŠâ
âI know,â murmurs Scripps, looking up with an understanding smile. âYou proper looked up to him, didnât you?â
âHe was an arsehole. I know that now, just⊠a sad, lonely arsehole. Thereâs no excuse for what he did. But⊠he was a good teacher.â He snorts, running his hand through his hair. âEven if what he taught us was a load of bollocks.â
âIâll drink to that,â Scripps chuckles, with a quiet grunt as he bends over the cat to pick up his glass. ââLeast it was fun bollocks.â
Pos laughs, raising his glass. âTo fun bollocks!â
Scripps beams over the clink of their glasses in the quiet, falling back into easy conversation as naturally as his hand falls into slow pets of the catâs silky tummy. Itâs far too easy to look back on that time in his life with fondness, even with the bits a responsible adult would revisit in a therapistâs office. It was fun bollocks, as Fred would attest.
And it was never more fun than with Pos.
It feels like heâs been here before.Of course he has, technically. Heâs an adult man with a social life as well as secret depressive episodes not talked about in polite society; this isnât the first time heâs had a staring match with a supermarket wine selection. But those occasions arenât what this reminds him of. No, in this instance the image in his mind is of the secret and usually locked cabinet in his parentsâ kitchen. He can almost feel the pinch of his old school shoes on his feet, the hot, risky weight of the stolen key in his hand. His inexperienced eyes scan the labels on the forbidden treats, jumping restlessly between the bottled dregs of spirits and liquors before finally alighting on the bottle nearest to full, dark liquid encased in green glass. In his mindâs eye the image overlaps with the present, that label doubled up and fuzzy round the edges like one of those fancy new 3D films as it hangs in the air, echoing itself through time.
He picks up the bottle thoughtfully, turning it over in his hand. Same name, different year. Not a perfect match but, well, more familiar than he expected to find tonight. Not as expensive as heâd thought it back then, when heâd filched it from the cupboard and smuggled it into school in his bag like a dirty little secret, knowing he was in for a right bollocking when he got home. Still a mite pricier than anything he buys for himself these days, mind.
Scripps runs his thumb along the edge of the label, smooth and unblemished, like the first one had been for a good few hours before Pos got his hands on it. If he concentrates he can recreate the little curls and rips left by anxious fingers in his memory, the bottleâs identity peeled away over the course of  a dreary September afternoon as the contents evaporated swig by swig. For about an hour that Thursday, theyâd experimented with drowning their sorrows like the grown-ups did, bottle swapped hand to hand, just between the two of them. While one drank, the other droned- a nice even split, in theory. In practice, Pos spent more than his fair share of time talking, and Scripps took his due in extra booze. Heâd bloody needed it, frankly; anyone would after being forced to listen to such a long and involved rant about Dakin.
Bloody Dakin.
This was before Pos knew heâd fallen for the tosser, obviously. When heâd still been labouring under the flimsy notion of his own heterosexuality, and convinced the heat in his cheeks when Dakin walked in the room was a product of irritation alone. Scripps probably could have put him right on that, but⊠well. He wouldnât want to be accused of giving the lad ideas. Heâd have lied if he said he wasnât tempted, though. Tempted to end the poor sodâs confusion, even if just to replace it with a new strain. Maybe just tempted to have someone with which to commiserate about his own confusion, new and nebulous as it was. Sometimes, even the idea of talking to someone in the same miserable boat made it easier to sleep at night. But even as Pos made that connection by himself, even as his admiration of Dakin sprung forth anew in flagrant flirtations and ballsy public ballads, commiseration wasnât in the offing. How could it be? It wouldnât be fair. After all, Scripps knew the identity of the object of Posnerâs affections.
If Scripps were to reveal the object of his, it could spoil everything.
But, oh, temptation. Temptation, heâd mused as Pos had licked his red wine stained lips, was a persistent thing.
The bottle in his hand is heavy with the weight of regret. Regret for a wasted opportunity for solidarity with another confused boy with weight of religious guilt on his shoulders. Regret for years of voluntary solitude, senseless and self-perpetuating. If only heâd said something. If only heâd know what he wanted to say.
He thinks he knows now.
The question, he muses, bottle clutched to his chest, is am I wiser, or just older?
âYou know thereâs more compact ways of collecting music these days, yeah?â Scripps teases, rooting through Posâ collection. Though he hasnât bought an LP himself in years, the flicking motion of sifting through the box is as good as muscle memory.
âI know- Iâm not an utter geriatric,â says Pos- a bold statement when heâs swaying around with Fred the cat purring on his shoulder, every bit the mad old cat lady. âI still have my Walkman, and a CD player, but the speakers are shite. And Iâm not fussing about with those poxy little headphones in my own flat.â
âThe Walkman?!â Scripps snorts, adding another record to the pile- not as convenient as a playlist, but he appreciates the authenticity. âThat thingâs still going?â
âOh, yeah- sheâs a tough old bird.â
âThat she is. Ooh-â he pulls out a sleeve, holding Ella Fitzgeraldâs face up beside his own and waggling his eyebrows- âThis oneâs familiar.â
Pos blushes. âYeah, well. Sheâs a tough old bird, too.â
Scripps chuckles, plonking it in the âmaybeâ pile. âCanât believe you sung it to his face. You were a ballsy fucker, yâknow that?â
âOr just a stupid cock.â
âCanât have one without the others, eh?â
Pos giggles, warm and merry with wine. Five glasses down and still standing; heâs come a long way from his days as a teenage lightweight. âWell. I was lucky everyone was so relaxed, really- if Iâd pulled that shit anywhere elseâŠâ
Scripps winces. Itâs true; for a small, Jewish gay boy from Sheffield, Pos had managed not to be as monumentally fucked as anticipated. âYeah, they were alright,â he mumbles, eyes on the task at hand. âSâpose it was all good fun.â
âBetter a laughing stock than a punching bag,â Pos sums up, pressing a little kiss to Fredâs furry head before depositing him on the sofa. Chunky lad must get a bit heavy.
âAye.â
Scripps glances up at the record player at the sound of a jumping needle, watching it hover patiently in the middle. âHow âbout something with a bit of life?â he suggests, carefully lifting the spindle aside to put Joni Mitchell back in her sleeve.
âMy tragic spinster collection not good enough for you?â
âOh, Iâm all aboard for the tragedy,â Scripps snorts, rifling through his selection. âBut if weâre gonna sit here moaning like a lonely heartsâ club, we may as well do it to something danceable.â
He can feel Posâ eyes on the back of his neck as he settles on The Innocents. âYâknow what, Scrippsy,â he says lightly, and Scripps can see him fiddling with the stem of his wine glass in his mindâs eye. âYouâd make a terrific homosexual.â
Scripps pauses, hand over the needle. There it is, suddenly. An opportunity dropped right in his lap, a chance to come out without making a big song and dance about it. He wouldnât even have to take it seriously; a quick âreports of my heterosexuality have been greatly exaggeratedâ and heâd be done, right back to fussing with the turntable.
Instead what comes out is a nervous laugh, and something that sounds a little like âyou wishâ.
Bollocks.
Red-faced, he guides the needle into place as slowly as possible, wishing there was more to do to keep his hands busy and his eyes away from⊠whatever Posâ face was doing right now.
But before he knows it A Little Respect is pounding out in synthesised insistence, and thereâs naught to do but face the music.
He turns round, nervous of what he might find. But Posner doesnât look offended, or sad or really swayed in the slightest. Rather he looks curious, head cocked like a budgie as he gives Scripps a once-over.
Then he puts down his glass, and holds out his hand. âShall we?â
Scripps gives it a bemused smile. âReally?â
âYeah- Iâll be Ginger Rogers,â he teases, wiggling his fingers invitingly. âAnd you can be another famous Fred.â
âMercury?â Scripps jokes, taking his hand and tugging him close. âDonât know if my voice can go that high.â
Pos tuts, resting his free hand daintily upon Scrippâs shoulder. âEver the class clown.â
Scripps smirks, catching him by the waist. âEver the leading lady.â
âToo bloody right. Now, Freddie dearest,â he cooes, eyebrow raised in challenge. âThink you can lead, or shall I do the honours?â
âReckon I can manage, ta.â
âOh yeah?â
âYeah.â
âProve it.â
âWill do.â
It occurs to him quite quickly that this song doesnât have quite the right time signature for this sort of thing- especially as Scrippsâ right foot seems to have mutated into another left from disuse- but he makes a bloody good go of it, if he does say so himself. Thereâs no room for anything more fancy than a clumsy little box step round the living room, but Pos doesnât seem to mind, eyes crinkling with bright laughter, warm pink cheeks dimpled and luminous as his smile.
âNot bad,â Pos concedes, matching him step for tipsy step.
âGood as Freddie?â
âMercury? Undoubtedly,â says Pos, snorting as Scripps attempts to add in a little shimmy to his hips. âAstaire? In your dreams.â
âCheeky sod,â Scripps laughs, squeezing his hand. âIâll show you Fred Astaire, mate.â
âWha-Scripps!â
He giggles, high and startled as Scripps releases his waist and twirls him away from his body. Itâs pretty bloody far from graceful- Pos knocks the coffee table with his shin, toppling an empty Celebrations box and sending the reclining Fred scarpering. But he twirls back in without complaint, breathlessly laughing even as Scripps manages to get his arm twisted up awkwardly behind his back.
âSee?â Scripps brags, wheezing as he sets the stumbling man to rights. âIâve got moves!â
âMoves? You almost brained me!â Pos argues, smacking his chest.
âYeah, thatâs my move.â
âOh, wow. Winning. Arenât you a prince charming?â
âYeah, surprisingly not many g-â he frowns, aware that this may be another subtle coming out opportunity and determined not to brush it off quite so readily- ânot many people go for it.â
Pos raises a pencil-thin eyebrow. âWell. Then people are missing out,â he says matter-of-factly, stepping back from Scripps and gesturing to the table. âAnd by that, I mean missing out on getting concussion. I think I need another drink to soothe my nerves- be a gentleman, eh?â
Scripps shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but his cheeks hurt from the force of his grin. âFoisting the husbandly duties on me, again, Davey; thatâs low, that is, exploiting my chivalrous nature.â
Pos tsks lightly, biting his tongue in such a way as to make Scrippsâ heart hasten to a jog. âWell, if youâd like a break from wearing the trousers in this relationship, you need only ask.â
Oh, Ginger, you little minx.
âNah, youâre alright,â Scripps brushes him off, busying himself with the wine glasses and studiously keeping his eyes away from David bloody Posner. âIâd look crap in a skirt.â
âOh, I donât know,â says Pos, brushing his hand over Scrippsâ shoulders as he wonders past him to the kitchen. âReckon youâve got the legs for it.â
Yep. Still a ballsy fucker.
Scripps chuckles nervously, ducking his head. God, he wonât survive long around Pos if he keeps this up.
He surveys the now empty bottle, considers. He reaches for his satchel, shoving aside his spare jumper to find the second bottle heâd bought. The one heâd been in two minds about revealing at all; the one with the familiar label and the heavy weight of bittersweet memories.
Then again, he thinks, tapping the neck in an anxious tattoo. Like it better than my chances of surviving without him again.
âPos?â he calls, decision made. âNext roundâs on me.â
Small. Unassuming. Weathered Magnolia paint, fraying at the edges and revealing flecks of red, black, old layers no one bothered to strip. Already he knows itâs the type of door that sticks, that âhas a bit of a knack to itâ, that letâs in a stiff draught in the winter that the landlord always makes empty promises to fix.In other words, itâs just about as far from what Scripps expects- what he hopes- to find within as can be.His eyes flicker to the buzzers, a modern touch in an antique building. But not modern modern; more like something heâd have thought modern back in the eighties when no one knew any better. Grime collects about the edges of the nondescript plastic box, a small, dusty cobweb forms a trim like tattered lace. Three buttons present themselves- the bottom is blank, old stickers ripped away and the white plastic clogged with dirt. The top is in the best nick of the three, the button well-worn beside a sticker scrawled with a long Polish name that Scripps doesnât fancy trying to pronounce without guidance. And the middleâŠScripps stares at the familiar handwriting, chuckling. Itâs not a perfect match- Posâ writing has morphed to match his vocation, cautious loops accelerated to a hasty swipe with the weight of his workload; one hardly gets to concentrate on calligraphy with a couple of hundred papers to mark of a weekend. But thereâs just enough commonality to give Scripps pause, comparing the swooping little âD. Posnerâ to an age old moniker in the margins of school textbooks and finding once again the images overlaid with little disparity. The bell itself sits perfectly in between its partners- cleaner than the disused ground floor, well maintained, though in comparison to the top barely touched. Scripps would wager itâs been a long time since anyone rung it.Heâs beginning to doubt his courage to do so, himself.His hands tighten on the bottle in his hands; the cheap and cheerful bottom shelf plonk. On his shoulder, the strap of his satchel digs with the weight of the second bottle, the secret one, the one heâs not sure his courage will hold out long enough to reveal. He doesnât have to, of course. He can just go in, catch up and natter like old friends, then say his goodbyes. Maybe theyâll keep in touch as friends, maybe theyâll just go their separate ways but⊠either way, this doesnât have to be the dramatic step heâs making it out to be. He has an out, if he wants it.
God, he hopes he doesnât take it.
He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and rings the bell.
âWhat the bloody hell am I doing?â he mutters, almost as a measure of comfort. A reassurance that this is every bit as scary as heâs been building it up to be, but heâs doing it anyway. âWhat am I doing-?â
And then the lock rattles, the door opens, and David Posner squints at him- and then grins in warm recognition when he remembers to pull the glasses on his head back over his eyes.
âHello, stranger,â he says, stepping aside to welcome him into his home.
And why didnât he do it years agoâŠ?
"At last⊠my love has come alongâŠâ
Scripps chuckles,  squinting at the ceiling. âMost optimistic thing youâve played all bloody night.ââI shanât apologise for my good taste in music.ââOr for being a drama queen.âPos giggles as he flops back to the floor beside Scripps, settling in. âNever.âThe two of them, drunk on wine and good company, gave up the pretense of being upright an hour ago. Instead theyâve been lying on the clean but threadbare carpet, legs up on the couch and the cat curled up fast asleep between their feet. It feels familiar, safe. Replace the wine with a bottle of corner shop lemonade and Fred with their abandoned homework and they could be back in Sheffield, whiling away the hours together under the guise of study sessions. Only now with no parents in the room above (except the Polish family, of course, who are apparently very nice and easy-going and often offer Pos a place at the dinner table on the Sabbath) they can play their music as loud as they like.âYou used to love all that synthpop rubbish,â Scripps says in mock judgement. Truth is, he doesnât much like how much Posâ pop music collection has dwindled- he can only imagine the sort of state of mind the manâs been living with to part with his beloved Soft Cell. His brief victory in digging up Erasure was short lived, and heâd not struck lucky since. Not that he has anything against Etta or Ella, of course, but⊠He doesnât like the idea of this being all Pos listens to, alone in his flat every weekend.âStill got it all, somewhere,â Pos says, the simple statement more comforting to Scripps than he would ever know. âThink itâs in a cupboard⊠s'pose I grew out of it.ââMaybe youâll grow back into it.âHe feels Posâ eyes on him. âMaybeâŠâA momentâs silence passes, and Scripps turns his head. Their eyes meet across the short stretch of olive green carpet, and he feels Posâ searching him.âScrippsy,â he says, soft and hesitant. âIf I ask you something⊠Do you promise not to take the piss?ââYou think itâs something Iâll find funny?ââHm, poor choice of words- I donât think itâs funny, itâs just⊠perhaps not something I ought to ask. Not the sort of thing you ask a school friend after twenty years of radio silence. It might be⊠invasive. So you donât have to answer, if you donât like, but just promise me you wonât get⊠funny about it. Please?âScripps pauses, and nods. âCertainly do my best.âPos glances down at his hands where they fiddle with the hems of his cardigan sleeves, restless fingers worrying the yarn. Then he looks back up, glasses askew, and asks:âAre you happy?âSilence falls between them. Scripps stares back at him, mouth open. Heâs not sure why but he was expecting something more⊠specific. Maybe expecting Pos to go digging for clarification on the sexuality hints heâd dropped, or ask him about his relationships, his family, maybe even his religion- he knew theyâd both been struggling with that, once upon a time, maybe heâd be curious to know if any progress had been made. But the question was unique in being simultaneously broad and pointed, forcing Scripps to take stock of his entire life and condense his findings into a yes or no answer. He thinks about taking the option not to respond. But he looks Pos in the eye, sees the buried shadows of longing and confusion there, and wonders how many nights he spends awake pondering on whether happiness is a fallacy.âI think so,â Scripps replies, carefully, turning his face back to the ceiling. âI mean, Iâm still not exactly doing what I want to do. Iâm working hard, and I donât get to settle and⊠well, I s'pose it gets lonely sometimes. A lot of the time. But I know thereâs something better round the corner; one of these days my workâll pay off and in the meantime Iâll just try to make the best of it. So maybe Iâm not happy, but⊠Iâm going to be.âHe doesnât say what he thinks will make him happy, specifically. There are a lot of things that could; enough money to focus on some proper writing, a steady home with a study and maybe a small vegetable garden, perhaps a pet or two. He definitely doesnât say that one particular thing thing might, if he plays his cards right, be in this very room.âOh.âItâs soft, barely above a whisper. Scripps turns to Pos again, watching his eyes dart behind his specs as they avoid making contact. Aware of his scrutiny, Pos glances back at him with a small smile and a nod. âGood. Thatâs⊠good.âScripps hesitates, and raises himself up on his elbows, looking down thoughtfully on his reclining friend. âDavey?âPos quirks his eyebrow.âAre you happy?âHe thinks he already knows the answer, but it takes a few moments to come, Posâ mouth moving silently and his brows furrowing as he constructs it in his head. âWell⊠I like my job. I like my school. I like the boys and the teachers. I have books, and a cat and a roof over my head. Itâs nothing fancy, but itâs comfortable. It feels very empty, sometimes. If I donât bring my work home with me thereâs seldom enough to fill an evening, but⊠I canât complain. Iâm not happy, but⊠Iâm not unhappy about it.âEtta James croons, Fred the cat snores, the wine grows warmer by the second on the table and Pos lies, prone like Ophelia in the river, with his lonely little heart in his hand for Scripps to see.âPos?â he says, closing his own hand over it. âWith respect⊠that sounds like absolute wank.âPos looks at his hand, their fingers loosely twined, and back up to his face with caution- and, what Scripps can only pray heâs correctly reading as hope. âDo you have a better offer?âAnd Scripps looks back at him, drinking him in from wide eyes to wine-stained lips, and nods. âYeah,â he says, all the liquid courage in the world not enough to save his throat from the dry rasp of nerves. âReckon maybe I do.âThe world narrows down to the slightest of anchors when he leans in, eyes closed as their warm lips meet, the taste sweeter and darker than the reddest wine. To the short, shaky exhale as Pos breathes into his mouth, caught between a startled gasp and a longing sigh. To the tremor of his own hand as it cups Posnerâs cheek, to the rough slide of coarse fabric as Pos drags their legs into alignment with a fist in his jumper, palm smoothing out over his waist in satisfaction despite the ungainly tangle they find themselves in. Scrippsâ back is twisted, their legs half aloft and whatâs more he just doesnât bloody care. And best of all, neither does Posner. He canât even guess how long the kiss lasts, how long they spend wrapped up in one anotherâs warmth, sleepy affection passed mouth to mouth like tender words and playful banter. But when they separate with a dry rasp of lips he can feel his back complaining, feel the beginnings of pins and needles in the leg trapped against the sofa cushions. But frankly, the aches and pains can stuff it, because David Posner is smiling up at him like he hung the moon.âOh,â he says again, breathy and delighted, glasses even more crooked than before.Scripps makes sure to politely right them before going in for another kiss.Pos hums happily, hands burrowing into Scrippsâ hair like he wants to hold him there forever; and Scripps canât think of a reason not to just bloody let him.When they surface again Scripps feels breathless, lungs empty but heart so very full as he runs his fingers through Posâ honey-gold hair, light catching the glint of silky silver sneaking in at the temples. All grown up now, the spaniel-hearted boy. God, when did that happen? When did they both get so old?And more importantly, why werenât they doing it together? Pos smiles up at him, pink cheeked and effervescent, and runs his hands across Scrippsâ shoulders.âWhy, Scrippsy,â he teases, casual tone belied by the heaving of his heart under Scrippsâ hand. âNot very chivalrous of you, taking advantage of a lonely shit-faced spinster.âHe looks so bright, so warm and inviting, happiness bubbling in his eyes and voice in a way Scripps hasnât seen all day. In a way heâs not even sure he saw in their youth.Scripps grins, and pats his cheek. âWell, itâs about time someone did.âPos cackles, loud and ungainly as if he canât hold it back, neck arching invitingly as he hugs his stomach. Scripps pounces at the opening, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as his throat vibrates with laughter, running his hands down shaking arms, grinning shamelessly as he tickles and teases more noises out of the man; the best laughter heâs heard in years.âYou fucker,â Pos wheezes, slapping at his arm half-heartedly. âThat was- that was the worst joke Iâve heard in⊠in- in ever. In my entire life. Crude, offensive, utterly unfunny-ââI know,â says Scripps, smirking. âGood thing your sense of humourâs as tasteless as mine, eh?âPos, still giggling breathlessly, cups Scrippsâ neck in both hands tenderly, scratching through the hair at his nape in gentle admonishment. âTrue. I suppose youâre stuck with me.âHeâs too drunk and happy, Scripps thinks, to even voice the comment in his usual self-deprecating manner. For this one moment in time, he likely doesnât mean anything sad by it.But Scripps kisses him again in assurance anyway. Just in case. âGod, I hope soâŠâHe thinks heâll stay here tonight, if Pos will have him. Not necessarily in the same bed, or even the same room if thatâs what it takes to avoid taking a step theyâre not ready for in the night. But heâd very much like to fall asleep here, surrounded by Posnerâs little life. Very much like to wake up, and have his inevitable beast of a hangover tempered by the pad of Posnerâs slippered feet in the kitchen as he puts the kettle on. To wake up in someoneâs company- in David Posnerâs company, no less- and have the immediate, comforting assurance that this night wasnât just a dream. That whatever conversation they have to have when theyâre both awake and sober, they had this.And hopefully, hopefully, theyâll have it for a long time to come.But tomorrowâs a long way away, and Posâ smiling lips are so close, warm and sweet and red with Scrippsâ sentimental wine.And Scripps is done denying himself what he wants.Leaning down to taste him again, he settles in comfortably for a long, gentle night. Content to do this for as long as Pos will have him, content to explore the cherubic swell of his lips, to run his spun-gold hair between his fingers. Content, he thinks, to kiss him 'til dawn and watch the rosy fingers of it illuminate Posnerâs face like a daydream; set alight every crease and crinkle, contrast lines of hard-earned experience with the soft, peach-pink lustre of his skin and the foreign laughter lines as Scripps etches them there with kisses and jokes. They can lie here all night, just making up for lost time for all he cares. Work can wait, the world can wait. Tonight belongs to them, only them.
And theyâve done enough waiting to last a lifetime.
(My Scosner mix) (Song ficlet collection on Ao3) (collection on tumblr)
"Oh, stop faffing about with it."
Scripps jolts out of his staring contest with his reflection, catching the eyes of Posner's instead. His hand, despite instructions, continues tugging fruitlessly at his hair. "In a mo, love- it's just not cooperating today."
Pos, snorting, pads up behind him. "That's never bothered you before," he says, lightly slapping Scripps' hand away to dig his own in and undo all his hard work.
"Oi!"
His husband chortles smugly, tucking his body up against Scripps' back and his chin over his shoulder. He has to stand on tip toes, just a little. "What? I like it how it is- looks rakish."
"'Rakish'?"
"Or like you fell asleep at a library table. Both equally sexy looks."
Rolling his eyes, Scripps reaches up to start again.
Pos, frowning, tilts his head and catches his eye in the mirror. "What's got into you today?"
"Can't a bloke make an effort now and then?"
"Hm. Sounds exhausting. Good reason needed, I think."
As Posner's prods go, it's actually rather subtle. Yet inescapable. Thing is, Scripps isn't quite sure how to answer. Not sure how to express the fumbling feeling of inadequacy he'd felt just days ago on their anniversary, watching Pos cut such an elegant figure in his suit as he smiled like the rising sun. Not sure how to emphasise how much it grew and grew every time he looked at his own careworn face and greying hair in the mirror. How lazy and ordinary he feels, how Pos deserves someone who'll make an effort, instead of going three days at a time forgoing shaving and living on instant coffee and Pot Noodles. How much harder he needs to try.
But the English language, though his passion and profession, tends to let him down on occasion.
Pos, however, has been fluent in the language of Scripps for many a year.
Face softening, he tilts his head and presses a chaste kiss to Scripps' cheek, catching the very corner of his mouth with the edge of his own smile. "Oh, Scrippsy," he murmurs, wrapping his arms snugly round Scripps' waist as he meets his gaze once more in the mirror, eyes warm with understanding and a twinkle of flirtatious mirth. "You handsome fool."
(I want to write some little Scosner ficlets based on songs in my playlist for them, and I just got a super nice comment and felt inspired so hereâs the first! Iâll add them as chapters on Ao3 as I go, too!)
âThe world gets warmer here when Iâm with you⊠My heart gets hopeful, and I sing this little tuneâŠâ
Posnerâs voice floats like golden dust motes in the thick, warm air. Ever since they turned the heating on, ever since Pos spent twenty minutes with the hairdryer on full blast trying to salvage the sodden books from under the roof leak, the airâs been just on the unpleasant side of humid, but he shows no discomfort, high notes unwavering. His voice rings clear as a bell, as ever, and though steadied and matured with age maintains a certain cherubic innocence.
And to this day, fits Scrippsâ music like a glove.
Scripps takes his eyes off the keys, just a moment- itâs a new song, and one heâs not entirely comfortable to busk without looking- to glance at Posâ face. Perched delicately on the end of the piano stool as he is, it comes level with his own, upturned into the warm honey glow of the lamp atop the old upright Steinway. His eyes are closed, fair lashes fluttering with the song already memorised; heâd been utterly taken with it from the first listen. Lips, plush and delicately curved like dusky rose petals, shape the words with the care and reverence of a prayer. Like an oil painting, light dancing on arches and creases and the shimmer of gold and silver hair, he sits a perfect note of serenity against the background of dusty books, of buckets and newspapers, of cat hair dusted comforters and scuffed-up furniture from Saint Michaelâs, elevating the mundanity of their little life to high art by his mere presence in it.
Scripps misses a note.
He hastily recovers, head ducked, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks and an embarrassed chuckle to his throat as Posnerâs eyes flick open and turn on him.
When they linger there, longer than Scripps expects, he hazards another glance.
Pos meets it with narrow, knowing eyes, a wry twist at the corner of those lovely lips as he sings on, unperturbed and now, now more than before, Scripps can feel the words dancing against his heart, feels them as they truly are; for him. Only for him.
âIâll prove it, you name it, âcause lovely⊠I love youâŠâ