#threads;averyxjames

A love confession in the aftermath of wooden splinters, broken glass and decorous violence, perforce, suggested neither Avery nor James were functional human beings in the dull, office man sense, with children and wives waiting at home. Their psyches had long since plummeted to precariously faulty wiring; but Avery was no technician.

He didn’t know how to fix it.

So he relied on the coward way in lieu of playing the courageous bloke eagerly admitting his fucking feelings to then venture into sweet domesticity. He memorized James’ work schedule and routines, each and every activity committed to memory, before cramming out the spare key he had been holding onto all these years to sneak into his flat.

At first, even being inside had pooled panic into him, every boisterous whisper from outside turning his head towards the hallway and then the door. But James hadn’t stumbled into his trespasser for all the weeks Avery had been doing his laundry and prepping meals for the upcoming week so the poor idiot wouldn’t die of heart disease aged forty-four because of all the unhealthy takeout.

Until now.

Avery, with the kitchen door closed in lieu of left ajar as per usual, was standing in the rising heat of sizzling beacon and eggs, winced at the even tread of a man in asleep-or-awake limbo. By the sound of it, James was heading straight for the kitchen. In swift, practiced motions, Avery turned off the stove, hurled a plate along with cutlery onto the table and grabbed his boots. He always left them in the kitchen.

Ripping the door open, he was presented by none other than a sleepy James towering over him. Avery gulped; stared. In his head, a choir of profanities was serenading. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Pairing: Avery x James

Setting: Regular bar fight gone wrong, so James has been in the habit of patching up Avery since the two have known each other since childhood and used to be close; but they have grown somewhat distant compared to their boyhood days.

Partner: @crime-scened

“I could’ve fed ‘em their teeth!” Avery protested for the umpteenth time, shifting incessantly on the leftover bar stool in the break room where James had dragged him off to after the third brawl this week. A scowl had contorted his soft features into sharp edges, his blue eyes narrowed to convey his own exasperation. By now, the bloke should’ve memorized his maladaptive patterns – or at least realized those pissed ghouls at the bar didn’t play by normal rules. Sometimes pain was the only routine those people knew, and it was a sanctioned one, a bloody minuet only blokes with bullet-biting rage and a filled in rap sheet honoured.

“That bull wouldn’t leave the girl alone,” Avery went on, tolerating the ongoing bandaging and subsequent nursing without so much as a wince. “Was anybody else doin’ anything ‘cept starin’ – were ya doin’ anythin’?” He huffed.

“Didn’t think so.” There was a moment’s pause swirling in, then, permeated only by the muffled hubbub in the front. His glance wandered, restlessly, and he leaned back farther on the stool. “So, why don’t ya quit this nice guy act already and tell me what you want?”