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fandomweekly2024-09-23 08:49 pm
a_little_apocalypse) wrote in fandomweekly2024-09-23 08:49 pm
Entry tags:
[#234] Late Nights, Early Mornings (Control)
Theme Prompt: #234 - Comfort
Title: Late Nights, Early Mornings
Fandom: Control
Rating/Warnings: R, mature themes, language
Bonus: No
Word Count: 939
Summary: Sometimes, Trench invites Darling back to his apartment.
It is trivially easy, Trench knows, to persuade Darling back to his apartment for the night. 'Persuade', as if the act takes any effort; he asks infrequently enough that an outright invitation is always met with agreement, quick and enthusiastic, giving the impression that Darling worries too much hesitation might result in the offer being rescinded entirely.
It feels like going through the motions, sometimes, in the effort to not make these requests so sickeningly transparent. Pouring whiskey for the both of them and letting Darling talk on whatever subject he wants for whatever length of time his heart desires; their world is the Bureau, and so Trench knows it likely to only be one of a narrow range of topics: Research discoveries, a new theory, workplace disagreements. Sector-level gossip that Trench doesn't care to keep up with, but Darling seemingly can't resist. Trench listens. He tries to listen. He finds himself lulled by the sound of Darling's voice without really taking in the meaning of his words, caught out only by a pause and then a question.
"... Don't you think, Zach?"
It still takes a few seconds for Trench to realise that Darling has stopped talking and is instead staring at him directly, expecting a response. Trench removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes, shaking his head in some attempt at remorse.
"Sorry, I--... I can't--..."
It's not an excuse; it's barely a sentence. He expects some light admonishment, repetition of the question - but Darling's gaze remains even, swirling the alcohol around in his glass before downing the last of it.
"Should we go to bed, then?"
Hand still over his eyes, Trench nods, hating how obvious those words make him feel. (He hears Darling get up from the chair opposite, place his glass down on the table between them, and walk through to the bedroom.)
Darling needs this. He says as much in his breathless litanies, never shy about the specificity of wanting. Trench doesn't understand it, and never has; he'd always considered his own appetites healthy, or at least 'normal', whatever that meant. Darling, however - under different circumstances, Trench would clutch fingers into his hair and call him insatiable, or worse; he only ever took those accusations with pride, like an unquenchable need for sexual contact was something to be proud of. Darling needs this and so Trench gives as he can, taking release and relief in what fleeting moments he can find it. And Darling clings to him after, vulnerabilities exposed, still needing. He needs sex, desire, touch, affection--...
He needs reciprocation. That, Trench knows, is at the heart of this. It's the one thing he can't give, but he knows it. He can't return the embrace but he can stroke at Darling's hair and whisper words of praise to his ear, as consolation. Darling accepts those whispers with breath that still trembles, repeating Trench's name as if it's the only thing in the world that matters. What he wants is so clear and so obvious, and it always has been.
Darling sleeps, eventually. It seems to come easy to him, or at least easier. The visible numbers on the bedside clock tell Trench that he too must have slept at some point, but he doesn't recall doing so intentionally. Good sleep is hard to come by, especially as dates approach - but there's always something. (Memories of wedding anniversaries. Thanksgiving, Christmas, a time for family. Kate's birthday. Susanna's birthday. The date that she--...)
3am never cared for the events of so many years ago. Too many nights had him staring at those numbers, alone in his bed and enduring, feeling like this was nothing more than his deserved punishment. To then invite Darling over could only be premeditated, the request in itself an admission of failure. To want him, but more than that to want his physical presence - to wake in the middle of the night aware of Darling still there, the warmth of his body and the sound of his soft sleeping breathing--...
It felt like taking advantage, at first. From which direction, Trench had never been quite sure. Darling, there before the ink was dry on the divorce papers, like he'd been waiting for the opportunity. Trench giving him that opportunity. Taking it for himself. Feeling deserving of no forgiveness, so why not be unforgivable? None of it fucking matters anymore.
Sometimes, in those vulnerable moments, Darling had dared to tell Trench that he loved him - those words like walls descending, leaving Trench stricken. He couldn't respond. To even think of doing so brought a terror deeper than Trench could bring himself to acknowledge, a fear he couldn't name, let alone put into words. He can't respond to those words, and Darling knows that. Darling knows that, and yet still--
Under cover of night and with Darling asleep, Trench allows himself to slip his hands under Darling's arms and then further, wrapping around him, holding him close. It feels selfish, there, to acknowledge the feeling of being loved - the guilt of that fact, the shame of it, and the inexcusable moment of comfort that that knowledge brings. Darling still sleeps; Trench presses his face to Darling's neck, breathes in deeply against his skin, and closes his eyes once more.
(Darling still sleeps, or Trench assumes that he does; there is, however, the movement of one hand taking hold of Trench's own, rubbing his thumb gently against Trench's wrist. If Darling is awake, mercifully, he gives no other indication. Trench allows that gesture to lull him once more, to bring him to what little slumber the rest of the night can offer.)
Title: Late Nights, Early Mornings
Fandom: Control
Rating/Warnings: R, mature themes, language
Bonus: No
Word Count: 939
Summary: Sometimes, Trench invites Darling back to his apartment.
It is trivially easy, Trench knows, to persuade Darling back to his apartment for the night. 'Persuade', as if the act takes any effort; he asks infrequently enough that an outright invitation is always met with agreement, quick and enthusiastic, giving the impression that Darling worries too much hesitation might result in the offer being rescinded entirely.
It feels like going through the motions, sometimes, in the effort to not make these requests so sickeningly transparent. Pouring whiskey for the both of them and letting Darling talk on whatever subject he wants for whatever length of time his heart desires; their world is the Bureau, and so Trench knows it likely to only be one of a narrow range of topics: Research discoveries, a new theory, workplace disagreements. Sector-level gossip that Trench doesn't care to keep up with, but Darling seemingly can't resist. Trench listens. He tries to listen. He finds himself lulled by the sound of Darling's voice without really taking in the meaning of his words, caught out only by a pause and then a question.
"... Don't you think, Zach?"
It still takes a few seconds for Trench to realise that Darling has stopped talking and is instead staring at him directly, expecting a response. Trench removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes, shaking his head in some attempt at remorse.
"Sorry, I--... I can't--..."
It's not an excuse; it's barely a sentence. He expects some light admonishment, repetition of the question - but Darling's gaze remains even, swirling the alcohol around in his glass before downing the last of it.
"Should we go to bed, then?"
Hand still over his eyes, Trench nods, hating how obvious those words make him feel. (He hears Darling get up from the chair opposite, place his glass down on the table between them, and walk through to the bedroom.)
Darling needs this. He says as much in his breathless litanies, never shy about the specificity of wanting. Trench doesn't understand it, and never has; he'd always considered his own appetites healthy, or at least 'normal', whatever that meant. Darling, however - under different circumstances, Trench would clutch fingers into his hair and call him insatiable, or worse; he only ever took those accusations with pride, like an unquenchable need for sexual contact was something to be proud of. Darling needs this and so Trench gives as he can, taking release and relief in what fleeting moments he can find it. And Darling clings to him after, vulnerabilities exposed, still needing. He needs sex, desire, touch, affection--...
He needs reciprocation. That, Trench knows, is at the heart of this. It's the one thing he can't give, but he knows it. He can't return the embrace but he can stroke at Darling's hair and whisper words of praise to his ear, as consolation. Darling accepts those whispers with breath that still trembles, repeating Trench's name as if it's the only thing in the world that matters. What he wants is so clear and so obvious, and it always has been.
Darling sleeps, eventually. It seems to come easy to him, or at least easier. The visible numbers on the bedside clock tell Trench that he too must have slept at some point, but he doesn't recall doing so intentionally. Good sleep is hard to come by, especially as dates approach - but there's always something. (Memories of wedding anniversaries. Thanksgiving, Christmas, a time for family. Kate's birthday. Susanna's birthday. The date that she--...)
3am never cared for the events of so many years ago. Too many nights had him staring at those numbers, alone in his bed and enduring, feeling like this was nothing more than his deserved punishment. To then invite Darling over could only be premeditated, the request in itself an admission of failure. To want him, but more than that to want his physical presence - to wake in the middle of the night aware of Darling still there, the warmth of his body and the sound of his soft sleeping breathing--...
It felt like taking advantage, at first. From which direction, Trench had never been quite sure. Darling, there before the ink was dry on the divorce papers, like he'd been waiting for the opportunity. Trench giving him that opportunity. Taking it for himself. Feeling deserving of no forgiveness, so why not be unforgivable? None of it fucking matters anymore.
Sometimes, in those vulnerable moments, Darling had dared to tell Trench that he loved him - those words like walls descending, leaving Trench stricken. He couldn't respond. To even think of doing so brought a terror deeper than Trench could bring himself to acknowledge, a fear he couldn't name, let alone put into words. He can't respond to those words, and Darling knows that. Darling knows that, and yet still--
Under cover of night and with Darling asleep, Trench allows himself to slip his hands under Darling's arms and then further, wrapping around him, holding him close. It feels selfish, there, to acknowledge the feeling of being loved - the guilt of that fact, the shame of it, and the inexcusable moment of comfort that that knowledge brings. Darling still sleeps; Trench presses his face to Darling's neck, breathes in deeply against his skin, and closes his eyes once more.
(Darling still sleeps, or Trench assumes that he does; there is, however, the movement of one hand taking hold of Trench's own, rubbing his thumb gently against Trench's wrist. If Darling is awake, mercifully, he gives no other indication. Trench allows that gesture to lull him once more, to bring him to what little slumber the rest of the night can offer.)
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