hold me closer

by lumenobscurum

Summary:

As soon as Tim utters those words down the crackling phone line, we don’t need the rest of ’em, Dale knows he should make an excuse, should tell Tim he’s going to Geoff’s party with Helen instead. It’s the safe option, the easy option. But he doesn’t.

Or: yet another AU of episode 01x02 where Dale goes to Tim's place to watch the comet.

Chapter 1

It’s a split-second decision on Dale’s part. As soon as Tim utters those words down the crackling phone line, we don’t need the rest of ’em, Dale knows he should make an excuse, should tell Tim he’s going to Geoff’s party with Helen instead. It’s the safe option, the easy option. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he says of course we don’t, and asks for Tim’s address. He listens to Tim huff out what Dale thinks is a relieved laugh through the receiver and, oh, isn’t that a something, before Tim rattles off the details. Dale can hear the excitement in his voice and, for some unfathomable reason, his heart races.

Dale scribbles on the scrap of paper next to the phone, right below Tim’s phone number, his hand trembling slightly. He’s not sure if it’s from nerves or anticipation. Maybe both.

“See you,” Tim says, and Dale thinks he can hear him smiling. He can practically picture the way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins.

“Yeah, see you,” Dale manages, hoping he sounds more composed than he feels. His heart is doing something funny in his chest, a rapid tattoo against his ribs that he steadfastly ignores.

As the call disconnects, he stares at the hastily scrawled address, the magnitude of what he’s agreed to slowly sinking in. He’s going to Tim’s place. Alone. Just the two of them.

Helen’s words echo in his mind unbidden. Testing the waters, she’d said. But what if she’s wrong? What if the other guys had cancelled because of the cloud cover? What if Tim was just being friendly, trying to make up for teasing him about Helen? What if Dale’s the one testing the waters? He shakes his head, trying to dislodge that thought.

He’s noticed Tim, of course. How could he not? And he knows that his gaze sometimes lingers on him. He doesn’t mean to look. He really doesn’t. But he sometimes notices little things, like how Tim’s shirt pulls taut across his shoulders when he lifts the camera, or the way the sun catches in his hair. The rich, warm timbre of his laugh.

Fuck. He can’t think like that. Can’t let himself go down that road. He’s worked too damn hard to get where he is to risk it all on some half-formed, impossible... what? Attraction? Infatuation?

No. He won’t put a name to it. Can’t. That would make it real, and it can’t be real. It can’t.

Dale glances at the clock, a fresh jolt of nerves running through him. Two hours. Two hours until he’s supposed to be at Tim’s door. Two hours to call the whole thing off. He could phone Tim back. He should. It would be the smart thing to do.

But he doesn’t reach for the receiver. Instead, he finds himself standing in front of his wardrobe, rifling through hangers of shirts.

Casual, right? That’s what Tim had said. Dale knows he can’t pull off casual the way Tim does, with his flannos and easy confidence, but he can try. He settles on a blue cotton shirt, remembering his mum’s compliments about how it brings out his eyes.

Trousers next. Shoes. Tie? No. Casual, he thinks. A tie isn’t casual.

Before he knows it, an hour has vanished. Dale stands before the bathroom mirror, fussing with his hair like a nervous teenager. The thought makes him freeze, hands dropping to his sides as he stares at his reflection. He doesn’t want to think about being a teenager again. Not when he’s about to spend the evening with Tim. Gay Tim from camera.

Dale takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He’s just going to watch the comet with a friend, he tells himself. Nothing more. But as he grabs his keys and heads for the door, he can’t quite convince himself to believe it.

The drive to Tim’s is endless. It's too-short. It's indescribable. Dale’s knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel, navigating unfamiliar streets with a mixture of anticipation and dread. He pulls up to the address, kills the engine, and fumbles for the crumpled scrap of paper in his pocket to double-check he’s in the right place.

It’s an apartment block, not a house, and he vaguely remembers Tim saying my building, but warm light spills from the windows and Dale wonders which floor Tim lives on.

He sits in his car for a moment, heart pounding. He could still leave. He could start the engine, drive away, and pretend this never happened.

But then the front door opens, and Tim is there, silhouetted in the doorway. He waves, and Dale’s breath catches in his throat. There’s no turning back now.

With shaky legs, Dale exits the car and makes his way up the path. Tim’s smile is wide and welcoming, and Dale feels a warmth spread through his chest at the sight. He tries to quell it, to push it down, but it’s persistent.

“Hey, mate!” Tim’s warm greeting is punctuated by a firm hand on Dale’s shoulder. The sudden contact sends a jolt through Dale’s body, and he can’t help but stiffen slightly, silently praying Tim doesn’t notice. It’s not that he doesn’t welcome Tim’s touch — quite the opposite, if he’s honest with himself — but years of unkind hands have left him instinctively wary. Tim’s hand lingers for a moment, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric of Dale’s shirt, before he lets it fall back to his side. “Glad you made it. Come on in.”

Dale trails after Tim, climbing the stairs to his flat — of course there’s no lift — and waits as Tim fiddles with the door.

“I usually leave it unlocked,” Tim explains, pushing the door open with a grin. “It’s a good neighbourhood, you know? But I didn’t know how long I’d be waiting for you.”

He waves Dale inside, and Dale steps over the threshold, acutely aware of Tim’s presence at his back as he shuts the door behind them, still not locking it. Dale’s gaze wanders around the apartment, taking in the comfortable clutter — the framed photos adorning the walls, the shirts carelessly tossed over the back of a chair. It’s warm and inviting, just like Tim, and the intimacy of being in Tim’s personal space hits Dale like a punch to the gut.

“Beer?” Tim asks, already heading towards the kitchen.

“Yeah, thanks,” Dale responds, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. He clears his throat.

Tim returns with two bottles, handing one to Dale. Their fingers brush as Dale takes the bottle. He tries not to flinch at the contact. He thinks he succeeds because Tim doesn’t look at him oddly, doesn’t take offence, and Dale takes a long swig, grateful for something to do with his hands.

“So,” Tim says, leaning against the wall with an easy grace that Dale envies, “we should probably head to the roof soon. See if we can catch that comet, right?”

Dale nods, his throat suddenly dry despite the beer. “Right, yeah. The comet.”

Tim looks at him then, eyebrows drawn together like he’s trying to figure something out, and Dale ducks his head to avoid the scrutiny, gaze firmly fixed on the beer in his hand. He hears Tim huff out a laugh and then he hears footsteps moving towards the door.

The narrow staircase to the roof feels like a journey in itself. Dale tries not to stare at the way Tim’s shoulders move under his shirt — a nicer one than he wears to work, Dale notices. The thought sends a small thrill through him. Maybe this isn’t so casual for Tim after all.

The night air is still warm on Dale’s skin as they step out onto the flat rooftop, and he sees that Tim’s already set up a couple of folding chairs and a small table with snacks and more beer. It makes Dale wonder if they're even allowed up here. Surely, other people in the building would want to watch the comet too. 

“Take a seat, make yourself at home,” Tim says with a grin, waving towards the chairs. “Just gonna grab something quick.”

As Tim vanishes back down the stairs, Dale forgoes the chairs and ambles over to the railing. He leans against it, his gaze sweeping the evening sky. Away from the glare of the street lights, Venus is visible, or maybe it’s Mars, shining through gaps in the clouds. He takes a long pull from his beer, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. He lets his shoulders relax. 

Moments later, Tim reappears, a pack of cigs in hand, which is odd because Dale’s never seen him smoke, and settles next to him, bare forearms resting against the metal. The proximity makes Dale’s skin prickle, hyperaware of every slight movement Tim makes.

“Should be any time now,” Tim says. “If we’re lucky, that is.”

Dale nods, not trusting his voice. He takes another sip of beer.

They stand in companionable silence for a while, both gazing up as the clouds begin to clear properly. Dale sneaks glances at Tim when he thinks the other man isn’t looking, admiring the way the fading sunlight catches in his eyes. They really are a lovely shade of brown. Warm, inviting.

“You know,” Tim says suddenly, breaking the quiet, “I’m really glad you came tonight.”

Dale’s heart skips a beat. “Yeah?”

Tim turns to him, a playful grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, I mean, I figured you’d be at Geoff’s party, being Mr. Helen Norville and all, but here you are, slumming it with me. I’m touched.”

Heat crawls up Dale’s neck at Tim’s words. “That’s not— I’m not—” he stammers, unable to form a proper response. He takes a deep breath, frustrated by the amused glint in Tim’s eyes. “I wish you’d stop teasing me about Helen. We’re just friends. Colleagues.”

Tim laughs, the sound rich and warm in the night air, and he knocks his shoulder against Dale’s in a friendly gesture but there’s something different in his eyes now. Something Dale doesn’t understand. “If you say so, mate,” he says, taking another swig of his beer.

Dale frowns, a flicker of annoyance mixing with the nerves in his gut. He wants to argue, to make Tim understand, but he bites his tongue.

They lapse into silence again. Dale fidgets with the label on his beer bottle, peeling at the corner with his thumbnail, before he sneaks another glance at Tim, watching as gazes up at the sky.

Dale wonders what Tim is thinking, if he’s as aware of this strange energy between them as Dale is. He wants to say something, to break this charged silence, but he doesn’t know how. So he just stands there, his heart beating a little too fast, and tries not to dwell on the way Tim’s presence seems to fill up all the space around him.

Suddenly, Tim stands up straighter. “There!” he exclaims, pointing. “You see it?”

Dale follows Tim’s finger, and sure enough, there’s a streak of light cutting across the sky. It’s beautiful, ethereal, and, for a moment, he forgets to breathe. Forgets his nervousness, his confusion, and just marvels at the sight.

“Wow,” he breathes, his eyes fixed on the comet.

“Right?” Tim’s voice is equally soft, filled with quiet awe. As his arm drops back to the railing, it grazes against Dale’s, the brief contact sending a shiver down Dale’s spine. “Makes you feel pretty small, doesn’t it? In the grand scheme of things.”

Dale turns to look at Tim, agreement on the tip of his tongue, but the sight before him steals the words right out of his mouth. Tim’s profile is illuminated by the soft glow of the night, his eyes wide and bright as he gazes upward. There’s a childlike excitement in his expression that Dale has never seen before, and it makes his heart clench in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Tim looks back at Dale, catching him staring, but instead of looking away or making a joke, like Dale expects, Tim holds his gaze.

Dale isn’t sure who moves first. One moment they’re standing side by side, eyes locked, and the next Tim’s hand is on his waist, pulling him closer. Dale’s breath catches in his throat as Tim leans in, pausing just inches from his face. Their eyes meet again, a silent question passing between them.

He knows he should pull away. He should laugh it off, make some excuse about getting home. But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes the distance between them, pressing his lips to Tim’s.

The kiss starts soft, like a question, as Tim’s lips brush against Dale’s. Feather-light. Testing the waters. Dale can feel the heat of him, can feel the way his breath hitches, the way his hand grips Dale’s waist. And then Tim’s fingers dig in and something inside Dale breaks loose.

He loses himself in Tim’s mouth, in the press of his lips, and he lets his fingers tangle in Tim’s hair. It’s soft, softer than he expected, and the length of it lets Dale anchor his fingers into the curls. Tim presses him back against the railing, the metal digging into Dale’s spine, but he doesn’t care. Not when Tim’s moustache is scratching at his lips, not when Tim’s hips are pressed against his, igniting a fire in his veins.

Dale’s head is spinning. This is everything he’s tried not to want, everything he’s denied himself for so long. He feels like he’s falling and flying all at once.

And then Tim pulls away, and Dale whines, a pathetic, broken sound that rips out of his throat without permission.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Tim murmurs, his voice shaky, and Dale’s heart shatters. Because of course. He doesn’t want Dale. Dale got it wrong. Again. But Tim’s hands are still on him, still gripping him like he doesn’t want to let go. “Not out here,” he says. “Anyone could see us.”

Dale’s heart races as Tim’s words sink in. Not out here. Anyone could see us. The implication is terrible. They could be reported if someone sees, their careers and reputations ruined in an instant, and Dale’s not sure he could handle that, but the look in Tim’s eyes, the raw need and longing, makes him feel brave. Reckless, even.

“Right,” he manages, his voice hoarse, barely recognisable to his own ears. “We should... go inside?”

Tim nods, a quick, jerky motion. He takes Dale’s hand, his palm warm and slightly clammy against Dale’s skin, and leads him back towards the stairwell. Dale follows, his legs feeling unsteady beneath him, as if Tim’s touch has turned his bones to jelly.

As they descend the stairs, Dale’s mind screams at him. What is he doing? What does this mean? But then Tim glances back at him, eyes dark with want, and all coherent thought flies out the window.

They stumble into Tim’s flat, barely making it through the door before Tim is pressing Dale against the wall, kissing him deeply. The door slams shut behind them, the sound echoing in the quiet of the flat, but neither of them pay it any mind.

Dale surges forward, his hands roaming greedily over Tim’s back, pulling him flush against his body. The kiss is sloppy, desperate, but Dale couldn’t care less. He’s craved this for so long, even if he never dared to admit it to himself. Tim’s taste, his scent, the feel of his skin — it’s dizzying, overwhelming in the best possible way.

Tim’s hands slip under Dale’s shirt, his fingertips skimming lightly over Dale’s ribs. Dale gasps into Tim’s mouth at the touch, arching into it, and he feels Tim’s lips curve into a smile, clearly pleased with the reaction he’s drawing out.

He wonders if Tim will fuck him against the door. He’s not sure how it works, not really, he’s never been brave enough to think about it, but he’ll let Tim do anything to him. Or maybe he’ll drop to his knees, take Dale into his mouth until he’s writhing, begging.

But then Tim pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want, and Dale nearly whimpers at the loss of contact. His hands are still under his shirt, though, warm against his skin, anchoring him.

“Bedroom,” Tim murmurs against Dale’s lips, tugging him away from the wall and down the hallway, not even pausing to lock the front door. There’s an urgency to his movements, a desperation that Dale feels echoed in his own body, and he lets Tim lead him, stumbling slightly in his haste, his heart hammering against his ribs.

As they navigate the dimly lit corridor, Tim makes short work of the buttons on Dale’s shirt, letting it hang open and forgotten as they cross the threshold into the bedroom. Dale’s hands, usually so steady and sure, are clumsy now, his fingers trembling as they struggle with Tim’s belt. His mind is too fogged with desire, too consumed by the heat of Tim’s skin under his palms, to be coordinated. Tim’s breath is hot against his neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and Dale’s knees nearly buckle at the sensation.

Tim laughs as he bats Dale’s hands away. “Let me,” he murmurs, undoing his belt with a swift tug. His jeans drop to the floor and he kicks them off along with his shoes and socks.

Dale’s mouth goes bone dry at the sight of Tim in just his underwear, the thin fabric doing little to conceal his obvious arousal. He swallows hard, his pulse thundering in his ears as Tim reaches for him again, pushing Dale’s shirt off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

Tim’s hands map out the planes of Dale’s chest, and Dale shudders, a soft gasp escaping him as his fingers graze a nipple. Tim smirks at the reaction. 

“You like that, huh?” he teases, his voice a low rumble that shoots straight to Dale’s groin.

Dale can only nod. He’s never felt anything like this before — so desperate, so needy. Like he might spontaneously combust if Tim stops touching him.

Tim walks them backwards until the back of Dale’s knees hit the bed. He tumbles onto the mattress, pulling Tim down with him, their bodies pressing together from chest to hip. Dale can feel the heat of Tim’s skin, the hard press of his arousal against his thigh, and it makes him dizzy with want.

Tim’s mouth finds his again, the kiss deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth. His hands are everywhere, stroking and teasing, and Dale arches into the touch, a broken moan spilling from his lips as Tim’s hand dips below the waistband of his trousers.

Something about the noise makes Tim pause, and he looks down at Dale with an intensity that makes Dale’s breath catch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s a tenderness there too. “You’re sure about this?”

Dale’s heart is pounding so hard he’s certain Tim must be able to hear it. He wants this so badly it aches. But the risks, the potential consequences... It could ruin everything — his career, his relationships, his entire life. That fear is always there, lingering in the back of his mind. Constant. Unrelenting.

But Dale knows he can’t turn back now. He doesn’t want to. Whatever happens, whatever the fallout, he knows he’ll regret it forever if he doesn’t see this through.

“I…” he starts, his voice trembling. He licks his lips, suddenly dry. “I’ve never…”

Understanding dawns in Tim’s eyes, his expression softening. He cups Dale’s face gently, thumb stroking his cheek, the gesture so tender it makes Dale’s heart ache. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he says softly, sincerely. “And if you want to stop at any point, just say the word. No pressure, right?”

Tim’s understanding, his patience, his care — it’s more than Dale ever expected, more than he feels he deserves. He nods slowly, leaning into Tim’s touch. “I want this,” he whispers, the words feeling monumental as they leave his lips. “I want you.” 

And then Tim is kissing him again, hungry, as he makes quick work of their remaining clothes. He doesn’t know what he expects Tim to do, how he expects this to go now that Tim has him laid out on the bed, but he gasps as Tim’s hand wraps around both their cocks, stroking them together. It’s a new sensation, the slide of another man’s dick against his own, and it’s so much better than Dale ever imagined. The heat, the hardness, the slick glide of skin on skin.

Tim thrusts against him, setting a steady rhythm that has Dale seeing stars. He clings to Tim’s shoulders as he moves with him, fingernails digging into skin as he rocks his hips upwards, as he loses himself in the pleasure. It’s almost too much, the heat of Tim’s body, the friction of his hand, the filthy sounds falling from his lips

Dale feels the telltale prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. He never knew it could be like this, that being with someone could feel so right, so perfect.

Just as he teeters on the edge, Tim hitches Dale’s leg up onto his hip, changing the angle, and leans in close. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he pants against Dale’s ear, his breath hot and damp against Dale’s skin. “Doing so good, fucking made for this.”

Dale’s breath catches at Tim’s words, a whimper escaping his lips. The praise washes over him. He’s never been called sweetheart before, never been told he's good like this. He’s only ever been told he’s bad, wrong, peverted. But Tim makes him feel cherished, wanted in a way he’s never experienced.

The pleasure coils tighter and tighter within him, a spring wound to the point of snapping. His toes curl, his fingers clutching at Tim’s shoulder as he balances on the brink.

“Tim,” he gasps, “I’m gonna—”

“That’s it,” Tim encourages. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Wanna see you come.”

Those words are Dale’s undoing. With a choked cry, he comes, his body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crash over him, whiting out his vision and stealing the breath from his lungs. Tim follows moments later, his face buried in Dale’s neck as he shudders through his own release, adding to the mess on Dale’s stomach.

For a long moment after, they lie there, tangled together, breathing heavily as their racing hearts slowly return to normal. Dale’s mind is blissfully blank, all his worries and fears temporarily silenced, lost in the hazy afterglow of pleasure. He feels Tim press a soft kiss to his shoulder, then his jaw, his stubble rasping against sensitive skin, before finally capturing his lips in a tender kiss. Something in Dale’s chest constricts.

But as the afterglow fades, reality starts to creep back in like a chill. Dale tenses, suddenly acutely aware of their naked bodies pressed together, skin tacky with sweat and other fluids, the scent of sex heavy in the air. The gravity of what they’ve just done hits him and panic rises in his throat, thick and cloying.

Tim must sense the change because he pulls back slightly, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at Dale. His expression is soft, concerned, brows furrowed as he searches Dale’s face. “You alright?” he asks gently, the words laced with worry.

Dale nods automatically, a reflex, then shakes his head, unable to lie, not to Tim. Not now. A sob escapes him before he can stop it, tearing out of his throat, and Tim’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Hey, hey,” Tim says softly, reaching out to cup Dale’s face, his palm warm and grounding against Dale’s cheek. “It’s alright. Talk to me, mate. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Dale tries to form words, to articulate the storm of emotions raging inside him, but they lodge in his throat, trapped behind the lump that’s formed there. He’s overwhelmed again — pleasure and fear and shame and exhilaration all swirling together into a dizzying maelstrom. It’s all too much, too big for him to process.

Seeing his struggle, Tim gathers him close, enveloping Dale in his arms as he starts to shake, fine tremors running through his frame. “Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispers, fingers carding through Dale’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that makes Dale want to purr. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. We’ll figure this out together, alright?”

Dale presses his face into Tim’s chest, the coarse hair there tickling his nose as he surrenders to the tears. They flow freely now, hot and cathartic, soaking into Tim’s skin. Tim just holds him through it, murmuring comforting words and brushing feather-light kisses against the crown of his head.

As the sobs eventually subside, leaving him feeling wrung out and raw, a deep exhaustion settles over Dale like a weighted blanket. He knows he should leave, that he should get up, get dressed, and go home. Pretend this never happened and carry on as normal. But Tim’s arms are warm and safe, and Dale can’t bring himself to move.

“Stay,” Tim murmurs then, as if reading Dale’s thoughts, his lips moving against Dale’s hair. “Just for tonight.”

Dale knows he shouldn’t. He knows this will only complicate things further, will only make the inevitable crash back to reality that much harder. But he’s tired, so bone-deep tired of fighting this, of denying himself the comfort and affection he craves. So he nods, a tiny motion, and presses closer to Tim’s warmth, breathing in the scent of him.

Tim pulls the blanket over them both, ignoring of the sticky mess cooling between their bodies, and tucks it snugly around Dale’s shoulders. His fingers resume their lazy patterns on Dale’s back, tracing nonsense shapes into his skin, and Dale feels himself drifting off, lulled by Tim’s gentle touch and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under Dale’s ear. As sleep begins to claim him, dragging him down into its dark depths, a small part of his mind tries to sound the alarm, to remind him of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. But for once, Dale ignores it, too exhausted to heed its warning.

He’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow, with the guilt and the fear and the uncertainty. For now, he’ll allow himself this moment of peace, this slice of heaven in Tim’s arms. Just for tonight.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The morning after, from Tim's point of view.

Tim blinks awake, the bright morning sun spilling through the gap in the curtains, and he stretches lazily, a satisfied groan escaping his throat as his muscles loosen. Rolling over, he reaches out, seeking the warmth of Dale’s body, craving the feel of his skin under his fingertips. But his hand meets only cool, rumpled sheets, the imprint of Dale’s head still visible on the pillow.

His stomach drops, a cold, leaden feeling settling in his gut as reality crashes over him. Dale’s gone. Of fucking course he is. What did Tim expect, really? That Dale would stick around, that they’d wake up tangled together, exchange lazy morning kisses and whispered confessions? Fuck, he’s an idiot.

Groaning, Tim drags his hands down his face, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes until he sees stars. The memories of last night flood back — the taste of Dale’s skin, the breathy little gasps he made as Tim touched him, the way he’d clung to Tim as he came apart beneath him. It had felt so right, so perfect. Like everything Tim had wanted since he’d laid eyes on Dale.

But apparently it wasn’t enough. Not for Dale. Tim should’ve known better than to get his hopes up. Should’ve known that for a bloke like Dale, this was probably just a mistake, a one-off to be forgotten in the harsh light of day. Swept under the carpet. Shoved back in the closet.

“Fuck,” Tim mutters, his voice rough with sleep and something else, something that feels suspiciously like heartache. He needs a shower. And a smoke. And to get the fuck over himself.

He drags himself out of bed, ignoring the twinge in his lower back (Christ, he’s not as young as he used to be), and stumbles to the bathroom. He turns the water as hot as he can stand it, letting it scald his skin, washing away the evidence of last night. If only it were that easy to wash away the memories, the feelings.

Tim’s mind wanders to all the things he didn’t do, all the ways he didn’t fully embrace the chance to have Dale in his bed. If he’d known it was his only shot, he would’ve explored every inch of Dale’s body with his mouth, would’ve unraveled him bit by bit until he was a desperate, pleading mess. Would’ve shown Dale just how fucking good they could be together.

But he’d been cautious, too scared of spooking Dale, too hesitant to push for more than Dale was ready to give. And now he’s left with nothing but memories and a head full of what-ifs. Fucking brilliant.

Tim towels off quickly, not bothering with his hair, and pulls on the first clothes he grabs — an old pair of shorts and nothing else. Fuck it, it’s his flat, he can mope around half-naked if he wants to.

He pads into the kitchen, intent on making the greasiest fry-up known to man, something to soak up the remnants of alcohol and bad decisions still sloshing in his gut, but he freezes in the doorway, his heart nearly stopping at the sight that greets him.

Dale’s sitting at his kitchen table. Dale, with his sleep-mussed hair and pillow creases on his cheek, wrapped in one of Tim’s old t-shirts, the fabric straining across his broad shoulders. He’s got a mug of coffee cradled in his hands and he’s reading yesterday’s newspaper, for fuck’s sake, like he belongs here. Like this is normal.

The strangled noise that escapes Tim’s throat has Dale’s head snapping up, his eyes wide and startled, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. They stare at each other for a long moment.

“You’re still here,” Tim blurts out, wincing internally at how accusatory it sounds. Smooth, Timmo. Real smooth.

Dale blinks at him, a furrow appearing between his brows. “I... yes? I mean, you asked me to stay. Last night. So I... I stayed.”

He says it like it’s simple. Like it’s obvious. Like the fact that Tim had whispered stay into his skin as they drifted off to sleep actually meant something.

Tim swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Right. Yeah. Course.” He runs a hand through his hair, feeling wrong-footed and off-balance. This isn’t how he thought his morning would go. Dale was supposed to be long gone by now, and Tim was supposed to spend the day nursing his wounded pride and trying to pretend like his heart hadn’t been ripped out of his chest and stamped on.

But Dale’s still here. Looking sleep-soft and rumpled and fucking perfect in Tim’s kitchen. In Tim’s clothes. And Tim... Tim has no idea what to do with that.

Dale shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tightening around the mug. “I, um, I hope you don’t mind. That I stayed. And made coffee. I didn’t want to wake you, but I thought... I mean, we should probably talk. About last night.”

Tim’s heart races. Talk. Right. Because that always goes well. But he nods, forcing a casual shrug as he moves further into the kitchen. “Yeah, ’course. Talk. Good idea.”

He busies himself with making his own cup of coffee, grateful for something to do with his hands, grateful to be looking at something other than Dale if only for a minute. When he turns back, leaning against the counter, Dale’s watching him with an unreadable expression. The moment Tim catches his eye, though, he glances away, a faint flush creeping up his neck. Tim’s heart sinks a little at that.

Tim takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what’s to come. “Look, mate, about last night—”

“I’m sorry,” Dale blurts out, cutting Tim off. His eyes are wide, almost panicked. “I shouldn’t have— I mean, I don’t usually— God, I’m making a mess of this.”

Tim’s brow furrows in confusion. “Sorry? What are you sorry for?”

Dale runs a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “For... for all of it? For putting you in this position. For not leaving when I should have. For... for wanting things I shouldn’t want.”

The words hit Tim like a punch to the gut. He’d expected regret, sure, but this? This sounds like shame. Like self-loathing. And suddenly, Tim understands. This isn’t about him at all. This is about Dale.

Tim sets his mug down on the counter with a soft thud. He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, crouching down beside Dale’s chair. Dale won’t meet his eyes, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee mug in his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says softly, reaching out to touch Dale’s knee. Dale flinches slightly at the contact but doesn’t pull away. “Look at me, mate.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Dale raises his eyes to meet Tim’s. There’s fear there, and shame, and something else that makes Tim’s heart ache.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Tim says firmly. “Nothing, you hear me? Last night was... it was amazing. And I don’t regret a single second of it.”

Dale’s eyes widen, a flicker of hope crossing his face before it’s quickly shuttered away. “But... but—” He stops, dropping his head again. “I guess Helen was right then,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

“Helen? What’d she say?”

Tim’s curious now. Helen’s always been perceptive — she’d clocked him ages ago, not that he ever tried to hide it. But had she noticed the way he looks at Dale? The way his gaze lingers a little too long, the way his smile softens when Dale’s around? The way his eyes drift to Dale’s arse in his slacks? Ross had, but then Ross knows him better than most.

Dale’s face flushes an even deeper shade of red. He fidgets with his mug, clearly uncomfortable. “She, uh... she mentioned that you might be, you know...” He trails off, glancing up at Tim briefly before his eyes skitter away again. “Testing the waters. With me. That maybe this was... planned.”

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up. “Planned? What, like I orchestrated this whole thing just to get you into bed?”

He knows his tone is a little sharp, but he can’t help it. The implication stings. Yeah, he’s fancied Dale for bloody ages, but he’s not some manipulative prick. Inviting Dale over, just the two of them — that was about getting to know the bloke, seeing if he was right about Dale, seeing if there could be something between them someday. Not... whatever twisted scenario Dale’s cooked up in his head. Christ, he really cocked this one up, didn’t he?

Dale winces at Tim’s words, shrinking in on himself. “No! No, that’s not what I...” He looks up at him properly then, eyes wide and apologetic. They’re so fucking blue that Tim almost dies on the spot. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just... I don’t know what I’m doing here, Tim. This is all new to me and I’m... I’m scared.”

His voice cracks on the last word and Tim’s annoyance melts away in an instant. He scoots closer, hand sliding from Dale’s knee to cup his cheek. “Hey, it’s alright. I get it. This is scary stuff.”

Dale turns into Tim’s palm, eyes drifting shut for a beat. When they open again, they’re glistening, tears threatening to spill. “I’ve never...”

“Been with a bloke before?” Tim finishes softly when Dale can’t seem to get the words out.

Dale shakes his head, a wry little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “No. Not like this.”

And Tim doesn’t know what that means, not really, not with Dale, but the admission stirs something protective in his chest. His mind drifts back to the night before, to holding Dale as he cried, too overwhelmed to even talk about it. At the time, Tim figured it was just because it was Dale’s first time with a bloke, that something had finally clicked into place for him. But now? Now Tim thinks it might be more than that.

“That’s alright,” Tim murmurs, because it’s the only thing he can think to say. He brushes away a stray tear from Dale’s cheek with his thumb, touch feather-light. “We can go slow, yeah? Work it out as we go. No rush.”

Dale nods, shoulders loosening a bit. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’d like that.”

They lapse into silence for a minute, but it’s comfortable, easy. Tim’s knees are starting to protest his crouched position, but he ignores it.

Eventually, Dale clears his throat. “So, what... what do we do now?”

Tim mulls it over. God, what he wouldn’t give to just haul Dale in and snog him senseless, to show him exactly how much Tim wants this, wants him. But he reins in the urge. Dale’s already so far out of his depth, and Tim doesn’t want to push him before he’s ready. So instead, he quirks a smile and says, “Well, first things first, I reckon we need some brekkie. How do you like your eggs?”

The smile Dale gives him is small, but it’s real, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Fried, with the yolks still runny. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Nah, ’course not.” Tim levers himself to his feet, knees popping, and gives Dale’s shoulder a quick squeeze before moving to the fridge. He pulls out eggs, bacon, a tomato that’s only a little squishy.

As he sets about cracking eggs into a pan, he can feel the weight of Dale’s gaze on his back like a physical touch. It should make him twitchy, being observed so closely, but it doesn’t. If anything, it’s a comfort, knowing Dale’s still here, still interested, even in the harsh light of day.

“You need a hand with anything?” Dale asks from behind him, chair scraping against the lino as he stands.

Tim glances over his shoulder, taking in the nervous set of Dale’s shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the hem of his (Tim’s) shirt. He’s clearly at a loss, unsure what to do with himself, and the sight tugs at something in Tim’s chest.

“Nah, I’ve got it,” he says, flashing a grin. “But you could make us another cuppa, if you want. I’m gasping.”

Dale’s shoulders relax a fraction, and he nods, moving to fill the kettle. They work in companionable silence, orbiting each other in the small kitchen with a surprising ease. It’s comfortable, domestic in a way that makes Tim want more.

As he slides the eggs onto a plate, Dale appears at his elbow, two steaming mugs in hand. Their fingers brush as Tim takes his, and he doesn’t miss the way Dale shivers at the contact, the way a pretty flush begins creeping up his neck again.

Christ, he’s lovely. Tim wants to kiss him again, wants to back him up against the counter and swallow the little noises he makes, wants to take him apart with slow, reverent hands until he’s boneless and pleasure-drunk.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he nods towards the lounge. “Couch? Table feels a bit too much like a job interview.”

Dale huffs a laugh, and they settle on the couch, balancing plates on their laps, thighs nearly touching. Dale takes a bite and makes an appreciative noise that shoots straight to Tim’s groin. “S’good,” he mumbles around his mouthful. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Tim says, and he means it. He wants this, wants lazy mornings and shared meals and tangled sheets. He wants Dale, in every possible way.

But for now, he’ll settle for this: the two of them, knees knocking as they eat, the morning stretching out before them, ripe with possibility. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. And Tim will take it.

Notes:

And that's it!

I really enjoyed this little excursion into The Newsreader and I may do it again one day.

Notes:

Sooooo, this obviously isn't an IWTV fic but I've watched the first series of The Newsreader like six times (because that's all we have access to on BBC iPlayer) and I'm obsessed. Don't get me wrong, I adore Helen and Dale (to the point where I might actually write het for once), but I am consumed by the interactions between Dale and Tim and I just had to write something.