Call me anything you want to, baby

Tim’s elbow-deep in soap suds, humming along to the radio, when the phone’s piercing ring interrupts his groove. He sighs, flicking water off his hands and reaching to silence the music. Bloody typical, right when it was getting to the good part.

“Hello,” he says, grabbing the receiver and wedging it between his ear and shoulder.

“Hi,” says the voice on the line, deep and lovely, and a warmth blooms in Tim’s chest. That voice makes missing the rest of And We Danced worth it. “It’s Dale. Dale Jennings. From work.” He sounds just as charmingly awkward over the phone as he does in person, which doesn’t shock Tim one bit.

“Well, g’day, Dale Jennings from work,” Tim replies with a grin. Not that Dale can see it. Maybe he can hear it though. “I heard it was—”

“So—”

They both laugh softly as their words collide, and the warmth in Tim’s chest grows at the sound of Dale’s laughter. It’s so fucking endearing. Tim wishes he could bottle up that sound and keep it forever.

“You first,” Dale insists after a slight pause.

“Alright, so,” Tim clears his throat, a flicker of nerves in his gut.

Damn Ross and his harebrained schemes. Inviting Dale over like this? Telling him the other blokes had ditched? It’s a fucking terrible plan. How had the bastard convinced him to do this? Tim’s palms are starting to sweat just thinking about it. He wipes them nervously on his jeans.

He takes a deep breath, hoping that Dale doesn’t hear his hesitation and says, “The other guys cancelled ’cause of the cloud cover, but on the radio they said it should clear up soon.” Silence stretches on Dale’s end, so Tim pushes on. “So, what do you say? You still keen to come over? We don’t need the rest of them anyway.”

A beat passes, and Tim can practically hear the gears turning in Dale’s head. He’s bracing himself for a no, expecting Dale to say he’s off to that stupid party with Helen bloody Norville, to say he never wanted to come over to his in the first place. Well, at least Ross will owe him a pint. Tim’s already mentally preparing his I told you so speech.

“Yeah, alright,” Dale says instead, catching Tim completely by surprise. “What’s the address?”

With a grin spreading across his face once again, Tim rattles it off. “Get here around eight, yeah? I’ll have a beer waiting for you.”

As he hangs up the phone, Tim’s heart is pounding, his mind racing. Holy shit. Dale fucking Jennings is actually coming over. To his flat. Just the two of them. Alone. He isn’t prepared for this. What the hell is he going to wear?

He pauses to take a deep, calming breath, trying to still the butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and that’s when he remembers the unwashed dishes piled high in the sink. A tower of plates and cutlery mocking him. Great. Just great.

Right, time to get his arse in gear and make this place presentable. He can’t have Dale thinking he’s a complete slob, now can he?

Priority number one: get some beers in the cooler. Sure, he may have gone a bit overboard at the bottle shop, and the cashier had given his mix of VB, Tooheys, and Swan a judgy once-over, but how the hell is he supposed to know what Dale drinks? He’d even considered snagging a bottle of wine too, just in case, but quickly nixed that idea when he remembered that he doesn’t know the first bloody thing about wine except that it sometimes comes in a box. Better to stick with the tried and true.

Tim imagines himself presenting the selection to Dale with a flourish, like some kind of beer sommelier. The thought almost makes him laugh out loud but then an image flashes in his mind of Dale pulling a face at his choice of drinks, and Tim suppresses a groan. What if Dale thinks his taste in beer is shit?

“Get a grip, you daft git,” Tim mutters to himself. “It’s just Dale.” Just Dale. Fuck.

Maybe he doesn’t even drink beer. Or worse, maybe he doesn’t drink at all. Tim’s mind spins with the possibilities, each one more anxiety-inducing than the last. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. One step at a time, mate. Just focus on getting through the next few hours without making a complete arse of yourself.

Beers finally in the cooler where they belong, Tim attacks the dishes like a man possessed, scrubbing and drying at record speed. He even puts them away properly instead of leaving them to drain because, knowing his luck, Dale will end up in the kitchen at some point. Not that he thinks Dale will judge him, but still, it can’t hurt to make a good impression. Show that he’s not a total disaster. Even if he is one.

With the dishes sorted, Tim turns his attention to the lounge. The ancient vacuum is on its last legs, likely to keel over any second, so the rug will have to stay as is but he can at least straighten up the magazines, put away the records from last night, and sort the clean laundry that’s been sitting around for days. Oh, and he should probably do something about the leaning tower of takeaway containers while he’s at it.

Tim glances at the clock and curses under his breath. Ten-past-seven already? Where the hell did the time go? And why the fuck did he tell Dale to come at eight? The comet won’t even be visible until arse o’clock in the morning. Smooth move, genius.

He rushes around the flat like a madman, scooping up clothes and chucking them into the bedroom. He nearly trips over a pair of ratty sneakers, almost eating shit on the coffee table. “Easy there, mate,” he mumbles to himself, kicking the shoes under the couch and out of sight.

The records would be the easiest thing to tackle next, but the takeaway containers are staring him down like a bunch of judgmental pricks. Into the bin they go. As Tim starts chucking the oldest ones — they’d been there for three, maybe four days at this point — each sickening squelch is a reminder that man cannot live on pizza and Thai takeaway alone.

Just as he’s contemplating whether to take the bin out or just try to stuff it into the one in the kitchen, the doorbell rings out of nowhere, scaring the living daylights out of him. Tim’s head whips toward the clock — it’s only twenty-past. Surely Dale wouldn’t be so early?

He takes one last desperate look at the mess surrounding him before bolting to the door, praying to every deity he can think of that it’s just a neighbour looking to borrow something.

Tim flings open the door, panting like he’s just run a marathon, and finds himself face to face with Mrs. Young from two doors down. He lets out a silent sigh of relief at the sight of her even if he does wish she’d fuck off.

“Tim, dear!” Mrs. Young greets him, her grey-brown curls perfectly done. She’s in her mid-50s, a widow, and she always smiles at him like she wants to fuck him. To say that she makes him a little uncomfortable is an understatement. “I wanted to pop by and return this mixing bowl you so kindly lent me last week.”

Tim looks at the bowl, surprised. “Oh, cheers, Mrs. Young. I’d completely forgotten about it, to be honest.” He takes the bowl, wondering why she’s bothering to return it when she still has his whisk from months ago. And his—

“It was perfect for my biscuits,” she interrupts his thoughts, her keen eyes surveying the flat behind him. “Everything alright, love? You seem a bit out of sorts.”

“Yeah, no, I’m grand!” Tim assures her, trying to block her view of the mess. “Just doing a bit of tidying, you know how it is.”

“I can see that!” Mrs. Young leans forward, peering over his shoulder with a knowing look. “Expecting company, are we?”

Tim flounders a bit at the question. The last thing he needs is Mrs. Young getting wind of Dale coming over. She’ll take one look at him and pounce. “Ah, just a mate from work,” he says, aiming for nonchalance. “We’re going to watch that comet everyone’s been banging on about.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Young’s face lights up. “You youngsters and your fascinating hobbies these days.” She laughs, the scent of lavender wafting from her. “Now, make sure you have some proper nibbles, won’t you? Can’t go stargazing on an empty stomach!”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Young,” Tim agrees, nodding vigorously despite the fact that his fridge contains absolutely nothing except milk and a few sad-looking veggies he’d bought with the best of intentions but never got around to cooking. Maybe he can dash to the corner shop quick and grab some chips or something. Anything to avoid the embarrassment of having to admit he’s got fuck all to offer in terms of sustenance.

“Good, good.” Mrs. Young pats his arm approvingly and Tim’s convinced she’s feeling up his forearm. That’d be fucking insane though, right? He tries not to flinch at the contact, reminding himself that she’s just a harmless middle-aged woman with boundary issues. No need to make a scene. “Well, I best be off. Oh, and you might want to tidy up those magazines you’ve got strewn about before your friend gets here.” She gestures towards the living room. “Such a messy boy.”

Tim’s eyes widen at her last comment, fighting the urge to run away. “Right, yes, of course,” he stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll get right on that. Cheers for the advice, Mrs. Young.”

She giggles, giving his arm a final squeeze, before she turns and heads back to her flat, and Tim just stands there, blinking, the mixing bowl still in his hands as he watches her door click shut.

What the fuck.

With a shake of his head, Tim steps back into his flat and closes the door behind him with a gentle click. He carries the mixing bowl into the kitchen, tucking it away in the cupboard before heading back to the lounge. The scattered magazines seem to taunt him from their messy piles, and he lets out a resigned sigh. Mrs. Young has a point; he can’t have Dale seeing this disaster zone.

By the time he’s done, it’s not spotless, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it was. His mum’d be proud.

He glances at the clock again. Half-seven. Just enough time for a speedy shower (as long as he doesn’t get his hair wet) and to make himself look somewhat presentable before Dale shows up. If he shows up at all, that is. Tim’s still not entirely convinced he will.

He races to the bathroom, stripping off his shirt and dropping it on the floor as he goes. He’ll need to remember to pick that up before Dale arrives.

Keeping Dale out of his thoughts while he showers is harder than he anticipated, especially since all he can think about is the way Dale’s smile lights up a room and how that laugh of his makes Tim’s stomach flutter like a goddamn schoolboy’s. It’s pathetic, really, how gone he is for the bloke. Tim can’t remember the last time he felt this way about someone, if he ever has at all.

He shakes his head as if to dispel the thoughts of Dale’s perfect face and focuses on just washing the sweat from his body. Easy peasy. Except it’s not, because as he lathers up, his traitorous mind keeps drifting back to Dale. To the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, the way his hands move when he’s explaining something he’s passionate about. Tim groans, thumping his head against the tiled wall. He’s so fucked.

Finally dragging himself out of the shower, Tim hurriedly towels off, grimacing at the dampness of the fabric. He really needs to get on top of the laundry situation. Just another thing to add to the never-ending list.

Before leaving the bathroom, he swipes a hand across the fogged-up mirror and stares at his reflection. His cheeks are flushed, and he tells himself it’s just the hot water, not the lingering thoughts of Dale. “Get your shit together, mate,” he warns his mirror-self sternly, jabbing a finger at the glass. “Don’t balls it up.”

With that stellar pep talk out of the way, Tim pulls on his nicest pair of 501s and a crisp, clean shirt. Sure, he told Dale to keep it casual, and for Tim that usually means a t-shirt and some shorts, but tonight he wants to make an effort. Maybe Dale won’t even notice, but then again, maybe he will. Maybe he’s the type to pick up on little things like that. The idea sends a thrill zipping down Tim’s spine — the thought that Dale might clock the extra effort and appreciate it. That he might look at Tim and see someone worth paying attention to.

Just as Tim’s tucking in his shirt, wavering on whether to put on a belt, the doorbell rings and Tim’s heart leaps into his throat. He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, and goes to answer it. And yeah, maybe he pauses a bit just before he gets to the door, nerves finally getting the better of him, but Dale bloody Jennings is on the other side of it and Tim’s allowed to be a bit nervy about the whole situation. With one last deep breath, he turns the handle and opens the door.

There, standing in the hallway, is Dale, looking a bit nervous but so damn good in a button-down and slacks that fit him just right. Tim’s suddenly glad he put in the extra effort with his own shirt. Clearly, he and Dale have different definitions of casual.

He’s holding a six-pack of Carlton, which Tim hadn’t even considered buying, and gives Tim a shy smile. “I, uh, thought I’d bring something to contribute,” he says, lifting the beers slightly.

Tim’s heart does a giddy little flip. “Grand. Come on in, mate,” he says, stepping aside to let Dale enter. As Dale brushes past, Tim catches a whiff of his cologne — something woodsy and warm that makes his head swim for a second. Fuck.

“Nice place,” Dale comments quietly but sincerely, glancing around the flat. He isn’t being nosy, like Tim would be if he were at Dale’s, and Tim’s relieved, considering the, er, risqué magazines mixed into the stack on the coffee table. He meant to hide those in his bedroom, but time got away from him. Fuck it, he’ll just have to own it if Dale decides to take a look.

“Cheers. It’s not much, but it does the job. Kitchen’s just through here.” Tim leads the way, intensely aware of Dale’s presence behind him in the suddenly too-quiet flat. Can Dale feel this weird tension too? Or is it all in Tim’s head? He really shouldn’t get his hopes up, not when it comes to Dale.

“So, uh, where should I put these?” Dale asks, holding up the six-pack again.

“Right, ’course. Here, I’ll take them.” Their fingers brush as Tim grabs the beers, and he swears he feels a jolt of electricity at the contact. He quickly turns away to stash the bottles in the cooler, trying to keep his cool.

Dale leans against the counter, looking a bit awkward but still unfairly attractive even out of the corner of Tim’s eye. “Thanks for inviting me over,” he says. “To be honest, I was dreading going to Geoff’s party. All those people…”

Tim’s heart skips a beat. He turns back to Dale, aiming for a casual tone. “Yeah? I thought you’d be well keen, especially with the whole Helen Norville situation.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, hoping to coax out one of those adorable laughs.

Instead, Dale rolls his eyes, a blush creeping up his neck. And isn’t that a sight for sore eyes. “There’s nothing going on with me and Helen, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Bloody adorable. Tim’s never had a thing for shy guys until Dale. “That’s just office gossip.”

“Well, glad I could provide a better option, then.” The silence stretches between them, and Tim grabs the cooler. “We should head up to the roof. Won’t see much of the comet from inside, will we?”

Dale nods, glancing away from Tim’s eyes. He follows Tim up the stairs, though, and even holds the door open for him because Tim’s hands are full. Maybe this night won’t be a total bust after all.

They do catch a glimpse of the comet, a tiny glowing smudge against the inky sky. It’s not much to look at, really, but Tim finds himself staring all the same. His breath catches in his throat, and he’s not sure if it’s the comet or the fact that Dale is pressed up against his side, their shoulders touching as they lean against the railing.

“There it is,” Dale murmurs, his voice soft and almost reverent.

“Yeah,” Tim breathes, his heart hammering in his chest. He can feel the warmth of Dale’s body through his thin shirt, and it’s doing things to him that he doesn’t want to think too hard about. “It’s not quite as impressive as I thought it’d be, but still cool.”

Dale chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver down Tim’s spine. “I don’t know, I think it’s kind of amazing. Just think about it—that little speck has been hurtling through space for who knows how long, and we get to see it, just for a moment.”

Tim turns his head to look at Dale, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights below. He’s struck by how open and unguarded Dale looks, his eyes wide with wonder as he stares up at the sky.

“Yeah,” he says again, his voice coming out a little rough. “I guess you’re right. It is pretty fucking amazing, when you put it that way.”

Dale glances over at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks for inviting me, Tim. I’m really glad I came.”

Tim swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Me too, mate. Me too.”

They stand in silence for a while longer, shoulder to shoulder, watching the comet as it slowly makes its way across the sky. And if Tim leans into Dale’s warmth a little more than strictly necessary, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

Tim stumbles out of bed, a chipper tune coming from the radio rousing him from a sound slumber. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he’s momentarily confused until the events of last night come rushing back. Dale bloody Jennings, the guy he’s been pining after for ages, kipped on his couch last night. Not only did Dale actually take him up on the offer to stay over, but he’s still here, from the sounds of it, puttering around in Tim’s kitchen like he owns the place.

Grabbing the first clean t-shirt and shorts he can find, Tim throws them on, not wanting to traumatise Dale by waltzing into the kitchen in just his undies. He makes a quick pit stop at the loo, figuring he ought to brush his teeth. You know, on the off chance. Plus, it’s just good manners, isn’t it? He takes a look at himself in the mirror while he’s there, trying to smooth down his wild bed hair. Ah well, it is what it is.

When he steps into the kitchen, Tim’s greeted by a sight that he never expected to see. There’s Dale, shaking his hips to the radio, a little off-rhythm but utterly charming as he waits for the kettle to boil. If Tim’s ears aren’t deceiving him, he can hear Dale quietly singing along. It’s so endearing, Tim has to pause and collect himself, leaning against the doorframe to drink in the moment.

Once he’s got his racing pulse under control, he figures he ought to announce his presence. Can’t have Dale catching him staring at him like a fucking weirdo, can he?

“Well, well, well. Didn’t take you for a Wham fan,” he ribs, raising his voice over the music. Dale spins around, clutching his chest like Tim just scared the living daylights out of him. As if he isn’t in Tim’s bloody kitchen.

“I, uh, I’m not usually,” Dale stammers, his cheeks turning that delightful shade of pink that Tim’s grown so fond of. Christ, what he wouldn’t give to see how far south that blush travels. “But you know, it’s pretty catchy.’

Tim hums in agreement, pushing off the doorframe and sauntering into the kitchen. “Better than that crap they put out a while back, at least. What was it called again?” he asks, sidling up to Dale under the guise of grabbing a mug. Really, he just wants to be nearer to him, to feel the heat radiating off his body. A cuppa wouldn’t go astray, though.

The flush on Dale’s face deepens, and Tim knows he’s struck gold. Dale Jennings, secret Wham fan. Who would’ve thought? He wonders if he’s got their album at home, if he knows all the words to Freedom and Careless Whisper.

“Wham Rap, I think?” Dale replies, walking right into Tim’s trap. “Not their best.”

“No shit,” Tim laughs, bumping Dale’s shoulder with his own as he reaches for the tea bags. “So, how do you take your tea, then? Milk, sugar, or are you one of those heathens who drinks it plain?”

Dale chuckles, shaking his head. “Milk and sugar, please. Can’t start the day without a bit of sweetness, right?” He shoots Tim a playful grin that makes Tim’s stomach flutter again.

Is this what falling for someone feels like? Tim’s never been in love before, but this feels dangerously close. He busies himself with fixing their teas, trying to hide the dopey smile that’s threatening to take over his face.

“I can get on board with that,” he says, passing Dale his mug. As he fixes his own brew, he sneaks a peek at Dale, who’s now nodding his head to the beat of that bloody Starship tune. How it’s been topping the charts for a fortnight, Tim hasn’t a clue.

As he sways, Dale’s fringe falls across his forehead in a way that makes Tim’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and brush it back. It looks so damn soft. Tea sloshes precariously against the edge of Dale’s mug, too, but he doesn’t appear to care.

“Oi, careful with those dance moves, mate. You’ll scald yourself,” Tim teases, nudging Dale’s elbow playfully. He regrets it immediately when Dale stops dancing and leans against the kitchen counter. Well done, Timmo, you absolute twat. Just ruin the moment, why don’t you? “So, any big plans today?” he asks, attempting to get back on track.

Dale shrugs in response, smile faltering slightly. Fucking great. Can Tim say anything right?

“I should probably go home and ring Helen,” Dale says, tapping his fingers against the side of his mug. “Make sure she’s not too annoyed at me for missing the party.”

Tim’s stomach twists with that all-too-familiar pang of jealousy. Helen. Why is it always about her? “Right, ’course. Can’t let anything get between you and Helen, can we?” He tries to keep his voice light, but even he can hear the bitterness seeping through. He focuses intently on stirring his tea, determined to dissolve every last granule of sugar, but he doesn’t need to see Dale to know he’s shrinking in on himself, shoulders slumping, head drooping.

“How many times do I have to say there’s nothing going on with me and Helen?”

The naked hurt in Dale’s voice makes Tim’s head jerk up and the tears brimming in those blue eyes sucker-punches him. Music is still drifting from the radio, the cheery tones of some A-ha song jarring harshly against the wounded look on Dale’s face, and Tim feels wrong-footed. This isn’t the usual flustered denial Tim’s come to expect, the playful back-and-forth he’s grown accustomed to, the cheeky ribbing they’ve fallen into recently. Yeah, maybe the Helen jokes are getting old, wearing thin, and, yeah, maybe calling Dale ‘Mr. Helen Norville’ the other day was probably crossing a line, but fuck, Dale has to know how it how it comes across to everyone else. To Tim.

Bright-eyed Dale trailing after Helen like an eager puppy, always taking her side, desperate for her approval? What else are people supposed to think? He has to know that whole station’s convinced they’re fucking. Some of them even reckon Dale’s just trying to screw his way to a promotion. Tim’s heard them talk.

But Tim knows Dale better than that. The bloke’s too proper. Too much of a goody-two-shoes. Sure, he’s ambitious, wants to make it big as the face of the News at Six for whatever daft reason, but he’d never try to shortcut his way there. Dale’s all about good old-fashioned hard work.

And yeah, Helen’s got a bit of a reputation, but so fucking what? Good for her. Most of the women at the station are just envious, some of the men too, ’cause Helen’s better than the lot of them and she bloody well knows it. Dale’s just gotten himself tangled up in all the petty bullshit. He’s collateral damage in their stupid mind games. They’ll find fresh meat to sink their claws into soon enough. The second Helen moves on to the next shiny toy.

Still, Tim’s heard the other camera guys cracking crass jokes about her mentoring Dale, about her teaching him more than just the ropes, and he doesn’t want to think about that. Especially not when Dale is in his kitchen, standing close enough to touch.

He’s just about to walk it back, say he was just taking the piss, when Dale barrels on before he can get a word in.

“I went to Helen’s before calling you yesterday,’ he murmurs, and he still sounds so fucking sad that Tim wants to gather him up in his arms and just hold him, to shield him from the hurt and the gossip and the expectations. He won’t though. They’re not there yet, teetering on the edge of something Tim can’t quite name. “Told her we need to keep our relationship professional, that I wouldn’t be her date to Geoff’s party. I’m over people seeing things that aren’t there.”

Dale sucks in a ragged breath, tears beginning to spill down his face. “We’re just friends, Tim. That’s it. Why’s that so bloody hard for everyone to wrap their heads around?”

Tim can only watch as he swipes at his face, a helpless ache blooming in his chest at the sight of Dale’s distress. He lets out a watery laugh, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling, like he can’t look at Tim any longer. “She wasn’t happy about it, I donʼt think. Acted like I was betraying her or something, like I owed her more than just being her friend and coworker.”

He shakes his head, a bitter twist to his mouth that looks so wrong on his usually innocent face. “And if that wasn’t bad enough,” he says, voice wavering slightly, threatening to break, “she tried to put me off coming here by saying you’d invited me over to, I don’t know, test the waters or something. Like you had some ulterior motive.” He meets Tim’s gaze then, eyes red-rimmed but fierce. “Called you gay Tim from camera like that’s something to joke about.”

The revelation knocks the wind out of Tim and his tongue feels like sandpaper. He knew he’d have to tell Dale eventually but part of him, a terrible, tender part, hoped that he already knew. That he recognised Tim because he’s the same. But now his mind racing to find the right thing to say, something to soothe any worries Dale might have while still telling him the truth because he deserves that. He does. Lying to him would only hurt him and Tim can’t do that.

Tim’s heart pounds wildly, equal parts terror and tentative hope roiling in his gut. No way out but through.

“She’s right, Dale,” he forces out, barely above a whisper. The admission sits heavy, immutable. “Not about me trying to crack onto you, I’d never pull that, I swear. But...I am gay.”

Dale turns to look at him, brows furrowed as if he can’t quite believe what Tim just said. His blue eyes search Tim’s face, looking for any hint of deception or humour. “What?”

“I’m gay,” Tim repeats with a tight shrug, projecting a calm he doesn’t feel. His insides are a mess, stomach churning with nerves, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He needs Dale to see the sincerity in his eyes. “Not exactly a state secret, mate. Ross figured it out yonks ago. A few others at work know too. Including Helen, apparently.” He sighs. “Thought you did, honestly.”

Something flickers across Dale’s face. Confusion, sure, but there’s a hint of something else Tim can’t quite parse. Curiosity? Acceptance? He’s almost afraid to even consider it, hope a fragile, fluttering thing in his chest.

“I...no, I had no idea,” Dale says haltingly, clearly still processing. His brows remain furrowed, lips pursed in thought.

“Yeah, well.” Tim clears his throat, feeling his face heat. He wipes sweaty palms on his shorts, the fabric rough against his skin. “Not like I took out a bloody ad in the Herald, is it?” His forced chuckle rings hollow, echoing in the sudden stillness of the kitchen.

Dale glances away, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The sight makes Tim’s heart clench, a bittersweet ache blooming behind his ribs. “Guess not.” He swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Tim can’t look away from him, drinking in every minute shift in his expression, every flicker of emotion in those expressive eyes. He hopes, prays, that Dale isn’t going to run away, that Dale doesn’t hate him now, that Dale can accept this part of him even if he isnʼt the same as Tim.

But then Dale takes a step back. Just like Tim feared he would. His confusion has slowly shifted into something a bit more guarded, more uncertain. Not quite disgust or hatred but something close, something that makes Tim’s breath catch painfully in his throat.

Another step backwards.

And then another.

Dale’s at the threshold to the lounge when he says, “I, uh. I should go.” His voice wavers and Tim desperately hopes it’s not revulsion lacing his tone. It doesn’t sound like it but Tim doesn’t know what to think anymore. Please, please don’t let this be the end of our friendship. Of whatever this could be.

Tim does nothing as Dale disappears into the lounge, just listens to him collecting his things. He hears the jangle of his car keys, the soft scuff of him putting on his shoes, and then he hears the door open. It doesn’t slam as it shuts. No, it’s a quiet sound. Like Dale is trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt him any more than he already has. But it hurts Tim just the same, a hollow, yawning ache opening up inside him.

And then Tim’s alone, with only the sound of Kate fucking Bush chasing away the sudden emptiness in the flat. He slumps against the counter, legs suddenly weak, and buries his face in his hands. Fuck. What has he done?

Notes:

Okay, so I watched season two (I daren't watch s3, honestly) and I can't actually process how I feel. So, I thought I'd just do a s1 canon rewrite where I make them fall in love and (eventually) find happiness together.
Watch out for the sheer number of music references though! I recently had a conversation with my lovely dad, who was a young man in the 1980s (in Scotland, not Australia), about the weird and wonderful music of the era — like the Wham Rap! — and I ended up looking at the UK charts from the mid-80s, and watching too many episodes of Top of the Pops (you can see my mum in the crowd in one of them, lol). Eventually, after watching s2, I found myself looking at Australia's music charts from that era and here we are. Plus, I wanted to make Dale a Wham fan.
Also, I know nothing about beer/lager, especially not the ones mentioned. If anyone was knocking about in 1980s Australia and has better recommendations for me, please do say. Anyways, I imagine they all taste different and I know a lot of people have a preferred brand/beer (my ex drank John Smith's Extra Smooth and nothing else because he was a middle-aged man at heart) so just imagine Tim panicking because he doesn't know Dale's preference.
We have now come to the end of this pathetically long author's note. TTFN!

Chapter 2 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Dale avoids Tim at work.

It’s no surprise, really. After all, it’s not every day your colleague — Tim’s not sure he’d call them friends at this point — tells you he’s gay over a morning cuppa. But the way Dale’s acting is driving him mad.

If he just pretended Tim didn’t exist, that’d be one thing, but every time Tim’s minding his own business, whether he’s knee-deep in paperwork or hauling equipment into the van, he can feel Dale’s eyes on him. Sometimes, he’ll glance up just in time to catch Dale hastily looking away, a hint of pink colouring his cheeks. It’s almost like he wants to say something, but he never does. Just scurries off like a startled rabbit, leaving Tim more confused than ever.

Tim’s not an idiot. Okay, maybe he is because who else would still pine after a bloke who can’t even look him in the eye? But that’s not the point. The point is that he knows that Dale’s working up the courage to say something to him. He can tell.

It’s just that every time Tim tries to corner him, to finally clear the air between them, Dale pulls a disappearing act. More often than not, he’ll bring up Helen as an excuse — always going on about how he needs to help her with this or that — but then there are the times when Dale doesn’t even bother with an excuse. He’ll just run away in the opposite direction like Tim’s a fucking leper or something. It’s a little insulting.

Apparently, whatever’s going on in Dale’s pretty little head is too much for him to handle like a fucking adult so, eventually, Tim stops trying.

That is, until they’re both assigned to the story in Darwin.

It’s luck, or maybe some form of divine intervention, that Tim arrives in the office to collect his travel details from Jean just as she’s deep in conversation with Dale. She’s lecturing him about something, completely ignoring the way he keeps reaching for the stack of papers in her hand, apparently desperate to end the conversation.

At least Dale can’t ignore him now. Not without looking like a complete dick and giving Jean something to gossip about. It’s perfect, really, and Tim’s not about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

For a moment, he considers taking the high road, being the bigger man and trying not to make this any more awkward for Dale than it needs to be. But then he thinks, fuck it. Playing nice has got him nowhere fast, so maybe it’s time to be a bit of a cunt and see where that gets him.

“Packed your swimmers?” he asks as he strolls up to the pair, grinning wide and bright at the two of them. The look of surprise on Dale’s face is priceless, those blue eyes going wide, his eyebrows raising into his hairline. His hair still looks so bloody soft, the wanker, and Tim hates him just a little bit.

“What?” Dale’s voice is clipped and part of that’s just his accent — those t’s of his make everything sound ten times harsher — but the scowl forming on his pretty face isn’t helping matters either.

“I’m coming to Darwin with you, mate. Didn’t they tell you?” Tim keeps his voice breezy, like this is all just a pleasant surprise, and Jean’s looking between them like she’s watching a tennis match, no doubt hoping for some prime office gossip fodder. Well, tough, Jeannie. Nothing to see here.

“Ah, I thought we’d be picking up a local crew,” Dale says, pointedly avoiding Tim’s gaze. He flashes Jean a smile though, all charm and perfect teeth, and Tim can practically see her swoon. Not that he blames her. If Dale ever aimed a smile like that his way, Tim’s pretty sure his brain would short-circuit. His knees would probably give out too, for good measure.

Best not to dwell on that.

“Nah, no need. I was there for about a year back in ’81, ’82. Covered the trial, the sentencing, the whole thing. Know the place like the back of my hand.” Tim keeps his tone light, but the memories are still vivid. The trial, the press, the devastation on Lindy’s face as the vultures descended. Dale wasn’t there for that shitstorm, and neither was Helen. Having Tim there is a no-brainer.

Dale, however, doesn’t seem thrilled by this development. “Great,” he mutters, his shoulders tense despite the too-bright smile plastered on his face. He’ll need to practice that if he ever wants to make it onto the desk. Get comfortable with being the fakest fucker around.

An uncomfortable silence follows, the three of them just standing there as the droning voice of some wanker on the Health Report filters through from a nearby radio, but Tim keeps grinning, cool as a cucumber, until Jean finally thrusts a stack of papers at him.

“Thank you,” he says with a cheeky wink, grabbing the documents and swanning off, leaving a visibly rattled Dale in his wake.

The whole exchange sits sourly in Tim’s gut, but he takes some small satisfaction in knowing he’s got under Dale’s skin. Serves him right for acting like a complete tosser. With any luck, this little Darwin job will force them to sort out their shit once and for all. One way or another.

The flight is awkward, to say the least.

Dale and Helen are on the outs about something and, after a bit of hushed arguing, she asks to switch seats with some poor sod a few rows back. Dale looks heartbroken as he stares after her retreating form, his brow furrowed and his mouth turned down at the corners. Tim almost feels sorry for the bloke. Almost.

Tim settles into his seat, trying to focus on the newspaper in his lap, but his gaze keeps drifting to Dale. The man is fidgeting, his long fingers tapping out a restless rhythm on the armrest between them, his knee bouncing up and down. It’s driving Tim mad.

“Nervous flyer?” Tim asks and Ross lets out an amused snort from the seat beside him. He’s fiddling with the tape in his Walkman and Tim eyes it out of the corner of his eye with envy.

Dale startles, his head whipping around to face Tim, like he’s only just realised that they’re sitting next to each other. “What? No, I just...” He trails off, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Right.” Tim draws out the word, letting his scepticism bleed through, before he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Well, if you need a hand to hold during takeoff, I’m right here, mate.”

A flush rises in Dale’s cheeks and Tim curses himself for finding it so damn tempting. He’s supposed to be fucking with Dale, not thinking about fucking him.

“I think I’ll manage, thanks,” Dale murmurs, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engines. His fingers flex on the armrest between them.

With a shrug, Tim turns back to his newspaper. The woman behind him lights up, the distinctive click of the lighter followed by a plume of smoke drifting over the seats. So much for being in the non-smoking section.

Taking the piss out of what Dale’s wearing might not be Tim’s finest moment, even if he does delight in Dale’s nervous little what? and the way he wrings his hands together at Tim’s comments. It’s a bit childish, sure, but needling Dale seems to be the only way to get a rise out of him these days. A little bit of snark, a little bit of flirting, and Dale’s brain appears to malfunction, leaving him adorably tongue-tied.

It gets him thinking, though, about all their recent interactions in a whole new light. The way Dale’s eyes always seem to linger on him when he thinks Tim’s not looking, how he practically sprints in the opposite direction anytime they’re alone together. It’s starting to form a picture that Tim’s not entirely sure how to make sense of, but it leaves him feeling a bit giddy all the same.

As Dale hurries away from him again, Tim can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face or the appreciative once-over he gives Dale’s retreating form. Those pants might be a fucking crime, but Dale’s arse is always a sight to behold.

Tim presses his boot onto the gritty pavement, grinding a months-old cigarette butt beneath it, and the scorching metal of the car door sears into his back, heat radiating through his sweat-soaked shirt. Dale and Helen’s bickering echoes through the quiet street, drawing curious glances from the smattering of locals milling about. Some old biddy gawks at them from her verandah, her face pinched with disapproval, and Tim has no desire to be on the receiving end of her wrath.

This entire Lindy Chamberlain fiasco has been one dead end after another. What seemed like a solid lead with the Parrys earlier turned out to be a complete waste of time, sparking this latest row about ethics and journo integrity and fuck knows what else. Tim’s just about had enough. All he wants is to faceplant into his lumpy hotel bed and pass out, but apparently that’s too much to ask.

He watches absently as Helen marches to the bonnet of the car, perching herself on the edge to furiously scribble in that little notebook of hers, while Dale looks seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. His jaw is clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth haven’t shattered, and the sunburn creeping across his nose is probably only adding fuel to the fire.

But it’s quiet. For a blissful ten, maybe fifteen, minutes, the only sounds are the scratching of Helen’s pen and the occasional car rattling down the road. It’s almost tranquil, if you can ignore the crackling tension between Helen and Dale, and Tim feels like a fucking idiot just standing there. A quick glance at Ross tells him he feels the same, and Dale’s started pacing, kicking up dust as he walks.

He glances at his watch, thinking about sprawling across the backseat for a quick nap, when Helen slams her notebook down, startling the absolute fuck out of him.

“This is getting us absolutely nowhere!” she shouts at no one in particular, arms flailing in exasperation. “We need a new strategy, a different angle. Something, anything!”

Dale stops pacing and slowly turns to face her, crossing his arms over his chest. “What we need, Helen,” he grinds out, “is a break.”

Ross leans over to Tim, a wry smile on his face. “Here we go, round fucking fifty,” he mutters, just loud enough for everyone to hear him, and Tim snorts. He quickly schools his features into a neutral expression when Helen shoots them a withering glare.

Thankfully, instead of taking her wrath out on Tim, she rounds on Dale, eyes flashing dangerously. “A break? Are you serious? We’re here to do a job, not lounge around like bloody tourists!”

“Tourists?” Dale exclaims, voice going shrill. “Are you seriously suggesting—”

“You know as well as I do that—”

And they’re off again, voices overlapping as they try to out-shout each other. Time to intervene before things get really ugly.

“Dale’s got a point,” Tim interjects, holding up his hands in a placating gesture when Helen turns to look at him. He’d step between them, try to physically break the tension, but he’s pretty sure Helen would kill him on the spot if he did. “We’ve been at this for hours, and there’s no sign of Lindy. She doesn’t want to talk and you can’t blame her after what she’s been through.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Dale’s thoughtful frown even as Helen opens her mouth to argue again.

“We—”

“He’s right. We’re all knackered,” Ross chimes in, cutting Helen off. Tim feels a twinge of guilt for teaming up against her, but fuck, he’s too tired for this. “Let’s head back to the hotel, yeah? Regroup, get some rest. Things will look better in the morning.”

Helen pins them all with a glare that could melt steel, and yeah, Tim can see why Dale’s so gone on her. She’s got a fire in her, an intensity that’s magnetic. If Tim were into women, he’d probably be half in love with her himself, but as it stands, he’s just glad she’s in their corner. Usually.

“Christ, fine,” she relents with a huff, pushing her sweat-dampened hair off her forehead. “But I want everyone up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. I’m getting that interview if it kills me.”

“Aye aye, Captain!” Ross gives her a little salute for good measure and Tim sees the corner of her mouth twist into something that might, if she let it, resemble a smile.

Despite being exhausted, sleep is damn near impossible in Darwin’s sweltering summer nights. Tim’s no stranger to the sticky, oppressive heat that clings to his skin, but knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Fed up with tossing and turning in his stuffy room, he finds himself at the edge of the hotel pool, dangling his legs in the cool, inviting water. The gentle ripples caress his calves, a welcome reprieve from the suffocating air, and the relentless whine of cicadas fills the night, their high-pitched chorus echoing in the stillness, but even their maddening drone can’t mask the sound of hesitant footsteps approaching, the soft slap of bare feet against concrete.

Heart skipping an erratic beat, Tim glances over his shoulder. Lo and behold, there’s Dale, standing there with an unreadable expression on his face, hands jammed awkwardly into the pockets of his pyjama pants. Even in the muted glow of the pool lights, the prick looks unfairly good — barefoot, his usually perfect hair tousled from restless sleep, a thin white t-shirt hinting at the lean lines of his torso. It’s really not fucking fair, how effortlessly gorgeous he is. How much he gets under Tim’s skin without even trying.

“Mind if I join you?” Dale asks, his lilting voice soft, almost shy as he gestures to the spot next to Tim. He’s fidgeting, shifting his weight like he’s working up the nerve just to ask, as if he’s bracing himself for Tim to tell him to piss off.

Maybe he should. Tell Dale to piss off and leave him be, give him a taste of his own medicine for once. God knows he deserves it.

Unfortunatley, Tim’s never been very good at denying himself the things he wants and, despite everything, he wants Dale’s company. So he just shrugs, feigning a indifference he doesn’t feel, and pats the sun-warmed concrete in invitation.

“Be my guest, mate. Water’s perfect.”

Dale settles beside him, close enough that Tim can feel the heat of his skin, and takes his sweet time rolling up his pant legs, revealing strong, toned legs dusted with golden hair. Tim’s mouth goes dry. Fuck. He needs to get a grip. They’re just legs, for fuck’s sake. He’s seen his fair share of legs before, felt them quiver and clench as he’s taken blokes apart, but seeing Dale’s... It’s different. They’re gorgeous, is the thing. Strong and sturdy in a way that catches Tim off guard, in a way that makes him wonder how they’d feel locked around his hips, gripping tight as he—

Nope. Not going there.

Wrenching his gaze away, Tim focuses on the rippling water as Dale slips his feet into the pool with a content little sigh. For a long moment, they just sit there, shoulder to shoulder in the humid night, a heavy silence stretching between them, thick with the unspoken. It should be uncomfortable, but weirdly, it’s not. If anything, it’s almost...nice. Peaceful, in a way Tim hasn’t felt in way too fucking long.

Mustering his courage, he sneaks a glance at Dale from beaneath his lashes, and takes in the sharp lines of his profile, the straight slope of his nose, the enticing fullness of his parted lips. Dale’s eyes are closed, long lashes fanning out against his cheeks, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead. He looks younger like this, softer somehow, the ever-present crease between his brows smoothed away. Tim’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and brush that errant strand back, to let his fingers linger against the warmth of Dale’s skin.

But he doesn’t. Can’t bring himself to shatter this fragile moment, to risk scaring Dale off when he’s only just found his way back to Tim’s side. So he just drinks his fill, etching every detail into memory, and bites his tongue, trying to ignore the wild pounding of his stupid, hopeful heart against his ribs.

It’s Dale who finally shatters the silence, his voice rough with sleep, deeper than usual.

“Tim, I...” He pauses, worrying his plush bottom lip between his teeth. Then, he sucks in a deep, steadying breath before trying again. “About the other day. When I left like that, after you told me...what you told me. It was an awful thing to do. I’m sorry.”

Well. Fuck. Of all the things Tim expected to tumble out of Dale’s mouth, an apology sure as hell wasn’t one of them. Especially not one given so freely, so sincerely, those blue eyes wide and earnest as they search Tim’s face. Something warm and treacherous unfurls in his chest, a fragile tendril of hope he thought he’d long since squashed down. He swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat.

“It’s alright, mate,” he manages, proud of how steady his voice sounds. “I get it. It’s a lot to take in. At least you didn’t start spouting off about how I’m going to hell or some shit.”

It’s meant to be a joke, something to break the tension, but Dale just flinches. Tim’s not sure what to make of that, so he stares at the water instead, lazily kicking his feet.

Their ankles brush briefly and Tim waits for Dale to jerk away, to bolt like a spooked horse, but it never happens. Instead, Dale leans into him, just a fraction. It’s a hesitant move, barely there, but Tim feels it in the press of Dale’s shoulder, in the searing warmth seeping through his thin t-shirt where their arms touch. Suddenly, the night air feels thick in Tim’s lungs, the buzz of cicadas fading away as his heart thumps wildly against his ribs.

Dale lets out a shaky breath that ghosts over Tim’s skin, raising goosebumps in its path. When he speaks, his voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

“I never meant...” He stops, like he’s grasping for the right words, his hands twisting in his lap. “I didn’t want you to think that I...that I think you’re...”

He breaks off, his shoulders sagging as he shakes his head. In the faint glow from the pool, Tim can just make out the crease between Dale’s brows, the downward tug of his mouth. He looks pained, like he’s wrestling with something deep inside, trying to force the words out.

“I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?” The self-deprecating quirk of Dale’s lips doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

A shaky laugh escapes Tim before he can stop it. He’s not sure if it’s nerves or giddy relief or some dizzying mix of both, but he quickly stifles it, determined to set Dale at ease.

“Nah, you’re doing alright.” Tim chances a quick, friendly squeeze of Dale’s knee, fingers brushing warm skin for a second before he pulls back. “Believe me, I’ve had worse reactions.”

Dale glances at him then, tipping his head to the side. This close, Tim can practically count each individual eyelash as Dale blinks at him.

“It’s just...” he starts, then falters. He gnaws at his bottom lip again and Tim has to physically restrain himself from reaching out to smooth the abused flesh with his thumb. “I’ve been so frustrated lately. With everyone assuming things about me and Helen.”

Dale’s voice pitches higher, sounding slightly hysterical. “And then Helen had the nerve to suggest the only reason you invited me over was because...because you had some kind of ulterior motive.”

Tim’s heart lurches in his chest, his pulse pounding in his ears as he stares into Dale’s too-blue eyes.

“So when you told me... you know...” Dale makes a vague gesture with his hand, as if he can’t quite bring himself to say the words out loud. As if naming it would make it too real, too concrete. “I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she had a point.”

How the hell is he meant to respond to that?

Tim could come clean, lay his cards on the table and admit that yes, maybe he does fancy Dale a bit. That inviting him over to watch the comet had been an attempt to figure out if the sparks flying between them were all in Tim’s head. He could admit that a tiny, stupid part of him had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Dale fancied blokes too. That Tim wasn’t alone in this mess.

Or, he could lie through his teeth instead, swear up and down that he has no designs on Dale, that he just wants to be friends. It’d be a lie that would probably haunt Tim for years to come but if Dale’s straight — even if Tim’s convinced he isn’t — then that’s the only option anyway. And Tim would rather have Dale around as a mate than not at all, even if it means shoving his pride and pining into a box and throwing away the key.

Ross would call him a bloody fool. He’d slap Tim ‘round the head and tell him to stop being such a fucking martyr already, to grow a pair and make a move before he loses his chance entirely. But Ross has always been a ‘grab the bull by the horns’ kind of bloke. He doesn’t understand the delicate dance Tim and Dale have been engaged in, the push and pull and tentative steps forward that always seem to end with two steps back.

In the end, he says nothing.

He just sits in silence, heart lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and waits for Dale to speak again. To give him some sort of hint about where they go from here, even if Tim’s not totally sure he’s ready to hear it.

“It’s not an issue though,” Dale says finally, so quietly that if they weren’t so close, Tim would have to strain to hear him over the cicadas. “Not really. Not to me.”

And maybe it’s the raw honesty in Dale’s voice or maybe it’s the intimacy of the moment, the heat of his body soaking into Tim’s skin, but Tim believes him. Believes that despite everything, despite the awkwardness and the avoidance, Dale doesn’t hate him for being who he is.

The quiet stretches on between them and Tim shifts a bit, moving even closer to Dale. Their thighs brush, the maddening rasp of skin on fabric sending a shiver zipping down Tim’s spine.

“So,” he starts, and shit, is that his voice? All rough and raspy like he’s been gargling gravel? He coughs, tries again. “So, I don’t make you uncomfortable then?”

Dale tips his head back, eyes on the stars, and lets out a laugh. It’s got a strained, anxious edge to it, like it’s being wrenched out of him.

“Haven’t you noticed, Tim?” he says, his voice weary in a way that makes Tim’s chest ache. “I’m always uncomfortable.”

Tim has noticed. Of course he has. He’s well aware of Dale’s little quirks, the way he second-guesses himself, always a bit unsure and awkward. It’s one of the things Tim finds so endearing about him, the way he gets all flustered and shy, but it’s obvious now that there’s more to it. That this is something that weighs on Dale, follows him like a shadow. Tim wants to know, needs to know, but now’s not the time to pry. Not here. Not like this.

So he just nudges Dale with his shoulder, shoots him a lopsided grin. “You’ll get there, mate. These things take time, yeah?”

Dale meets his gaze again, a soft smile spreading across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and fuck, if that doesn’t make Tim’s insides turn to mush.

They sit there, pressed together from shoulder to knee, just grinning at each in a way that should be strange but isn’t, and then Tim watches, heart racing, as Dale’s gaze drifts down to his mouth. It lingers there for a moment that feels like an eternity and Tim’s pulse kicks into overdrive as Dale’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

It sounds like a cliché, like a line pulled from one of the sappy romance books his sister used to hide under her pillow, but the air between them feels electric, like it’s charged. It’s instict, not intent, that drives Tim to lean forward but the slight movement is enough to snap Dale out of whatever daze he was in and he jerks back so fast Tim’s half convinced he’s about to topple right into the pool.

There’s some distance between them now, enough to give Tim a chance to catch his breath, to try and make sense of the moment that almost was. His skin prickles with the loss of Dale’s warmth, already missing the solid press of him against his side, but his head is clearer.

Then he notices that Dale’s face has gone pale, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise as he stares back at Tim, wide-eyed. His chest is heaving, like he’s just run a marathon, and his hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He looks like he’s ready to bolt at any second.

Tim’s half-surprised he hasn’t.

It doesn’t come as a shock to Tim when Dale announces that he’s going to bed. “I think I’ve cooled down enough,” he says, like the words alone can shield him, can save him from whatever’s growing between them. He doesn’t move though, not yet, and Tim wonders what he’s waiting for.

Tim takes the opportunity to search Dale’s face, to scan his eyes across those handsome features again, but he finds nothing in his expression that even hints at what he’s thinking. So, Tim just says, “Right, ‘course,” hoping it’s what Dale wants to hear, and he tries not to let the disappointment bleed through, the frustration at being so close to what he wants, yet so fucking far. “Big day tomorrow and all that, yeah?” he tacks onto the end, trying to make Dale feel more comfortable, more at ease.

Dale fidgets, eyes darting back to the pool. To the stars reflected on the rippling surface. “Yeah, big day. You know how it is.” He stands, then, tugging his pyjama pants back down. He doesn’t even wince when they cling to his damp legs and Dale’s always struck Tim as the fussy type so he must be too tired to care. Or too desperate to get away from Tim.

“Sure do,” Tim says, jamming his hands between his thighs to stop himself from reaching out. From grabbing Dale’s arm and tugging him back down. From telling him to stay, just a little longer. “Night then.”

“Night, Tim,” Dale replies as he retreats into the darkness, leaving Tim alone at the edge of the pool.

Tim watches him go, a tangle of frustration and yearning twisting in his gut. He kicks at the water, sending ripples skittering across the surface.

“Stupid fucking feelings,” he grumbles under his breath. The cool water lapping at his legs is a welcome distraction from the tightness in his chest, but he knows it won’t last.

The next thing Dale says to him is do you have ten bucks? and Tim knows, he just fucking knows, that this is about Helen. She’s been pissed off and taking it out on Dale all morning — if Tim didn’t know any better, he’d think Dale forgot her birthday or something — and now the poor bastard’s going to bribe the fucking neighbours to get back into her good graces.

This is exactly why everyone and their mum thinks they’re fucking and Dale’s too stupid to see it. It’s like he’s completely oblivious to the way he looks at Helen, the way he hangs off her every word, but everyone else can see it from a mile away. And now, with this little lovers’ tiff or whatever it is, Dale’s scurrying about trying to make it right like a proper boyfriend would.

Tim can feel the frustration building inside him, a knot of tension twisting in his gut. He wants to grab Dale by the shoulders, shake some sense into that pretty head of his, make him see that he doesn’t owe Helen a damn thing. Tell him that she can’t just expect Dale to come running every time she snaps her fingers. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t do a bloody thing. Except slip Dale the tenner with a sigh.

“I hate it when Mum and Dad fight,” Ross quips once Dale’s run off, and Tim’s mood sours further. As if he needs another reminder that Dale and Helen are apparently destined for marital fucking bliss.

Dale reappears not too long later, grabbing Helen by the hand and dragging her away. Tim watches them go, his heart sinking a little more with each step Dale takes away from him. He can’t shake the feeling that it’s all slipping through his fingers, that he’s standing on the sidelines of a bloody rom-com where he’s the uninvited guest watching the leading characters fall in love without him.

Best to just focus on the job, he decides. Keep his head down until they’re back in Melbourne so he doesn’t have to watch this painful mating dance play out right in front of him. He can bury himself in work, lose himself in the familiar rhythm of setting up shots and untangling cables. Anything to distract from the irritation simmering under his skin, which has fuck-all to do with the oppressive Darwin heat.

Fuck, he can’t believe he’ll be stuck next to Dale on the flight home. Forced to watch as the pair of them spend the whole time nattering away, heads tucked together like a pair of lovesick school kids, while Tim is left to stew in his own misery, wondering why he ever thought he stood a chance with a man like Dale Jennings in the first place.

Maybe Ross will take pity on him and loan out his Walkman. Tim knows he brought that Elton John tape with him — maybe that will drown out the sound of his own heart breaking.

Notes:

Dale's still a complete mess, Tim's still pining, nothing is fixed, and I'm still not happy with this chapter even after sixteen rounds of edits.

Chapter 3 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The jolt of the plane hitting the tarmac rips Tim from his restless half-sleep.

Six hours. Six hours of hushed whispers and stifled giggles seeping through his borrowed headphones from the seats next to him. Six bloody hours of every little laugh twisting the knife in his gut.

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Tim spots Ross already up, stretching like a prisoner tasting freedom, but Helen and Dale remain tangled together, the sight turning Tim’s insides to concrete.

Just a few of nights ago, he and Dale had...something by that pool. A moment. Tim’s not even sure what it was, but it felt real. Important. Now Dale’s back to playing house with Helen, their little spat magically fixed by the whatever the hell Tim’s tenner bought.

“Oi, Timmo,” Ross calls out cheerfully, giving his shoulder a solid shake. “I’m parched. Fancy a drink?”

Tim tears his gaze from Dale’s mussed hair, from how he’s practically wrapped around Helen, and looks up at Ross with flight-fogged eyes. “Yeah, sure. Your place?”

“Is the Queen British?” Ross quips with a grin, before making his way up the aisle. “Got a fridge full with our names on.”

With a grunt that feels dredged from somewhere below his knees, Tim heaves himself up and follows Ross’s wake, resisting the urge to glance backwards.

After loading three or four records from Ross’ extensive collection into the changer, Tim all but collapses onto the couch, scrubbing a hand over his face, feeling the day’s stubble rasp against his palm. Christ, he’s a mess, isn’t he? Pining after Dale like some fool, analysing every little interaction between them until his head’s spinning.

The sudden cold press of glass against his arm jolts him from his brooding. He blinks up at Ross, who’s holding out a beer, condensation beading on the brown bottle.

“Thought you could use this, mate,” he says, settling down beside Tim. Ross takes a long swig from his own bottle before fixing Tim with a pointed look. “You look like absolute shite, by the way.”

Tim groans. “Cheers for that.” He accepts the drink with a grateful nod and takes a deep pull, relishing the cool, crisp bite of it. It’s not nearly enough to wash away the bitter taste of rejection that’s taken up permanent residence on his tongue, but it’s a start.

Ross watches him, shrewd eyes seeing far too much, as always. The bastard’s too perceptive for his own good sometimes. “Alright, out with it then. What’s got you looking like someone pissed in your Weet-Bix?”

“Piss off,” Tim grumbles, picking at the damp label on his bottle. “Told you earlier, I’m just knackered.”

“Ah,” Ross nods sagely, leaning back against the faded cushions. “This is about Dale, isn’t it?”

Tim glares at him and then sighs, his shoulders drooping. “I just...” He trails off with a helpless shrug, struggling to put the tangled mess of his thoughts into words. “I thought we had a moment the other night, y’know? But now...”

Now it’s like it never even happened. Like it was all some fever dream conjured up by Tim’s lonely, wanting subconscious. A cruel trick of the mind.

Ross lets out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Timmo. You really are gone on him, aren’t you?”

Tipping his head back against the couch, Tim stares up at the water-stained ceiling, tracing the spiderweb of cracks with tired eyes. “Fucking tragic, right?”

“Little bit, yeah,” Ross agrees, nodding. “Pathetic, really.”

“Thanks ever so. You’re a real comfort, you know that?” Tim aims for sarcastic but it just comes out sounding exhausted. Defeated.

“I’m just saying, maybe it’s time you get back out there, yeah? Find yourself a nice bloke. One who’s not, what was it you said about Dale?”

Tim’s nose wrinkles before he huffs out a laugh, finally catching onto what Ross is saying. “Repressed?”

“Right, repressed.” Tim snorts then, and Ross kicks at his leg half-heartedly. “Oi, I’m trying to be supportive here, you dickhead.” Ross takes another swig of his beer, considering. “Look, all I’m saying is, there are plenty of other blokes out there who’d kill for a go with you. Ones who aren’t, y’know. Like that.”

Tim sighs. He knows Ross is trying to help, but he just... he can’t let go of Dale. Not yet. Not while there’s still a chance, however small, that he might feel the same.

He remembers how Dale looked at him by the pool, eyes dark and hungry, lips parted. The spark that jumped between them, the pure, raw want that hit him like a sucker punch. He couldn’t have imagined that, could he? Couldn’t have projected his own desperate longing onto Dale, seeing something that wasn’t there. There has to be more to it. There has to be.

“That club you’re always banging on about,” Ross continues, oblivious to Tim’s spiralling thoughts. “What’s it called again? Club three-six-something?”

“Three-nine-seven,” Tim corrects automatically. He frowns, not liking where this is going. “What about it?”

Ross grins, a wicked glint in his eye. “Well, why don’t you try there? Plenty of blokes to take your mind off Dale. Get you out of this bloody funk you’re in.”

Tim’s gut twists at the thought. The idea of losing himself in the heat of a stranger’s body, skin on anonymous skin, is tempting. So fucking tempting. But even as he considers it, Dale’s face swims into focus. Shy smiles and stormy blue eyes, the elegant line of his throat and the perfect curve of his mouth. The way he makes Tim’s pulse jump and his breath catch. The way he consumes Tim’s every waking thought.

Fuck.

Shaking his head, Tim downs the rest of his beer in one long pull. “I don’t know, mate,” he says at last, the words heavy on his tongue. “Not sure I’m in the mood for all that.”

Ross shrugs. “Alright, suit yourself. But anytime you need a wingman, I’m your man.”

Despite himself, Tim feels a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Cheers, mate. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And if you’re worried about your dance moves I could—”

“Oi! My moves are fucking legendary, I’ll have you know,” Tim cuts in, indignant.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Timmo. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Wanker,” Tim laughs, shoving at his shoulder, making Ross squawk at him when he spills beer on his shirt. This right here, this easy banter, is why Ross is his best mate. Not many straight blokes would be so willing to go to a gay club, either.

Ross nods, satisfied, and pushes himself up off the couch. “Right then. Another?” He gestures to Tim’s empty bottle.

Tim hesitates for a moment, considering. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he’s got an early call tomorrow and showing up hungover won’t do him any favours, but the thought of going home to his empty flat, of lying in bed with nothing but his own miserable thoughts for company, is too much to bear. Besides, one more won’t hurt.

Famous last words, those.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of cheap beer, cheaper whisky, and talking shit. They trade stupid stories and sling half-hearted insults until Tim can barely keep his eyes open. He passes out on Ross’ couch, face planted in a cushion, lost in dreams of blue eyes and soft hair, strong hands and warm skin. Everything he wants but can never have.

The next morning dawns bright and merciless, sunlight lancing through the gap in the curtains like a javelin to the skull. Tim groans, rolling over and burying his face in the crook of his elbow. His mouth tastes like something crawled in there and died, and his head is pounding like a bass drum. How much did he have last night?

“Morning, sunshine!” Ross’ voice is entirely too cheerful for whatever godawful hour it is. “Coffee’s on the counter and your suitcase is in the hall. Might want to hurry, or we’ll be late for work.”

Work. Fuck. Tim hauls himself upright with a groan and the room spins sickeningly around him. He fumbles for the mug Ross has left on the coffee table, downing the contents in three scalding gulps. It’s tar-black and bitter as sin, but it helps clear the fog from his brain, chasing away the worst of the cobwebs.

He staggers to the bathroom to change and splash some water on his face. The man looking back at him in the mirror has dark circles under his eyes and a pallor that speaks of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. He looks like shit, and he feels even worse.

The drive to the station is a blur. Tim slumps in the passenger seat with his eyes closed, trying to will his headache away. It doesn’t work, but by the time they pull into the car park, he feels marginally more human, the coffee and paracetamol he’d choked down finally kicking in.

He follows Ross into the building, the familiar bustle and chatter of the newsroom washing over him, and he scans the room out of habit. His gaze snags on a familiar figure bent over Noelene’s desk in the corner. Dale. His heart stutters in his chest, a response he can’t seem to shake.

As if sensing his presence, Dale glances up, their eyes meeting across the room. For a moment, Tim forgets how to breathe, pinned in place by the intensity of that gaze. Then Dale smiles, small and hesitant, and raises a hand in a half-wave.

Tim’s stomach swoops, a giddy rush of hope and confusion and longing tangling in his gut. He lifts his own hand in response, feeling like an absolute fool, but unable to stop the answering grin that spreads across his face.

Maybe Ross was right. Maybe it is time to move on, to stop pining after someone who would never want him back. But as he watches Dale turn back to his work, Tim knows it won’t be that easy. He’s in too deep, too far gone to just let go.

For better or worse, Dale Jennings has a hold on him and Tim doesn’t know how to break free.

Time crawls by, each day bleeding into the next in an endless, miserable slog. A week passes, then two, a month, and Tim’s still stuck in the same rut, his head and heart locked in a bitter tug-of-war that leaves him wrung out and raw.

Ross’ words echo in his mind on a maddening loop, a broken record he can’t shake no matter how hard he tries. Get over it, Timmo. Find another bloke. Stop bloody pining, you daft git.

Easier said than done. Tim’s traitorous heart refuses to get with the programme, clinging stubbornly to the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t imagined this thing between him and Dale.

But Dale seems hell-bent on pretending like Darwin never happened. Oh, he’s happy enough to invade Tim’s space in the cramped quarters of the van, their thighs pressed together, shoulders bumping. He can actually look Tim in the eye, too. Hold a conversation now without looking like a spooked rabbit poised to bolt. But anytime Tim tries to steer things into the territory he’s desperate to explore, Dale shuts down, throws up those walls and retreats. It’s maddening.

Logically, Tim knows he should let it go, should stop mooning the bloke. Sure, a quick, no-strings fumble in a club bathroom sounds tempting. Getting lost in the heat of a stranger’s body, skin on skin, riding that fleeting high... But he can’t. He’s tried. Twice. Both times ended up with him feeling like utter shite.

Christ, he’s embarrassing. A grown man pining like some lovesick teenager, all sweaty palms and fluttering pulse. Ross is right — he needs to get a grip.

The gossip has died down some, at least. There are still plenty who’d swear on their Nan’s grave that Dale and Helen are screwing on the sly. Cheryl’s the worst of the lot. She never misses a chance to hold court, gleefully recounting how she caught them in Helen’s office not once, but twice. Load of bollocks, that, but people eat it up, tittering behind their hands like old women.

‘Course, rumour also has it Helen’s been spotted out with some posh, pretty-boy lawyer. All slick suits and expensive aftershave. The kind of bloke who looks like he’s never had a hair out of place in his life. Some of the girls in the newsroom seem to think she’s cut Dale loose, chewed him up and spit him out, and Tim might buy it if the two of them weren’t still thick as thieves, forever huddled together, lost in hushed conversation. Practically joined at the hip these days.

Like right now.

Tim watches from across the room as Dale leans in close to Helen, murmuring something in her ear that makes her laugh, bright and carefree. The sound carries, drawing curious glances from the others, but they pay them no mind, too wrapped up in each other to notice. Or care. And the look Dale gives her — fuck. Soft and fond and so bloody smitten. Like she’s the centre of his whole damn universe and he’s just happy to orbit her.

It’s like a punch to the gut, seeing them like this. So easy, so comfortable in each other’s space. Jealousy rises like bile in his throat, thick and choking. He’s drowning in it, scrabbling for purchase and coming up empty. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.

“Oi, Timmo! Anyone home?”

Fingers snap an inch from his nose and Tim starts, blinking owlishly up at Ross. “Yeah,” he grumbles, dragging a hand over his face. “Just thinking.”

“Right, well, pack it in, would you? Not a good look on you, mate.” Ross smirks, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye that sets Tim’s teeth on edge. “Now, what d’you reckon about this royal wedding business? Load of old rubbish if you ask me...”

“Mm.” Tim grunts, only half-listening as Ross’ words fade to an indistinct buzz. His gaze drifts back to Dale and Helen, a magnetic pull he’s powerless to resist. As he watches, Helen rests a hand on Dale’s knee and leaves it there. Proprietary. Lingering.

Staking her claim.

Maybe she’s right to. Maybe that’s just how it’s meant to be.

Dale-and-Helen. Helen-and-Dale.

“Change the bloody station, mate,” Ross whines from the passenger seat, making a grab for the radio dial as the distinctive twang of Bowie’s voice fills the car. “Can’t stand this rubbish. Can’t even tell what the wanker’s on about half the time.”

Tim slaps his hand away with a scowl. “Hey, hands off! You know the rules — driver picks the tunes.”

“Since when?” Ross demands, rubbing his knuckles where Tim whacked him.

“Since the dawn of time, mate.” Tim quirks a challenging brow at him before turning his attention back to the road ahead. “‘Sides, not my fault you’ve got shit taste in music.”

From the backseat, Rob lets out an amused snort. “Are they always like this?”

Glancing in the rear-view, Tim catches Dale rolling his eyes, looking equal parts amused and exasperated.

“Unfortunately,” Dale sighs, sounding like a long-suffering dad refereeing squabbling kids. “You learn to block it out. Mostly.”

For a fleeting instant, their eyes meet in the mirror, but then Dale looks away, his eyes darting to the window like he’s been scalded, his face carefully blank. Tim feels it though, that phantom tingle lingering under his skin, and he grins to himself as he cranks the volume, letting Bowie’s joyous wail blast through the speakers.

“As long as we’re together, the rest can go to hell,” Tim half-mumbles, half-sings along, drumming his hands against the steering wheel.

Ross groans, slumping down in his seat like a petulant child. “Bloody fantastic,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, stop your whinging, you big baby. It’s not a long drive.” Tim reaches over to ruffle Ross’ hair, laughing when Ross swats at him irritably.

“Hands on the wheel, you mad bastard! You tryin’ to get us killed?”

“Aww, Rossco, I didn’t know you cared!” Tim flutters his lashes at him, grinning like an idiot. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, mate. I’ll get us there in one piece. Promise.”

“Sure you will,” Ross mutters darkly.

As their destination looms ahead, Tim glances at Dale again in the mirror. He’s fidgeting restlessly, long fingers plucking at the knees of his trousers, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s a bullshit story they’re filming, a royal wedding puff piece, but he knows that Dale’s an anxious mess.

Tim also knows he’ll be the one stuck wrangling Rob all day, trying to coach him through his lines and make sure he doesn’t fuck it up too badly, all while Dale hovers anxiously and micromanages every last detail. Brilliant.

But it’s important to Dale, so Tim will suck it up and play nice. He’ll banter with Rob, keep things light and breezy, and do his best to talk Dale off the ledge when he inevitably starts spiralling. That’s what mates do, right? And despite the unresolved...whatever it is simmering between them, the lingering looks and charged silences, that’s what they are. Mates. Colleagues. Nothing more.

As long as he keeps telling himself that, maybe one day he’ll actually believe it.

They’re still bickering when they pull up to the Lincoln, Ross needling Tim about his driving and Tim gleefully giving him the finger in response. Dale and Rob trail behind them as they head inside, Dale’s face pinched with nerves, his shoulders tense.

Tim’s just put a coin in the meter when the world explodes around him.

The force of the blast knocks him off his feet, and he lands hard on his back, the breath rushing out of him in a pained wheeze.

Bloody hell, what just happened? Some kind of gas main explosion? Tim’s mind races, trying to make sense of it, but he can’t focus, can’t think past the ringing in his ears and the adrenaline surging through his veins.

Slowly, painfully, he pushes himself upright. Around him, car alarms blare, nearly drowned out by the approaching wail of sirens.

And then Tim remembers — Dale. Ross. Shit, where are they? Are they hurt? Panic claws at his throat and he staggers to his feet.

Taking a walk to clear his head seems like a solid plan. Asking Dale to tag along, offering him a shot at walking off the shock, might not be the smartest move but seeing Dale so rattled, looking so lost as he radios the station, practically pleading for someone to tell his mum he’s alright… Well, Tim’s not made of stone, is he?

Ross gives them a look as they walk by the back of the van, one eyebrow raised in a silent what’s going on?, but Tim just shakes his head, mouthing later before falling into step beside Dale.

The walk back is quiet, both of them lost in their own heads. Sirens still echo in the distance, a stark reminder of the chaos they just left behind, and Tim’s mind is a whirlwind, bits and pieces of the day crashing together as he tries to wrap his head around it all. The bomb, the frantic rush to set up the live cross, the sheer terror of it all… He’s not sure how he survived, how he pulled off the technical save that Dale — that they all — needed so badly. But he did. He fucking did. And he’s alive.

It’s deserted when they arrive. Locked up and boarded shut. No shocker there, really. The entire area is eerily quiet.

While Dale pounds on the door, Tim rips a board off a window and climbs into the bar. The wood splinters beneath his fingers, jagged edges catching on his skin, but he barely feels it, too focused on getting inside. He’s grateful when Dale follows without so much as a peep of protest. He thinks back to Darwin, when Dale and Helen argued about principles and integrity, their voices rising in the streets, but he doesn’t breathe a word now, and thank fuck for that, because Tim might throttle him if he starts whinging about breaking and entering.

It doesn’t look as bad now that the dust has settled. The bar is still standing, at least, even if the furniture is overturned and debris litters the floor. Shards of glass crunch underfoot as Tim picks his way through the wreckage.

Tim knows he should just grab their equipment and go, he really does, but shit, he could use a proper drink right about now. Something to steady his hammering heart, to blunt the razor’s edge of his shot nerves. He makes a beeline for the bar, rummaging around until he unearths a bottle of vodka. It’ll have to do.

He grabs a couple of shot glasses, trying to steady his shaking hands as he sets them on the weathered bartop. The soft clink of glass on wood is deafening in the heavy silence.

“Reckon we earned these after the day we’ve had.” Tim tosses a wry smile over his shoulder at Dale, but it feels a bit forced.

Dale nods, a jerky dip of his chin, his face ashen beneath the gleam of sweat shining on his forehead. His throat bobs as he gulps and, for a second, Tim thinks he’s finally going to say something, but the moment slips by and Tim turns back to the glasses, sloshing in the vodka. The biting reek of booze mingles with the warm, heady scent of Dale’s aftershave.

It’s only then that Tim realises just how close Dale is standing. When did that happen? He could’ve sworn there was a good foot of space between them a second ago, but now... now he can feel the heat radiating off Dale’s body.

And there it is again. That… that feeling that always seems to grow between them when they’re alone. The same tension that’s been driving Tim mad since the day they met, the thing he felt that night under the stars and again by the pool in Darwin. It’s always there, simmering just under the surface, and Tim can’t be imagining it. He can’t be the only one who feels this, whatever the hell it is.

Dale has to sense it too. He has to.

Heart pounding, Tim turns to face Dale head-on, bracing himself for whatever comes next. This close, he can make out every detail of Dale’s face — the flecks of gold in those stormy blue eyes, the smattering of freckles across his nose, the tense set of his jaw as he takes shallow, shaky breaths. Even rattled and on edge, he’s still the most beautiful thing Tim’s ever seen.

Tim hesitates, a sinking feeling of déjà vu settling in his gut. This is too much like Darwin, the air between them too thick with unspoken possibility, and he’s not sure he can handle Dale shutting him down again. Is it even worth the risk? Dale’s made his stance pretty bloody clear, and the last thing Tim wants is for him to go running to Lindsay, claiming harassment or some shit. The mere thought makes Tim’s stomach roil, bile rising in the back of his throat.

No. He can’t chance it. Can’t jeopardise everything on the off chance Dale might actually want this too.

Swallowing hard, Tim takes a deliberate step back, putting some much-needed space between them. He leans heavily against the bar, fingers curling around the edge in a white-knuckled grip as he stares down at the abandoned shot glasses. He’s tempted to knock them both back himself, let the burn of cheap vodka numb his senses completely.

But then Dale’s moving, shifting his weight, and Tim can’t stop his gaze from snapping to him like a compass seeking north. The look on Dale’s face steals the breath from Tim’s lungs — there’s unmistakable heat simmering in those blue eyes, dark and intense in a way Tim’s only caught glimpses of before. Dale’s focus drops to Tim’s mouth, his pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, an echo of that moment in Darwin. Only this time, the naked want written all over Dale’s face is impossible to misread or ignore.

Tim’s pulse kicks into overdrive, his blood singing in his veins.

“Dale, what—”

The words die on a sharp inhale as Dale surges forward, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him close. Their lips crash together, and for a moment, Tim’s brain short-circuits, unable to process that this is really happening, that Dale Jennings is kissing him like his very existence depends on it.

But then instinct takes over and Tim is kissing him back with equal fervour, one hand coming up to cradle Dale’s jaw, tilting his head just so, deepening the kiss.

Fuck, the way Dale kisses — intense and focused, like Tim’s the only thing that matters. Blunt nails scrape against Tim’s scalp as Dale’s fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to send sparks of pleasure-pain dancing down Tim’s spine. They’re pressed together from chest to hip, the solid heat of Dale’s body searing through the thin layers of their clothes, and Tim can’t hold back the groan that rumbles up from his chest as he feels Dale hardening against him.

It’s almost too much — the slick slide of their lips, the insistent press of Dale’s erection against his thigh, the needy little noises Dale keeps making, like he’s starving for it, like he might just die if Tim stops kissing him.

As badly as Tim wants to let this spiral out of control, to surrender to the inferno raging between them, he knows he needs to rein it in. He wants to take his time with this, to commit every hitched breath and bitten-off curse and full-body shudder to memory as he learns the taste of Dale’s mouth, the cut of his jaw, the curve of his throat.

So Tim gentles the kiss, using the hand on Dale’s jaw to temper the clash of their mouths into something deep and drugging. Dale goes pliant against him, melting into the languid slide of Tim’s lips, and a soft sigh shudders out of him as Tim licks into his mouth, slow and filthy and perfect. He tastes even better than Tim ever dared to imagine. Mint and nicotine and something richer underneath. Something Tim knows he’ll never get enough of.

Keeping one hand on Dale’s jaw, Tim lets the other wander, sliding down the long line of Dale’s back to press just above the tantalising swell of his arse, and Dale arches into him with a throaty moan, hands slipping from Tim’s hair to clutch at his shoulders. The full-body shudder that wracks Dale’s frame is the hottest thing Tim’s ever felt. He wants to strip Dale bare, lay him out and take him to pieces until he’s shaking apart in Tim’s arms, until Tim’s name is the only word he remembers.

But not here, not in this dingy pub where anyone could stumble in and catch them. Dale deserves better than a quick, frantic fumble. He deserves to be loved, worshipped in all the ways Tim’s dreamt about for months.

It takes a Herculean effort, but Tim slows the kiss even further, easing it back to feather-light brushes and teasing flicks of tongue until they’re just breathing each other’s air. He slides his hands to Dale’s hips and rests his forehead against Dale’s.

Dale makes a wounded noise, his fingers twisting in Tim’s shirt, clinging like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s trying to convince himself this is real.

Tim is too. Having Dale here, warm and real and so goddamn perfect in his arms, feels like a dream he never wants to wake up from. Part of him is still waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under him, for reality to come crashing back in and leave him cold and alone, with nothing but the ghost of Dale’s touch and the ache of unfulfilled longing. But this is real. Dale is real. He’s pliant and needy against him, and for the first time in far too long, Tim allows himself to hope. To believe that maybe, just maybe, he actually gets to have this. To keep Dale.

It’d be so easy, so fucking easy, to surge forward and claim Dale’s mouth again in a bruising kiss but Tim resists. Instead, he brushes his lips feather-light over the scar at the corner of Dale’s mouth, achingly tender, a barely-there caress that somehow feels more intimate than anything they’ve done so far. A broken, desperate sound escapes Dale’s throat, and Christ, they need to get out of here before Tim loses the last shred of his self-control and does something insane like shove Dale against the bar and drop to his knees.

He’s a breath away from suggesting they go back to his, or even Dale’s, anywhere he can lay Dale out and take him apart inch by glorious inch... but before he can get the words out, a loud banging on the window frame shatters the moment, startling them apart.

“Oi, lovebirds!” Ross calls out and Tim turns around to see him leaning against the window frame, wearing the most infuriatingly smug grin Tim has ever seen. “As thrilled as I am that you two have finally pulled your heads out of your arses, some of us have places to be. So if you could hurry it up, that’d be grand.”

“Rack off, Ross,” Tim grumbles, rolling his eyes when Ross waggles his eyebrows at them. He can feel his face flushing, heat crawling up the back of his neck, and he just knows Ross is going to be insufferable later. Still, even the embarrassment of being caught out can’t dampen the giddy elation fizzing through his veins, the sheer disbelieving joy of having Dale in his arms.

Tim’s still glaring at Ross — good-naturedly, mind you — when he feels Dale press closer, hiding his face in the crook of Tim’s neck. Tim smiles, turning to nuzzle against Dale’s temple, some teasing remark on the tip of his tongue, but the shudder that wracks Dale’s frame stops him in his tracks.

At first, he assumes Dale’s just embarrassed at being caught out, but then he feels the dampness soaking through his shirt, hears the muffled, choked sobs that Dale can’t quite swallow back. Fuck.

“Hey, hey, Dale,” Tim murmurs, one hand coming up to cup the back of Dale’s neck, fingers carding through the soft hair at his nape. He rubs his thumb back and forth, trying to soothe, but it only seems to make Dale shake harder, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps. “Shh, it’s alright. I’ve got you.” Gently, Tim eases Dale back, just enough to look him in the eye. “Dale, c’mon, look at me.”

Dale resists at first, stubbornly keeping his face tucked against Tim’s shoulder, but slowly, reluctantly, he lifts his head. When Tim finally gets a good look at him, his heart just about breaks at the sight. Dale’s eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, tears clumping his lashes together, and his cheeks are blotchy and damp. It isn’t embarrassment that colours his expression, but fear — raw and visceral, etched into every line of his face.

“Oh, Dale,” Tim breathes, leaning in to press a soft, tender kiss to Dale’s lips. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, lips brushing Dale’s as he speaks, “you’re safe. Nothing’s going to happen.” He keeps up the soft, barely-there kisses until he feels Dale start to relax, the tension bleeding out of him bit by bit. Tim gets it, he does. It’s a lot to process, this shift between them, and with the adrenaline of the day still buzzing under their skin... well, it’s no wonder Dale’s a bit of a mess. Tim’s honestly impressed he’s holding it together as well as he is.

“There we go,” Tim murmurs as Dale sags against him, hands unclenching from Tim’s shirt to slide around his waist instead. “Better?”

Dale nods, managing a wobbly smile. “Yeah. Sorry, I’m just...”

“Don’t apologise.” Tim presses a kiss to the corner of Dale’s mouth, lingering for a moment before pulling back. “It’s been a hell of a day. You’re entitled to a bit of a wobble.”

That startles a weak chuckle out of Dale. “Suppose so. Still, we should...” He gestures vaguely at the mess of the pub around them. “The equipment...”

“Right, yeah.” Tim takes a reluctant step back, immediately missing the warmth of Dale’s body against his. He holds out his hand, an unspoken question in the set of his fingers. “Shall we, then?”

Dale stares at Tim’s outstretched hand, something painful and yearning in his eyes, but doesn’t move to take it. After an awkward moment, Tim drops his hand, ignoring the sharp sting of disappointment, the sinking feeling in his gut. He tries to school his features, to hide the hurt that must be written all over his face, but he’s not sure he succeeds.

He starts to turn away, ready to gather up their gear, but Dale’s hand on his arm stops him. “Tim, wait—”

Tim glances back but Dale’s brow is furrowed, his mouth opening and closing like he can’t quite find the words. The silence stretches, heavy with everything left unsaid.

“Yeah?” Tim prompts when he can’t stand it anymore.

Dale takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Could we... I need to...” He trails off again, looking lost.

Tim takes pity on him, offering a soft smile. “We’ll talk. Whenever you’re ready.”

A half-hopeful, half-terrified expression crosses Dale’s face, the emotions warring in those expressive blue eyes. His throat works as he swallows hard, a shaky breath escaping his parted lips.

“A proper talk,” Tim promises, his voice low and earnest. He reaches out to squeeze Dale’s shoulder, his touch lingering, thumb brushing over the tense muscles. Relief washes over him when Dale leans into the touch instead of flinching away, seeking comfort in the simple contact. “But first, let’s get our stuff and get out of here before Ross kills us.” He grins, warm and wide, and then, hoping to bring a smile back to Dale’s face, he adds, “You can finally see your mum, tell her you’re okay, yeah?”

But Dale’s expression doesn’t clear. If anything, he looks more terrified than before. “My mum,” he echoes, voice rough with something Tim can’t identify. His gaze grows distant, and he looks right through Tim as if he isn’t even there, lost in some dark tangle of thoughts. Tim wants to reach out, wants to pull Dale back from whatever brink he’s teetering on, but, after a moment, Dale just nods again, a sharp bob of his head, and moves away to start gathering their equipment.

As Tim watches him work, a sinking feeling settles in his gut, a niggling sense that he’s just stumbled into something far more complicated than he ever bargained for.

What the fuck has he got himself into?

Notes:

Happy Monday everyone. I honestly thought I'd posted this last week but I must have had a very convincing dream about it. Oh well, better late than never.

Chapter 4 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

One minute Tim’s shooting the breeze with another cameraman by the water cooler, he can’t remember the bloke’s name but he seems decent enough, and the next he being dragged into an empty corridor, someone’s hand clamped tight around his wrist as fluorescent lights buzz overhead.

“We need to talk,” Dale says tersely once they’re alone, eyes darting around like he’s afraid someone might overhear. Tim bites back the sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue.

It’s been weeks since that day. Weeks since their world turned upside down and that charged moment changed everything between them. At least, Tim thought it had. In the aftermath, he’d replayed it over and over in his mind. The way Dale looked at him. The way Dale touched him. The way he’d kissed him like he was drowning and Tim was air. He’d been so sure things would be different, that Dale would finally stop lying to himself.

But instead, there was only deafening silence. Not a word, not a glance, not a single acknowledgement that it even happened.

Until now.

Tim studies Dale in the harsh light, trying to read him. The stark fluorescents wash out his complexion, throwing the sharp angles of his face into high relief — jutting cheekbones, pinched brow, the grim set of his mouth. His hair is slicked back severely, and the expensive-looking suit jacket sits all wrong on his frame, buttoned-up and stifling.

“Nice jacket,” Tim comments, unable to help himself. “Let me guess, Helen picked it out?”

Dale glares but doesn’t rise to the bait. He drops Tim’s wrist like it scalds him, leaving phantom imprints of his fingers behind.

Then the words Tim’s been dreading for weeks punch the air from his lungs:

“What happened was a mistake.”

All Tim can do is stare at him in stunned silence. Because of course. Of course it was a mistake. What else would it be to a bloke like Dale?

Dale steps back, putting deliberate distance between them, as his expression twists into something ugly, something bitter and self-loathing. When he speaks again, his voice is flat and clinical.

“It was the shots,” he says. “I’m not… I would never…” He stops abruptly and rakes a hand through his hair in frustration, messing up its careful styling in one agitated motion. “I’m not a homosexual.”

Well, that’s that then. Can’t really argue with a man who refuses to admit the truth to himself.

Tim watches numbly as Dale turns to leave and, in that moment, he knows with sinking certainty that if he lets Dale walk away now, it’s over for good.

“We never drank them!” The words burst out of Tim, echoing in the empty hall. Dale freezes.

“The shots,” he says, steadier despite his trembling hands. “We never drank them.”

This time Dale stiffens visibly but he still doesn’t turn to face Tim.

“It wasn’t vodka or adrenaline or any other bullshit excuse you’ve got lined up. It was us, me and you, and it was real.”

But Dale just shakes his head and keeps walking. Out of Tim’s life for good.

A sharp jab to the ribs snaps Tim back to reality. He whips his head around to glare at Ross, his eyes narrowing.

“Quit gawking at him like that, you numpty,” Ross mutters under his breath, his voice a low warning meant only for Tim’s ears.

“Huh? I wasn’t—” Tim starts to protest.

“Don’t give me that bollocks. You were practically boring holes into the back of his head with that thousand-yard stare of yours,” Ross cuts him off, shaking his head. “Keep it up and he’s liable to think you’ve gone round the bend.”

“Oh piss off, I wasn’t staring,” Tim grumbles defensively, even as a flush of embarrassment creeps up his neck. He wasn’t. He was just, well, thinking. And staring off into space. He didn’t even realise he was looking in Dale’s direction. Really.

Ross just fixes him with a look, one eyebrow cocked. “Right, well, whatever the hell you want to call that little display, best rein it in, yeah? Before you well and truly freak the poor sod out.”

Tim rolls his eyes and turns away from Ross, only to find Dale looking at him, brows furrowed in adorable confusion. He gives him a quick smile, warmth spreading through his body when Dale smiles shyly in return, before attempting to tune back into whatever conversation Ross and Rob are having about the footy.

Tim’s mind is a hazy mess, thoughts scattered and blurred in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, when the knock jolts him awake. It’s not a gentle tap, no — it’s a goddamn assault on the door, a frantic pounding that shakes the hinges and sends Tim’s heart racing like a jackrabbit on crack. He stumbles out of bed, bare feet hitting the frigid linoleum, the icy cold seeping into his sleep-warm skin like a sadistic lover’s caress. But the shiver that rips through him isn’t just from the cold. No. It’s anticipation. A visceral, bone-deep certainty that something is about to happen.

His fingers fumble with the lock, clumsy with sleep, and the door swings open with a creak straight out of a B-grade horror flick. And there he is — Dale. Fucking Dale.

He looks like he’s stepped straight out of Tim’s most depraved fantasies. His eyes are wild, wide and desperate, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them like he hasn’t slept in days. His shirt is a disaster, half-buttoned and clinging to his chest, the collar a sloppy mess that reveals a patch of smooth, sweat-slick skin that makes Tim’s mouth water like he’s been denied for weeks. His chest heaves with every breath, his lips parted, and Tim can practically smell the heat radiating off him.

“Dale?” Tim croaks, his voice gravelly and raw with sleep, but Dale doesn’t say a fucking word. He just steps inside, slamming the door shut with a bang that reverberates through the tiny flat. In a flash, Dale’s fist is twisted in Tim’s sleep shirt, the flimsy fabric ripping under his grip as he hauls Tim forward, slamming their bodies together so hard it steals the breath from Tim’s lungs.

The kiss is messy as hell, a desperate, sloppy clash of lips and teeth and tongues that sends sparks of electricity straight to Tim’s cock. Dale’s tongue is hot and demanding, fucking into Tim’s mouth with a hunger that borders on manic, and Tim groans, the sound muffled by Dale’s lips, his hands flying to Dale’s shoulders to steady himself as his knees threaten to buckle.

When Dale finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to drop to his knees. The action is so sudden, so goddamn desperate, that Tim doesn’t have time to process what’s happening until he feels Dale’s fingers hook into the waistband of his sleep shorts. With a single, savage tug, Dale yanks them down, and Tim’s cock springs free, already throbbing and slick with pre-cum.

And Dale? Dale doesn’t waste a second. He wraps his lips around Tim’s cock like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have, sucking him down with a desperation that makes Tim’s toes curl. His tongue swirls around the head, teasing the slit, and —

“Fuck, Dale,” Tim chokes out, his hands tangling in Dale’s hair as his hips buck forward, driving his cock deeper into that sinful mouth. Dale takes it like he was fucking made for it, his throat relaxing as he swallows Tim down, his nose pressed against the wiry curls at the base. It’s mind-blowing. It’s wet and merciless, dragging moan after moan from Tim’s lips as Dale works him over like a man possessed.

It takes all of Tim’s self-control to lift his head from where it’s resting against the wall to look down at him and holy shit, Dale’s smirking at him. The cocky bastard is smirking around his cock, his eyes glinting wickedly as he bobs his head in a rhythm that’s almost too fucking perfect. And the sounds they’re making are obscene. Filthy slurps and muffled groans that echo through the flat, and Tim couldn’t give a flying fuck who hears them; all he cares about is the way Dale’s tongue is driving him out of his goddamn mind, flicking over that sweet spot just under the head of his cock.

His legs are shaking now, his breath coming in harsh pants as heat pools low in his groin. He’s so close, so fucking close — and then, fuck, he’s coming, spilling hot down Dale’s eager throat. Dale swallows every last drop like it’s the sweetest nectar, his tongue coaxing out every trembling pulse from Tim’s spent cock until he’s completely drained.

After, Tim slumps bonelessly against the wall, mind blown from the earth-shattering orgasm and the knowledge that Dale fucking Jennings was the one to give it to him. He’s so dazed, so shattered, that all he can do is stare blankly as Dale rises to his feet, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Listen, Tim,” he says, his voice rough. “We can’t do this again.”

Tim’s heart plummets. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. His brain is short-circuiting, caught between the lingering bliss and the dawning horror of rejection.

“I like you,” Dale continues, running a hand through his tousled hair, “I really do. But there’s too much at stake, I can’t risk it.”

He leans in, crushing his lips to Tim’s in a bruising kiss, and Tim tastes himself on Dale’s tongue before he pulls back, face unreadable.

“But thank you. I really needed to get this out of my system.”

With that, he turns and walks out, leaving Tim alone in the cold, empty flat, the taste of heartbreak bitter on his tongue.

Tim blinks awake, sunlight streaming sharply through the gaps in his curtains, washing the room in an unforgiving brightness that makes him groan softly in protest. His body is heavy, uncooperative, as he flops one arm over his face in an attempt to shield himself from reality for just a little longer.

But reality has other plans.

The faint throbbing between his legs is impossible to ignore — a physical reminder of that dream. Or was it a nightmare? He isn’t entirely sure.

“Well,” Tim mutters hoarsely to himself. “That was... something.”

He lets out a dry laugh. It isn’t exactly the most unrealistic dream his subconscious has conjured up over the last few days (there’d been that one about Dale fleeing to the Arctic, after all), but, still, it was a mess. And Dale definitely doesn’t know how to suck dick like that.

He briefly considers having a wank just to clear his head and move on with his day like any normal person would. But even as his hand hovers indecisively above the waistband of his boxers, he hesitates.

“Nope,” he says firmly after a moment, dropping both arms onto the mattress with an exaggerated huff of frustration. “Not doing this.”

Not with Dale’s face still haunting him — those piercing eyes and that maddening smirk etched into every corner of his mind.

Sighing heavily, Tim flips onto his stomach instead, burying his face into the pillow as if that might somehow muffle both the persistent throb between his legs and the equally persistent ache in his chest. It doesn’t help much, not really, but it’s better than giving in and letting himself spiral further down this path.

For now, ignoring it would have to do.

“Dale, Noelene wants to know—” Tim stops dead in his tracks, one hand still on the door handle as he takes in the scene in front of him.

There’s Dale, collapsed against his desk, face flushed with the unmistakable glow of a man lost in ecstasy. His mouth hangs open, ragged breaths escaping. And then there’s Helen, nestled between his splayed legs, one hand buried deep beneath the fabric of his trousers, working him over with an expert rhythm that has Dale’s hips twitching. Her other hand is entwined in Dale’s sweat-drenched hair, gripping tight, holding him in place.

Well, fuck. Looks like Cheryl was telling the truth after all. Tim had brushed off her whispered rumours, not wanting to believe, but he can’t deny what he’s seeing right in front of him.

Despite wishing he could turn and run, pretend this never happened, he remains rooted to the spot, white-knuckling the doorknob like a lifeline. Helen throws a coy wink over her shoulder at him, her eyes glinting, possessive, and Tim wants to scream.

Reality comes crashing back as the car veers sharply, tires screeching against the asphalt, jolting Tim from his reverie. His heart races, adrenaline surging through his veins.

Fuck. He’s got to quit torturing himself like this. It’s only going to end in disaster, especially if he’s in the car when he’s indulging in one of his fucked up little daydreams. One of these days he’s going to get himself killed, wrapped around a street lamp while his imagination runs wild.

He grips the wheel tighter, forcing air into his lungs as he swerves back into position on the road. It’s only been a week — a fucking week — and Tim’s driving himself mad thinking about what-ifs and worst case scenarios.

Dale needs time, Tim knows he does, and he just needs to accept that. He just hopes that Dale comes to him sooner, rather than later.

Sooner comes quicker than Tim expected.

The next day, Tim’s unloading the gear from the van, grunting and swearing as he hauls the heavy equipment. Ross, the bastard, has already pissed off home early, going on about some bird he fancies, and left Tim to deal with this shit all by himself. Typical Ross, the useless git.

Ah well, it could be worse. At least this way he can get it sorted and maybe even nick out a bit early to catch the North Melbourne match on the radio. With any luck, those tossers will get their arses handed to them by Hawthorn. And then Hawthorn can go fuck themselves too.

He’s nearly finished when he hears the thud of dress shoes on concrete getting closer. Tim tenses up. It’s probably that knob Lindsay or one of the other suits coming to have a go at him over something. Bloody brilliant. There goes his chance of catching the footy.

Soon enough, the footsteps come to a stop just behind him. Tim ignores whoever it is, keeping his head down and fiddling with the cables, hoping they’ll just take the hint and bugger off.

No such luck. The person clears their throat pointedly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tim mutters under his breath. Heaving an irritated sigh, he straightens up and whirls around, a cutting remark ready on his tongue. But the words die in his throat when he sees who it is.

Dale. Of course it’s Dale.

He’s hovering awkwardly, hands jammed in his trouser pockets and shoulders hunched like he’s trying to fold in on himself, but there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, shy and a bit uncertain.

“Hello,” he says softly, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the grimy concrete.

“Hello yourself,” Tim replies. He leans a hip against the van, trying for casual even as his heart kicks into double-time. “How’s things? Been a hell of a week.”

Dale shrugs, still not quite meeting Tim’s eyes. “Oh, you know. Getting by. You?”

“Ah, same shit, different day. Trying to keep my head down, you know.” When Dale still doesn’t look at him, Tim has to physically stop himself from reaching out to tilt Dale’s face up so those blue eyes will meet his. Christ, he’s in deep with this one.

Dale nods, chewing on his bottom lip. “Right, of course. Makes sense.”

An awkward silence stretches out between them and Tim shifts his weight from foot to foot. For once he wishes Dale wasn’t so hard to get a read on. A minute passes, maybe two, and Tim’s just about to give up and get back to work when Dale takes a shaky breath.

“Listen, Tim, can we — can we talk? Like you said?”

Tim’s heart stutters, a confusing mix of hope and dread swirling in his gut, knowing exactly what Dale’s talking about. He shrugs, forcing himself to answer casually. “Sure, when and where?”

Colour blooms high on Dale’s cheeks as he fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a bit of paper. He holds it out to Tim, their fingers brushing as Tim takes it. “Could you come round to my place? Tonight?” Dale’s voice goes up at the end, making it a question. “Around eight?”

Tim unfolds the paper to see Dale’s address written in his tidy handwriting. His mouth goes dry. Shit. Dale just invited him over. To talk. Alone. Tonight.

Somehow, fuck knows how, he manages to say, “Yeah, alright. I’ll be there,” and he’s pretty sure Dale doesn’t hear the tremor in his voice because the relieved, happy smile Dale gives him is dazzling.

“Great! That’s really great.” Dale jerks his head back towards the door. “Well, I should probably…”

“’Course, yeah. See you tonight.”

With a final nod, Dale turns and walks away. Tim watches him go, hope and fear warring in his chest.

By the time Tim pulls up to Dale’s building, his nerves are completely shot. His hands tremble against the steering wheel, his heart pounds a staccato rhythm in his chest, and, for a moment, he seriously considers just turning the car around and driving off, pretending this never happened.

But he can’t do that to Dale. Not after he specifically invited Tim over to talk. Tim owes it to both of them to see this through, no matter how much it scares him.

“Get your shit together, you bloody idiot,” he mutters, glaring at his reflection in the rear-view. The man staring back looks half mental, eyes a bit wild and a flush creeping up his neck that won’t calm down no matter how much he tries to breathe through it. Bloody hell, he’s a mess. Swallowing hard, he tears his gaze away before the mirror can make him feel any worse about himself.

Christ, he’s being ridiculous. It’s just Dale. Just a talk. No big deal.

Right. Who’s he kidding? Everything about Dale Jennings has been a big fucking deal from day one.

Dragging in a deep breath that absolutely nothing to steady him, Tim wrenches the car door open before he loses his bottle completely. His legs like jelly as he climbs the stairs to Dale’s flat and he has to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans twice before he works up the nerve to knock.

The door swings open so quick it nearly startles Tim out of his skin and Dale is standing on the other side of the threshold. And bugger him sideways if Dale doesn’t look absolutely perfect, the gorgeous bastard.

He’s still in his work clothes but he’s lost the tie and undone the top buttons of his shirt, giving Tim a peek at his collarbone that short-circuits his brain. Sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms sprinkled with hair that glints gold in the light... Christ, is that even allowed? Looks a bit ruffled too, like he’s been wearing a hole in the carpet waiting for Tim to show up.

“H-hi,” Dale stammers out, all soft and breathy, like he can’t quite believe Tim’s here. Like Tim showing up is some kind of miracle rather than a prearranged plan. His lips twitch upward into something shy and uncertain — a smile that doesn’t quite reach its full potential but still manages to knock Tim off balance.

Tim clears his throat and tries desperately to pull himself together before he starts openly gawking like some moon-eyed teenager. “’Course I did,” he says with a grin. “Even managed not to get lost. Do I get a gold star?” He shoots Dale his best cheeky grin.

Dale huffs a little laugh, shaking his head, and Tim feels some of the tightness in his chest ease up.

“Well, come on in then,” Dale says, stepping back to usher Tim inside with an awkward little wave.

Tim toes off his shoes and follows Dale in. The flat’s exactly how he pictured it would be — cosy and lived-in, a bit cluttered in a way that feels inviting rather than messy. Stacks of well-read books everywhere, records by the turntable, houseplants in the windows. Very normal.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” Dale’s voice drifts over from the couch, the slight waver betraying his nerves. Seems like Tim’s not the only one feeling a bit out of sorts here.

“God, yes,” Tim replies, perhaps a tad too eagerly. He clears his throat, aiming for nonchalance. “Don’t suppose you’ve got anything a bit stronger though?”

Dale’s lips quirk into a tiny smile. “Fresh out of whisky, I’m afraid. Tea will have to do.” He heads for the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, I’ll just be a minute.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Tim alone in the living room. The quiet is unnerving, broken only by the distant clink of mugs and a soft humming that has to be Dale. It’s so painfully domestic that Tim’s chest aches with wanting.

Tim takes the opportunity to snoop— er, take in his surroundings. Every detail feels so distinctly Dale that Tim finds himself trying to imagine Dale inhabiting this space. He pictures him curled up on that couch with one of those books in hand, a steaming mug of coffee balanced precariously on the armrest. Or perhaps singing in cheerful, off-key bursts — Tim already knows that Dale can’t carry a tune to save his life — while stirring something on the stove top. The thought makes Tim’s lips twitch into an unbidden smile.

But then another scene creeps into his mind: himself in this space too. He imagines sitting beside Dale on that same couch, their shoulders brushing as they share quiet moments in front of the telly or music. The thought is dangerous, indulgent even, but it clings to him like static. His chest tightens with longing before he shakes his head sharply, trying to banish the image. Christ, he thinks bitterly. Get a grip, Timmo.

His eyes fall on a tall bookshelf in the corner next. Intrigued by its neat rows of VHS tapes — each one meticulously labelled in Dale’s careful handwriting — he steps closer for a better look. They’re stories. Ones that Dale’s covered in the past. The Challenger disaster, the observatory, Russell Street, it’s all here.

“Bloody hell,” Tim mutters with a low chuckle as he tilts his head to read the titles. Does he sit down and rewatch these for fun? He files the thought away for later. There might be time for teasing if this conversation goes well. If it doesn’t… Well, best not to dwell on that now.

The record collection is next and Tim can’t resist flipping through, curious what other surprises Dale might be hiding. Bowie, Springsteen, even Madonna — not bad, Jennings, not bad at all. But then his fingers stop dead on a particular record. His eyebrows shoot upward, and an incredulous laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it.

“I bloody knew it!” he crows loud enough for Dale to hear him through the walls. “You’re a Wham! fan!”

The clatter from the kitchen stops abruptly. A beat, then Dale appears in the doorway, a sheepish flush colouring his cheeks. He crosses his arms, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

“I most certainly am not,” he protests primly, though his voice wavers just enough to make Tim smirk wider.

He raises the offending record sleeve like a trophy above his head — the unmistakable cover of Make It Big practically gleaming under the light. “Can’t argue with hard evidence,” he says smugly.

Dale scowls at him before stalking forwards. “Owning one album,” he retorts archly, snatching it back and sliding it into its rightful place on the shelf with exaggerated precision, “doesn’t make me a fan.”

Tim grins, wide and wicked. “Oh, I think it does. Bet you know all the words to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’, don’t you? C’mon, give us a verse…”

“Tea,” Dale interrupts abruptly as if changing the subject will save him from further embarrassment. “It’s almost done.”

Tim smirks, determined not to let him off the hook that easily. “Come on, Dale, just one verse and I’ll never mention it again.”

Dale rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth. “Shut it, you. I’m not singing for you.”

“Spoilsport.” Tim pouts, but there’s laughter in his voice. This is good, this easy back-and-forth. Familiar territory, something to cling to in all the uncertainty.

The kettle whistles and Dale jumps a bit, seemingly grateful for the distraction. “Right, tea,” he babbles, already beating a hasty retreat to the kitchen, and Tim chuckles, warmth blooming in his chest that has nothing to do with the promise of a hot cuppa. This is really happening. He’s really here, in Dale’s flat, and they’re going to talk.

Fuck, he hopes he doesn’t bollocks it up.

Dale returns a few moments later, two steaming mugs in hand. He places them carefully on the coffee table before perching tensely on the very edge of the sofa cushion, poised as if ready to bolt at any second. An uncomfortable silence stretches between them, seemingly endless, until Dale shifts and pats the space beside him, an awkward but clear invitation. Tim hesitates for a split second before crossing the room. His legs feel heavier than they should, every step deliberate, as though he’s walking toward something irreversible. He sinks onto the sofa, keeping just enough space between them to not crowd Dale but close enough that their knees almost brush. His heart is pounding so loudly he’s sure Dale can hear it.

It’s mad, really, how fast everything’s shifted. Just minutes ago, they were laughing together, Tim ribbing Dale about his dodgy music taste. But now? Now it feels like all that warmth has been sucked out of the room, leaving only this suffocating stillness. Tim swallows hard, wishing he could rewind time, go back to that moment where teasing and banter were all that mattered, but that isn’t what he’s here for. No, Tim’s here because Dale has something to say, and Tim’s absolutely terrified of what it might be.

The silence drags on for what feels like a fucking eternity, but finally, finally, Dale clears his throat. It’s a small sound, rough and uncertain, but it slices through the quiet like a knife.

“So, er…” Dale starts, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers drum nervously against his thigh as he glances up at Tim before quickly looking away again. “I suppose we should talk.”

Tim gives a curt nod but keeps his mouth shut for now. He’s not sure he trusts himself to speak yet without saying something stupid. Instead, he mirrors Dale’s posture, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, trying to project an air of calm even as his heart races.

Dale sucks in a shuddery breath and drags a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “Tim, I…” He falters almost immediately, the words catching in his throat. For a moment, it looks like he might give up entirely, like whatever courage brought him this far is about to desert him. Then he lets out a breathy laugh, self-deprecating and tinged with frustration. “You know,” he says with a fleeting glance at Tim, “I actually wrote this all down. Practised it in front of the mirror and everything.” He huffs out another laugh that doesn’t sound quite right. “Figured if I rehearsed enough times, I wouldn’t… choke.”

Tim can’t help it — a small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth despite everything. “Yeah,” he says lightly, hoping to ease some of the tension crackling between them. “Sounds like you.”

But instead of relaxing into the joke like Tim hopes he will, Dale stiffens visibly. His eyes snap up to meet Tim’s with a flash of hurt that makes Tim’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks sharply, his voice laced with defensiveness.

Shit. Tim feels heat rise to his cheeks as panic flares in his chest. Why does he always manage to say the wrong thing when it comes to Dale?

“Fuck, no, that’s not—” he stammers quickly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” He makes himself maintain eye contact even though it kicks his heart rate up another notch. “Just that, y’know, you’re always so focused on getting things right. That’s all.”

Dale blinks at him for a long moment before some of the stiffness bleeds out of his shoulders. “Oh. I… suppose that’s fair,” he concedes quietly, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face before vanishing again. “I do tend to overthink things.”

“Exactly. And for the record, you don’t need to have some perfect speech prepared, alright? If you wrote it down, you could just read it to me,” Tim suggests, nodding towards Dale’s fidgeting hands.

But Dale shakes his head firmly. “No, I… I need to just say it. Get it out there.”

Silence stretches between them again, taut and suffocating. Then Dale takes a deep, bracing breath, like he’s steeling himself.

“I’m not gay,” he says abruptly, the words almost tripping over each other in their haste to escape.

Tim doesn’t flinch (not outwardly anyway) but something inside him lurches violently at those three words. He doesn’t respond immediately; instead, he tilts his head slightly and raises one eyebrow in silent question.

Dale catches the look and scowls faintly as if daring Tim to challenge him further. “I’m not,” he insists stubbornly but there’s no fire behind the words, only quiet desperation.

“I believe you,” Tim says after a moment, not unkindly but without any particular inflection either.

In truth, he’s not sure what to believe. Dale certainly kissed him like he liked men — like he wanted Tim, specifically, with a desperate sort of hunger that still makes Tim’s pulse race when he thinks about it. You don’t kiss someone like that if you’re not at least a little bit into blokes, right? But Tim’s been around long enough, spoke to enough blokes with a lot of different, er, preferences, to know it isn’t that easy, even if he’d like it to be.

Dale exhales slowly. “I like women too, which makes everything so much worse, but I’ve always felt this pull towards men…” He trails off, shaking his head and huffing out a frustrated breath. “I’m messing this up already. What I’m trying to say is… my whole life, I’ve just wanted to be normal. To fit in. To live up to what’s expected of me. Be the perfect son, the reliable employee. I didn’t want to let my mum down, not again.”

Tim’s brow furrows in concern, not knowing what Dale means by that, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting Dale get it all out.

“But then you happened,” Dale continues raggedly, shifting closer until their knees bump together. His eyes bore into Tim’s, desperate and searching. “You come along and suddenly I’m feeling things I’ve never — things I’ve always tried so hard not to feel. Things I’m terrified of feeling.”

The last words are barely a whisper, raw with painful honesty. Tim’s chest aches with it.

“I tried so hard to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t happening. I even threw myself at Helen, like an idiot, hoping that maybe my feelings for her would, I don’t even know, erase how I feel about you.” Dale laughs bitterly, the sound catching in his throat. “Kissed her after we got back from Darwin, practically begged her to want me back. How pathetic is that?”

Tim sucks in a sharp breath, Dale’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. The thought of Dale with Helen, of him wanting her, needing her, makes Tim feel like he’s been hollowed out.

“But it didn’t work,” Dale continues quickly, almost frantically, like he can see the hurt written all over Tim’s face. “Of course it didn’t bloody work. Because all I could think about, even when I was kissing her, was you.”

Tim’s eyes sting and he blinks rapidly, determined not to let the tears fall. Not now, not when Dale is sitting here pouring his heart out, finally being honest in a way Tim never thought he would be.

“I’m just so tired of fighting this,” Dale whispers brokenly, a few tears sliding down his flushed cheeks. “I’m so tired of lying to myself, of hating myself.”

And Tim breaks. He reaches out with a shaking hand to cup Dale’s jaw, stubble rasping against his palm, and Dale stills, breath catching. But he doesn’t pull away. Just keeps talking, brave and terrified and so heart-breakingly honest...

“When we…” Dale hesitates, his cheeks flushing pink. “When we kissed last week it felt right. Like everything finally made sense. But I didn’t know what to do with that. I still don’t, really.” He exhales shakily. “So I went to Helen for advice.”

Of all the things Tim expected Dale to say tonight, this wasn’t even on the list. His head jerks back slightly in surprise as disbelief floods him. Helen bloody Norville? Helen knows? Knows about them, about what happened after the bombing? About Dale-and-Tim? Well, bugger.

“We’re good friends now,” Dale continues with soft laugh, one tinged with disbelief. “Apparently, it only takes one disastrous kiss to get on Helen’s good side for life.” He smirks faintly at that like he can’t quite believe it himself.

And despite everything, Tim feels an unexpected smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He’s never been sure about Helen, about her relationship with Dale, and he still wants — no, needs — to know more about this… this kiss, but at least that explains why they’ve been so close since Darwin. Cheryl and her oh, I saw them in Helen’s office can go fuck themselves.

“She already knew how I feel about you,” Dale continues, oblivious to Tim’s racing thoughts. “I don’t know how she knew but she did. Looked me right in the eye and called me a bloody idiot for kissing her.”

Tim snorts at that despite himself because yeah… that does sound exactly like something Helen would say.

“And this last week?” Dale presses on with a faint smirk tugging at his lips now — a smirk that isn’t entirely convincing but comes close enough to remind Tim just how much he loves that look on him. “She’s been on at me to just… just tell you how I feel.”

Something inside Tim tightens at those words, something equal parts hope and dread because hearing them out loud makes this all so much more real. Dale leans into Tim’s hand then, not just leaning but fully pressing into it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded in this moment. His cheek rests against Tim’s palm; his eyes flutter closed briefly before opening again.

“So… this is me telling you,” Dale whispers, his eyes never leaving Tim’s. “I like you, Tim Ahern. I’m terrified, but I want to be with you. Even though I know you deserve better than a mess like me, I can’t stop wanting you.”

He turns his head slightly, pressing a feather-light kiss to Tim’s palm that sends goosebumps skittering up his arm. “I’m selfish enough to ask you to take a chance on me anyway.”

And Tim? Well, Tim doesn’t know what to say. Hell, he doesn’t even know if he can say anything right now because every thought in his head is tangled up in knots. All he knows is that Dale — beautiful, maddening, incredible Dale — is sitting right here in front of him being so brave that it takes everything Tim has not to pull him into his arms right then and there.

They’ll need to talk about this properly later, he knows that much for certain. It’s as clear as fucking day that Dale has some things he needs to work through; the way he talks about himself makes that painfully obvious. But right now? Right now none of that matters because all Tim can think about, all he cares about, is how much courage it must have taken for Dale to put himself out there like this.

Almost on instinct, Tim raises his other hand to frame Dale’s face, cradling it like something precious. Dale’s skin is warm against his palms, and he can’t resist brushing his thumbs over those sharp cheekbones, tracing soothing circles.

“You’re wrong,” Tim says eventually. “About not being good enough. You’re so wrong, because you… Christ, Dale. You’re everything.”

Dale makes a tiny, wounded sound that lodges in Tim’s chest.

“And if you want this, want me? Then I’m all yours, Dale Jennings. Have been from the start, haven’t I?”

A wobbly laugh bursts out of Dale, his eyes shining, and really, what else can Tim do but surge forward and kiss him senseless?

Notes:

*waves sheepishly*
Hello, friends! I haven't forgot about this fic (I say at the end of a new chapter) but life has been hectic — don't work a 9-5, kids, don't do it — and I found this chapter really difficult to write. I hated the original draft I had, and several subsequent drafts, but this is what I landed on and it's good enough for what I have planned for the final two chapters to work so here it is.
Anyway, Dale and Tim have finally talked about their feelings! Dale still hasn't explained why he's like he is, but he will one day, and they're on their way to being happy together.

Chapter 5 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Two weeks isn’t enough time to fall in love. Not really. But Tim and Dale have been Tim-and-Dale for exactly that amount of time, just fourteen days, when Tim realises he’s utterly, hopelessly fucked.

He’s sprawled on the floor at Dale’s place, his back against the foot of the couch, the lingering taste of cheap red wine coating his tongue. It’s bitter and slightly metallic, but Dale’s bare ankle is pressed against his thigh, a point of heat that seeps through the denim of Tim’s jeans.

“You know what’s weird?” Tim says, tipping his head back to look at Dale. He can’t really see him from this angle but he doesn’t care.

“Hmm?”

“I’ve spent more time in your flat this last two weeks than my own.”

Dale shifts, his ankle sliding an inch higher against Tim’s thigh. “Is that a complaint or an observation?”

“Just an observation,” he replies lightly. “Your place is nicer than mine anyway.”

“Liar,” Dale laughs and the sound is warm and rich and Tim wants to drown in it. It makes him feels light-headed, like he’s drunk. Although, to be fair, that could also be the shit wine they’re drinking. The bottle stands half-empty on the coffee table, its cheap label peeling at the corners.

Dale is sitting behind him on the couch, absorbed in some historical murder mystery set in Italy. It’s not something Tim would usually reach for but Dale likes it and that’s enough to pique Tim’s interest.

“What’s happening in your book?” Tim asks, tilting his head back further to glimpse the cover. The spine is cracked from use, the pages dog-eared and well-loved, but it’s new to Dale. Some op shop find from last weekend when they’d ducked in to escape a sudden downpour. Tim remembers how Dale’s eyes had lit up when he’d spotted it on the shelf, how he’d clutched it to his chest like a treasure.

“Some cardinal just got poisoned at a feast,” Dale replies, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that sends a pleasant shiver down Tim’s spine. “Everyone’s a suspect. Even the pope.”

“Especially the pope, I’d say.”

“Mmm, that’s what I’m thinking too.” Dale’s voice has that edge to it, the one that means he’s smiling, and Tim wishes he could see it properly.

Then, Dale’s fingers find their way into Tim’s hair. The touch seems almost accidental at first, just the barest graze of fingertips against his scalp, but then Dale’s hand settles more firmly, carding through the strands with an absent sort of tenderness that makes Tim’s heart slam against his ribs. The gentle scrape of Dale’s short nails sends cascades of shivers down his neck, raising goosebumps that spread across his shoulders and down his arms.

Tim fights the urge to lean into the touch like a cat. He loses.

“Your hair’s getting long,” Dale murmurs, and Tim feels him twist a curl around his finger, tugging just slightly.

Tim swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. He reaches for his wine glass but doesn’t drink, just holds it, needing something to do with his hands. “Been too busy to get it cut.”

“I like it.”

Three words. Just three ordinary words, but they hit Tim like a freight train. The tension drains from his shoulders, and he sinks a little lower against the couch, a little closer to Dale’s legs. It’s pathetic, really. Here he is, practically purring at the barest hint of affection, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Dale’s clever fingers are scratching lightly at his scalp, sending little sparks of pleasure through his entire body.

“Feels nice,” he admits quietly, the words escaping before he can think better of it.

“Yeah?” There’s a smile in Dale’s voice, warm and pleased. “Good.”

Tim wants to freeze this moment, preserve it in amber. The quiet rasp of pages turning, the hum of the refrigerator, the muted symphony of the city filtering through the window — car horns blaring, the bass thump of music from the pub down the street, someone’s distant laughter. He wants to memorise every detail, especially the grounding weight of Dale’s touch, the way his fingers move through Tim’s hair as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.

“What are you thinking about?” Dale asks. His thumb brushes the shell of Tim’s ear and Tim has to bite his lip to stop a low groan escaping his throat.

“Nothing,” Tim lies. “Just zoning out.”

“Liar.” There’s no heat in the accusation, just fondness. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where your eyebrows do that thing.” Dale moves his hand to brush his thumb against the crease between Tim’s brows. The pad of his thumb is slightly calloused, rough against the smooth skin of Tim’s forehead. “Right there.”

Tim doesn’t reply. He can’t. His breath is caught somewhere in his chest, trapped by the gentle pressure of Dale’s thumb against his skin. Instead, he wiggles his toes against the rug, restless energy thrumming under his skin as he listens to the steady rhythm of Dale’s breathing above him.

For a moment, there’s just the sound of their breathing, slightly out of sync, and the occasional rustle as Dale turns a page in his book. Tim’s mind wanders, drifting in the comfortable silence.

“You could stay,” Dale says suddenly. “Tonight, I mean.”

Tim’s pulse jumps, a quick staccato. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dale’s fingers continue their gentle exploration, tracing the curve of Tim’s ear. “It’s late. And it’s raining.”

Tim listens, and sure enough, there’s the soft patter of raindrops against the window. When did that start?

“I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”

Sometimes, just sometimes, Tim is his own worst enemy because why the fuck did he just say that? Now Dale’s going to think that Tim doesn’t want to stay over and nothing could be further from the truth. No, Tim wants to stay forever and fuck, that’s terrifying.

Dale snorts, oblivious to Tim’s inner turmoil. “I’ve got spares. And you left a t-shirt here last week.”

Tim remembers. He’d left it deliberately, leaving a little piece of himself behind in Dale’s space. Part of that whole wanting to stay forever thing he’s got going on right now.

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” Dale’s voice is soft but certain. “More wine?”

Tim makes an affirmative noise as reaches for the bottle on the coffee table, passing it back to Dale without pouring any more into his glass. He’s had enough, thank you very much, and he’ll remind Dale to choose the wine next time because clearly Tim can’t be trusted on that front.

Dale pours some into his glass before taking a sip, and Tim can imagine the way his nose wrinkles in disgust. “Nope, that still tastes awful,” he mutters. “Almost like turpentine.”

The glass makes a soft clink as Dale sets it down on the side table, pushing it away as if even being close to the glass might contaminate him further.

“And how would you know what turpentine tastes like?” Tim asks, twisting his torso to look up at Dale properly. His neck cranes at an uncomfortable angle, but it’s worth it to see Dale’s face. Tim feels his own lips curve into a cheeky grin. “Huffing paint thinner as a kid, were you?”

Dale rolls his eyes, but Tim doesn’t miss the way the corner of his mouth twitches upward, fighting against a smile. The light catches on Dale’s eyelashes, casting feathery shadows on his cheeks.

“I had a perfectly normal childhood, thank you.” Dale’s words are warm and filled with mock indignation. His fingers find their way back to Tim’s hair, resuming their gentle exploration. “You telling me you never tried anything weird on a dare?”

Tim leans into the touch, a contented sigh escaping before he can catch it. “Not after the Great Mint Sauce Fiasco of ’64. Nearly killed me, that.”

“The what now?”

Dale’s voice shifts, curiosity colouring his tone. Tim feels the couch cushions dip as Dale leans forward, his body heat radiating closer. When Tim glances up, Dale’s book is splayed open on the armrest, forgotten, and his eyes are crinkled at the corners, amusement dancing in them.

“You can’t just drop that and not explain.”

Dale’s thumb traces a small circle at the base of Tim’s skull and Tim’s skin prickles pleasantly under the touch. He considers playing coy, dragging it out, but the genuine interest in Dale’s expression is too tempting to resist.

“It’s not that interesting,” Tim hedges, even as warmth blooms in his chest at Dale’s undivided attention. The words feel false on his tongue; he’s actually dying to tell Dale, to share this silly piece of himself. “Just me being stupid.”

“Tell me anyway,” Dale insists. His fingers work deeper into Tim’s hair, massaging his scalp with just the right amount of pressure. Tim feels himself melting under the touch, his muscles loosening one by one. “I want to know all your embarrassing childhood stories.”

“Fine, but only because you’re petting me.” Tim closes his eyes, surrendering completely to the sensation. The tension in his neck dissolves as he tilts his head back further, giving Dale better access. “So there was this kid, Jamie Phillips, absolute nightmare...”

When Tim reaches the climax of his story, a laugh bursts from Dale, bright and uninhibited. The sound hits Tim like a physical force, reverberating through his chest and zinging through his veins like pure dopamine. He curls in on himself, grinning so hard his cheeks ache. Christ, he could listen to Dale laugh like that for hours.

“You didn’t,” Dale gasps. His chest heaves with laughter, each breath warm against the top of Tim’s head. “You actually drank it?”

“The whole bloody bottle,” Tim confirms, his own laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him. The memory, embarrassing as it is, feels transformed by Dale’s delight. “Mum found me green-faced in the bathroom an hour later. Thought I was dying.”

“You might’ve been!”

Dale’s laughter gradually subsides into chuckles, his hand sliding from Tim’s hair to rest on the nape of his neck. The weight of it is grounding, his palm warm against Tim’s skin. Tim feels the slight callus on Dale’s thumb as it traces the top of his spine.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” Dale says, the words threaded with affection.

“Yeah, well.” Tim tilts his head back, meeting Dale’s gaze directly. Dale’s eyes are soft in the low light and the skin around them is crinkled with residual laughter. “You like it.”

Something shifts in Dale’s expression then, his smile softening into something more tender, more vulnerable. His fingers flex slightly against Tim’s neck, not quite a squeeze, but a deliberate pressure.

“I do.”

The simple admission presses against Tim’s lungs until it’s hard to breathe.

Is this what love feels like? This fizzy, expansive feeling in his chest, like his heart is too big for his ribs? Like he’s simultaneously more grounded and more untethered than he’s ever been?

Fuck, he’s in trouble.

Two weeks is, however, enough time for Tim to figure out that Dale enjoys kissing. Not just the quick, perfunctory press of lips that Tim’s grown accustomed to with previous partners. Not those hasty, almost apologetic pecks that feel like an obligation rather than a desire. No, Dale loves the entire languid process of it.

It always begins the same way, with Dale’s eyes flicking to Tim’s mouth, his pupils dilating slightly as his gaze lingers there. Tim has started to recognise this look, the way Dale’s attention narrows and focuses, how his breathing changes, growing just a touch shallower. Then comes the gradual surrender as Dale leans in, his breath warm against Tim’s face, carrying the faint notes of wine or tea or whatever they’ve been drinking. Sometimes there’s the barest hint of coffee from hours earlier, bitter and rich underneath everything else. Their breathing synchronises until Tim can’t tell where his exhale ends and Dale’s inhale begins, like they’re sharing one set of lungs between them.

Dale kisses like it’s his purpose in life. Sometimes with a fierce hunger that leaves Tim dizzy and gasping, his fingers clutching at Dale’s shirt just to stay upright, the fabric bunching between his knuckles. Other times with a gentle reverence, Dale’s thumbs stroking his cheekbones as if Tim might shatter under too much pressure, the touch so light it’s barely there at all. But always, always with his full attention, as if nothing in the world exists beyond the points where their bodies connect.

Tim knows this because they’ve spent approximately seventy percent of their time together doing exactly that. Kissing in Dale’s lounge until their lips are swollen and tender, Tim’s mouth feeling bruised in the best possible way. Kissing against Tim’s kitchen counter while the kettle boils over, steam fogging the window as Dale lets Tim crowd him against the laminate surface, the edge probably digging into his back. Kissing in the narrow hallway of Dale’s flat when Tim arrives with takeaway, the paper bags crinkling between them, forgotten as Dale’s hands find Tim’s face, and again when he reluctantly leaves, Dale’s fingers hooked into his belt loops to keep him there just a moment longer, the fabric pulling taut against Tim’s hips.

And now, now they’re in Tim’s lounge, and the room is dim except for the city’s sodium glow filtering through the thin curtains, casting strange shadows across Dale’s features. Dale’s hair smells faintly of laundry powder and cigarette smoke. The latter, Tim knows, is residue from the old men who crowd the back garden of Dale’s building, passing around rollies and complaints about the state of the world in equal measure. Dale rarely smokes but it clings to him anyway.

As Dale’s lips slide against his own, Tim finds himself cataloguing everything: the texture of Dale’s stubble against his palm, slightly rough but not unpleasantly. The barely-there curve of a dimple that appears when Dale smiles against his mouth. The way Dale has learnt him so quickly, fingers finding the sensitive spot at the nape of Tim’s neck without hesitation, applying just the right amount of pressure to make Tim’s skin prickle with goosebumps.

“Shit,” Tim mutters, shifting slightly on the couch as something digs into his thigh. “I think the springs are about to poke through my arse.”

Dale huffs a laugh directly into his mouth, the sound vibrating against Tim’s lips, warm and intimate, and then he pushes in harder, scattering the thread of conversation to dust.

It’s embarrassing how quickly Tim falls apart, how urgent his own hands become. He palms the back of Dale’s head, drawing him closer, fingers threading through soft hair that’s just starting to curl at the ends, slightly damp at the roots from the light rain they’d walked through earlier. Dale makes a small, pleased sound in the back of his throat that Tim feels more than hears, a vibration that travels from Dale’s chest to his own, and suddenly the space between them feels like too much, an unbearable distance even though they’re pressed together from chest to knee.

“Can I...” Dale breaks the kiss, his voice rough in a way that sends heat spiralling through Tim’s belly, pooling low and insistent. Dale’s pupils are blown wide, leaving just a thin ring of blue around the edges. “Would it be alright if I...”

Tim nods without hesitation, perfectly willing to let Dale do whatever the fuck he wants with him. Dale rises slightly, his weight lifting from the cushion beside Tim, and then, oh God, he’s swinging one leg over Tim’s thighs, settling his weight carefully.

Tim’s first thought is, Jesus, you can’t just do that, but that’s immediately eclipsed by his second thought, which runs more or less, Oh. Oh. Because Dale is solid and warm and gorgeous in his lap, knees pressed into the cushions on either side of Tim’s hips, and Tim can feel the heat of him everywhere they touch.

“Is this okay?” Dale asks, his voice pitched low in a way Tim rarely hears.

“More than,” Tim manages, his voice cracking embarrassingly. His hands slide up Dale’s sides, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath the jumper, the expansion of Dale’s ribs as he inhales. “It’s… shit, Dale.”

Dale’s lips, always a little chapped (Tim’s noticed how he bites them when he’s thinking), press to the corner of Tim’s jaw, then under his ear, tracing a path that’s probably illegal in several counties. The slight roughness of Dale’s mouth against the sensitive skin there sends a jolt down Tim’s spine, electric and immediate, and Tim tilts his head back, giving Dale better access. He’s rewarded with the gentle scrape of teeth against skin, a deliberate pressure that makes his toes curl inside his socks.

“Fuck,” Tim breathes, more exhale than sound. His hands slip under the hem of Dale’s jumper just as Dale’s press against his chest, fingers splayed wide over Tim’s sternum. Dale’s skin is furnace-hot against his palms, smooth and impossibly soft. Tim spreads his fingers wide, mapping the subtle ridges of his ribs, the slight softness at his sides where his waist curves inward.

Dale shivers at the touch, his breath hitching audibly. “Your hands are cold,” he whispers against Tim’s throat, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he presses closer, his weight shifting forward until they’re chest to chest, Dale’s thighs a bracket around Tim’s hips, his knees digging into the worn cushions.

“Sorry,” Tim says, not sorry at all. He moves his hands higher, tracing the knobs of Dale’s spine, feeling the way Dale arches into the touch like a cat, his back bowing slightly. The movement presses their hips together more firmly, and Tim has to bite back a groan. “I can stop if you want.”

“Don’t.” Dale pulls back just enough to look at Tim, his eyes serious despite the flush high on his cheekbones. “I like your hands on me.”

Suddenly, Tim is aware of how fast his heart is beating, how shallow his breathing has become. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dale confirms, and then he’s leaning in again, capturing Tim’s mouth in a kiss that’s deeper, hungrier than before. His fingers tangle in Tim’s hair, tugging just enough to send sparks dancing down Tim’s spine, and Tim makes a sound that would be mortifying if he had the capacity to feel embarrassed right now, a needy whimper that catches in his throat. Thankfully, all he can focus on is the press of Dale’s body against his, the weight of him in Tim’s lap.

He can feel Dale’s cock hard against his own through their trousers, the rigid length pressing into his hip with each subtle shift of Dale’s weight. It’s too much and nowhere near enough all at once. Tim’s fingers tighten involuntarily at Dale’s waist, digging into the soft flesh there before he forces them to relax. He settles for tracing small, hesitant circles with his thumbs against Dale’s ribs, feeling the warm skin beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Fucking hell.

The need to move is overwhelming, a physical ache that travels from his groin up through his belly and into his chest. He wants to thrust upward, to feel Dale’s weight bearing down on him, to chase the building heat between them until they’re both gasping and desperate. His thighs tremble with the effort of holding still, muscles tense beneath Dale’s weight, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t grind up against Dale the way every cell in his body is screaming at him to.

Because they’ve only been together for a fortnight and Dale, Christ, Dale has never been with a man before. It feels too soon for this, too much too fast, and Tim’s been almost painfully careful not to assume anything, not to expect more than Dale is ready to give. Not to push or pull or demand. He’s been letting Dale take the lead, following his cues with a patience that surprises even himself.

Even when it leaves Tim aching and frustrated, lying awake at three in the morning with his sheets twisted around his legs, skin burning with the memory of Dale’s touch. Even when he’s forced to stumble to the shower in the dark, turning the dial to cold until his teeth chatter and his fingers go numb, trying to wash away the persistent want that clings to him like a second skin.

“Tim,” Dale breathes, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Tim’s. His eyes are closed and his breath comes in short, shallow pants that Tim can feel against his lips, warm and damp. “I want—”

Well, fuck.

“What do you want?” Tim asks as he slides his hands back down to Dale’s hips, fingers curling around the sharp bones there. Dale’s eyes flutter open just as Tim squeezes.

Dale’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, a nervous gesture that draws Tim’s gaze. “I want you.”

Tim’s throat clicks as he swallows before he says, “You have me,” and it comes out more honest than he intended.

“No, I mean—” Dale shifts his weight, a deliberate movement that sends a jolt of pleasure up Tim’s spine. “I want this. Us. Like this.”

Tim’s brain short-circuits for a moment, struggling to process Dale’s words through the haze of arousal. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because we don’t have to—”

“I’m sure,” Dale interrupts, his voice steady despite the flush that’s spreading down his neck. He rocks forward again, more deliberately this time, and Tim can’t suppress the groan that escapes him. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. For days.”

The admission sends heat pooling low in Tim’s belly. He skims his hands up Dale’s sides, feeling the slight tremor that runs through him. “Tell me,” Tim all but demands. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.”

Dale’s eyes darken. “Your hands,” he gasps. “How they’d feel on me. Everywhere.”

Tim’s breath catches as Dale grasps his hand underneath his jumper, guiding it to press Tim’s palm flat against his stomach.

“Like this?” Tim asks, sliding his hands higher, feeling the rapid rise and fall of Dale’s chest.

“Yes.” Dale eyes flutter closed again. “Just like that.”

The sight of Dale like this — flushed and wanting, moving against him with increasing urgency — is almost too much to bear. Tim surges forward, capturing Dale’s mouth in a bruising kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperation. Dale responds immediately, his hands coming up to frame Tim’s face.

“Can I—” Tim starts, breaking away to trail kisses down Dale’s throat. “Would it be okay if I touched you? Properly, I mean.”

Dale nods, a jerky movement that betrays his eagerness. “Please,” he begs, the word catching on a gasp as Tim nips at the sensitive skin just below his ear.

Tim’s hands shake slightly as he reaches for Dale’s belt, fumbling with the buckle. It’s ridiculous. He’s done this countless times before, but never with Dale, never with someone who matters quite this much. The metal clinks as he works it open, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room.

“Is this okay?” Tim asks again, needing to be sure, needing to hear Dale say it.

“Yes.” Dale’s voice is firmer now and he covers Tim’s hands with his own, guiding them. “More than okay. I want this, Tim. I want you.”

The zip slides down with a metallic rasp, and then Tim’s hand is slipping inside, palm pressing against the hard length of Dale’s cock through his boxers. Dale’s breath hitches, a small sound that sends heat coursing through Tim’s veins.

“Christ,” Tim murmurs, watching Dale’s face as he traces the outline of his cock with his fingertips. ”You’re gorgeous like this.”

Dale’s hips buck into the touch, seeking more pressure. “Tim, please.”

And how could Tim possibly deny him anything when he asks like that?

Tim slips his fingers beneath the waistband of Dale’s boxers, the elastic dragging against his knuckles.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He laughs in disbelief as Dale whimpers. “Or not enough.”

Dale makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan. “It’s definitely not enough,” he whimpers, his voice strained. He shifts his weight, pressing closer, the movement creating a delicious friction between them that makes Tim’s own cock throb painfully against his fly. “More, Tim. Please.”

Tim wraps his fingers around Dale’s cock, feeling the weight of it in his palm. Dale is hot and hard and perfect, the skin impossibly soft over rigid flesh, already slick at the tip, and Tim has to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the reality of having Dale in his hand.

“Fuck,” Dale breathes, the word barely audible, a puff of warm air against Tim’s cheek. His head falls backwards, exposing the long line of his throat as Tim begins to stroke him, slow and deliberate. The angle is awkward, Tim’s wrist cramping slightly from the confined space, but he wouldn’t stop for anything. “That’s… yes, like that.”

Tim watches the way Dale’s breath catches when he twists his wrist on the upstroke, the flutter of his eyelashes when Tim runs his thumb over the head of his cock, gathering the wetness there to ease the slide of his hand. Dale’s hands have moved to Tim’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but Tim welcomes the slight pain.

“Is this good?” Tim asks, his voice rough, scraped raw with want. He needs to know, needs to hear that he’s making Dale feel good, that this is as earth-shattering for Dale as it is for him. His own arousal pulses between his legs, insistent but secondary to the need to watch Dale come apart.

“So good,” Dale gasps, his hips moving in small, aborted thrusts that push his cock through Tim’s fist. The movement jostles them both, the ancient springs of the couch creaking in protest. Dale’s face is flushed, a deep pink that spreads down his neck and disappears beneath his collar, and Tim wants to follow that blush with his mouth, to taste every inch of him. “Don’t stop.”

Tim has no intention of stopping, not when Dale is falling apart in his lap, making those small, desperate sounds that Tim wants to bottle and keep forever. He increases his pace slightly, tightening his grip just enough to make Dale moan, a broken sound that goes straight to Tim’s cock, making it jump against the confines of his jeans. The slide is easier now, slick with precome, and the wet sounds of his hand moving on Dale’s cock seem obscenely loud in the quiet room.

“Tim.” Dale’s voice is urgent, his fingers scrabbling at Tim’s shoulders, seeking purchase, nails digging into the fabric of Tim’s shirt. “I’m—”

“I’ve got you.” Tim presses his lips to the corner of Dale’s mouth. “Let go. I want to see you.”

Dale’s eyes fly open, startling blue, round and wet, pleading, and his mouth works around a word or a sound that never comes. For a wild second Tim thinks he might cry but then he shudders, brow creasing, and he gasps out Tim’s name, ragged, intimate, as he comes hot against Tim’s fingers, the spill of it sticky and familiar. Tim fumbles awkwardly with Dale’s boxers, wanting desperately not to make a mess but also not give a shit if he does, not when Dale looked so fucking wrecked and beautiful and alive.

Dale collapses against him, boneless and heavy, his breath coming in short, sharp pants against Tim’s neck. Tim can feel the rapid thud of Dale’s heart where their chests press together, can feel the sweat that dampens his skin.

“Oh,” Dale breathes, the word muffled against Tim’s shoulder. He shifts slightly, his weight pressing down on Tim’s still-hard cock, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through him that makes Tim bite his lip to keep from groaning.

“Good?” He runs his clean hand up Dale’s back, feeling the knobs of his spine through his shirt, the slight dampness of the fabric.

Dale huffs a laugh, the sound vibrating through Tim’s chest. “Good doesn’t begin to cover it.” He pulls back just enough to look at Tim, his eyes still dark, pupils dilated. His gaze drops to Tim’s mouth, then lower, to where Tim’s erection strains against his jeans. “Your turn, I think.”

Tim’s heart races, a sudden surge of heat flooding through him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Dale interrupts quickly, an eager blush staining his cheeks. His fingers find the button of Tim’s jeans, fumbling slightly. “Show me how?”

And, fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing Tim’s ever heard. He nods, not trusting his voice, and guides Dale’s hand to his zip. Dale’s fingers brush against him through his boxers, a tentative touch that has Tim sucking in a sharp breath.

“Like this?” Dale asks, his voice low, uncertain, as he wraps a warm hand around Tim’s cock.

“Yeah,” Tim groans, fighting the need to come immediately. “Just like that.”

Soon, Tim comes with Dale’s mouth on his, swallowing the broken sound that tears from his throat as Dale’s hand moves over him, clumsy but perfect. Dale kisses him through it, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and desperation, and Tim thinks wildly that he could die right now and it would be okay, because nothing in his life has ever felt this good, this right.

It’s not all smooth sailing, of course. As much as Dale’s been opening up, Tim can tell he’s still holding back, keeping certain parts of himself under lock and key.

“So your mum never remarried after your dad died?” Tim asks one evening.

They’re sprawled on Tim’s couch again, a blanket thrown across their legs, a half-empty pizza box balanced precariously on the coffee table. The cardboard is stained dark with grease, and the crust Tim abandoned earlier has gone cold and stiff. The air smells of garlic and Dale’s sandalwood cologne, the combination oddly comforting — spicy-sweet and savoury all at once. Tim’s stomach is pleasantly full, his body warm where it presses against Dale’s side. The cushion beneath them dips in the middle, gravity naturally pulling them together until their thighs touch from hip to knee.

Dale shifts beside him, his shoulder rubbing against Tim’s, the soft cotton of his t-shirt catching slightly on Tim’s jumper. “No. She dated a bit, years later, but nothing serious.” His fingers tap an irregular rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit Tim’s noticed before. Tap-tap-tap-pause. Tap-tap. “She always said Dad was it for her.”

Tim nods, watching the way the light from the television flickers across Dale’s profile, highlighting the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the slight bump in his nose. “My parents are like that. Disgustingly in love even after forty years.”

“Must be nice,” Dale murmurs, his voice soft, almost wistful. He reaches for his beer, the bottle slick with condensation, leaving a wet ring on the coffee table. Tim watches his throat work as he swallows, the subtle movement of his Adam’s apple, and allows himself, just for a split second, to imagine pressing a kiss to his pulse point, feeling the steady thrum of blood beneath his lips.

“What about you?” Tim asks, nudging Dale’s foot with his own under the blanket. The wool is scratchy against his bare ankle, but Dale’s skin is warm, slightly rough with hair. “Any childhood sweethearts I should be jealous of?”

Dale’s laugh sounds hollow, a brittle thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. His gaze remains fixed on the television, though Tim can tell he’s not really watching. “Hardly. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.”

“Come off it. With that face?” Tim bumps his shoulder against Dale’s, deliberately this time. “I bet you broke hearts left and right.”

Dale’s smile flickers, then fades like a candle guttering in a draft. His eyes go distant, focusing on something Tim can’t see. “You’d be surprised.” He turns his attention back to the TV and, just like that, the conversation is over.

Over the next few days, Tim tries again. He shares stories about his own childhood — the time he broke his arm climbing Mrs. Patterson’s apple tree, his first disastrous kiss with Jodie Walters behind the school gym, the summer he and his mates built a rickety treehouse that collapsed after one rainstorm.

“We were covered in mud from head to toe.” Tim laughs as he chops vegetables for the stir-fry they’re making together. Well, Tim’s making it and Dale’s keeping him company, perched on a stool at the counter, nursing a glass of red wine that stains his lips a deeper shade of pink. The knife makes a satisfying thunk against the cutting board, the clean scent of fresh peppers rising with each slice. Bright red and yellow chunks pile up, glossy under the kitchen lights. “Mum wouldn’t let us in the house until she’d hosed us down in the garden. Dad was pissing himself laughing.”

Dale smiles, looking relaxed as he leans against the kitchen counter. The wine has brought a flush to his cheeks, a warmth to his eyes that makes Tim’s chest tighten. Steam curls up between them from the wok, carrying the sharp scent of ginger and soy, making Tim’s mouth water. A drop of sweat beads at his temple from the heat of the stove, trickling down to his jaw.

“Sounds like you had a good childhood,” Dale says, taking another sip of wine. His lips leave a smudge on the rim of the glass.

“I did,” Tim agrees. He hesitates, knife hovering over a red pepper, then adds, “What about you? Any wild adventures with your mates in Bendigo?”

Dale’s expression shifts, almost imperceptibly. The smile remains, but it’s fixed now, no longer reaching his eyes. “Not really. I was pretty boring.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Tim counters. He slides the chopped vegetables into the wok, where they sizzle and pop in the hot oil, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam. “Come on, there must be something. First cigarette? Sneaking out to parties?”

“I told you about the turpentine incident, didn’t I?” Dale’s voice is light, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before. “That’s about as wild as it got.”

Tim watches Dale’s profile, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a muscle jumping at the hinge. “You never talk about your friends from back then.”

“Not much to tell.” He turns towards the stove, his back a wall between them. The line of his spine is rigid beneath his shirt. “I think this is nearly done. I’ll grab some plates.”

Later, when they’re washing up, Tim tries once more. The kitchen is warm and humid from cooking, the windows slightly fogged, blurring the city lights beyond into smears of gold and silver. Water splashes between them as Dale washes and Tim dries, their movements falling into an easy rhythm.

“So these journalism mates of yours, do you ever see them?” Tim asks, keeping his tone casual as he dries a glass. The rim squeaks against the cloth, a high, thin sound.

Dale’s hands pause under the running water, soap bubbles clinging to his wrists. A strand of hair falls across his forehead, and Tim resists the urge to brush it back. “Sometimes. Natalie’s in Sydney now, and Michelle’s in Perth. We write occasionally. Send Christmas cards.”

“What about school friends? Anyone from Bendigo still in your life?”

The small smile vanishes from Dale’s face, like a light being switched off. He passes Tim a dripping plate, water running down to his elbow in rivulets, leaving dark spots on his rolled-up sleeve. Their fingers brush, and Dale’s skin is warm despite the cooling water, slightly pruned from the suds. “Not really. I wasn’t close with many people there.”

Tim dries the plate slowly, watching Dale’s face. The overhead light casts shadows beneath his eyes, making him look suddenly tired, older. Water drips onto Tim’s socks, seeping through to his toes, but he doesn’t notice. “Why not?”

“Just wasn’t.” Dale’s voice has that edge to it now, the one that says he’s reaching his limit. His movements become more abrupt, splashing water onto the counter. It pools around the base of the dish soap, forming a slick puddle that reflects the ceiling light. “Not everyone has the charmed social life you did, Tim.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Dale sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. He turns off the tap and dries his hands on a tea towel, the fabric twisting between his fingers. A drop of water trails down his wrist, disappearing beneath the cuff of his shirt. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

Tim sets the plate down and steps closer, sliding his arms around Dale’s waist. His body is solid and warm against Tim’s, his t-shirt soft beneath Tim’s palms. Tim can feel the subtle rise and fall of Dale’s breathing, the slight give of flesh over firm muscle. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Dale leans into him, just for a moment, his forehead resting against Tim’s shoulder. His breath is warm through the thin cotton of Tim’s shirt, a damp heat that seeps through to his skin. “Thanks.” The word is muffled against Tim’s collarbone, but Tim feels it like a physical touch, the vibration of it travelling through his chest.

“But Dale,” Tim says softly, his lips close to Dale’s ear, close enough that he can smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, the lingering trace of cologne at his neck, “whatever it is, it won’t change how I feel about you.”

Dale tenses in his arms, every muscle going rigid at once. He pulls back slightly to meet Tim’s gaze, and Tim can see the pulse jumping in his throat, quick and anxious. His eyes are dark and unreadable in the low light. “You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Tim insists, his hands sliding up to cup Dale’s face. His skin is smooth against Tim’s palms. Tim can feel the heat of him, the subtle clench of his teeth beneath the skin. “Whatever happened back then—”

“Tim, please,” Dale interrupts, his voice tight, strained. His fingers wrap around Tim’s wrists, not pulling away but not yielding either. “Can we just... not? Not tonight.”

Tim studies Dale’s face, noting the tight line of his mouth, the shadow that has fallen across his features. Something happened in Bendigo, something Dale doesn’t want to revisit, and the realisation sits heavy in Tim’s chest, a cold weight that presses against his lungs. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, the air too thick.

“Okay,” he says finally, stroking his thumb along Dale’s cheekbone. “Not tonight.”

Dale’s eyes close briefly, relief washing over his features like a wave. When they open again, there’s something vulnerable there that makes Tim’s heart ache, a rawness he rarely allows anyone to see. “Thank you.”

Tim tips Dale’s face back and presses a soft, slow kiss to his mouth, feeling relief flood his body as Dale melts into him. Dale’s lips are warm and taste faintly of the stir-fry sauce, spicy and sweet with a hint of the wine he’d been drinking earlier. His hands come up to grip Tim’s shoulders and his breath catches when Tim deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue along the seam of Dale’s lips.

Whatever Dale’s hiding, whatever shadows lurk in his past, Tim wants to know. Not out of idle curiosity, but because he wants all of Dale. The good, the bad, the broken parts. He wants to gather them all up and hold them close, to say I see you. I’m here.

When they break apart, Tim picks up another plate, running the cloth over its surface in slow circles, the ceramic cool and smooth beneath his fingertips. As they work in silence, Tim can’t help but wonder what Dale is so afraid of, what memories he’s keeping locked away so tightly. The questions burn on his tongue, but he chokes them back, focusing instead on the present. On the clink of dishes, on the brush of Dale’s arm against his, on the comfortable silence that has settled between them once more.

Notes:

Let's pretend it hasn't been, ooh, almost four months since I last updated, yeah? Anyways, I hope you enjoy this (rather self-indulgent) TimDale offering and hopefully I'll be back with another chapter soon.

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luckylou on Chapter 1 Mon 17 Feb 2025 09:22PM UTC

Bless youuuu! My heart is breaking for Tim and I’m waiting for the next installment with baited breath 💕

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Feb 2025 01:41PM UTC
  
  Ahhhh, thank you!
  And yep, poor Tim. It can only get better, though, right?
  
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lakeeffect_kid on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Feb 2025 02:43AM UTC

Ohh this is going to be sweet, I know it. The beer choices would probably have been VB, Melbourne Bitter, and Carlton, you're close enough!!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Feb 2025 01:42PM UTC
  
  Thank you so much! I'll go edit that but I am pleased I managed to get two of them just from looking at old beer posters — oh, the things we do for fanfic.
  
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basure on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Feb 2025 04:29PM UTC

loving this already! i like the little touch of angst at the end, can't wait to see how this develops

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Feb 2025 01:42PM UTC
  
  Thank you!
  
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exquisitetragicthing on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Feb 2025 09:12PM UTC

I am SAT for this one 🪑 Can’t wait for another chapter! 💖 flustered Tim has my heart

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Feb 2025 01:43PM UTC
  
  Ah, thank you! He has my heart too <3
  
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fake_years on Chapter 1 Sun 23 Feb 2025 06:16AM UTC

This is gorgeous!! I'm so excited for the other chapters. It's rare that a character's longing really comes across, but you absolutely did that for Tim.

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 1 Wed 26 Feb 2025 01:48PM UTC
  
  Oh, thank you! I'm really glad that Tim's longing comes across so well when you're reading because it's really the heart of the fic.
  
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BreakfastOverSugar on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Feb 2025 07:36PM UTC

LOVE

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:02PM UTC
  
  <3
  
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exquisitetragicthing on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Feb 2025 09:47PM UTC

Be VERY HAPPY with this chapter!! I was at the edge of my seat from start to finish (metaphorically, since I’m literally in bed) and I YELPED out loud when Dale pulled away from the near kiss 😩😩 poor fucking Tim, I can’t stand it. Stupid fucking feelings indeed 😭 sooo excited for the next chapter!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:04PM UTC
  
  Ahhh, thank you! And I know, right? Poor Tim. Let's hope Dale gets his act together soon (I say like I'm not the one writing this...)
  
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Ziggyzaggy73 on Chapter 2 Wed 26 Feb 2025 11:42PM UTC

yessss the angst yesssssss

Last Edited Wed 26 Feb 2025 11:43PM UTC

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:05PM UTC
  
  yay for angst!
  
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basure on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Feb 2025 04:26AM UTC

you might not be happy with it but i sure am!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:58PM UTC
  
  Ah, thank you <3
  
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Pisto30 on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Feb 2025 06:42AM UTC

Tim's heart's breaking? MY heart's breaking!
I'm SO frustrated with Dale (here and on the show!)
LOVED this chapter.

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:05PM UTC
  
  I'd love to grab Dale by the shoulders and give him a good shake!
  Thank you :)
  
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2. 1. Pisto30 on Chapter 2 Sat 15 Mar 2025 05:32PM UTC
    
    You and me both! Poor Dale D:
    Hopefully now he can be happy. Or at least on the way to being happy.
    
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jazzcat2024 on Chapter 2 Thu 27 Feb 2025 10:12AM UTC

This was a lovely chapter. I really appreciate how much effort you put into Tim’s POV. I wonder if maybe the reason you’re not quite satisfied with it is because it’s frustrating to see Tim get hurt.
I’m glad the show gave him a happily ever after with a partner who apparently really loves him and I’m glad that Dale was at least able to show his support by getting on the dance floor. It is the least he could do for him after all the times Tim had been there for him.
🙏Thank you for writing💕

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:07PM UTC
  
  Ahh, thank you <3 I haven't watched series three yet soooooooo I'm going to pretend that I didn't read the rest of your comment but I think you're right — it was a mixture of Tim being hurt again and me being worried that it wasn't actually angsty enough to work.
  
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2. 1. jazzcat2024 on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 07:22PM UTC
    
    Agh, I'm so sorry 😭
    
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  2. 1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:38PM UTC
      
      Oh, no! Don't worry about it. I'm soooooo glad to know he gets a happy ending (even if it does make me worry about Dale even more).
      
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luckylou on Chapter 2 Fri 28 Feb 2025 12:01AM UTC

This was LOVELY!! Oh man that near-kiss. So close! I could feel the tension, electricity in that scene. You’ve got Tim’s pov spot on. Thank you for sharing, looking forward to the next one!!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:08PM UTC
  
  Oh, thank you! <3
  Tim's point of view is so much fun to explore even if I do keep taunting him by making Dale an idiot.
  
  Last Edited Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:09PM UTC
  
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eruannalle on Chapter 2 Sat 01 Mar 2025 10:17AM UTC

ohhhhh boys. for what it's worth i really liked the chapter, and i was so glad to see this update!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 03:08PM UTC
  
  They're a mess, aren't they? And thank you <3
  
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fake_years on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 06:50PM UTC

Fuck! This is more or less the exact version of events that I WISH happened in the episode.

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:40PM UTC
  
  Me too, me too. At least we have fanfic for wish fulfilment!
  
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luckylou on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 07:17PM UTC

Beautiful as ever 💕 thanks for giving us more kissing in the bar than we got in the show lol. Looking forward to seeing them talk it out!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:40PM UTC
  
  Thank you <3 The show needed more kissing and I will stand by that opinion.
  
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BreakfastOverSugar on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:06PM UTC

CRYING

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:38PM UTC
  
  <3
  
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ofzefandoms13 on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:33PM UTC

love love love, can't wait for the next chapter

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:40PM UTC
  
  Thank youuu <3
  
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Ziggyzaggy73 on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:33PM UTC

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygoooodddddd 😭🫠 them

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:40PM UTC
  
  I know, right 😭
  
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Pisto30 on Chapter 3 Mon 10 Mar 2025 10:22PM UTC

Oh my GOD.
Loved this
I love THEM (I know why but.. WHY couldn't we get more of this on the show? 😭)
Can't wait for the next chapter!

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:41PM UTC
  
  They're precious to me! (And I wish we could have had more on the show too. I know why we couldn't but still...)
  
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2. 1. Pisto30 on Chapter 3 Sat 12 Apr 2025 04:45AM UTC
    
    I'd love to see a TimDale spinoff or something. But I don't think any of the people involved are interested in that so, a person has to survive off fanfic alone. Sigh.....
    
    Last Edited Fri 18 Apr 2025 06:51PM UTC
    
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HelloTaquito on Chapter 3 Tue 11 Mar 2025 12:20AM UTC

Aww my babes 🥺🥺🥺

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1. lumenobscurum on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Apr 2025 06:41PM UTC
  
  They're so precious 🥺
  
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