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Edward hadn’t meant to say yes, not really, but Thomas seemed so earnest, almost as though he really cared, when he had asked after Edward’s plans for the afternoon. They were alone, or at least it felt like they were—too late in the week for a full office, not quite late enough for Edward to convince himself into working from home. He spoke down to him in that way Edward had come to almost expect; the tone of his voice gentle and lilting, a settling hand pressed insistent on the meat of his shoulder. He spoke to Edward slow and careful, like you would speak to a particularly delicate child, like one wrong word would have Edward throwing a fit or set him crying tiredly against the grain of his desk. It’s not totally unfounded, Edward’s been known to get stroppy about little things—one menial slip up in a meaningless meeting leaving him to a silent tantrum behind the hard press of his knuckles. And so, Edward knew exactly how intentional the way Thomas was treating him was—he’s been recipient enough to pacifying cups of tea and their accompanying looks of pity.
(Is it pity? Edward isn’t sure—it may even be disgust.)
The weight of Thomas’ hand on his shoulder had gotten imperceptibly heavier, pressing just once, firm on the weave of his sweater as he looked at Edward and Edward looked at him. There was a look in Thomas’ eyes that had him wanting to duck and cower, to slouch and admit defeat, but Thomas was insistent, capturing Edward where he was sat. It was almost frightening to have the full attention of Thomas’s porcelain gaze, like he was looking through Edward and seeing out the other side. Edward didn’t want to know what he found. Edward wanted Thomas to tell him everything that he saw. A rolling wave of embarrassment that fizzed from head to toe had Edward realising that he still hadn’t answered Thomas. He’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts and gotten distracted like he always did. He couldn’t help it, sometimes he feels like his words run from him, like they’ve gone to hide somewhere that he can’t reach. Thomas was still staring down at him, gaze unwavering, patient as ever and Edward still hadn’t said a thing, just stared open mouthed and a little dumb. Edward wanted to melt into the fabric of his worn desk chair; Edward wanted to get on his knees and press his face into scratchy carpet; Edward wanted to go home.
Thomas had tilted his head, curious as Edward breathed shallow and unsteady, like he was trying not to jostle Thomas’ hand or to let it get any closer. Edward tried to grouse, to convince Thomas that he had emails that really couldn’t wait, that he needed to stay, that he’s better off left to stew in his own misery. (Edward hadn’t really said all of this—just hoped his pained groan and gesture at his computer screen got the message across.) But, Thomas was unmoved as Edward buried himself deeper and deeper in empty excuses, his gaze unblinking as Edward mumbled. He really doesn’t know how it happened, a blink and he was being nudged up and out of his chair, another and his coat was being shifted over his shoulders, once more and his phone and keys were being pressed into the lax grasp of his hand. Edward couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Thomas didn’t look at him once, just went about fussing over Edward as he would an untidy conference room or errant printer, picking off imaginary lint like he couldn’t trust Edward to do it for himself.
Edward had felt bereft, unsure of the step of his feet or the set of his shoulders as Thomas hurried him into action with a hand on the back of his neck. He ambled beside him, only half paying attention to the conversation that two people who’ve only really interacted in board meetings and over the kettle in the office kitchen could muster. Edward knew that Thomas was well aware Edward’s inattention but the soft conversation didn’t pause, nor did the grip on Edward’s neck lessen, he had no choice but to nod along and follow. No direction but forward. He stayed quiet, too lulled by the rhythm of Thomas’ voice to question as he was lead to the car park and not out the entrance. He didn’t say anything as he was lead to a nondescript car he only vaguely recognised, didn’t splutter when Thomas opened the passenger door for him and stared placidly until Edward folded himself into the car, didn’t fight when Thomas leant into the open car door and pulled the seatbelt across his front.
(Edward hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until the click of the seatbelt shocked it out of him. A familiar, aching sort of emotion began to warm him from the centre as he stared at the bared skin above the collar of Thomas’ shirt and allowed himself to be buckled into the seat. He’s been here before, he’s certain.)
The drive was quiet, Thomas giving up the pretence of conversation for that unnerving sort of focus of his as Edward sat with his hands squeezed between his thighs and watched the blur of streets passing outside the car window. Questions tried to struggle their way from somewhere in his chest as Edward sat there and fogged the window with his breath, but they weakened as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. They were silly questions that weren’t worth asking—he knew he wouldn’t get an answer to any of them, not from Thomas. Edward didn’t even really need the answers, not if Thomas thought he didn’t need to. Things are generally better when Edward isn’t put in charge of them, when he hasn’t been clued into the how’s and why’s—there’s nothing to worry himself sick over if he doesn’t know it in the first place. Thomas knows this, so really he must just be looking out for Edward. A small forgotten thing settled neatly in Edward’s chest at this thought; Thomas had it all in hand, there was no room for Edward to come in and muck it all up.
But, if Edward cared to pay more attention, he would’ve noticed the tension at the edge of Thomas’ eyes. If he really knew Thomas, he would have realised his grasp on the steering wheel was white knuckled and creaking, and the flick of his head to get and errant hair out of his face was more of a tic than it was a necessity. Thomas Jopson was nervous, this was clear, though only obvious if you knew where to look—if you knew what Thomas looked like at the end of a harried week cleaning up after other peoples problems, or immediately after a fraught conversation with upper management. Only a handful of people knew this look, Thomas had made sure of it, and Edward Little was not one of them.
(Could he be? Would Thomas let him see?)
Nothing is said as Thomas parks the car, giving Edward a quick, considering once over before he turning up and out of his seat. Edward knows to stay still, to wait quietly as Thomas makes his way to the passenger door, he knows to stay where he’s been put. Still, he can’t help the scary sense of anticipation that sits heavy in his stomach as he waits, gnawing at his lip and squeezing his balled fists between shaking thighs. Thomas opens the door, and Edward looks up at him and he looks down at Edward. This is familiar again, Edward has been here before, in this moment of in-between. (He holds his breath as Thomas leans in and unbuckles him, though he can’t place why. Thomas smells like grass stained knees and dish soap.) Thomas takes him by the hand this time, to unfurl Edward from his place in the passenger seat. It’s gentle, softer than any touch Thomas has given him before, and it confuses Edward; their hands look strange wrapped around each other, like broken ceramic glued back together all wrong.
He doesn’t pay any mind to the glossy doors that Thomas leads him through; the concierge is a blur of movement and noise around him as Edward focuses on a scuff on his shoes and the shine of the parquet flooring beneath his feet. Thomas might be saying something to him, he is isn’t sure. Then, it’s a silent walk through an empty hallway, just the two of them and the sound of footsteps. Edward still doesn’t know where they’re going, but Thomas’ hand is so certain against the small of his back. They come to a sudden halt, Edward stumbling over his own feet as his shoulder bumps into Thomas’ back. Thomas turns to consider him once more, eyes washing over Edward from head to toe. He must like something in what he sees, as Thomas nods and pushes the door open. It’s unlocked already. He takes the wobbling grasp of Edward’s hand and leads him across the threshold.
Edward should turn back—he doesn’t.
He stumbles again, can’t quite get his feet working in time as Thomas tugs him along, like he’s been put together all wrong since he was pulled out his seat in the car. It’s because he’s focussing on the misbehaving step of his feet that he doesn’t notice at first; doesn’t quite hear the sharp intake of air from some distant corner of the room; doesn’t quite feel the tightening of Thomas’ hand around his own. But, inevitably, Edward has to look. He rights the balance of his feet and roll his heavy head towards the sound of Thomas’ retreating footsteps. (What he sees doesn’t quite make sense to Edward for a moment, surely thats not right? This can’t be what Thomas wanted from him.) Choking on a gasp Edward stares and Francis and Francis stares at Edward. All at once he’s frothy with fear, like dish soap in an overflowing sink with no tap in sight. (Why is he here? Won’t somebody just tell him what’s going on?) Thomas doesn’t say a thing, of course he doesn’t, why would he notice the big, bubbling fear rising in Edward, when he can just go about as he was; shifting the coat off of Edward’s willing shoulders, and pattering of somewhere that Edward can’t see.
And so, they’re left alone. Edward doesn’t think they’ve ever been alone before, just the two of them breathing in the same air, but they must’ve, it wouldn’t make any sense if they haven’t. Though, surely he would’ve remembered this yawning pit of fear and anticipation that is being alone in a room with Francis Crozier. He doesn’t really know what to do with it, how to deal with all this space and all this silence. He could do anything. (He wouldn’t dare to, would never suggest something without Francis suggesting it first, wouldn’t start anything without a thorough outline in his inbox.) Instead, he waits, feet shifting against plush carpet, and hands wringing in their clammy grasp. He can’t seem to get his eyes to land any higher than the shiny toe of Francis’ oxfords. Is he in trouble? Edward certainly feels like he is. His throat clicks as he swallows against the thought, his sinuses stinging threateningly. Edward doesn’t like being in trouble. (He wants Thomas to come back. Why has he left him alone? Doesn’t he know that Edward’s scared?) Weeks worth of bumbling presentations and anxious follow-up emails begin to frantically flip through his mind as his heart begins to quicken. There must be something that he’s missing. Edward really, really doesn’t like being told off.
“Sir, I—”
“None of that now, Edward.” Francis’ voice is as rough as gravel, like he’s had to force it out of himself. “Nothing’s the matter.” Francis doesn’t look at him when he says it, Edward can tell; spoken instead over a half turned shoulder, frowning towards Thomas’ retreating footsteps. He’s not paying Edward any attention.
Edward blinks and there is Thomas again, silent as anything as he slips himself back into the moment. Thomas has come back different, in some small way that Edward can’t really place; the set of his shoulders is firmer, set back high and perfect, and his shirtsleeves are now rolled neatly upon his forearms, but it’s the look in his eyes that scares Edward the most. He’s has been on the receiving end of this look before, years ago now, when his clothes were all to big on him and his knees were always gravel pitted and bloody. This was the look he had to face when he broke something delicate amongst the soapy froth of the kitchen sink. (Edward hadn’t meant to break it, he really hadn’t, but the water was too hot and his hands stung so bad. It was always too hot. Didn’t she know it was too hot?) He doesn’t know how Thomas knows this look but it serves its purpose. Questions die on Edward’s tongue before they even form, he knows not to speak now, not unless he’s asked.
Francis still isn’t paying any attention to him and Thomas is still standing too close against Edward’s back. Everything feels heavy, like he’s wading in knee deep water with his winter best on. Thomas’ hands feel nice at least, deft hands slowly loosening his tie from its knot around his neck, cold fingers tracing his fluttering pulse. His throat clicks as Thomas shifts behind him. Francis still isn’t looking at him. He doesn’t mind it, not really, if anything he’s used to the inattention, used to his quiet suggestions being brushed off with a grunt or a nod, Francis not looking up from the stark glow of his computer screen. But this is different, surely he could look Edward in the eye now, here with the three of them in this room. Surely Edward deserves a little bit of attention. The ruddy blotches of pink slowly staining Francis’ face means he must know what’s happening, there’s no way he couldn’t, not as Thomas drags his cold hands along Edward’s sweater clad flank, shifting them under his arms in a silent request. Edward’s huffing now, the quick rise and fall of his chest upset and complaining. He’d take being in trouble, getting told off so drastically that Francis has to do it in private over whatever this is supposed to be. Edward wants to stamp his foot and cause a scene; Edward wants to shrug off Thomas’ grasp and rip off his clothes himself; Edward wants to turn around and slam the door in both their faces. He squirms in Thomas’ grasp, fussing like a child refusing to get into a bath.
“Edward.” It’s murmured into the downy hair at his temple and Edward stills. He didn’t realise Thomas was that close. Thomas is still holding him, waiting patiently for Edward to settle. Francis is finally looking at him, eyebrow quirked with something like apprehension. Edward feels his breath rush out of him all at once like water draining out of a sink.
Edward stands as still as he can and lets Thomas do with him as he pleases.
It’s different now. Edward does’t complain as Thomas urges his sweater up and over his head, doesn’t complain when his hair falls into his face, or when Thomas reaches for the fly of his slacks. Thomas is just helping him, Edward knows that now. He’d only embarrass himself if he tried, would probably stumble trying to get his trousers off too quickly, or fold his sweater in some ugly, unattractive way. It’s better this way; Edward can be better this way. He’s too busy shifting his weight from socked foot to socked foot to realise Thomas is standing right in front of him until he feels the cool touch of a hand on his hip. The sound Edward makes when he realises Thomas is fiddling with the hem of his briefs, making sure they’re sitting properly across his front, is scared and all too familiar. He doesn’t need to look down to know he’s tenting the worn fabric under his creased dress shirt.
He’s warm all over now, face screwed up as he fights to get a proper breath to expand in his chest. Every part of him feels like it’s quivering, ready to come toppling down with the lightest of touches. Then there’s a hand running through the hair at his temple, tucking a strand behind his ear, and he blearily blinks open his eyes. Thomas is looking at him, head tilted as he drags a thumb beside Edward’s mouth—like he’s trying to wipe away something smudged there. Its takes all of Edward not to chase the pressure of the digit, a pant shocking out of him with the want of it.Thomas ghosts a touch down the open front of Edward’s dress shirt, chilling as he presses down on Edward’s sternum. His hand is being held again as Thomas turns to consider the room. Edward hopes Thomas picks the plush bed with crisp white sheets—he’d really like to lie down now, maybe even press his face into soft downy pillow and pretend he can’t see anything at all. Instead, Thomas tugs him forward, his socked feet stumbling over one another, towards—
(Edward doesn’t want that. He can’t go over there. Not like this. He can’t, he doesn’t want to.)
He stops with all the strength he can will into his lax muscles, tugging on Thomas’ hand hard enough to get him stumbling back into Edward. He tries to ask why, to get Thomas to choose something else, but all he can muster is a complaining noise and a pleading, wet look as tears begin to threaten to fall. Thomas looks at him like he thinks Edward’s just being silly—he probably is. So when Thomas tugs his hand back towards himself and turns without a word, Edward follows.
The hard arm of the chair bites into the skin between his hip and thigh as Edward is guided over it. There’s a cold hand on his neck, and one on his waist, putting him where he’s wanted. The wood is cold and it pinches at his heated, quivering skin, but that doesn’t matter to Edward. It couldn’t, not when he’s being settled to lay on something so warm, not when he’s surrounded by that scent that is so familiarly Francis. Certainly not when a heavy hand begins to scratch through the hair at his crown. The hand pressing his face into the warmth of Francis’ lap tries to make a subtle withdrawal, but Edward doesn’t want it to go. He wants hands all over him, he wants to be touched, he needs to be touched. (Edward is chest deep in water now, everything is slow and heavy. He thinks there might be suds in his eyes.) Quick as he can manage, which Edward doesn’t think is very quick at all, he turns to capture the retreating hand in the wet grasp of his teeth.
Pleased as anything, he doesn’t notice that he’s trapped Thomas’ arm between the himself and the welcoming heat of Francis’ front. He doesn’t notice the absolute stillness that overtakes the pair, a sudden ceasing of all movement that says more than it should. He doesn’t notice the frantic widening of Thomas’ eyes or the creasing of Francis’ brow. He doesn’t know that Thomas has been found out, that something dull and almost scared begins to thud in his chest, or that Francis opens his mouth for words that never come. Edward doesn’t notice any of this because it’s not his job to notice. His job is to stay where he’s been put and to behave, and he’s quite happy to do just that.
Movement comes back into the room in one big shattering moment; Thomas wrenches his forearm out of its grasp in Edward’s teeth, not caring for the scrape it leaves behind on pale skin, and shoves his head further into the meat of Francis’ thigh. Edward might’ve expected it, if he had a moment more to breathe into the thought, but the first smack of Thomas’ hand against the meat of his ass shocks a pained yelp out of his mouth before he can smother it. The warmth left behind washes through him from head to toe, pulsing heavy in the heat of his groin. (Edward has been here before but it feels different this time. His legs feel too long where they kick against the edge of the chair, and there’s a rough hand keeping his wrists pinned somewhere in front of him. He’s not wearing enough clothes.) It’s fine with Edward though, he likes this and he settles into it quickly, mouthing at the fabric beneath him as the pain comes and doesn’t stop. (Is Thomas angry with him? It feels like he is, every hit is harder than the last. What did Edward do wrong?) He doesn’t notice the aborted little thrusts his hips were making against the arm of the chair until a calloused hand presses firm into the dip of his back, stopping him all together. It pierces right through him, hot as a brand where his skin has been left vulnerable by rucked up shirt. He thinks Francis might be shushing him, gentle as anything as his hand ruffles through Edward’s sweaty hair. That’s more than fine, he likes that the most.
He doesn’t notice when Thomas stops. He’s too busy fighting to get air in and out of his lungs to notice how Thomas stands back like Edward has shocked him, his chest heaving and his cheeks stained pink. He doesn’t notice Thomas shaking his head, or notice the echoing slam of the bathroom door. He thinks maybe, Francis might be saying something but he can’t really tell. That’s fine too, probably. There’s a dark, damp spot slowly spreading on the front of his briefs but he doesn’t notice that either.
It’s all fine now. Edward’s been put back together, left out to dry on the rack. He can hear the sink draining.