Characters: Miles Upshur/Waylon Park
Notes: For a writing prompt on Tentacl: There has been a fire, no one was hurt, but one of the characters you will be using has to find a place to stay as their home is repaired. Have them stay with the character you ship them with.
Bonus points:
+1 for getting emotional for either character
+1 for sharing a bed
+1 for romance
Warnings: typos and bad characterization
"What. The. Fuck."
Miles shrugged guiltily, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, smearing soot and ash across the damp skin there."It was...an accident?" He couldn't quite look at the shorter man, instead directing his gaze towards the torn spider web swaying in the roof rafters.
"Miles. What the fuck?" Waylon repeated, stalking closer, hands twisting tightly around the shaft of his walking cane like he was just seconds away from walloping Miles. His dark eyes were narrowed and an angry flush was splashed across the bridge of his nose. "Your bed is burnt through to the springs and there's dirty mop water seeping out under the door. I'll say it again, what the fuck Miles!"
Miles winces, taking a slight step backwards just in case Waylon decided to repeat himself again with more violence. Not that he wouldn't particularly be undeserving this time, but he's not exactly in a hurry to see just how much power is packed into 5'4" Hispanic man when pissed off.
"Look, I didn't do it on purpose, I promise," Miles says, hands held up in surrender. Waylon clicked his tongue, mouth twitching into a deeper scowl. Swallowing around a dry throat, Miles racks his brain for the right way to explain. Slowly he starts, " I just... got a little distracted. Thinking about our next move, y'know. I, uh," he trails off, shrugging his shoulders again, helplessly.
Waylon doesn't say anything, inhaling deeply, loosening and tightening his hands around his cane in intervals. Finally, "Okay, fine, you were distracted. But that doesn't explain how you set the bed on fire."
Miles flushes with shame, turning his head like he was just slapped. He darts his eyes around, wishing for some kind of distraction. Fuck, Chris Walker bursting in through the door of the old shack would be more welcome than having to continue this conversation. Waylon, who was usually so much more forgiving than Miles himself; Waylon who preferred compromise or simply giving in over any sort of conflict; Waylon who was calm and passive and level headed; Waylon who was down right terrifying when truly ticked off. He was tiny sure, and soft spoken, and not very strong, but given the incentive Waylon could and would tear into a person if provoked.
Which Miles had done so. Fuck.
Softly, as if not to be heard, Miles mumbled, "I forgot...I had lit a cigarette."
"What."
"Okay. Yes, I know i fucked up, but everything is okay. Nothing too bad happened." Miles says, blurts really, gesturing to the blackened mess in the small room behind them, desperate to get that blank glare off Waylon's face. "I'm fine, you're fine, the shack is in no worse shape than what we found it in. Everything is alright, alright? Now get that look off your face please."
Waylon jerked as if given a full body shock, face going lax before he caught himself. He took a step forward, menacing for such a tiny guy, shoulders tense and high, his button nose wrinkling in distaste as a glower darkened his face. Tossing his cane roughly to the floor with a loud clatter, Waylon stalked forward, backing Miles into against a wall. The curling strips of cream paint chipping off and sticking to Miles' clothes and hair.
"Now listen here Cabrón, nothing is fucking "fine" about driving back from two towns over just to go grocery shopping, constantly looking over my shoulder like a fucking fugitive -which if I may remind you, we fucking are- hoping -no PRAYING- that I'm not being followed, ONLY to see the fucking smoke coming from the shitty little shack we're hiding in. Do you know how terrified I was?" His steady voice cracked at the end of his rant, a tremble in the tense line of throat betraying the worry over the rage. Miles felt oddly moved, and even more like a dick.
"Way-" Miles began.
"Shut up, Upshur."
Miles' jaw snapped shut with a click of teeth.
Waylon glared up into his face, normally soft, sleepy puppy eyes gone hard, searching for any argument. Finding none, he said, "Go get wood for the stove, and wait for dinner." He paused, for added affect, or maybe just for a lose of words, then, " I'm glad you're okay." Waylon sighed, all the fire dousing out of him, the taught lines in his body falling out him. He turned and picked up the brown paper bags from where he'd dropped them on the floor and set them on the creaky, rusted picnic table that served as their dining table.
Miles stood still, going over Waylon's words. He felt a bit at a loss. Of course he knows, objectively, how scary is could be, coming home and seeing smoke plumbing up from the boarded up windows, and already feeling on edge definitely would make the feeling worse. But honestly he hadn't expected such a reaction. It was a stupid mistake, yes, and anyone in their right mind would be pissed, but...
"Miles."
He looks up to see Waylon give him an expectant stare, eyes flickering to the wood burning stove to the crooked door. Miles winces, and leaves without a word.
After that dinner is a quite affair. Waylon ignoring or passive aggressively rebuffing every attempt at light talk. And the usually perfectly cooked food, delicious despite whatever they had or didn't have to work with, was this time tasteless and messily thrown together. Not that Miles could have tasted it anyway, only going through the mechanical motions of chewing and swallowing as he tried to catch the other man's eyes.
The silence descended heavily over the ramshackle house, the ancient wood groaning under the weight as it settled down for the coming night. Feeling oddly like a child in time our, Miles absently traced the shapes of the stumps of his fingers, every so often sneaking glances at Waylon who was focused entirely on a paperback book he'd bought on his grocery run. His expression was kept carefully light, so Miles couldn't be sure of what he was feeling.
He sighed, and resigned himself to thinking about what he was going to do when the time came to turn in for the of the scratchy bed sheet would be salvageable, he was sure, and neither of them dared touch the broken couch sitting defeated in the tiny space that made up the living room. He supposed he could tough it out in the car, but the seats weren't exactly comfortable, and he couldn't recline very far either. Someone Waylon's size could curl up for a few hours, maybe, with only some soreness when they woke up, but Miles wasn't sure he'd last the night.
Already resigning himself to black pain and leg cramps and a sleepless night, Miles nearly missed Waylon lifting himself up from the table, setting down the dog eared book. Waylon levelled another look at Miles, one eyebrow arched expectantly has he took of his crooked, smudged glasses and set them on the table.
"Well?"
Miles blinked. "...it doesn't work. If you want water, I think we have a case in the car."
Waylon narrowed his eyes.
"Right. No jokes."
They fell silent. Miles warily regarding the other, and Waylon looking at him with something like bored amusement. Finally Waylon huffed, brushing a hand through dark curly hair, the humidity outside making the strands clump damply together. "Sleep. Are you ready to go to sleep yet?"
Thick brows knitted together in confusion."...Yesss?" He tried, a sheepish look coming over his face.
"Come on then, Upshur." Waylon said, rolling his eyes and sounding very put upon. he held out his hand
"Um, where, can I ask?" Miles gingerly accepted, his own sweaty hand reaching out to wrap around Waylon's cool wrist. Waylon gripped him, grunted softly and pulled Miles up and out of his seat.
"I already told you, doofus. To sleep." said Waylon, exasperated and just the tiniest bit teasing. Never letting go he guided them to the tiny room opposite of the one destroyed. The bed was small, stained pillows gathered in a pile in the corner, the sheet were wrinkled but more or less made.
"Um." Miles started.
"Just be quiet and lay down," Waylon interrupted. Sometimes it shoes that the other man had two young children, brooking a no argument sort of voice for unruly toddlers that wont go to bed.
Still slightly confused but starting to get the picture, Miles did as he was told, undoing the laces of his boots and slipping them off, he sat on the bed, hands folded over his lap, and waited further instruction. Waylon nodded, taking off his own shoes and crawled unto the bed, past Miles, to lay facing the way, pointedly hogging all but one pillow.
"Um..."
"For christ's sake, lay down and go to sleep, Miles." Waylon mumbled from where he'd curled up.
Slowly, as if trying not to disturb a bear, Miles lowered himself to the mattress, the bed much too small to avoid contact. At last he settled down, and with batted breath, waited for the other man to kick him, or steal his pillow. Nothing happened, and finally he started to relax. Eyes going droopy, Miles finally started to appreciate how draining today was
The mattress shifted, startling him a little. Hands twisted in the back of his shirt, the shape of Waylon's cheek pressed against his spine, little puffs of warm breath fluttering over his skin."Please don't do that again. You're all I've got left, right now." It's said quietly into the space between them, the words tiny and in danger of being lost to the wind that seeps through the cracks in the walls. Miles feels a pang in his chest, a hollowing sort of throb that settles just under his ribcage.
Turning as quietly as he can, Miles moves to drape an arm over Waylon in a loose hug. "Yeah," he says in place of anything meaningful. But his throat feels strangely thick, he feels lucky he can get that much out.
"Yeah."
The wind howls against the shack, whistling through its skeleton. They sleep.