Chapter Text
“What the….?” Tom turned from his tablet to frown at her as she walked through the seating area.
“You received thirty-seven likes, three reblogs and some really saucy comments in the last twenty-four hours of thfrustration posting our stories, and I received nada, zip and sodding zilch. Why?!”
Making reassuring noises at her pouting flatmate, Jean moved in to lean over the back of the sofa. “Let me take a look at the story you posted.” His big hands started to draw the tablet to his chest; she calmed her face to smile kindly. “Please, Tom. It can’t hurt.”
“Urrggh. Okay,” His shoulders slumped as he pushed the tablet into her waiting hands.
She read as she walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge to filch some of the food Tom had made earlier. Dish of spag-puttanesca in one hand, tablet in the other, she closed the fridge door with a knee, then repeatedly bumped her forehead against the door surface. Whispering an agonised, “Oh, Tom!”
Three days earlier, the thrill of being back in London for a six week break from all work commitments had Tom feeling almost giddy.
Jean was sat in the kitchen, sipping coffee, and reading through notes on preparation for her next exhibition. Hearing the front door slam, she knew her sometimes flatmate was home. No one else bothered to announce themselves in so loud a way. And she knew her life for the duration of his stay would be exhilarating, fantastic fun, and completely detrimental to her professional life.
Hearing her name being yelled at full volume, she rolled her eyes. ‘Bloody luvies,’ she smirked to herself, and rose to greet her flatmate.
“Jean!” The hug that followed the exclamation of her name almost winded her.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed being home!” The hug continued; Jean being drawn between those lanky legs that needed to part as he leant down from his great height. She patted his back, hoping he’d take the hint and let her breathe. When the boa constrictor around her did not relax she hissed in his ear, “Need to breath!”
The vice-like hold was released instantly, and several grinned apologies followed. Jean returned his grin then ruffled the golden curls of the giddy man-child in her arms.
“Tom! How long are you home for this time? Is Eddie coming over tonight? It’s been two months since we all last gave the neighbours something to complain about. Sod cooking, let’s order junk food for delivery – there’s plenty of wine and beer in the fridge…. And…” Jean took a deep breath, “It’s really good to see you home, mate!”
Counting his responses off on his fingers behind her back, Tom replied, “Six weeks; you bet, I texted him earlier; the neighbours will be ignoring us in the hallways for weeks to come; great idea, I’m starved; good to see you planning ahead; and I missed you too, kitten.”
Jean gave the lanky man another swift hug, then practically ran to her desk to sort through the take away menus in one of the drawers. Settling on the Szechwan Palace, she started making pencil scribbles beside all the foods she knew she and her two closest friends loved. One swift phone call later, the food was sorted, due to be delivered in an hour.
Tom strolled back in to the living area clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist, dripping water over the floor boards that had run down his shoulders from his still wet hair.
“Hope you’re going to clean that up,” Jean commented to the man recently far too used to living in hotel rooms.
“Open a window. It’s July, hot out, it’ll soon evaporate,” replied the man whom she was beginning to remember could sometimes be a royal pain in the arse to live with.
Jean looked up from her notes, “When’s Eddie coming over? I still have a bit of reading to finish that’ll ensure my inner control freak’s happiness. This one is making me nervous.”
“Sure, the threat of yet another exhibition is making you nervous. It wouldn’t be the imminent presence of Eddie that’s causing you to be….” He raised an eyebrow, “On edge, hmmm?”
“Nope,” she popped the ‘p’, and then took up a pen to jot corrections on her notes.
“Come on, give the guy a chance. Or at least stop scaring him off!” His tone was rather exasperated.
Jean did not bother to look up, “Told you before, gonna tell you again; I’d eat him alive. If he can’t handle me in conversation, do you really think he could handle me in bed?”
“Well you did artfully avoid his last attempt at romance by turning the topic of conversation to female genital mutilation. Yes, I know you’ve strong feelings on the subject, but you quite literally slammed a door in the man’s face, and yet he is as keen as ever. That has to tell you something, Jean.”
She still did not look up. “It tells me you want to see Eddie and I happen.”
“What’s not to like? He’s funny, tells the filthiest jokes, is a fit and good looking chap, avoids picking his nose in mixed company…"
“Wow”, she interrupted, “That is one good man, don’t let me stand in your way, you are obviously enamoured!”
Tom huffed and smacked his palms on his thighs, “And you are impossible!”
Rising and skipping innocently from her desk to the exasperated man, Jean paused to give him a quick peck on the cheek as she headed to the bathroom. “Any hot water left?”
Whilst trying to rinse shampoo from her hair as quickly as possible under increasingly tepid water (bloody luvies, too used to hotels with bloody limitless hot water!), Jean considered ‘The Eddie Situation’.
Eddie was indeed great fun to be around, and he was an evil sweetie, but he had an edge to him that was maybe too compliant, too…. He lacked that spark of dominance that would fire her attraction to him. Ok, he could give rise to his filthy, raucous side, but only after a drink or two.
Jean’s last couple of attachments had been with women. Submissive women. They had allowed her to take care of them, give them what they needed, allowed her to read them and exercise her dominant sensibilities. Those affairs had not given rise to deep emotion attachment, but they had been emotionally satisfying for all involved.
Jean smacked a wet hand against her forehead, ‘Of course!’
Men, in her limited experience, treated emotions as something only to be offered in ‘show and tell’ sessions. And she was not ready to be responsible for the male emotional state in a relationship with a friend; a friend whose company of late had become a little awkward, but that was just the tip of the iceberg.
Tom was quite right, Eddie was blue-chip partner material, but the hints at his submissive side she had clearly read in their interactions made her too wary to do anything other than sidle away from his attempts to attract her attention as a sexual partner.
Chilled, shivering and cursing her flatmate, Jean towelled off, slipped on knickers and a mottled blue-grey silk maxi dress. The sleeveless dress flowed to the floor, the material light yet thankfully warming.
Exiting the bathroom barefoot, knowing Eddie and their junk food feast were both due to arrive imminently, she did as she always did with unresolved feelings; shoved them into a box inside her head labelled Unresolved Feelings, and firmly shut the lid.
She sat alone cross-legged on one of the two sofas in the living area, feeling at a loose end. She had no need to review her exhibition notes. In truth, all was running smoothly, she had only one or two little niggles to set straight, and they could be easily seen to in the coming days.
Jean was a sculptor. She had worked using many different types of materials in the past, but had found her forte in wood. Contacts with tree surgeons ensured her supply of various types of wood from dead or dying tree carcasses.
Her much lauded talent was said to be forcing new life and expression into something that once lived and breathed as a natural creation. Even Brian Sewell, whilst not openly reviewing her work, had given a statement that suggested he found her work not unpleasing.
“Ms Voigt lacks the over obvious so prevalent today. I enjoy the allowance to experience a piece on my own terms, rather than being instructed on how I might do so by the white card that sits on the wall behind the sculpture.”
Brian was right about the usual piece of blurb that sat next to each and every piece in modern art exhibits/museums. A work of art ought to be defined by the viewer; they should find it strong enough to entertain them, move them, no explanation required. The accompanying white cards to Jean’s work gave the piece’s name, date of creation and nothing more.
Jean’s thoughts drifted again. Tom was turning into Eddie’s annoying little white card. She envisioned Eddie on a pedestal, and smiled. Purely as an exercise in curiosity she decided to allow herself to look, and see him without Tom’s hard sell tactics. She might see something she had previously overlooked, in both herself and him.
Ignoring the fact any relationship that failed would destroy, not one, but two friendships – and that fact lurked like a storm cloud above her head – Jean was resolved to examine what a relationship with Eddie might otherwise entail.
As a switch, she had always believed she had clear definitions of her preferences. Her sexual relationships with men tended toward dominant men. She knew where she stood with them. Or crouched, knelt, was thrown down and willing thoroughly fucked stupid. She was still very much inside her own head when an unexpected voice growled in her ear, “Penny for your thoughts.”
Shrieking in shock, Jean started and fell off the sofa, landing painfully on her knees. Realising who had startled her; she turned, grasped one of the smaller sofa cushions and launched it at Tom’s head.
“Don’t do that! You frightened the heck out of me!”
Tom smiled, allowed the cushion to harmlessly bounce off his face; and then stifled a yawn. “Had a nap, woke up, and now I need food. Where is the food, woman?”
Jean stood to give her pet caveman a few words of advice, but was caught by his interest centred on her chest.
“Look at those,” he crowed in boyish delight. His hand rose to touch, and was slapped away. “Those are very aroused nipples. What were you thinking about? Was it me?”
“Fuck off, you entitled posh boy.”
Eye contact caused them to dissolve into giggles that only stopped when the door bell rang.
Jean ran for the door calling over her shoulder, “Food or Eds, which do you want more?”
“Food!”
She wrenched open the door. And there stood Eddie, looking almost as delicious as anything she had ordered. Jean looked into the living area, and yelled, “I win!”
The three were loafing on the sofa, glasses or wine or beer set before them, the remains of their meal littering the table, as they watched a shared favourite game show. Jean had saved a few episodes to hard drive. She waited to watch Pointless with them both. Watching alone was not the same.
The aim of the show was to answer the questions with the least known piece of knowledge.
All three friends scored lowest (as was the aim, to be pointless) in rounds that included music, film, literature, history and politics. But Tom had an annoying habit of excelling at obscure subjects such as the names of African presidents, or anagrams of the original banoffee pie recipe ingredients. He was a hard man to beat. Tonight was no different. Jean had been disgusted to be knocked out in the second round when Dusty Springfield scored her 43 points.
“NO! No way could she score higher than Otis-flipping-Reading!”
Eddie took Jean’s hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Ahh, poppet. It’s just a game…. In which the superior intellect wins!” Any hint of superior expression was wiped off his face, and Tom’s too, when they were both trounced in the final round by a pair of primary school teachers.
Eddie slapped a deflated Tom on the back, “It is what it is, mate. And now for this evening’s entertainment! I know Jean doesn’t really enjoy weeks of your killjoy neighbour’s sour looks, so what I have in mind is completely neighbour friendly.” He sat back and smiled.
“Okay, offer up, stop teasing us.” Jean laughed.
“Fan fiction,” came the calm reply.
The man on Jean’s other side tensed. “Not happening. I’ve been told about that stuff, and it’s insane. We are NOT reading any of that stuff!”
Eddie turned to Tom with a smile that reeked of feigned innocence, “We won’t be reading it, my friend, we’ll be writing the insane stuff. Each of us will write for one hour. You,” he pointed to Tom, “will be billeted in the kitchen, me in here on the desk top, Jean you get your bedroom.”
“Lucky me,” Jean muttered.
“One hour to write shamelessly filthy smut in the Tommy fandom of your choice. Then post it to that thfrustration blog on tumblr – I’ve texted you both the details. Failure to do so will result in the usual forfeit.”
Jean opened Eddie’s text on the way to her bedroom, and quickly had the blog open on her tablet. There was no way she was streaking naked through the corridors of their floor. Again.