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scriveynerTitle: Missed by a Mile
Fandom: Samurai Flamenco
Characters/Pairing: Gotou
Rating: T
Length: 320
Summary: He’ll wait, however long it takes.
His routine was simple. Go to work. Go home. Text his girlfriend, wait on a response. Wander out to the corner store for dinner and to replenish his smokes. Text a few more times, maybe jack off in the shower, and then bed. It picked up again the next day exactly where it left off, the days blurring together endlessly. Rinse, lather, repeat.
And then the idiot appeared.
Suddenly a new phone number appeared in his contact list. Different texts. Actual phone calls - aggravating as they may be, prefaced with the inevitable ‘I screwed up HELP’ - started to fill his recent call log.
Movie night - every few days it seemed, sprawled out in a foreign apartment that was quickly becoming comfortable.
Soft gray-blue eyes that were always lit with excitement, always glad to see him, he who was invisible but for his job, but for the texts that always came like clockwork after his shift.
Sometimes, he forgot to text her.
He didn’t have a routine anymore. King Torture’s minions could appear anywhere, any time - usually in the evenings, though, leaving the nights to lick their wounds and compare notes. Then there was no more King Torture, and the soft gray-blue eyes became a distant presence, not so soft on a television screen, tired and strained and stressed, too far away to help even when sitting across a table from him.
Gotou exhaled a stream of smoke into the frigid night air, a pile of cigarette butts between his feet. The ship had been gone for a while now, the stars twinkling clearly in the sky above, and the quiet threat of routine - what if he doesn’t come back, what if I’ve lost him too - looming larger with every passing hour.
He’ll wait, however long it takes.
Fandom: Samurai Flamenco
Characters/Pairing: Gotou
Rating: T
Length: 320
Summary: He’ll wait, however long it takes.
His routine was simple. Go to work. Go home. Text his girlfriend, wait on a response. Wander out to the corner store for dinner and to replenish his smokes. Text a few more times, maybe jack off in the shower, and then bed. It picked up again the next day exactly where it left off, the days blurring together endlessly. Rinse, lather, repeat.
And then the idiot appeared.
Suddenly a new phone number appeared in his contact list. Different texts. Actual phone calls - aggravating as they may be, prefaced with the inevitable ‘I screwed up HELP’ - started to fill his recent call log.
Movie night - every few days it seemed, sprawled out in a foreign apartment that was quickly becoming comfortable.
Soft gray-blue eyes that were always lit with excitement, always glad to see him, he who was invisible but for his job, but for the texts that always came like clockwork after his shift.
Sometimes, he forgot to text her.
He didn’t have a routine anymore. King Torture’s minions could appear anywhere, any time - usually in the evenings, though, leaving the nights to lick their wounds and compare notes. Then there was no more King Torture, and the soft gray-blue eyes became a distant presence, not so soft on a television screen, tired and strained and stressed, too far away to help even when sitting across a table from him.
Gotou exhaled a stream of smoke into the frigid night air, a pile of cigarette butts between his feet. The ship had been gone for a while now, the stars twinkling clearly in the sky above, and the quiet threat of routine - what if he doesn’t come back, what if I’ve lost him too - looming larger with every passing hour.
He’ll wait, however long it takes.
