Work Text:
Technically speaking, the trouble started well before anyone else noticed it. And in the weeks (months, years) that followed, Vyvyan would often wonder how he could have been so dense in the first place. If he might have prevented the disastrous course of events that would the remainder of 1984, and a considerable chunk of 85’. If he could have saved Rick from a year of hell by being just a bit more observant. He’d never know for sure, of course, and Rick would dismiss the idea anyway; insist that no one was to blame. But sometimes, if things were awfully quiet – if Rick was awfully quiet – and Vyvyan had the time and the space to mull it over, well. He couldn’t help but wonder…
*
1984
Vyvyan’s first inclination that things weren’t quite…right, came one dreary morning in June, as he left the share house to go and pay a visit to intensive care. A week had passed since that disastrous bus crash, and thanks to a certain poet, Vyvyan had escaped mostly unscathed. Mike and Neil did alright too – minor injuries, nothing life-threatening. A miracle, by all accounts.
…And then there was Rick. The poor old people’s poet had, quite obviously, not been so lucky. But then again, when was he? Still, Vyv couldn’t help but take pity on the poor bastard, especially after the events of the crash. Couldn’t shake the feeling that he owed Rick. Well, he supposed he did, really. Rick had quite possibly saved his life, after all. And quite possibly at the expense of his own. But that certainly didn’t make Vyv hate him any less – it didn’t bloody change anything. He still couldn’t stand the spotty prick, still wanted him dead, still…
…Still fancied the fucking pants off him. Still wanted to shag him against every available surface, and wanted to shut his stupid, girly, whining mouth with the world’s sloppiest, most nauseating snogging session.
Christ.
And incidentally, this little…act of heroism on Rick’s part hadn’t exactly helped with that. If anything, it had only made things worse! More than once, Vyv caught himself staring at the poet, gazing at him with something alarmingly similar to awe or adoration, or at the very least something that stemmed beyond his customary feelings of anger fuelled lust. And he could hardly be blamed for that, really. Rick saving his life just left a lot of unanswered questions, that was all. Questions like, what is that stupid twat playing at? And does he want to shag me anywhere nearly as badly as I want to shag him? Any subsequent feelings of affection, awe or fondness regarding the people’s bloody poet were simply a result of such questions, and possibly a side effect of severe head trauma. It didn’t…it didn’t mean anything. Just like the filthy, sexy dreams he’d been having about Rick for the past three years didn’t mean anything. Just like the strong desire to kiss him and hold his hand and spend his hard-earned cash on girly Cliff Richard albums didn’t mean anything!
…Much.
Vyvyan shook his head in a feeble attempt to clear it of all those horrible, disgusting, unthinkable thoughts, grimacing as he stepped out of the house, paused to wrestle the keys from his front pocket and made his way towards the Anglia. He needn’t have worried; any thoughts of Rick, his heroism or his undeniable shaggability were temporarily banished from the punk’s mind as soon as he saw something…a little too familiar out the corner of his eye.
Well, someone, anyway.
There wasn’t much to report, really. Just a glimpse of a silhouette in his peripheral vision; dark coat, pink hair. Someone passing the front fence at a speed, gone in an instant. Nothing, honestly. Nothing at all. But it was enough. Enough to pull him away from his sappy thoughts about Rick and send a chill down to the base of his spine. But when he turned his head to get a proper look, of course, there wasn’t anybody there.
He stood in the driveway for a few minutes – waited to see if it would happen again. But aside from an old man in a stupid hat walking his rottweiler, and the woman next door putting her bins out, the street was uncharacteristically dead.
“…Seeing things. Just seeing things, that’s all. Stress.” He shrugged it off and got behind the wheel, and by the time he reached the hospital it had all but gone from his mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen something like that, after all. He’d had what felt like a lifetime of near misses and possible sightings. Little hallucinations, fragments of a past he’d much rather have forgotten. Just another day in the mind of Vyvyan Basterd, really.
Which was perhaps why he was able to dismiss it so easily the next time. And the time after that.
…And the time after that…