Work Text:
Ned Little hasn't got a wife.
Churchill is back in office. People ask. His colleagues, his employers, his family. Ned Little is thirty-seven, and he hasn't got a wife.
There are many things that Ned does have. A flat close enough to Erebus University to walk. A handful of decent acquaintances in his department. Tenure, very nearly.
Ned Little hasn't got a wife, but he has good luck. Troublesome students disenroll from his classes within a handful of weeks. His first department head, all hubris and tradition and looking down his nose at Ned, had simply disappeared after Ned's first semester. Ned Little has exquisite luck.
And Jopson.
Jopson, with his soft navy sweaters and shirts buttoned all the way up his throat. Jopson, with his ever-present smile and a vocabulary of kind words that even Ned's doctorate in English can't rival. Jopson, whose lovely blue eyes Ned sometimes catches blinking vertically instead of horizontally.
Ned knows. Has known. Might have always known, on some level. Knew that he was different the first time he'd met him, back when he'd been a TA. When Ned's luck had been mediocre at best.
Ned hadn't asked questions, then. Still doesn't, when it comes to Jopson's impeccable shepherd's pie or where he is when Ned awakens to an empty bed in the middle of the night. Instead, he'd bathed in the quiet light of Jopson's smile when they'd gone out for a pint, answered questions about his curriculae for the year and resigned himself to merely wondering.
Now, nearly three years later, there are things about Jopson that Ned is the only one blessed to know. The reason for his tight shirt collars. What it looks like beneath them. What it looks like when he eats. What it looks like when he-
Ned had told him, when Jopson had first asked, much more tremulous than Ned had ever seen him, that nothing could make him less of a person in his eyes. And Jopson, much to his credit, had not waited any longer to test his mettle. Had undone, with careful hands, the top few buttons of his pale yellow shirt and revealed himself to Ned. The wet gash at the base of his throat, bristling with needle-sharp teeth, serpentine tongue flicking between them.
Ned had not screamed.
Ned's luck had already begun to change.
Ned Little hasn't got a wife. But his flat is clean. His bed is warm. His thoughts are quiet. He has never looked out onto the wideness of the world and felt less afraid.
Ned Little hasn't got a wife, and in truth, he may be the luckiest man on earth.
