Work Text:
SIMON
There’s something a bit insidious about walking home from work in the dark in London. I don’t usually make the trip alone, since I live with Penny, but she had to take off early for a doctors’ appointment tonight. Forsaken and abandoned, yet again.
I locked up the shop early, but I can’t justify closing up ahead of time too much — I’m not about to lose out on much-needed cash just because I’m a bit peeved by the dark.
(I mean, I’m not actually scared of the dark. And I can handle myself in a fight just fine. I’m just tired, and I’m not really in the mood to get stabbed tonight.)
It’s properly dark by the time I’m off the tube and walking back to the flat. Quiet, too. I pass a bloke on the other side of the road once, and then I’m alone. Mine and Penny’s flat is on a relatively quiet stretch of road anyway, but it’s a pig to get to. I turn down a side street where the lights are dimmer (or just broken completely; this council is a nightmare) and tuck my fists deeper into my pockets.
Fucking hell, sometimes I really miss the North. (I mean, it’s still pretty shite, but at least you get to blame the government’s London bias for it.)
I don’t even have the time to register that someone’s behind me until someone is behind me. Someone who’s grabbing my arm at the elbow and shoving me back into a brick wall.
For fucks sake, honestly. Was any higher power even listening when I said that I wasn’t in the mood to get stabbed tonight? This fella — he’s actually got a knife. And he’s thrusting it in my direction. There’s a chance I could fight him off, I guess, but I can practically hear Penny chastising me for even considering it.
I picture her standing over my grave. Not even crying; just saying, You and your ridiculous hero complex, Simon, really.
“Give me your phone!” My Maybe-Murderer shouts, and I can barely even take him seriously because his voice is posh. It’s fucking ridiculous. I feel like I’m being mugged by Prince Charles in an Adidas tracksuit.
That knife’s pretty fucking insistent though. I reach around to my coat pocket and pull out my phone with a shaking hand. (I can’t believe this. I just got this phone.)
He presses the knife further toward me as I move my arm. “And don’t fucking try anythin’, a’right?”
“I’m not.” I say, feebly, and I press the phone in his direction.
That’s the first time I actually bring myself to look the twat in the face; something in the back of my mind reboots and says, “For fucks sake Simon, at least get a look so you might be able to identify him.” (The voice sounds suspiciously like Penny.)
And, well, I do. But fucking hell, he’s actually… hot. My mugger is fucking fit. A right looker. The kind of fella who your old relatives would look at and say, “He’s proper dishy, isn’t he?” Even if he does smell like various flavours of vape pen.
He doesn't look at all how I expected him to.
I mean, he’s not winning any awards for fashion or hair care. He’s definitely not winning any awards for effective mugging strategies. He’s just tied some random blue scarf around the bottom of his face, and it’s fallen down past his mouth and is bunching up the back of his dark oily hair.
Maybe this is his plan, I think, a bit stunned, he’ll paralyse me with good looks and then leave me penniless and bloodless in an empty alleyway.
I haven’t heard of any famously fit serial killers in London recently, though, so I’m willing to bet that he’s just really fucking bad at this.
I stare at him as he snatches the phone from my hand. He stares back. I almost want to ask him if he’ll give my phone back in exchange for a pint or two, but I’m not convinced that asking the random bloke on the streets of London — who’s also carrying a big knife — out on a date is the best plan of action here. Not if I want to keep my organs inside my body.
Isn’t he even going to ask for my wallet? I mean, I’m not going to question him if he doesn’t want it, but I’ve got a whole wad of cash in there and a bank card. He’s really a shit mugger.
Instead, though, he’s still just staring at me. His eyes are a deep grey, and they make him look a bit sad, actually. Maybe I should give him some money. Tell him to go buy himself a pint. Or a Tesco meal deal. He’s proper lanky.
I blink, and he blinks, and then he’s taking off. Sprints off down the street on legs like fucking stilts, and vanishes around the corner. For a minute, I just stand there, staring at the empty space he left, and then I stumble back to mine and Penny’s flat, get in bed and try to convince myself that I don’t fancy the bloke who just mugged me.
I barely feel like I’ve slept before I’m roused from a drowsy half sleep by the landline going — I stumble out of bed tangled in blankets and blink owlishly at the digital clock beside my bed that reads a horrific, completely illegal 4:00am.
It must be Penny; she’s staying at her boyfriend’s flat tonight. I called her when I got in, recalling to her everything that happened on my way home last night. She asked me if I wanted her to come home, but it’s not like I need my hand held. I’m fine. Really.
I’ll manage without a phone. I just wish I could get the too-high nose and the downturned mouth of the man who stole it out my fucking head.
The landline’s in the living room — I walk into about three different door frames on my way before I fumble for it and press the button to answer. I don’t even bother checking the caller ID before I grunt, “What the fuck, Penny.”
Silence. Then, “Who the fuck is Penny?”
“Who the fuck is this?” I say, but there’s something familiar about that voice… no , surely it’s not…
“It’s… look, you’re Simon Salisbury aren’t you?”
Well, I’ll be fucked. “I… yeah. That’s me. You’re…”
“Look, d’you want your phone back, or what? I’ve got it here. Found your home number on it.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. When I realised who it was, I thought maybe he’d called to gloat about the brand new phone he’d just magically acquired. Instead, he sounds guilty. I wonder absently if Penny’s found him and is currently holding a gun to his head.
All I can think to say is, “Why?”
Fit Mugger huffs something angrily under his breath. “Look mate do you want this thing back or not? ‘Cause I’ll fucking well keep it.”
“No!” I say, sharply. “I’ll have it back. But I’m not meeting you in any dark fucking alley.”
I think he almost laughs. “Nah. Costa in broad daylight, no knife, swear down.”
We agree on a particular coffee shop for one o’clock, and when I put the phone down I have to wonder what in the love of fuck is going on.
Guess I’ll go get some sleep, so I’m ready to go meet the bloke who robbed me at knifepoint. (My life is a joke.)
-
I don’t tell Penny where I’m going, because I’m convinced she’d call me a complete idiot and lock me in my bedroom. I have to go, though. I’ve got to see him — it, I mean, again. I’ve got to get my phone .
He’s leaning against the wall outside when I get there. The oily hair must be a permanent thing; the tracksuit, as well. He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets and his jaw is working away like he’s got a decent ball of chewy.
He almost double takes when he sees me. Straightens up from the wall, and reaches into his pocket.
Before I’ve even said anything, he’s thrusting my phone at me. I take it from him — a little hesitantly, actually — and fix my eyes on him again. Fuck, he’s good a right good face. I’m not usually a fan of lads in tracksuits, but I think I could make an exception.
“Sorry—” He starts to say, just as I blurt out, “D’you fancy a coffee?”
He blinks at me. “Do I what?”
“You want a coffee? With me. Together. Since you, you know, gave me my phone back and everything.”
Hot Thief looks sceptical. “D’you have amnesia, mate? I’m the wanker who stole it.”
“Yeah, well you’ve obviously got some morals left in you. You want a drink or not?”
“Er, alright.” He says. Not the most enthusiastic yes I’ve ever had. “Yeah.”
Does he get what I’m saying? “I dunno if you’ve noticed, and I’m only asking now because you’ve promised you don’t have a knife on you, but I’m asking you out, mate.” Holy fuck, what am I doing?
He actually looks a bit humoured, now, and I feel slightly less tense — he doesn’t look outraged that he’s in the vicinity of someone who’s queer.
“Alright.” He says again. “Yeah. I’m happy you asked, you know.”
I squint disbelievingly at him, but my face is starting to break into a smile. “Really?”
“Yeah. You’re right fit, love, but I wasn’t gonna ask you out after I held a knife to your throat, was I?”
I can’t help but snort at that. “Good job I asked then, isn’t it?”
My guilty mugger nods. He has a nice smile, actually — he has those sexy cheek creases some men have. I think I’ve hit the jackpot here. “Yeah, it is.”
He goes to take a step forward, but I hold out an arm to stop him. There’s just one thing that we haven’t sorted yet…
“Before all that. I still don’t know your name.”
The grey of his eyes isn’t as dark today. He smiles, a bit timidly. “It’s Ty. Tyler Pitch.”
Tyler Pitch really knows the way to a man’s heart.