Work Text:
“I know you’re not officially starting right now.”
“But we think that it’s important that we make you at home as much as possible.”
“So with Spring C coming up, it’s always important that you don’t be alone.”
When I signed up to be the Samwell Men’s Hockey team’s manager, I expected a lot. Larissa—Lardo — Who comes up with these names? — as much. She also said that what happens at the interpersonal level and in the Haus is just as important as my soon-to-be official duties and that it’d be best to bond with the team as soon as possible.
I’d have thought the best way to ease into a sports team would be to simply attend games and practices — “You will be doing that as well,“ she had told me. "Don’t worry about that.” — but I get it. Getting to know people outside of the job was what I did with theater after all.
Except my theater roles didn’t involve navigating through a crowd — really should have gotten here early — filled with people in various stages of inebriation.
I kinda wish Lardo was here to help out, but she had to see someone in Boston. She could have helped to deal with these two hockey players — those same two graduating seniors that were yelling at each other during my interview — trying to play matchmaker with me.
I’m about to explain why that may not work — all while gilding myself for the expected chore of explaining and defending that reason — when a gruff voice speaks up behind me:
“Ford’s supposed to be on chaperone duty with me. Gonna show her the ropes.”
I turn to see William Poindexter — Dex — with a bottle of Gatorade in hand and a stony scowl aimed right at us.
Lardo’s words ring in my mind: “Even if you hadn’t already met Dex, he’s one of the easier dudes to be with.”
Which… those are weird words to apply to a fucking grumpy giant but okay.
I mean, look at him. Yeah, a book shouldn’t be judged by its cover, but the cover does do a lot of the legwork in setting first impressions.
When I was being interviewed for the manager position, Lardo was of course heading it. And that blond guy, Bitty, seemed to be there to provide a personal touch.
Dex though. Dex just scowled and loomed; only really speaking towards the end when he requested that I demonstrate my shouting skills and noted that I apparently understood hockey players. Part of me wondered if he was there to serve as a bouncer to eject unqualified applicants.
With the way his eyes go from me, to his two captains, then panning across the room… I still wonder if he’s itching for an excuse to bounce someone.
And then there are the eyes. On screen or illustrated in a book, eyes of that shade are magical.
But in real life? In real life, they are unsettling.
Or maybe it’s just the way Dex scowls with them.
Either way, I’m trying to figure out what Lardo saw in him. There must be something, and I’m going to have to figure out how to work with these guys anyways, so I just have to put those thoughts on the back burner for now.
And I can’t say I’m not thankful for the intercession.
The two seniors are a bit less thankful — scratch that, they aren’t even bothering to hide their disappointment — but that’s replaced by two matching grins that are too knowing for my liking, and the shorter one pipes, “Sure, Dex. About time–”
Dex’s voice gains an irritated edge: “When I mean show her the ropes, I mean work.”
That earns matching pouts from the seniors, and the big blond guy bends over to tell me, “If Mr. All Work and No Play here starts bumming you out, let us know.”
“I’m sure she will,” Dex grumbles back while nodding to me to follow him back to the porch.
“So what’s chaperone duty?” I ask as we get back outside into the cooler air.
“Just making sure everyone is safe. Especially if someone needs to be accompanied back to their place. Maybe even dd-ing later on if we have to.”
“Ah,” I nod, “that makes sense.”
Dex grunts and takes a sip. “It also involves stepping in if someone’s clearly uncomfortable.”
Wait. I raise an eyebrow at him, and those bigass ears of his go red.
“Ransom and Holster are good guys,” he sighs. “But they really don’t know how to stop matchmaking. ”
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate that.” Honestly, I probably could have gotten out of the situation myself, but I never mind a shortcut. “Does that mean…”
“Oh, Lardo still wanted you to join me in chaperone duty,” he answers with a shrug. “I guess you’re just joining early.”
All in all, it’s straightforward. And I’m pretty sure Dex prefers it that way. I can recall Lardo mentioning that he usually likes to hang out with two other friends. But since they seem not to be here, he’s content at patrolling the kegster from along the walls. Mostly just to make sure the Haus does’t get wrecked or that anyone gets hurt. Sometimes he does kick people out when they are too rowdy or combative. But usually he helps guide people back home. And I end up helping to make our charges comfortable on their way back.
It doesn’t take long to get a hand of it, and I can’t say I mind. I’m not much of a partier, and this t gives me something to do.
And after a period of time, Dex loosens up a bit, we get chatting, and I begin to see how Dex is easy to deal with. When he’s not irritable — and I get the feeling that lots of people irritate him — he has a reserved energy that isn’t overbearing. And when prompted, he can be conversational.
It’s especially outside in the quieter night, while we are walking back to the Haus after an escort run, that convos flow best. I find out a bit about him and his family. He finds out a bit about me and mine. We both find out that a few of his cousins serve under my mom back in San Diego, and that seems to relax him further.
Things are relaxed enough that, while we stroll in the dark of the midnight, I feel comfortable bringing up my place in the team:
“… and I’ll admit that I wondered how an ace like me could fit in.” I laugh before realizing what I just said.
A small frown appears on Dex’s face. Shit. Did I speak too soon? “I know you’re good at what you do, but isn’t it kinda… presumptuous to call yourself an ace?”
I can’t help but snort at that. Lardo did warn me that he might be a bit behind the times: “He’s not hateful nor should he be coddled,” she had said. “And I’m not telling you to take any bullshit. But just be prepared that, even for a white boy, he may be new to stuff.”
So I clarify, “As in ‘asexual’.”
Poindexter stops walking. “What?”
Oh boy… here we go. I feel the regret of mentioning things in the first place as that convo is rarely smooth, even— hell, especially here in Samwell. And Lardo did also affirm to me that I’m not obligated to explain anything to the lot of them. But now that the ball’s rolling, I can’t help but delve in. “Asexual. You know… the lack of sexual attraction?”
Dex’s eyes get bigger. “As in… you have no desire to have sex?”
Something in his voice puts me on notice, but not in a bad way. Because while it’s laced with disbelief and hesitancy, it’s not the contemptuous or dismissive sort that I’ve always dealt with… usually followed by a “you don’t really know until you’ve tried” or “you just need to find the right person”.
If anything, Dex’s hesitancy sounds like… hope?
That makes my words come out smoother: “Yeah. I mean… if I’m dating someone, we can probably work something out. But I don’t have any urge to find someone and…” I mime some motions.
Said motions make his face briefly scrunch up, giving him the look of a cranky bunny. “But you still want to date?”
“Sure. I’m not aromantic.” I can see the confusion flit across his face again — I doubt he’d win any poker game — so before he even asks, I add, “Attraction isn’t just sexual. You also can have a romantic axis. So while aromantic aces — ie not interested in a sexual or romantic relationship — are probably the most stereotypical kind, there are aces who are heteromantic, biromantic, and so on.”
“So if someone has never wanted in sex or even making out… but still gets crushes… he’s still an ace?”
I don’t miss the pronoun, and its presence puts together several puzzle pieces in my mind. But instead of directing attention to that, I just note, “Yep. And of course, even asexuality isn’t all or nothing. Aces can appreciate someone’s physical appearance or even get aroused.”
I mean, let’s be real, Dex’s eyes may be off-putting, and those ears may heighten his social awkwardness… but you’d have to be blind to miss that leg-to-body and shoulder-to-waist ratio. Or that muscle. Or that butt.
Granted, the whole team is one big peach orchard.
But I digress.
“Think of it like a nice piece of art,” I add. “You think it looks nice. It may even stir something emotional within you. But…”
“But I have no desire to fuck it,” Dex completes.
“Exactly!” I pipe, and in the wake of that, I can see as plain as day the lightbulb going off in Dex’s mind.
“‘Asexual’…” The word barely comes out in a whisper. “It’s… actually called that?”
“Yea-AAAHH!” My voice turns into a squeak as two bigass arms envelop and swing me around in a crushing embrace. Emphasis on crushing.
Still, despite feeling like I’m being pressed in a vice, what I register most is the sound of delighted laughter ringing out.
The bright quality to that laughter sounds so much at odds with the grumpy reserved dude I’ve been used to earlier that I can’t help but look up to behold a wide and joyous grin that softens all of the hard edges usually etched on his face. Hell, I’m pretty sure this is the first time I’ve seen him smile in general.
I also swear I hear a “thank you” there.
Dex seems to finally register what he’s doing, as he goes red and gently sets me down.
"Sorry ‘bout that,” he grunts.
“It’s alright,” I wheeze. Seriously, how can someone feel so muscular and bony at the same time? “So… I take it you're…”
“Ayuh… I mean, it’s hard telling not knowing.” Holy shit that’s a thick accent. Dex probably hears it as well, because his brows pinch together, and his voice shifts to something sounding more like before: “I never been interested in sex or just hooking up. Thought it was just a weird quirk. Though it’s funny it’s called that.”
What.
“I mean, we got hetero… homo… bisexuals. So I briefly called myself an asexual. But that couldn’t make sense. Asexuals are creatures that reproduce without–”
“Wait,” I interject while holding up my finger to keep him quiet. “How long have you just dismissed your own sexual orientation… something inherent to your very being… as a ‘quirk’?”
Dex shuffles his feet and mutters, “Bout six years.”
Good fucking grief this team is full of morons.
“So you’re telling me that the label crossed your mind… including two years of being here in Samwell… and you didn’t think of simply googling it?”
The shuffling intensifies, and if those ears were red before, now they are deep crimson. “Never got around to looking it up. I mean, it doesn’t affect my day to day. Hell, if anything I thought it a blessing. I mean… have you seen how they get without sex?” Dex punctuates that by gesturing vaguely at the parties around us.
I mean… point. Sometimes the horniness of the allos — I’d argue that theater kids can go toe to toe against jocks in that department any day — can be downright ridiculous. And I will be the first to admit that for all its emphasis on being inclusiven and queer-friendly, the campus culture of Samwell frequently upholds a narrow definition of accepted queerness. Sure, there are spaces for aces — haha — but you have to actively look for them. So I can imagine how someone like Dex, who’s not exactly sociable even if he weren’t in an already-insular group, wouldn’t have access to resources here.
“And if I get a crush, no big deal,” he continues to ramble. “Let that pang pass. No need to bring a boy back ho– … Oh.”
Dex freezes in place, and for a moment, I wonder why he has stopped talking. But then the realization sinks in just as I can see the color draining from his face and his breathing hastening.
Oh. Oh shit.
“Hey. It’s alright.” Despite having at least a foot, and probably around a hundred pounds, on me, he actually steps back when I approach him.
“Don’t tell anyone.” His voice comes out in a whisper. An actual plaintive whisper. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
I admit that a part of me is baffled that this is something he’s scared about considering that Eric is openly gay without issue. Still I try to offer an assurance. “I won’t. I won’t say anything.” When I don’t get a response – he doesn’t express any blatant sign of disbelief, but the way that he says nothing but just continues scratching at his arms doesn’t exactly fill me with encouragement – I add, “Hey, you trusted me enough to talk about being ace. I trusted you enough to take the time and explain. Right?”
I must have said the right thing, as that earns a little nod from him. “Right.”
“So can you trust me here?”
Probably only a couple seconds pass – I’ll admit that it feels longer – before I’m answered by a firmer nod, which in turn earns a sigh of relief from me. It takes a few more minutes, but eventually his breaths slow back to normal, as does his complexion.
“I’m sorry I reacted like that,” he mumbles.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” Again, I still find it a bit curious, but everyone has their reasons, and nobody should feel obligated to be out.
“If you’re wondering… I know I’m gay. I’ve known and been fine with that since I was twelve. I’m not in denial. I don’t think I’m broken or a sinner or whatever other bullshit the assholes say.”
“But… let me guess… nobody knows and you want to keep it that way.”
He just nods his head, and I breathe out a low huff. Again, I’m not going to judge, but I still can’t imagine those close to me not knowing. Mom and Dad have been nothing but supportive; same goes for Erik and Isaiah for all their brashness.
It’s like Dex can read view my internal thoughts as he adds, “I’m pretty sure my folks aren’t homophobic. My brother was even in the gay-straight alliance in school. And I know how much the team accepts Bitty.”
“But there’s always the ‘what if’.”
He nods. “And I know if I come out to the team, they’d be asking why I’m not with someone.”
“So it’s not just about being gay. You’d rather your asexuality be under wraps as well.”
He scrubs his hand over his face and groans, “Yeah. I know it sounds weird, but I don’t want to deal with justifying myself. Which probably makes me a hypocrite. Because I appreciate you explaining it all to me, because I know I wouldn’t have the patience.”
“Not weird at all. I definitely get that. I myself don’t always bother explaining.” I lucked out with Dex here, but there are far too many times where talking about asexuality ended with it still being dismissed. “I assume you go with the ‘I’m busy’ defense?”
That gets a bark of laughter and nod from him. “I mean… I am busy. But yeah. It gets everyone off my ass.”
That last sentence earns a snort from me: “Phrasing.”
Holy shit, okay. If this white boy was expressive before, now his face journey from confusion to realization and horror is absolutely epic. It’s like witnessing a compressed version of the five stages of grief.
“Jesus Christ…” Though as he mutters that, I can see his lips twitching.
“Hey, you walked right into that one,” I laugh. Before long, both of us are in hysterics. Part of it is just this ridiculousness, but the other part is the sheer sense of relief of finding someone else out there. A sense of relief that I feel Dex shares.
“Well… are you busy now?” My question gives him pause, and he narrows his eyes. At which I laugh, “No, I’m not asking you out. Just wondering if you want to just hang out.”
“Oh, haha. Okay that makes more sense. Now in general? Or right now?”
“Right now. Tonight. Or this morning. Whatever.”
“Well… I think we probably have an hour or two before the kegster finally winds down. But after that, we should probably be free to kick back. Besides, there’s something I wanted to give you. A little welcome to the team. And…” His brows pinch together. “Huh…”
“What is it?” Also what is it that he wants to give me.
Dex flexes and twiddles his fingers before answering: “You want to go out with me?”
What. “What.”
He quickly waves his hands. “Wait. No. I don’t mean go out go out. Just for Spring C. We wouldn’t actually be dating. But we would look like it.”
Ah okay. “So you mean a fake date.”
“I guess so? Either way, we just show up with each other, and they’ll probably assume that we are actually dating.”
“And they’ll stop pestering us.”
“Exactly. And if you find someone else, we can easily break it off.”
That’s… honestly a good idea. And not gonna lie, from what I hear about Spring C, I would feel safer with a guy like Dex around. Though… “Will we have to… demonstrate that we’re dating?”
Dex scrunches his face again and vigorously shakes his head. “No. Hell no. If anything, PDA is against the bylaws.”
Honestly, I’m not even surprised that there’s such a hookup culture and an aversion to actually showing affection. Oh well, whatever. “Alright.”
“Alright?”
I hold out my hand. “Alright.”
After we shake on it, we go back on patrol. By two though, there is less need. Sure, there are those who need chaperoned. But soon, as the morning gets all the more crisp, even that responsibility wanes. Hell, Dex even takes a couple detours to the kitchen during this. Once it becomes clear that everyone has either left or are clearly hunkering down in the Haus, Dex lets out a big huff. “Looks like we’re free.”
“Awesome. Let’s get something to drink.”
“Waidaminnute. Wanted to give this first.” And at his beckoning, I follow him to the kitchen.
No matter the fact that I’ve been here a couple times, I never fail to be struck with how… homey this space is. Especially for being part of what’s essentially a jock frat. And somehow, it doesn’t lose that feel under the onslaught of the kegster.
That’s evident by the fact that it doesn’t smell like sweat and booze like the rest of the Haus. That’s kept at bay by a rich and sweet scent.
A scent that gets stronger when Dex rummages at a counter.
“Made this earlier today… well… yesterday… and actually wanted to bake it tomorrow. Today. Whatever. But… couldn’t wait.” He actually has to unlatch a padlock. “And I know Bitty will feed you a lot. He feeds all of us. But still wanted to contribute. Here we are.”
He pulls out an… I fucking kid you not… open-face blueberry pie. Fresh enough to still have steam rising from it.
“Welcome to the team, Ford.”
Once I take a bite, I imagine this is what the allos feel like in bed.
The noises that come out of my mouth certainly sound like them.
…
Half-an-hour, one slice of pie, and a couple cups of tub juice later, Dex reveals a few more tidbits about himself:
One: he has a way lower alcohol tolerance than me.
Two: alcohol makes him a lot more animated and talkative than his awkward and reserved demeanor while sober.
Three: alcohol also lifts the repression that he shackles his speech with, because that accent is back in full force. Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s peppered with a different language.
Four: he has strong opinions on the set design of our play, which he had watched — with the rest of the team… which is something I largely regret — last week.
“… I mean, if it’s supposed to take place during the early Victorian era, there shouldn’t be Edwardian buildings in the backdrop!”
Oh yeah, and five: he’s really obsessed about architecture.
“Maybe I can introduce you to our set designer, and we can discuss it over?” I suggest. And if I’m honest, he does have a lot of good ideas.
Dex mulls that over for a second. “Or maybe we can go there right now, and I can make better backgrounds.”
“What.”
Wait, where the hell did he get that toolbox, and how long has he been holding it?
Suddenly, some words from Lardo come back to me:
“If Dex gets drunk, keep him away from tools. Any tools. Power tools. Hand tools. Anything that involves repair or construction.”
I hadn’t thought much about it at the time — hell, the whole idea of Dex Patrol sounded as cryptic as “Nursey Patrol”, whatever the hell that is — but now that warning screams within my racing mind. Something tells me that letting this just play out will be a bad idea. But something also tells me that trying to physically wrest that toolbox from his grasp would be an exercise in futility… And no, it’s not just because of our size difference.
What was the other thing she said about Dex Patrol? Ah!
I quickly guide him into Lardo’s room. Lo and behold, there’s a drawer that is actually fucking labeled: “Dex Patrol”. When I pull it open, I’m greeted by paper, pencils and other sketching tools, and even modeling supplies.
“Why are we here? I thought we’re going to the PAC?”
I hand Dex a sketchbook and tell him, “If you want to do a project, you need to draft it out first, right?”
He scowls a bit at the sketch book, and for a moment I wonder if this even works. A few seconds later though, he shrugs and concedes, “Can’t argue with that.”
Over the next hour, I find something else out: for someone who is super inebriated, Dex can actually make pretty damn good sketches. Of course I suspect that the lines are a bit cleaner and less loopy when he’s sober. But still, he puts enough detail into his work that I can tell what he’s going for.
Also I won’t lie; there’s something absolutely adorable about the way he sticks his tongue out and practically plasters his face to the paper he’s drawing on.
Before long, Dex’s manic focus mellows into a relaxed state, and he gets done sketching. With a promise to show them to my department — and I am actually going to show them to my department; they are that good — I put his sketches into a folder.
Holy shit, it’s already five.
“I know you just got here, but you’re gonna be a great manager.”
I turn toward Dex’s voice to see him sprawled out on the floor. All that tension in his body just bleeding away into the floorboards.
“Thanks.” I mean it.
“And you’re gonna be a great friend.” He sits up for a moment. “Are we friends?”
“Yeah.” I mean that as well. “I think you’ll be a great friend as well.”
That earns a sloppy grin from him, and it strikes me that, while he’s relaxed and content, those eyes actually look nice.
As Dex’s eyes close and breathing evens out, one thought strikes me:
I’m going to like it here.