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James Spencer is a vocal person.
Everybody who’s had the pleasure (or the displeasure) of meeting James knows that he could carry a conversation all by himself. Why he decided to talk to people in the first place was probably just because he enjoyed annoying them.
Griflet, James’ primary handler and the poor sod tasked with transcribing all of his missions, has the patience of a saint and a typing speed that could rival Merlin’s, thanks to James. When James went down to the tech department to try to engage Griflet in a face-to-face conversation for the first time, Griflet just looked up from his paperwork, blinked a few times, as if his life flashed before his fucking eyes, and said “No. Out. Now.”, in that perfect, stern, monosyllabic way only mothers seem to have perfected. James, incredibly, follows.
Other from the anomaly that is Griflet, everybody gets subjected to James talking.
James talks about everything, from sports to the breakfast he ate this morning to the weather, if he’s feeling particularly insufferable.
But the talking isn’t Percival’s problem.
Maybe he found it annoying, the first few months. But then he started to find it endearing, and by that point he knew he was fucked beyond all hope. By the time they had that mission together in Liechtenstein, when Percival had said “Fuck it,” once the mission was over, before proceeding to slam James into their door of their shared hotel room and snog him senseless, the talking had degenerated from endearing to erotic. Because when James wasn’t doing anything physically stimulating with his mouth, he made up for it by talking.
And boy did it work.
So frankly, Percival likes James’ habit of talking. Percival’s only problem with James is what he says.
Or more accurately, what he doesn’t say.
Because James has a habit of saying everything on his mind. Everything.
“I think Meredith has heartworm. You should probably get her checked.” James says as he pets Percival’s Borzoi.
“Merlin’s been right pissy this month. Get him some of that coffee he really liked when you’re on your mission in Brazil.” James says to Percival before he boards his plane.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Percy. I’ll pay. It’s your damn birthday.” James says after a lovely dinner where Percival had been smiling like an idiot at James, foot nudging against his as the night went by.
“I missed you,” James says when he comes back from a deep cover mission that dragged on for two months, right before guiding Percival to their bed and showing him exactly how much he missed him.
“I’m stressed out, darling.” James says as he flops down onto their couch.
And since some of James’ habits have been rubbing off on Percival, he says, “I could suck you off.”
“You are the best person I’ve ever met.” James says earnestly right before Percival gets on his knees. He can’t really say anything intelligible after that.
Months of sex, romantic dates, and generally disgusting relationship things pass. Percival thought it was safe enough to say something that had been true for quite a while.
“I love you,” Percival tells James after he fucked James senseless. He made sure to do it after, because he figured it would be a bit of a cop out to say “I love you” for the first time to James while he was still buried balls deep in his arse.
So he says it now, face nuzzled a bit in James’ neck, close to his ear, more of a whisper pretending to be sentence. He says it now, in the dark, under the sheets, while sleep is trying to pull him under. He says it now, because it feels right.
James hums, acknowledging that he heard Percival, and says “That’s nice,” before falling asleep.
What the fuck?
---
“And then? What did he say?” Elyan asks over the comms while Percival is setting up his rifle.
“Guess,” He tells her as he clicks the scope into place.
“Well I’m assuming he didn’t say ‘I love you too’, because if he did you wouldn’t be asking me to guess. You’d probably be planning the wedding now if he said ‘I love you too.’” Elyan says as Percival gets into position. He sets his scope to down to the cafe across the street where the mark is talking with Bedivere.”Did he fall asleep and pretend he didn’t hear anything?”
“No,” Percival adjusts the angle according to the wind. “He went to sleep after he hummed and said ‘That’s nice.’”
“Oh my god, really?” Elyan asks. “’That’s nice’? Holy shit. What a prick.”
“I know,” He sighs. “And now he’s acting as if it never happened. How’s Bedivere?”
“Making progress. He’s still not sure if the mark is the information leak or not. Standby.” She says. “But fuck. ‘That’s nice.’ What are you? A goldfish? I hope you give him shit for it.” A pause. “You will be giving him shit for it, right?”
“I’m not sure, to be honest.” Percival admits. “I mean, we’ve never actually talked about our relationship, with all the extensive details. So maybe I was the one that crossed the line.”
“Bullshit,” Elyan tells him. “By the way, Bedivere says he’s around 75% sure the mark’s the leak.”
“I sort of need 100% if you want a bullet in his head, El.”
“He’s working on it.” She says. “And again, bullshit. You and James have been dating for the past year. Serious dating.”
“I know that,” Percival sees Bedivere stand up and shake the mark’s hand. “But does he know that.”
“Shoot him.” Elyan says. “The mark, not James. Bedivere is 100% sure about him now.”
“Glad at least one of us is 100% sure about somebody,” Percival pulls the trigger and the mark falls. Chaos ensues. People are screaming. He sits up and starts disassembling the rifle.
“You know, for all that James is a talker, you two don’t seem to communicate all that well. You should have a Discussion with him. Capital D.” Elyan muses as he’s packing the rifle back into his bag. “Have a proper sit down.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Percival slings his bag over his shoulder and makes his way to the extraction point.
---
The Discussion doesn’t happen.
For the record, Percival tried but James beat him to the punch with, “Have you and Elly been talking shit about me?”
Percival chokes on his whiskey. “What?” He coughs.
They’re seated on the couch in the living room they both own because they fucking live together. James has his feet over Percival’s lap. He’s flipping through a cookbook, turns a page before he says “She’s been sending me death glares whenever I pass by going to Merlin’s office.” He shrugs. “She only handles you and Bedivere and it can’t be Bedivere. He likes to pretend I don’t exist. Coping mechanism for my unnatural charm.”
“Right,” Percival snorts and James kicks him in the thigh. But James is still looking at him, one eyebrow raised, waiting for an answer. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing if Elyan looks like she wants to send me into the field with faulty grenades, Percy.”
“We were just talking about us,” Percival sets his glass down. “And what we are.”
“Like, our biological composition?” James asks. “If they want us to be lab rats again, kindly tell them to fuck off. I’m still emotionally recovering from the fake death pill they tested out on me.”
“No, not that.” He says before this conversation veers into something totally unrelated. “I meant. Just. It’s—” James looks up from his book, apparently deciding that watching Percival stumble over his words is infinitely more entertaining than different kinds of omelets.
“What are we?” Percival asks in one breath.
“Incredibly handsome,” James replies without hesitation.
The unspoken tension in the room leaves as Percival rolls his eyes and James snickers.
“Why do I put up with you?” Percival asks when James puts down his book and makes his way to Percival. Honestly, it’s a valid question, but he forgets all about it when James straddles Percival’s hips.
“Exactly because I’m handsome,” He says, sliding his hands over Percival’s shoulders. “Because you like the sound of my voice. Because I’m excellent with my mouth.” He continues and by this point, Percival knows nothing substantial will get done tonight.
Percival is able to come to a few conclusions, though. First off, he’d have to talk to Elyan about the death glares. He loves the woman, but he can handle James on his own.
More importantly, James likes him, that much Percival knows. The problem is James likes everybody, beyond all logic. He’s one of those ridiculously friendly people who genuinely likes people. James knows the name and birthday of every Kingsman employee. James knows what to say to make people smile. James likes everybody and anybody.
The problem is that Percival doesn’t want to be just anybody.
The problem is that James likes Percival, while Percival loves James.
He isn’t sure James is ready for that.
---
The foundations of their clusterfuck of a relationship were forged back in a hotel room in Liechtenstein. James swore Percival fucked his brains out then and ruined sex for him because nothing could top that, then they went to sleep. When Percival woke up, James was gone, and that gave Percival enough to to mope before James came back seven minutes later with takeout in hand.
That probably set the mood for their entire relationship.
After Liechtenstein, James and Percival continued on as if nothing changed; friends but with Percival questioning why he was friends with James in the first place. Of course, with the added benefits of sex. Back then, Percival was more than fine with it. He was perfectly content with being James’ fuckbuddy.
But then things started changing.
Percival will swear all the way to his grave that it was James who started everything. It was James who started leaving little trinkets in Percival’s office, souvenirs he brought from his missions abroad. It was James who started taking him out to dinner. It was James who started cooking him dinner. It was James who started staring at Percival when he thought Percival wasn’t looking, eyes filled with something akin to awe, staring at Percival as if he was the world. As childish as it sounds, he started it.
So, James is to blame for Percival falling in love with him. It’s his damn fault.
When Percival realized he made the terrible mistake of falling in love with James, he did the smart thing, which was to do absolutely nothing. This is because James is as skittish as a wet cat when it comes to emotions. So he did nothing, lest James run off to New Zealand to become an untraceable hermit, and waited for James to initiate everything.
Months later, months of dinner dates and really earnest sex, Percival thought he was well into the territory of a romantic relationship. Obviously, he was wrong, because “That’s nice,” happened, and ruined everything.
It is, again, all James’ fault.
But Percival knows where he went wrong.
James likes having fun. Percival is James’ fun. James just has a tendency of doing things and not realizing the consequences they inflict on others, not because he’s a bad person, but because he is, for the lack of a better term, an emotionally stunted infant.
After the failed Discussion, what Percival now knows for sure is that James is so emotionally stunted, he initiated something literally called dating while under the assumption that it’s all just...normal friends with benefits behavior.
For fuck’s sake, they live together.
“Jesus Christ,” Percival says, rubbing a hand down his face.
“James, actually. James Spencer.” James says from where he’s sort of lying down on Percival’s chest, legs tangled with his.
He elbows James in the ribs.
---
He’s doing paperwork at HQ when Merlin pops into his office and drops a paper bag onto his desk.
“What is that?” He asks as politely as he can while also staying a good distance away just in case it turns out to be a bomb.
“It’s not a bomb,” Merlin says. Percival doesn’t come any closer, so Merlin reaches into the bag and pulls out two muffins of all things. He hands one to Percival, who continues to look at the muffin as if it is a bomb.
“What is this?” He asks.
“It’s a muffin,” Merlin says, biting into his.
“No, I meant, why?”
“It’s your milestone muffin. Specifically the ‘congratulations, you realized you’re dating an idiot who doesn’t believe he’s dating you’ muffin. Baked it myself.” Merlin tells him.
“I need to have another talk with Elyan,” Percival sighs.
“Please don’t. Your sad excuse of an adult relationship has been our main source of entertainment all week.” He takes a seat, leans back like he owns the place. Which, he probably does. Sure they all answer to Arthur, but everybody knows Kingsman is practically Merlin’s anyways. “It’s incredible, really. Even Griflet’s joined the betting pool, and the man barely says anything on a good day.”
There’s a pause punctuated only by Merlin’s faint munching. Percival is still holding the muffin as if it’s a bomb.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Merlin asks.
Percival narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t think I’ll help you win the betting pool.” Another pause. “But if things don’t work out, I might break up with him.”
“That’s a rubbish idea,” Merlin says as Percival comes to terms with how terrible what he said just sounded. “And I’m not just saying that because if it came true, I’d lose the betting pool. In fact, the only person who bet on you breaking up was Bedivere.”
“God, what a prick.” Percival finally takes a bite of the muffin. It’s blueberry.
“Mhhmm,” Merlin hums. “But don’t break up with James.”
“I might have to.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got our wires crossed. Somewhere, I misunderstood.”
“Red herring.” Merlin says as he finishes his muffin.
“I love him,” Percival tells him. “And now I’m not sure if he loves me.”
“He does,” Merlin says in the same way he tells Percival “Extraction is coming in ten minutes.” Confident. “I know that deep down, you know that.”
“Maybe I do, but James obviously doesn’t.” He says into his muffin. Percival knows that somewhere in James’ disaster of a brain, he loves Percival. He sees it in the little souvenir trinkets sitting on his desk, in the dinners, the stolen glances. But James loving Percival is no use if he doesn’t accept it, because until then, Percival is just the fuckbuddy. Just the anybody. “It would get ugly if we went on like that,” He tells Merlin. “If he never comes to terms with it. If he doesn’t even want to, as if loving me is a chore. I’d end up hating him for it, and I don’t want that.”
“Hm,” Merlin nods as if he’s thinking about hiring a relationship counselor. “Have you spoken to him about any of this?”
“Well, I tried—”
“And, let me guess. You ended up having sex instead of having conversing like adults.”
“Why don’t you go bother somebody else?” Percival goes back to his report. “We can’t possibly be the most dysfunctional relationship within Kingsman.”
“Oh no, that title goes to every relationship Harry tries to have.” Merlin says takes the hint and starts getting up. “But those only last a few weeks. You and James, though? You two are a dysfunctional relationship that keeps on keeping on.”
Merlin leaves and Percival is left with a paper bag of muffins and a bitter feeling in his stomach.
---
“You realize we’re dating right?” Percival says the moment he’s through the door. He goes to the kitchen where James is pattering around.
“Hm? Sorry what was that, darling?” James asks in the way that means he heard Percival anyways. “What’re those?”
“Muffins,” Percival sets the paper bag down on the dining table.
“Ooh, are those from Merlin? He makes a mean treacle pudding.” James heads for the table, but before he can get there, Percival cages him against the kitchen counter, a hand on either side of his hips.
“We’re in a relationship,” Percival says. He’s endlessly thankful for that fact that he didn’t catch James while he was cutting vegetables. He’d rather not have this conversation with a knife nearby. He might end up stabbing James.
“Yes we are.” James is looking at him with an easy smile on his face. How is Percival supposed to not fall in love with him?
“Good. Now do me a favor and tell me what kind of relationship you think this is.”
“Well,” James starts, winding his arms around Percival’s waist, pulling him flush against the warm line of his body. “We’re two very good looking gentlemen who, together, engage in certain,” He leans in, lips against Percival’s ear, “Activities.”
Percival places his hand on James’ chest and pushes himself back. “Is that it?”
“Uh,” James says. “We’re friends?”
“I want to stab you sometimes,” Percival says before giving James a quick kiss because he can. Because he might not have the chance anymore soon. “Listen, I’m not up for dinner tonight. I’m tired.” And then he goes upstairs.
---
(“What did I say?” James asks when Percival is upstairs. Gerald, his German Shepherd, whines and puts his paws over his snout.)
---
Percival’s life becomes a bit more of a disaster after that, though surprisingly, James had nothing to do with it.
He goes on a surveillance mission in the Netherlands, which actually just means he spends a lot of time holed up on a roof, looking like a glorified birdwatcher, listening and watching a bunch of Maybe Terrorists talk about very mundane things in their hotel room. It’s probably bad to hope that somebody is a terrorist, but Percival really hopes somebody is a terrorist because he’s bored out of his mind.
Thankfully, Elyan is in his ear the entire time, keeping him entertained, because apparently she now thinks Percival’s calamitous love life is her business.
“I mean,” Elyan starts when the Maybe Terrorist #1 starts reading the newspaper. “Realize that while I’m on your side, because you’re my baby—”
“I am eight years older than you,” Percival says.
“—That you’re also to blame here.” She says. “Honestly, you know James is an idiot, yet you keep dancing around the topic, almost as much as he likes to ignore it.”
“I don’t want to make it weird,” Percival says. Maybe Terrorist #1 is fixing some coffee now for Maybe Terrorist #2 and #3. The birds circling around are more interesting.
“For fuck’s sake, it’s already weird.” Griflet says, which is an oxymoron in itself. “James was near silent in his last mission, save for the faint singing he does when he thinks I’m offline. He was so quiet I was tempted to start a conversation. Me.”
“He’s singing?” Is what Percival decides to latch onto.
“Yes. One of those Disney songs. He’s actually got a nice voice which I’d appreciate if he wasn’t acting weird.” Griflet tells him. “Basically you’ve broken him.”
“I mean,” Elyan starts again. Maybe Terrorist #3 switches on the TV, dear lord. “If you just told him upfront, with no dilly dallying whatsoever, that you love him, romantically, that may just get some gears turning in that head of his.”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing that would make things weird,” Percival says.
He was just about ready to settle in for another exhilarating day of hoping these people were terrorists when his wish comes true, and he feels a scratch at the back of his neck before passing out.
So he gets kidnapped by the Confirmed Terrorists, Shit. Exactly what he needed.
When he comes to, he finds himself tied to a chair in a desolate warehouse. He’d complain to Elyan about how cliche it is, but his glasses are gone, which leaves him with no communication and slightly worse eyesight.
The CTSs enter in the way most bad guys think looks intimidating, swaggering in with seemingly confident steps, but really just looks like a flock of steely eyed flamingos walking towards you. They do their whole speech routine and Percival is pretty sure at least one of his four hidden bugs in his suits gets it all and sends the intel back to HQ.
Just when he’s about to nod off, one of the CTSs breaks away from the flock and introduces herself as a professional torturer. Oh joy.
“You should really just tell us who you work for, babe.” She purrs, gracefully twirling a knife around. Percival wants to yawn, but that would be rude. “Or else things might start getting painful for you soon.”
Oh please, he wants to say. I’m in a relationship with somebody who thinks friends with benefits normally go out for candle lit dinners. That’s torture.
Anyways, he’s not that affected when she starts unimaginatively stabbing him, which is a phrase he would have never thought of a decade ago, but here he is.
So it isn’t the sad excuse for torture that leads to him almost dying when extraction gets here. It’s the helicopter that crashes through the ceiling of the warehouse, bringing the entire structure down onto him.
---
“Grif, I’ve got him.” Somebody says in the haze of concrete dust. Frantic fingers press against his pulse point. A sigh. “He’s alive but he looks like shit.”
“No I don’t,” Percival protests weakly because getting words out of his throat is very, very difficult right now for some reason. He blinks his eyes open and sees James, or more accurately, a very blurry James shaped thing.
“Of course. I was just kidding, darling. You’re gorgeous. Now don’t move,” And then James is pushing something heavy off of Percival. The pain is blinding, coursing through his left arm, leg, and torso.
“Ow,” He tells James.
“Sorry,” James presses a kiss to Percival’s forehead. “Sorry for this, too.” He presses down on a gaping wound on torso, trying to stop the bleeding. He doesn’t have the energy to yell, so he settles for a low groan. “Grif, he can’t walk and I can’t carry him out of here without risking more damage. Percy? Hey, Percy!”
“Hm?” Percival opens his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them.
“Come on, I need you to stay awake for me.” James says. He tries to smile, but it’s a bit frayed at the edges.
“I don’t want to do that,” Percival tries to say. It probably sounds more like “Dnn wnn dtht.”
“For me, darling.” James tells him. It’s a compelling argument. “He’s losing a lot of blood. Med team’s gotta double time it, Griflet.”
“Going to rest my eyes for a bit,” Percival warns James.
“Oh no no no. Don’t do that. Come on, stay awake. Talk to me. Start complaining about how I’m insufferable or how I keep forgetting to get milk even though you put it on the shopping list.” James says, pressing down, jolting Percival awake with pain, the prick. “You can get angry at me, just stay awake, okay?”
“I love you,” He says. This is terrible timing, he realizes only after he said it. It’s the first time he’s said it since “That’s nice,” because he didn’t want a repeat of that night. But he says it now because it feels like he’s dying. It’s probably melodramatic, but a few months ago, James wrote his will when he got sick with the flu. Percival is marginally better.
“I love you,” Percival says. He’s dying here. He gets to have this one thing.
“Hey,” James says and he looks panicky. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to say that.”
Fuck you, Percival thinks. He wants to say it, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth. The edges of his sight are going black.
“Percy, stay awake.” James shakes him lightly. Ow. “Please. Come on. I can’t lose you. I—”
Wait.
“I—”
Holy shit.
“I—”
Holy shit.
“Percival, I—” James says. “I can’t let you die. Elyan would kill me and they’d never find my body.”
Oh, come on.
“Fuck you,” Percival says and he’s very glad it actually makes it past his vocal chords this time.
He blacks out. James probably freaks out. On one hand, he deserves it. On the other, Percival really doesn’t want to die just yet. He wants to live just so he can punch James in the face one last time.
---
“What the fuck,” Percival slurs when he wakes up to the familiar white ceiling of the medical bay at HQ. There’s nothing odd about the ceiling, but there is something very odd sitting next to his bedside.
“Good morning,” Harry Hart pours him a glass of water. “Or, well, afternoon.”
“What the fuck,” He repeats, but he gladly accepts the water. “Why are you here?” Percival decides to ask first. He queues in How long have I been out?, What happened to the mission?, and Where is James? after.
“I had nothing else to do,” Harry shrugs. He takes the glass back from Percival and sits back down. “As for everything else I assume you’re curious about, you’ve been out for five days. Internal bleeding, some broken bones, and a few shoddy, unimaginative stabs. A few weeks of physical therapy for your leg, and you’ll be fine.” He says. “Your investigation has been turned over to Bedivere.” Ugh. “And James is at the shooting range trying to deal with his hurricane of emotions with some hearty, gun fueled violence.”
“I watched the footage.” Harry leans back into the chair and starts sipping at the tea he had on the dresser nearby. “Very dramatic. Bravo.”
Percival rolls his eyes and does not reply, hoping that if he stays quiet enough, Harry will get bored and leave. He really does not want to deal with Harry right now. It’s not that Percival hates the man, or anything. It’s just that Harry is weird. He’s got bugs in cases and he stuffed his dog. Why Harry and Merlin are friends, Percival will never know and would never want to know. Hell, he’s half sure whoever proposed Harry as a candidate did so just to make sure he didn’t end up a serial killer.
“You know,” Harry starts talking and Percival will not reply. He won’t. Harry did this on purpose; talking to Percival while he’s immobile, the bastard. “You could fix your whole relationship in the span of a week.”
“Let me guess,” Percival narrows his eyes. “You win the betting pool if me and James get our act together soon.”
“Before Sunday, yes.” Harry sips his tea. “I’m not fond of losing and winning against the entire tech department would knock Merlin down a few pegs.” He says. “They all think you’ll take a few months to get everything in order.”
“And you?” Percival asks.
“If you told him you loved him—”
“I have.”
“—Properly.”
Percival blinks. “Properly.”
“Yes, properly.” Harry sets his cup down. “Elyan’s filled me in. The first time you said it was after sex,” Percival really has to have another talk with Elyan. “And the second time was when you were dying.”
“Not dead,” Percival gestures to himself with his good arm.
“My point is,” Harry says. “Those two times you said it were during times of duress where one could argue you didn’t mean it. After sex and with one foot through death’s door.”
Percival feels a headache coming on.
“Now if you pair that up with the fact that, on good days, James has the emotional capacity of a very happy dog—”
“You’re saying he doesn’t believe me.” He says.
“What I’m saying is that, maybe, the reason why James doesn’t say ‘I love you’ back, the reason why he doesn’t want to even acknowledge the thought of loving you, is because he doesn’t want to believe in something that might be a mistake.” Harry says. He looks like he’s having fun with all of this. “James is afraid of commitment. Everybody and their mothers know this. He’s also a paranoid bastard, like the rest of us, because you don’t get into this business without at least a few trust issues.”
“What I’m saying is that he took a risk for you,” Harry leans forward. “And now he’s afraid it might all go to shit if he assumes something that might not be true.”
“That’s—” Logical. Reasonable. Understandable. “—rubbish. Absolute rubbish. It’s—”
“Have you or have you not had an explicit conversation explicitly telling him that you want a romantic relationship?” Harry interrupts him. “Or have you just been frowning slightly every time he says the wrong thing, giving him no clue as to what to do or what his mistake was?”
Christ. Percival presses down on the button that floods pain medication into his bloodstream.
“I thought so,” Harry hums. “A lot of this is actually your fault. You subconsciously avoid a serious discussion because even though you’ve told him you loved him, you’re as afraid of the concept as he is.” Percival is currently weighing the pros and cons of overdosing on pain meds. “You don’t like saying it in situations where you’d immediately have to deal with the consequences, because somewhere, deep down, for some ungodly reason, you think you don’t deserve him. Like you’re weighing him down. You’re afraid he’ll stay with you out of pity, because James is a martyr—”
“Your best friend is psychoanalyzing me and it’s making me very uncomfortable,” He yells when Merlin finally walks into the room, right around the time Percival was thinking about flinging himself off the bed, broken leg be damned, and crawling away from Harry.
“Huh, well.” Merlin looks at the scene; Percival looking like he’d really been tortured and Harry looking awfully smug with himself. “Sorry, I guess. Harry, you shouldn’t be stressing out injured people.”
“I was merely having a friendly conversation.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Why don’t you go have a friendly conversation with James down in firing range and tell him Percival’s awake.”
“God, no.” Percival says. The last seven minutes of his life are fresh in his mind. “Send somebody else. Anybody else. Do not let that talk to James.”
“I’m so flattered,” Harry smiles. Merlin smacks Harry with his clipboard.
---
Recovery is tiring, for all that he spends its entirety in bed. After Harry is kicked out of his room for good, Percival’s days go by rather uneventfully.
Well, it’s uneventful given how James is practically living in Percival’s room.
Sometimes he wakes up with James asleep in the chair at his bedside, neck craned at an unforgiving angle. Sometimes he wakes up with James head pillowed on his arm. Sometimes he wakes up with James’ hand in his, fingers intertwined, holding on and not letting go. He wakes up, everyday, and James is there.
Percival, pointedly, does not say “I love you.”
He doesn’t. Not yet, at least. Harry’s words are running amok up in his head. If he says it now, James could blame it on the pain meds or the injuries. He’s fine, though. Percival can wait a few weeks. He’s certainly being taken care of, in the mean time.
James comes in every day he doesn’t have a mission. He sneaks in food the nurses chastise him for but nonetheless allow. He brings in playing cards and Percival’s chess set. He talks, of course. Apparently his little sister has a new boyfriend and James is planning on giving him the shovel talk of the decade.
James, also, does not say “I love you.”
Percival wasn’t expecting him to.
Until
“I’m going to the States tomorrow,” James says a few weeks later when Percival is well enough to be able to sit up without wincing. They’re playing chess. James moves one of his pawns forward. “It might be a week or two. Not too long. But you’ll be seeing less of my wonderful face for a while.”
“Glad I’ll finally get a week of peace,” Percival leans forward and takes one of James’ knights with a rook.
“Lies. You love me.”
“I do,” Percival finds himself saying right as James is moving a bishop. James drops the bishop and knocks his king over. Percival’s been off any pain medication for three days now. So he says it, the day before James leaves for another continent, because Harry was right. Percival is a bit of a coward who doesn’t like to deal with things. He says it now, as James is setting his pieces back upright, because he’s also tired of keeping it in.
“I do. I do love you.” Percival says. James looks at him. Face blank, as if he doesn’t know which emotion should win over and show on his face. “I’ve loved you since Liechtenstein, even if I didn’t realize it then. I’ve loved you since the last two times I said it, despite the circumstance.” Percival is rambling. He’s supposed to be the quiet one, but here he is. Pouring his heart out for this idiot of a man who doesn’t know he’s three moves away from a checkmate and probably doesn’t know what to say, so Percival does James’ job. He keeps talking. “I love you, even if you drive me out of my mind most of the time. I love you, even if you don’t.”
James is looking at him,, wide-eyed, awestruck, and terrified. Percival’s said his piece. Whatever happens next is James’ call. Percival closes his eyes.
“I,” James starts. “I—I don’t—" And isn’t that a punch to the gut. “No. Fuck. Not that. This is coming out all wrong.”
Percival quirks one eye open. It isn’t that hard to say “I’m sorry but I don’t want to feel the same way.”
“Stop looking at me like that,” James says defensively.
“Like what? Like I’m judging you for not saying a coherent sentence?”
“Like you think I know what I’m going to say!” James tells him. “Because what you’re thinking isn’t it. Because I—I don’t not love you.”
Percival has both eyes open now. His eyebrows are also pretty high up there because despite the double negatives, James just said—
“I love you too,” James says, breathing it out as if it’s a death sentence.
It’s the best thing Percival’s ever heard.
James ducks his head, fiddling with his king. Percival sees the hunch in his shoulders, the tense set to his jaws, the nervous way his fingers move. Harry’s words echo out. He took a risk for you.
“Say it again,” Percival says quietly. He’s worried if he speaks too loudly, the moment will shatter.
James looks at Percival, terrified, and says “I love you.” And it’s the bravest Percival’s ever seen him. “I’ve been an idiot haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Percival says. He places a hand on James’ jaw, trying to remember how it looked like when he said those words. “You’ve been an utter fucking tit.”
“I’m sorry.” James leans into Percival’s touch. “I’m so sorry.”
“Say it again,” Percival says in place of “I forgive you.”
“I love you,” James says. The fear is still there, but it’s softer now. It’s getting drowned out by something more sure of itself. It’s getting drowned out by James. “I’m sorry for not saying it before, when you wanted me to.”
“Was the thought of loving me so bad?”
“No. No, definitely not bad. Terrifying, yes. But not bad.” James tells him. “I love you.” He tacks onto the end as if he couldn’t help himself.
“Why is it so scary for you, James?” Percival asks. He’s not leaving any of this to the silence. Not anymore.
“Because I don’t know how. I don’t know how to love somebody right.” He says. James moves closer, sets the chess set aside. “Somewhere along the way, I unknowingly made the decision to love you without even stopping to think if I was capable of doing it right.” He sighs. “I don’t know how to do this, darling. I’m going to mess up.”
“I don’t particularly care if we mess up,” Percival reaches for James’ hand. “We’ve been messing up on a regular basis ever since we started, so I figure we can work through it now that we’re on the same page.”
“I love you,” James says. It’s starting to sound more natural. More like everything else he says. It’s starting to sound like the weather or what he ate for breakfast; just a simple truth he needs everybody else to know. “God, I love you so fucking much,”
“That’s nice,” Percival says just because he can.
“Oi,” James pulls back and pouts. “I probably deserved that but, come on.”
“I know.” Percival says. He’s smiling. James is too. “I love you too.”
---
James Spencer is a vocal person who likes to say everything on his mind.
“I love you,” James says a few hours before he leaves for the States.
“I love you,” James says to soothe Percival, to calm him down when his PT gets harder.
“I love you,” James says, smiling and breathless, when Percival shoots a man right between the eyes before he could stab James a week after Percival is cleared for field duty and assigned on a joint mission with James.
“You two are so romantic,” Elyan says right after that. “But seriously. Keep it out of the comms. I’m fine with transcribing all your disgusting mush, but Griflet is dying.”
“Congratulations,” Merlin says a few days after that. He gives Percival a loaf of banana bread.
“Honestly, couldn’t you have fixed it before that one Sunday?” Harry huffs, slouching in Percival’s office chair. He offers him a slice of the banana bread, but Harry refuses to eat it because Merlin made it and Merlin won.
“I love you,” James says in bed. Sometimes, Percival would sit up and press his mouth against James’ to shut him up. But other times, he lets James talk. Percival lets James say it over and over again, easy as breathing, until the night takes them away and they fall asleep.