Work Text:
The first time Ned sees the bloke in the red jumper, he very nearly does a double-take. It’s near closing time, which means it’s currently only him, George, and Harry manning the tills.
It’s a Tuesday near the start of the month, which also means that time as a concept no longer exists since it’s slowed to a crawl. Other than a few last-minute shoppers mulling about, the store’s nearly empty.
It’s as he’s checking his watch for the seventh time in as many minutes – willing the digital display to speed up and tick by faster – that he catches sight of the man. He’s by the self-checkout, rapid-fire scanning items with the quick efficiency of a seasoned professional. Not that interesting in and of itself; but he’s quite fit and Ned doesn’t have much else to do besides wait for his next customer. It’s as he’s admiring the way the man fills out his smartly tailored trousers that it happens.
Red Jumper scans a bag of grated cheddar, waits just long enough for the total to pop up on the screen, and then promptly tears the bag open, reaches in, and stuffs a handful of cheese into his mouth with all the gusto of a starved gerbil.
Ned’s aware he’s staring. He’s worked at his local Tesco’s for several years now, for God’s sake; has seen the unholy leavings of the public restroom, has had the dubious honour of cleaning up sick in the fruit and veggie aisle, has restocked more purposefully left behind and misplaced items than he can count.
But he’s never before been so close a witness to such a fervent display of one man’s apparently innate craving for cheese. Red Jumper’s hand – and how Ned wishes he hadn’t noticed earlier how deft or long those elegant-looking fingers of his are – reaches in again, retrieves another handful. His cheeks are still full from the first lot, jaw working furiously. It’s terrifyingly impressive. Ned almost feels like cheering him on. It’s as that second handful of cheese is making its way to Red Jumper’s mouth that reality seems to catch up with him, and he risks a casual glance around to see if anyone’s looking. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Ned should look away, he should –
Too late. Red Jumper’s eyes land on him like a weighted blanket. They’re pretty, Ned thinks absently from where he’s frozen like a fox caught at the town council bins. Very pretty. He can’t decide if they’re grey, or blue, or green. Not that it matters, with how wide they go. Red Jumper’s hand automatically – almost guilty – lowers its haul of booty back into the package. Ned’s not sure what’s worse; the prolonged eye contact or the fact that Red Jumper’s still chewing.
“’M sorry,” the man mumbles around the mouthful, breaking eye contact to stare at his fancy, well-shined shoes.
Finally, Ned comes unstuck. “Your life, your money, mate,” he says, waving a hand. The man risks another look at him from under his lashes, swallows, and responds.
“Haven’t eaten yet today, and I was feeling a bit peaky,” he says, fiddling with the zip seal on the bag.
“We’ve all been there,” Ned tells him, aiming for commiserating but landing on questioning. He’s not sure anyone’s ever quite been here before, scarfing store brand shredded cheddar straight from the pack at near ten o’clock at night, but far be it from him to judge Red Jumper’s life choices, especially since he survived almost exclusively off of Gregg’s sausage rolls and pie barms in his college years.
“Still,” Red Jumper says, clearing his throat. “Bad manners. I could’ve waited til home. Or the car, at least.”
“You’re alright,” Ned assures him. “None of us could give a shit, to be honest.”
“Good to know,” Red Jumper tells him with a smile that sets Ned’s heart beating just a tad faster.
What the fuck is wrong with me, he chances to wonder, smiling back.
“Well, suppose I better get this done with,” Red Jumper says, neatly sealing the package and putting it with the rest of the already-scanned items in the bagging area. Ned nods at him in what he hopes is an agreeable way, watching the man return to ringing up the rest of his things.
An elderly woman shuffles up to the till, rakes a beady eye over at Red Jumper and the self-checkout, and mock-whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve never trusted them things, I did. They ring you up for things you ain’t even got in your trolley, so they do.”
“Sure,” Ned agrees, far more used to this flow of conversation, and begins ringing her up.
He’s rescanning a tube of denture fixative when Red Jumper glides past, hands now thankfully occupied with carrier-bags, and politely tells him, “Have a good rest of your shift.”
“You too,” Ned replies automatically, before wincing. The joys of retail. But Red Jumper’s already out the automated doors, and Ned’s left with nothing more than his vague sense of mortification and the old lady.
“Nice lad, that,” she opines. “Hungry one, weren’t he though?”
Ned gives a weak laugh and prays for closing time to come already.
☙----------------------------❧
A week later, Ned spots him again. He’ll not forget Red Jumper any time soon, short of suffering some kind of traumatic head injury. Except tonight, he’s not Red Jumper, he’s Navy Peacoat And Beige Tartan Scarf.
Too long, Ned decides, so Red Jumper he’ll remain.
“No cheese this time?” he dares to ask with a grin that looks much more confident than he feels as Red Jumper sidles up to the self-checkout.
For a moment, the man looks at him so flatly that Ned’s sure he’s going to be asked to call his supervisor over so he can be written up for this uncharacteristic display of overfamiliarity, but then recognition seems to flare in those pretty eyes of his, and Red Jumper’s deadpan expression relaxes into something more open and friendly.
“No cheese,” Red Jumper agrees, grinning back so wide Ned feels blinded with it. Instead, he peeks at Red Jumper’s basket: a package of fresh fish, a small seeded loaf of bread, a jar of olives, a bag of mixed greens, a bottle of red wine with a name Ned would dread to pronounce aloud, and surprisingly, a package of Freddo bars.
Red Jumper notices his interest, hefts the basket, and asks, “Well? Any comments on tonight’s choices?”
“The Freddos are a nice touch,” Ned says before he can catch himself, but Red Jumper just gives him a surprised look before huffing out a laugh.
“Sweet tooth,” he says, tapping the side of his mouth with his unoccupied hand. Ned’s eyes trail along like a pair of lost puppies, noting the dimple at the corner of his mouth with a throat gone suddenly dry. Must’ve forgotten to drink enough water today.
“What're they supposed to pair with, the wine or the fish?” Ned ventures, feeling bold.
“Neither,” Red Jumper answers as he starts ringing up his basket, brushing a stray strand of jet-black hair back behind his ear, and Ned’s fingers twitch involuntarily where he’s got them rested on the counter. “The only thing I’m pairing them with tonight is my mouth.”
It takes about three seconds for either of them to register exactly what Red Jumper’s just said, but once it penetrates, the words float around in Ned’s skull like a flock of cartoon birds. Red Jumper goes scarlet up to his cheeks in his naffy navy peacoat, mouth clicking shut with an abrupt snap of teeth Ned can almost feel reverberate over from where he’s standing.
Neither of them says anything else for remainder of the time it takes for Red Jumper to finish ringing up his things, bag them, and pay. It’s a shame really, seeing as Ned’s taken rather a shine to him. Red Jumper's done and walking past by the time Ned finally gathers his courage enough to say something again.
“Enjoy one of those Freddos for me too, won't you?” he calls out, like a right twat. But it’s worth it when Red Jumper shoots him a quick, bashful little smile and a tight nod as he goes past, both of which do a host of funny things to Ned’s already rather nervous system.
☙----------------------------❧
It’s becoming a thing.
At least Ned thinks it’s becoming a thing. Red Jumper’s back again, earlier tonight than he’d been either time the previous two weeks. It’s not quite the payday rush yet, but enough people seem to have gotten paid that most of the tills are manned tonight, and there’s a queue for the self-checkout.
As Ned’s scanning a pot of anti-wrinkle cream for a tight-lipped, skeletal woman dressed in designer activewear, he catches sight of Red Jumper contemplating the self-checkout. For once, the queues at the manned tills are moving quicker, seeing as there are more of them on shift tonight, and that there’s a rather cross-looking man with greying hair and a chest like a barrel growing steadily more and more red-faced every time the tinny message of, Unexpected item in the bagging area, sounds off.
Red Jumper chances a look over at him, and, Ned swears it, brightens up, falling in line to queue for Ned’s checkout counter. Three customers later, and Red Jumper’s emptying his basket onto the conveyor belt. Not much again tonight, he notes. Some frozen hash browns, a pack of bacon, box of eggs, bottle of milk, a litre of breakfast punch, and two tins of baked beans. No Freddos this time. Instead, there’s a lone Toblerone.
“Hello again,” says Red Jumper. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Yeah,” says Ned, only slightly breathless as he starts ringing up breakfast ingredients. It feels awkward suddenly, having Red Jumper this near. Ned’s more used to him at a distance, and with good reason. He looks better than ever up close and personal, all handsome features and big, bright eyes. Tonight’s ensemble is a pair of well-fitted jeans with a high-collared button-up and a soft-looking cardigan, the sleeves both of which have been rolled up to Red Jumper’s elbows to show off a dusting of fine dark hair on a set of well-toned forearms. Ned swallows thickly.
Red Jumper must feel it too, because he looks away from Ned politely, gaze darting about like a swallow. The silence between them stretches out and makes itself comfortable. Scanning a handful of items has never taken him this long in his life.
“I’m Tom, by the way,” Red Jumper blurts out, startling Ned so badly he fumbles the last tin of baked beans. It slips from his hands and lands with a meaty smack on the toe of one of his beat-to-hell trainers, before clattering merrily to the floor where it rolls around in a stilted semi-circle, in what Ned can only imagine is vindictive glee.
“Shit!” Ned bites out, sagging a little beneath the bright burst of pain that travels upwards from his foot, and then, “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
At the same time, Red Jumper – Tom – exclaims, “Oh my God, are you alright?”
“Yeah, ‘m fine,” Ned grits out, blinking furiously to stop his eyes from watering. He ducks down to pick up the tin to save himself the embarrassment of having to look Tom in the face, taking a small, irrational bit of satisfaction in seeing the dent in its side when he does.
He still doesn’t make eye contact when he pops back up and scans the tin. “I can ring to have someone fetch you another one,” he intones listlessly to the third button on Tom’s cardigan.
“It’s fine,” Tom says. “They’re fine, it’s just a tin of beans.” And then, much quieter as he fishes his card from his wallet once Ned’s done ringing him up, “I’m sorry. I just thought if I – It’s so stupid, I – I’m just sorry.”
That gets Ned’s attention, head shooting up. He’s never, in all his years, had a customer apologize to him before. Scream at him for not accepting vouchers past their expiry dates, sneer at him for not counting out change fast enough to their liking, roll their eyes at him when he has to type in a barcode because the fucking scanner’s gone on the fritz again. But never apologize, not to him, Edward Little, valued employee and member of the Tesco’s Family™.
“Wasn’t your fault. Butterfingers, me,” he jokes, wiggling said buttery fingers before taking Tom’s card, allowing some warmth to take up space in his tone. And then, feeling lighter and braver than at any point before in his life, he adds, “I’m Ned, by the way.”
Tom graces him with the loveliest smile Ned’s ever seen on another human face, and thank God he makes a habit of bagging everything up for his customers as he goes, because seeing that smile with his hands full, he’d be apt to drop the whole godforsaken lot of Tom’s groceries on his already sore foot all over again.
“I know,” he says, reaching up to tap at a spot high up on the left-hand side of his chest, just above his heart. It takes Ned a moment before he catches on, looking down at his own chest to where his name badge is pinned to his work shirt.
“Right,” he mumbles, flushing a bit. “Do you have a Clubcard?”
Tom just gives him another slow, toothy smile.
☙----------------------------❧
“So, you going to ask him out, or are you just gonna toss around til he decides he can do better?”
They’re on their lunch break, a rare shared one. Ned takes a final drag from his fag before stubbing out the butt in the small Fisherman’s Friend tin he carries around as a portable ashtray. It’s not really that he likes smoking, but it calms him down like nothing else, not even a cuppa. He’d quit if he could. Might yet one day, given the proper motivation.
Sol’s got his arms crossed over the not-inconsiderable expanse of his apron-covered chest, looking for all the world like club bouncer ready to drop a lad or several. How he ended up a butcher rather than working store security is anyone’s guess, let alone Ned’s, but for all that he’s got a face like an ill-tempered terrier and a Scouse accent thick enough to stack bricks on, he’s probably the closest thing to a best friend Ned’s got outside of George, and John who works supply chain in the warehouse.
“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Ned tells him on the exhale, smoke billowing from his nose.
“Fuck’re you on about, you don’t know,” Sol scoffs. “I’ve seen you flirting with the toff what comes in near every other day now. You forget, my butcher’s counter’s in line of sight of the tills.”
“Tom,” Ned says. “His name’s Tom. And I’m not gonna ask him out, you shit. He’s a customer, simple as.”
“Come off it, I’ve never seen you look at another customer the way you do your Tom,” Sol leers, emphasizing the your with a shove at Ned’s shoulder.
Sol’s handsome enough when he smiles, but Ned’d never tell him so to his face. For one, Sol’d never let him live it down, and for two, Ned’s seen the way Sol’s flatmate Tommy Armitage looks at him whenever he thinks Sol won’t notice, and frankly, Ned’s too old to deal with the sad, hangdog looks that’ll be sure to follow if Tommy gets it into his head that Ned’s trying to put the moves on Sol.
“Fuck off,” Ned grumbles, brushing him off, but there’s no heat behind it, not when what Sol’s saying is technically true. Over the past few months, Tom’s become a regular, showing up at night during Ned’s shifts with increasing regularity. There’s been the odd week or two when Ned’s had to cover a short shift, or he’d been off, and he and Tom don’t see each other for a couple of days, but other than that, Tom could very well be called a fixture.
Ned does his best not to dwell on it too long, what it might mean that Tom always comes in in the evenings, most of the time when Ned’s on duty. That he hardly ever uses the self-checkout anymore, that he always queues for whichever till Ned’s on, rather than anybody else’s.
That he chooses to share little bits and pieces of his life with Ned over the beeping of the checkout scanner and the background drone of shop specials blasting over the tannoy: that he’s one of four children, that he’s a GSI for a respected history professor, that he blasphemously prefers coffee to tea, and that on particularly cold and rainy days he needs to use a cane because of a childhood injury.
“He won’t wait forever, you know. Men like that know what they’re about,” Sol warns, suddenly serious. Ned could say the same to him. He doesn’t though. Sol and Tommy will sort themselves out.
“Quit taking the piss,” Ned says instead, pocketing the Fisherman’s tin before checking his watch. “What could someone like Tom possibly want with a fucking Tesco cashier? Get real, mate. Like I said, he’s just a friendly regular. Now shift yourself, we’re back on in two.”
Sol doesn’t say anything to that when they head inside, but the look he aims at the side of Ned’s head could probably hammer in nails.
☙----------------------------❧
Tom’s basket is nearly as empty as the store tonight; Ned can see it even as Tom approaches. It’s another doldrum week, half-past nine, but Ned’s glad to see him nonetheless. He’d never admit it on pain of death, but Tom’s trips have become the highlight of Ned’s shift schedule.
He wearing his red jumper again, along with form-fitting, distressed skinny jeans that hug his thighs like a mother’s embrace, and a pair of worn, faded keds that look nearly as sorry as Ned’s work trainers. There’s colour high in his cheeks when he steps up to the counter, and Ned is about to make a joke about maybe needing to go fetch him a bag of shredded cheddar what with how peaky Tom looks, when he actually notices what’s in Tom’s basket.
The box of Durex ultra-thin condoms doesn’t look particularly out of place next to the bottle of Merlot and the bag of Maltesers, but Ned unfortunately can’t say the same for the large, single cucumber.
When he looks up at Tom, the tips of his ears are red. He’s looking at Ned as if he’s waiting for something, but Ned can’t think what. Instead, he diplomatically clears his throat and starts ringing up Tom’s things.
“Could’ve used the self-checkout for this lot,” Ned says, painstakingly casual, scanning the wine.
“I know,” Tom replies softly.
“Right,” Ned says, scanning the Maltesers.
“I didn’t want to use the self-checkout,” Tom tells him, voice low and mellow.
“I see,” Ned says, scanning the condoms.
“I– I thought… Maybe,” Tom stutters, just as Ned’s reaching for the cucumber. Ned stops, hand hovering. It’s a very, very quiet night. Two tills over, George is smiling down at his phone. Even further down, Harry’s leaning up against the counter, reading something by Foucault, if Ned’s eyes can be trusted to read that far (they can; his vision’s twenty-twenty, or so his optometrist tells him).
“Yeah?” Ned pushes, just the smallest bit, meeting Tom’s eyes. Gorgeous. The colour of mist hanging over a field, or the sea on a windswept day. Ned never wants to look at anything else ever in his life.
“I have better ones, back at home. Condoms, I mean,” Tom rushes out. “Proper lambskin ones. I just needed these to– to… Well, to get the message across. If– If it’s gotten across, and I haven’t just made a complete tit of myself,” he finishes nervously.
Ned’s mouth is drier than the Sahara; than the surface of Mars.
“My shift ends in half an hour,” he croaks.
“My car is in the car park,” Tom replies.
“So is mine,” Ned tells him, rather stupidly, leaning closer over the counter.
“Yes, but mine’s a Lexus,” Tom whispers, close enough that Ned feels the air of those words stirring against his lips.
The cucumber scans as £0.99.
☙----------------------------❧
“You're looking well,” Sol tells him amicably the following Saturday, taking Ned in with an appraising eye. “Solid, like you've been getting shagged within an inch of your life. That your Tom's handiwork, then?”
“That’s for me to know and you to wank off over in the shower, you knob,” Ned tells him with a grin that feels like it’ll split his face in half.
“Good man,” Sol beams, clapping him on the back.
“Here,” says Ned, reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out his trusty Fisherman’s Friend tin, passing it to Sol. He’d cleaned it with Lysol last night, to make sure the smell’s gone.
“The fuck am I supposed to do with this? This is rubbish,” he says, turning the tin over in his hands, looking at Ned askance.
“Think of it as a good luck charm,” Ned offers. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“Quit smoking, did you?”
“Yeah,” Ned tells him, reaching his arms high up over his head in a stretch that feels as languid as a puddle of sunshine. He’s still sore in places he hasn’t been since his twenties, but he takes comfort in the fact that Tom’s back at his place, hopefully still lounging around in Ned’s sheets, looking just as fucked out as Ned feels. “Finally found a reason to.”
Sol bursts out laughing at that, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Sounds to me like your toff likes himself a bit of retail.”
“Says the blue shirt suits me,” Ned agrees genially as they head back inside. Tom had said a whole lot more besides, that first night; but that’s between him, and Ned, and the plush leather backseat of Tom’s now-dubiously christened luxury sedan, and them alone.