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Sterling Archer was and will always remain to be a mystery to you.
Not in the obvious sense of why he does the things he does. No, you understand that perfectly. You can dissect and appreciate his character and personality in a way you've never held regard or empathy for anyone else, not even yourself. But he is an enigma to you for why he consistently keeps coming back to you, for you. Why he chooses to do things with you, why he makes an effort to engage with – and even impress – you. Why he's so attached to you. And, admittedly, you wondered the same thing about him for the first year of your… friendship, but those musings soon became very redundant.
He's your best friend. You're not quite sure if he returns the title with quite as much meaning as you do but he's said as much before. Drunken and giggling and making fun of you as he often does whenever you say something even a fraction too serious or sincere, but he said you were the same to him. Friends — it's a weird term for whatever it is you have going on. It's too much and not enough all at once. It feels superficial and shallow yet overwhelmingly profound. It’s too impersonal given the fact you've spent more nights together than you can count, and too strong for how much distance still remains between the pair of you. Sterling doesn't do labels, not really, and you've almost convinced yourself you're fine with that. Almost. Some clarification might make things easier on you, to know exactly where you stand with him, but you know it would only serve to scare him off. Which is the very last thing you want.
It’s as though you have a sixth sense for him because your head turns to your apartment door the very moment you hear some muffled shuffling and groaning coming from the hallway. You were in the middle of reading some random horror book, listening to some old records and halfway to drinking yourself to sleep, but something told you to stay up for a little longer. Something akin to a sense of intuition you never knew you possessed.
There's a dull thump at the door, then another when you don't immediately answer; this has become a routine by now.
“I know you're in there,” Drifts the familiar, slurred, cajoling voice from the other side.
You shouldn't dawdle any longer — You know why he's here, in the dead of night, but the sight always makes your heart ache each time.
“If you're bleeding on my welcome mat again, I won't be happy.” You caution, no real bite to your words as you go to open the door.
A typically lazy smirk and half-lidded blue eyes come in greeting. “Thought you would’a had a stockpile of ‘em by now.”
You try to keep your gaze on those insanely beautiful eyes rather than the wound on his side he’s clutching onto, but – yep – too late. His hand is drenched in blood that's seeped through his turtleneck, of course dripping a steady crimson waterfall on the aforementioned welcome mat. The other that’s shakily propping himself up against the wall is also covered in claret, and there are several small cuts and bruises littering his face. His cane is slotted into one of his belt loops, probably forgotten and useless at this point. Your heart sinks, just a little. Not as much as it used to the first ten times he rocked up to your apartment unannounced and bleeding like a Russian princess, but it still hurts to see him in pain. Even if he covers it up with a dazzling smile and snappy retorts. You can tell, always can with Sterling.
The first time was years ago. He’d shown up at yours just an hour after you’d gotten in from work, finally relaxing for the night, as a ranting and raving frenzy. With two bullets lodged in his shoulder. You hadn’t the first clue on how to go about removing them without causing him any further damage, and being high as a kite probably didn’t help either, but he had guided you through the process as he vented about how he couldn’t believe Lana had the audacity to think he wasn’t trustworthy enough to babysit their daughter. In her defence, you could understand perfectly why she would have some reservations, always able to see things from both their perspectives since Lana was a friend too, but perhaps the bullets were a tad overboard. Not that it was her fault… directly. Still, you did lean more to his side, as you also always did.
Lana was – is – great in many ways, but she tended to keep you at arm’s length since she knew you and Sterling were basically two potty peas in a pod, fuelling each other’s crazy, constantly trying to out-do each other in whatever new harebrained competition you’d come up with. But that had been an unprecedented moment in your friendship thus far. To say the least, that night had been weird.
You took it as an implicit sign of trust and comfort.
Sterling probably just wanted a pretty girl to patch him up rather than spend a night in the ER.
It’s still unclear why he ever came to you for that.
“Oh, right, yeah,” As if it's instinctual, which it kinda is, your arm anchors around his back, allowing him to lean against your much smaller frame as you all but drag him in. “Silly me.”
Sterling glances down at you as he kicks the door shut, knowing it took a whole lot of energy to do so. “Yeah, silly you.”
From the strung out, lacking tone of voice, you can tell he's had a hellish night. Whatever mission he's crash landed back from hasn't been kind to him; they often aren't. Not much has been kind to him since he woke from his coma.
You've mentioned that same thing to him exactly once and was instantly shut down. The glare that was directed from across the table of your regular booth in one of your more seedier spots actually made you stop in your tracks. Apparently, Sterling could handle the overly-emotional, weepy, very intoxicated version of you who couldn't stop blubbering about how much you had missed him for those three uncertain years, how you had thought he might die, how much you despised Veronica Deane (that bitch) for what she had done not just to him but Lana, AJ, the rest of them. But he couldn't take a simple fact uttered with startling sobriety.
“Please tell me you at least re-stocked your scotch supply.” He huffs out as you help to lower him down onto your couch, tossing his cane to the floor. “Last time was literal agony.”
“What do you take me for?” You ask incredulously, hands settling on your hips as you assess the mess that's writhing around and leaving a growing puddle of blood on one of your satin pillows.
Sterling grins up at you, easy-breezy as ever, “Honest answer?”
“Shut it,” You try not to roll your eyes at him; there will be plenty of time for that later, you're sure. “And take your shirt off.” You instruct him as you turn away to retrieve a med kit and a brand new bottle of Glengoolie Blue from the kitchen. There, you also wash your hands that already bear splotches of his blood and grab a clean towel. This really is a routine for you both, maybe even some weirdly intimate ritual, and you know exactly how the night will play out.
“Oh, you'd just love that…” He murmurs mostly to himself, lacking his usual conviction as he complies and peels the turtleneck off with a slight wince. “Ply my weakened, Adonis-like body with booze then have your wicked way with me.”
The eye roll wins out and you shoot him yet another exasperated look, offering the big baby his bottle as you place the kit on the coffee table. “I always have my wicked way with you, Sterling.” Easily catching his soiled shirt that is tossed your way, you throw it to the armchair, deciding to deal with it later. “You know that much by now.” You catch a whiff of smoke, scotch and sweat from it.
That dumb grin is back on his face, lapping up your attention as he always does. “Maybe I need a refresher…”
“Maybe you need to not bleed out on my cashmere blanket.” You counter, settling down on the floor beside him, preparing to deal with your provocative patient. “Also, Adonis didn't bitch half as much as you do, if at all.”
As if to prove your point, “Yeah, lemme just tell the three inch deep stab wound to stop gushing. One sec.” With all the practised grace in the world, he twists the cork out the scotch, carelessly tosses it to the side and immediately starts guzzling straight from the bottle. There's no ‘thank you’, no acknowledgment whatsoever, but you don't mind nor care since you're used to it. Used to him and his wicked ways. “A reminder of just how wicked you are would still be preferable. You should be offering it, really.”
Raising a brow, “Yeah?” you unceremoniously, and a little too harshly, press the towel to his wound in an effort to staunch the blood flow. “Like this, you mean?” But you know he can take that and a whole lot more.
“Fuck!” He squawks, almost spilling scotch down his scar-streaked chest. “Could you be less gentle, you think? I’m only dying over here.”
With a shrug, you keep a firm hold over the cloth, flitting your gaze upwards where it lands on his less than impressed face. “I could try.” He’d probably enjoy it; he does have a rather blatant masochistic streak in him, after all. Which you know all about. “And you're not dying.”
“I might be if you keep that up.”
“Don't whine, Sterling. You also know how this goes.”
He lets out a long-suffering, over-the-top sigh, throwing his head back against the armrest of the couch. “Sometimes, I wonder why I come to you.”
The remark is offhand, blasé, not meant to imply so much, as most things are with him, but it makes your stomach flip nonetheless.
“Phrasing.”
“Nice.” He crooks a weak smile at that, stealing a glance over. “I mean, free booze, sure. Free pot. Good food on occasion. Comfy bed…” His eyes not-so subtly rake down your face, neck, slightly exposed cleavage, clothed chest, right down to how you're sitting on your knees. Like you're bent on a church pew in worship. “Warm… soft… cuddles.”
Again, you refrain from rolling your eyes at him. It would only give him a sense of satisfaction that his already overwrought ego does not need. You know he’s enjoying the ‘show’; he often makes his leering well known.
When your strange arrangement of spontaneously texting each other with demands of going out drinking or partying or whatever other debauchery you could imagine first came about, you actually used to care about how you looked. It’s almost pathetic to think about it now — How much you tried to capture his attention when it was glaringly evident you already had it. But you only ever saw how he would ogle other women, how easily he could drop a conversation with you in favour of drooling over a size two with double Ds flouncing past. Which, again, is pathetic to think about since neither of you were or ever would or could be in a relationship together. At least, not a committed, strictly exclusive one. Such an idea is impossible and one you don’t let yourself dwell on. Not often.
Besides, you’re not a jealous person… Or so you tell yourself. To your credit, you never once get jealous over Lana or Katya, or the dozens of women who warmed his bed when neither were available. Not really. Jealousy is for suckers. It’s undignified.
Now, you wear whatever you want and he’s still just as interested. Whether it’s a form-fitting dress whenever you’re out on a totally not-date-dinner, a much too short skirt at a hazy nightclub, or something loose and concealing when he’s round for an ‘innocent’ film night. As much as you know each other, you’re also both oblivious when it comes to certain aspects of each other.
“Amongst other things,” You mumble as you watch him glug more scotch down, his throat bobbing in a way that makes your mouth dry.
Sterling's expression is verging on cheeky even though you can see the fatigue laying under the surface. It's as amusing as much as it is baffling — How can he always sustain this level of confidence? Sure, he's had his moments of doubt and vulnerability with you, as rare and almost sacred as those may be, but there's still this unwavering sense of complete courage. You used to think it was just plain old boyish arrogance, asshole-ish-ness, jerk alpha behaviour, whatever. But you've since learned that Sterling Archer has a spirit that simply cannot ever be broken or extinguished, try as everyone might. Some days, it irritates you. Some days, it inspires you.
And you’ve learned that it’s as much of a façade as it is sincere. The human personification of an oxymoron, a contradiction, a constant conflict — That’s exactly what he is. You wonder how he can exist, how he continues to live this life of bright, blurry blue and raw, raging red all mixed up to create peculiar, pitchy purple. Particularly after the coma.
“You’re weirdly quiet,” Sterling states, peering down at you as you pull the towel away and see the wound has stopped flowing. “Did one of your favourite characters get miswritten in this week’s issue again? ‘Cause you always get so mopey when that happens, it’s unbearable. I swear, I’ll just write the damn comic myself one day.”
That makes you smile; he knows you well.
“No…” You reply, not intending to sound so reserved. “I’m just thinking.”
“Uh-oh. Everyone batten down the hatches and find a corner to cower in—the end is nigh.”
The eye roll is basically second nature at this point, an ingrained response to his incessant teasing and heavy-handed flirting and dramatic declarations.
When you don’t say anything, he nudges your shoulder with the base of the bottle. “Seriously. What’s up?”
You know he doesn’t like it when you get like this, which is rare. Sterling needs noise, stimulation, action all the time so he doesn’t retreat back inside his head. You also know there are unforgiving, looming figures in there; so many past lives that all belong to him whether he wants them or not.
Introspection is the enemy of happiness, he’s told you dozens of times.
“Nothing,” You turn away from him for a moment to grab a sterilising wipe, and so he doesn’t see your face when you lie to him. “I just didn’t sleep much last night.”
But it’s a pointless thing to do. He can tell from your voice as well as the way your shoulders stiffen slightly, like your body is rejecting you withholding the truth from him.
“Bullshit.”
Your lips pull into a slight pout as you tear open the wipe and start to gently mop up the blood stains. He doesn’t even flinch.
Sterling says your name, once, twice but before he can say it a third time, you look up and silence him with your hardened gaze alone. This is a skill you’ve steadily mastered over the years of knowing him — How to get him to shut the hell up. In a variety of ways. He never did in the beginning, never. Some mornings, you’d return home after a messy night out at some strip joint with a migraine and his deep, deliberately sultry voice replaying in your head like a broken, stuttering record. His one-liners always got stuck in there, making you so irritated you had to listen to music at the highest possible volume, not caring if it pissed off your neighbours.
“I’m fine,” You tell him firmly but not unkind, continuing to clean his wound.
He backs down, knowing that tone means ‘Leave it. Don’t pry.’ It’s one he uses on you when he’s not in the mood for your overbearing concern.
“Whatever,” He murmurs, swallowing back the questions he wants to ask with more scotch.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
You don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, why you’re so wistful and aloof. It’s absolutely not you. At least, not when you’re in Sterling’s company. He always draws out that unguarded, unbridled playfulness that borders on deviousness. No – he doesn’t just draw it out – he stokes at it like a fire and isn’t afraid to get burned when it blazes. He revels in it as you revel in him. Quiet and quelled, over-thinking and omitting is not how you want to be with him. It doesn’t look good on either of you.
“How did you get this one then?” You finally ask, trying to make your voice lighter, once the wound is no longer soaked in blood. “Actually, let me guess. You called Robert a balding ballsack for the fifth time and Lana snapped.”
Sterling chuckles, the noise deep-seated in his chest, like the distant rumble of thunder warning of a brewing storm, then winces. You don’t bother to ask if he’s okay — He’s a big boy, this is barely a scratch for him.
“Nah, I kept the Robert-ribbing to a minimum today.”
“Unprecedented.”
“I felt like being nice.”
“For once.”
“Hey! I’m always nice.” He takes a pointed sip of scotch, burping without excusing himself afterwards before saying “I’m a perfect gentleman.”
The irony has to be satire, you think.
“I’m always nice to you, aren’t I?” He offers before you can reply with something witty.
You consider the question, ignoring the weight it holds.
In a manner of speaking, he is. Sure, he says things to purposefully get under your skin so you bite back twice as sharply in a way he internally rejoices over but never shows. He does things to upset the harmony in your apartment – leaves kitchen cupboard doors open, moves trinkets around from their precise places on your shelves, re-arranges your collection of lipsticks and nail polishes so they’re no longer in colour order – but it’s all harmless. He knows you don’t mind, not in any real way that would earn him a berating that might come from someone else.
“Define ‘nice’,” You say with a brow raised, teasing.
Sterling shrugs, “Well, I always take my shoes off by the door because you’re such a neat freak. Even put them in the rack sometimes. That’s pretty nice.” And consciously crosses his feet at the ankles.
“You’re rubbing dirt into my couch right this very moment,” You point out, aware that he already knows.
“I’m injured!” He protests, brow furrowed as he glares at you, just as teasing. “Gravely injured, might I remind you.”
It’s remarkable how quickly you can both slip back into your regular back-and-forth, even when there’s a thousand unspoken questions and words that linger around you like sweltering humidity in the nightly afterglow of a hot summer’s day.
“Yeah, you might not make it, Duchess.” You say with a mocking serious tone, reaching for a tube of Neosporin. “I hope you've got your last will and testament sorted.”
He grumbles at the use of his code name.
You just grin, wide and shit-eating.
“You’re taking your sweet ass time tonight,” He complains, eyes staring off into the distance, slightly glazed over and not quite present anymore.
“I’m being careful,” You correct, applying the ointment with a light touch to the skin around the wound, trying not to anger it anymore than it already is. “...Gentle.”
Sterling snorts crudely at that, “Makes a change.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t enjoy all my rough play.”
“Never said that.” He has another sip, slower this time, contemplative. “You manhandle me better than Lana sometimes.”
If you were a lesser person, you might blush. He must be wasted by now if he’s saying shit like this.
“I doubt that,” Tossing the tube back to the med kit, you pluck a large square dressing from the seemingly endless pile. “She handles you far better than anyone else can.”
“Hmmm…”
It’s endearing to you how that woman – that brilliant, fierce, unrelenting woman – is basically always on his mind. You absolutely don’t blame him for it; you understand it completely. She is formidable in a way that makes you hot under the collar. You have no idea how Sterling remains so nonchalant and relaxed around her. For the most part.
A hush falls over the room, oddly companionable. Odd yet familiar.
Predictably, he breaks it within minutes.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. AJ was asking about you the other day.”
That makes your hands pause just as they’re securing the bandage in place. Slowly, you dare to glance up at him. “Yeah?”
He smirks softly at your obvious intrigue, not smug or cocky like it usually is. “Yeah. I called her, see if she’s losing her mind in that damn boarding school yet.”
“The Swiss can be bastards.”
“Right? Probably somethin’ to do with how perpetually cold it is there.” He takes another sip before speaking again, well over halfway through the bottle. “She wanted to know how you are. What you’ve been up to.”
The smile that curves your lips can’t be helped, not that you want it to be. That girl is a wonder to you, much like her parents. She’s, somehow, an accumulation of all their best parts. You’re not one for children, they irritate you to no end with all their wailing and vomiting, but AJ makes you considerate in a way that stuns you.
When Sterling was in that god-awful coma, you naturally grew closer with her. Wanting to be there for Lana who was acting like she could shoulder the weight of seeing someone who pisses her off as much as he adores her – the father of their daughter who was clueless about what had happened – in such a state made all three of you closer. The circumstances were horrible, of course, but that silver lining, as painful as it is to think about it even now, lessened the blow. The first time AJ gave you a drawing of birds and bees and butterflies that was actually quite sophisticated for a three year old, you didn’t know how to react. The first time AJ called you ‘auntie’ all off her own accord, you thought your heart was going to burst. And when she left for Switzerland, you realised you were gonna miss her like crazy.
“What did you tell her?” You ask Sterling, busying yourself with the dressing.
“Oh, y’know, all the good stuff. How you’re still drinking like a fish, partying every night, completely obsessed with me.” He answers, much more smug now.
And, of course, there’s another eye roll on your end. “You neglected to inform her about how I’m screwing a new girl every week.”
He almost chokes, caught somewhere between laughing and scoffing. “Right. I’ll let her know next time. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the finer details.”
With a fond shake of your head, you tenderly smooth the bandage down and sit back, finally finished with patching up your idiotic infirm.
“Done,” You redundantly inform him.
“You’re just a regular Florence Nightingale,” He quips back, a smile still playing on his lips, “You know that?”
Naturally, he doesn’t say thank you.
Naturally, you don’t expect him to.
“I don’t know how I wouldn’t. You say the exact same thing every time, Sterling.”
His brow furrows, confused, “I do?”
“Yep.”
“Huh…” With a shrug, he tips more scotch into his mouth. “I’m running out of material.”
Cracking a conceited smirk, you start gathering up all the waste and neatly scrunch it up in your hands. “You ran out years ago.”
He makes a very offended sounding squeak. “Hey! I resent that! It’s wildly untrue, for one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” You murmur fondly, moving to rise to your feet.
But Sterling catches your arm before you can and drags you closer to the edge of the couch, uttering your name just as fondly.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” He insists in that typically teasing tenor of his you’ve grown to not only become accustomed to but honestly lean into.
Despite already knowing the answer, you ask “What would that be?”
“You have to kiss me better.”
You’d roll your eyes for the umpteenth time that night if the familiarity of his request that’s only thinly veiled as a demand didn’t make something settle deep and heavily in your stomach.
So you stall, just for a minute. “Don’t you mean ‘it’?”
“Nope,” His reply is lightning quick. “Me.”
A voice in your head wonders if it’s more pathetic or hopeless that you consistently fall for his dumb little tricks. Or if they’re synonymous at this point.
Deliberately slowly, you consume the short distance that separates you – that always seems to get in the way between you both – and press a chaste, painfully tender kiss to his cheek, just below a fresh bruise that’s forming around his eye. For a fleeting second, you think his lashes flutter shut.
“That… is not what I meant.” Sterling grumbles quietly, not daring to release your arm or pull back.
“You have to be more clear, then, Duchess.”
He huffs out a sigh through his nose, as if he’s annoyed or something like that. As if you could ever really annoy him.
“Fine,” He tugs you ever closer, making you nearly fall right on top of him with the force of it. “I’ll be the assertive one.”
Still, you can’t help but get the last word even when his lips are mere centimetres away from yours. “For once…”
Unsurprisingly, he’s warm, tastes like bitter scotch, smells like gunsmoke and feels like home, in a weird, warped sense of the word. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t deepen the kiss as he usually would. He just lets it stay as it is. Soft, subdued, soothing and the slightest bit sensitive — vulnerable. Almost.
It could have lasted a minute as much as it could have lasted a month; time seems to stutter and still every time he’s this gentle.
Then, it’s over, and there’s a bloodstained hand lingering on your jaw, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes looking up at you, glistening lips parted, as if awaiting your next move.
“I think you’ve lost too much blood tonight,” You mutter, trying to sustain the usual firmness in your voice. “You look like a lovesick puppy right now.”
Sterling doesn’t even feign indignation or outrage, he just traces his knuckles up and down your cheek. “Been called worse.”
That sensation in your stomach tightens and flips, and you have to move away from him before you do something stupid like push him back against the couch and kiss him silly, until you’re both breathless and aching. That can come later when you’ve both smoked and drank way more and don’t care about the implications of how you’re basically the world’s most unconventional, untraditional, unusual not-couple. Something completely impossible and entirely normal at the same time.
“Pick a film,” You tell him, swiftly clearing away the mess and padding towards the kitchen. “No Burt Reynolds or black and white shit.”
Of course, you hear an exaggerated groan of protest. “You’re no fun! No taste!”
“You’re welcome to leave and watch Gator for the billionth time, if you want!”
“Oh, shut up. I’ve only watched it nine times.”
“That honestly surprises me.”
“Unlike you, some of us have actual lives.”
“Yeah,” Walking back into the living room with a half-full bottle of vodka, you pace over to the couch again. “That’s why you’re round mine acting like it’s such a burden to be saved by me.”
Sterling glances at you, not bothering to hide his smile, before reaching across to grab the TV remote from the coffee table.
Shoving his legs off one of the cushions, you settle down beside him, dismissing his melodramatic gasp. Soon enough, his calves are pressing against your thighs, the scotch back to his mouth, idly flicking through film options as you unconsciously run a hand up and down the material of his cargo pants.
Once again, this is all too familiar. But you adore it — Cherish it, even. It might be the best you’ll ever get with him.
“This one?” He asks, hovering over a selection that appeals to both of you. After all, he does know your tastes pretty well — in many deviations of the word. “Seems… halfway decent.”
“Sure,” You say before having a swig of vodka with one hand and beginning to undo the shoelaces of his boots.
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic, doll.”
“Never.”
The film starts, Sterling relaxes into your couch with all the air of someone who believes they own it, and crooks an arm behind his head as he watches with tired but attentive eyes.
You drink more, as does he, occasionally making crude remarks about what’s playing on screen, about the hot female actress you both would happily have a threesome with, some thoughtful comments on the lighting, the dialogue.
It’s unclear exactly when you moved closer, practically spooning him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder, now more interested by the little curls of hair that wrap around the nape of his neck, but it happens. Like it always does; you let yourself be pulled in by his gravitational field. And he doesn’t mind, you know he enjoys it even if he would never openly admit it. This casual intimacy that isn’t defined by the constrictions of a label are something you both easily fall into and don’t regret the next day.
“You never told me how you got this, by the way.” You practically whisper in his ear when the film falls into a lull, fingertips carefully tracing over his bandage.
“Does it even matter?” Sterling counters weakly, growing both sleepier and drunker.
“Does to me,” You reply quietly but sincerely. “Always matters to me.”
You feel him freeze up under your hand, just for a second, before he casts you a typically teasing look. “Sap.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just tell me.”
And he does, embellishing every little detail as usual, gesticulating every other sentence, kicking your leg whenever you say something derisive. Within minutes, the film is forgotten, replaced by warmth and close proximity, mindless chatter and stolen, drunken kisses which have both of you giggling more and more with each one.
Like it always does, the night unfolds predictably and effortlessly.
Neither of you cares when the sun peeks out from beyond the horizon; neither of you cares about the fact you have work in a few hours. All that truly matters in the moment is sharing the third – or maybe fourth – bottle you’ve cracked open and discussing anything and everything that springs to mind.
It’s completely, uniquely yours and his. Belongs only to you both even if neither of you can to each other. But you don’t care. For now, for the years that have come before this moment, it’s somehow incomprehensibly, impossibly perfect.