Work Text:
After the divorce, James’ house was empty.
In feeling and in furniture.
What hadn't been taken was boxed up in piles, sorted against the beige walls. It was a sorry sight. Many nights were spent sitting, drinking, reminiscing, grading papers on his broad wooden desk until his hand cramped and he fell asleep over the spread of documents, waking just in time to make it to his job.
Now, while still drinking, he was holding someone's hand again. Yours. Over the minutes, his shirt had become unbuttoned, tie dangling loosely from his slender neck. His glasses lie on that same wooden desk.
The hearty smile on his face crinkled his eyes, his prominent brows lifted. Now the dim yellow of the last remaining table lamp seemed intimate, shrouding your two drunken dancing figures in a blanket of warm security, separated from the cold world outside.
James’ neat swept hair came undone, strands falling into his face as his feet stepped clumsily.
It felt good.
His big palm enveloping yours, tugging your body along to his. The cracking speakers of his cheap CD player turned the sad home of a divorcee into a warm, intimate little ballroom. James spun you in a moment of courage.
Your hip slightly bumped the massive wooden table, but the alcohol and endorphins in your system numbed your pain. You simply started laughing. Soon, his slightly worried brow fell as he too chuckled in his soothing voice. The dark of his eyes caught a glimmer of the warm lights as he looked at you.
Fuck, he was beautiful like this.
Although the bottle was his vice, and you'd be working with him to loosen his chain, it gave you glimpses of him.
The real James Lewis.
The man who was passionate about his work. The man who cared. The man with kind eyes and a shy smile.
Your James.