George was in a bit of a predicament.
There was no easy way to admit to your best friend that the reason you've been rejecting his calls, avoiding him and actively stopping him from visiting you entirely was because you were harbouring a very charming vigilante within your home. It wasn't exactly a situation that George ever thought he'd find himself in, and yet here he was.
But let's rewind a little, to how George came to his not-so-little issue.
It wasn't by choice. George didn't just wake up one morning and decide you know what? I'm going to adopt a criminal today!
Well, not exactly at least.
It was a regular Tuesday evening for George; slow, relatively boring and spent streaming until the early hours. There was nothing special or particularly peculiar about it, not even as he desperately searched for something that was. Just another Tuesday like any other Tuesday - he was pretty sure it was a Tuesday at least.
But the day didn't really matter. Nor did the hour, but only because George didn't really bother to check and wouldn't remember if he did.
What did matter was that it was especially dark, all lights already off within his home, when things began going south.
He'd brushed the noise off at first, deciding that either the kitten or the puppy had knocked or broken something and handed the responsibility of dealing with that off to tomorrow morning's - or later this morning, he supposed - George.
But then the noise persisted, only growing louder, and George figured that he should at least check to make sure both animals were alive before procrastinating cleaning their mess. He'd ended the stream some few minutes ago and so turned his monitors to sleep mode before rolling back his chair and standing with a stretch. It was only half-way through plodding towards the sound that George realised that no animal in his home, other than maybe himself, would be able to make such a racket.
There was clicking, clanging, general scuffle and an odd, ssssshhh noise. It sounded, by all terrible conclusions, like a very large, distressed creature.
It sounds, George decided, like something I really don't want to deal with right now.
Despite every sane bone in his body - which wasn't a lot of bones, but I digress - screaming at him to just turn around and go the hell back to bed or maybe call the police, George carefully reached around for whatever he could arm himself with and continued walking. His fingers grazed the handle of a well-loved umbrella and he was quick to snatch it up, brandishing it as he crept into the kitchen and towards the back door.
And it looks, George decided, like something I really don't want to deal with right now either.
Whatever it was was hunched, one hand desperately trying to detach George's dog's jaw and the other clutched around what looked to be a very long leg. It's silhouette was drenched in black, though that may simply be the night's darkness, and surrounded in a horrible clutter that George recognised as his own.
It only took a split second for George to weigh his options: keep quiet and pray the creature didn't see or hear him or call out and hope he was strong enough to fight it off, should he need to.
George chose hidden option number three; creep up behind the figure and knock it the fuck out.
It worked relatively well, if you asked him.
But, well, then he had an entirely different issue. He then had an unconscious thing on his kitchen floor and no sure-fire way to deal with it. Not safely at least.
He decided, with an embarrassing sense of stupidity, that identifying it would probably be a good first step. And so he strode, rather calmly mind you, to the light switch on the wall and flicked it on.
"Nope." And then he flicked it off again.
Because well, with the kitchen light off, George could pretend that he hadn't just knocked out a fully grown human man who had evidently broken into his home.
He wasn't even certain how he didn't figure it out earlier - there were no bears or big cats in London that it could have been. The closest they had was the old guy down the street - and he wouldn't just break in like that unless it was a national emergency.
So, now, George was tasked with somehow disposing of a very alive, very unconscious and very large human being that was likely dangerous. Wonderful.
Well, his ever loyal companion was already making a start, ferociously tearing and pulling at the man's pant leg when George flicked the lights on again. For a moment, George smiled before realising that he had no idea where the other had been and promptly pulled the puppy away.
"What do we do?" He murmured, raking his eyes up the black-clad man and to his half-hidden face. "We can't just leave him here, he's going to wake up."
Despite himself, George used the end of his umbrella to carefully push the hood back and off of the man's face. His excuse, should he need one, would be the possible need to identify him in a line-up.
He didn't look dangerous at all. Much the opposite, even.
He looked young, cheeks still softly rounded with youth. He had a sun kissed tan - foreign then - and dirty blond-brown hair that was tousled over long, fair lashes. George could even make out a ruddiness in the man's cheeks and the hints of freckles across his nose.
Great, the man was barely even a man. Had he been shorter, George would certainly pass him as a late-teen, at best. Somehow, that made things so much worse for George.
"This is a bad idea." He decided, and the puppy still cradled in his arm seemed to agree.
George did it anyways, because he's stupid.
It took embarrassingly long to haul the man (Dream, George had nicknamed him, because that was what he was interrupting and keeping George from currently. Definitely not because George may have found him vaguely attractive in some way, because that would be crazy and stupid, two things George most certainly was not) over and onto George's couch. So long that George was very nervous that Dream may regain consciousness before he had the chance to secure his own safety.
But he did, eventually, manage to lay Dream across the couch and swaddle him tightly in a myriad of blankets, creating a mock straitjacket for the other to stew in. He then went around checking the locks on his doors and actually closing and locking his windows after figuring that Dream had gotten in through a partially open back window.
He settled, after that, as far from Dream as he could be while staying in the same room, with as many energy drinks as he could fit into his scrawny arms. He kept his trusty umbrella and loyal dog at his feet too, prepared to wait until Dream woke up and either established that he wasn't a threat or got the fuck out of George's house.
It was an awkward standoff, one unconscious and the other not far from being the same, but George was glad to find he had prior warning to Dream's awakening and was able to prepare himself. The prior warning came in the form of a low, pained groan that tumbled from the bundle with a certain gravel to it that told George he would be utterly done for in a fight.
"Who are you?" George seemingly accused, aiming his umbrella threateningly, the moment that Dream's eyes cracked open.
"Wh.. what?" Dream asked in a lightly accented voice and George watched as he shifted before realising that he was a little... trapped. "Where am I?"
"I asked first." George countered pettily, now very aware of the wide, round eyes that had landed on him. "Who are you?"
Dream simply took his captor in for a moment. He looked, slow and sluggish, from George's bare feet, over cheesy and obviously old pyjamas, up to sharp, mesmerising brown eyes. "How do I know I can trust you?"
"You're in no position not to." George didn't mean to sound so harsh but he was also rather proud of how badass that made him feel. Judging by Dream's face, he thought it was badass too but wasn't ready to admit it.
"Fine." Dream relented, figuring George was right. "I'm Clay. And you are?"
"George." George answered readily before realising how stupid of an idea that was considering this man was only in his house because he broke in. "Why were you in my house?"
"I couldn't keep running with this." Clay spoke tactically, nodding down the length of his body. When George simply pulled a confused expression, he elaborated. "My ankle."
"What did you do?" George questioned, beginning to lower his umbrella but keeping it clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"I decided it would be fun to try and cut my foot off with a rusty saw." Clay stated, deadpanned, and George's eyes widened in shock. Clay laughed, a loud, warm noise that quickly became a wheezing whistle. George wouldn't admit that he found that rather endearing. "I sprained it, George. You're so gullible."
George rolled his eyes with a pout. He wasn't gullible, he just didn't know a thing about the guy in front of him. For all he knew, Clay could be the kind of person to hack off his own limbs for fun. "You sprained your ankle while running so you decided to break into my house?"
"Oh my god." Clay chuckled. "Running from the police, George. Please catch up, carrying this conversation is tiring." He stated, as though that was the most normal admission to have.
"I'm sorry that I don't usually have people breaking into my house at ungodly hours of the morning, Clay, I'll make sure to remember for next time!" George huffed. "Why were you running from the police?"
"Murder."
"What?!" George shrieked.
"I'm joking! Calm down!" Clay wheezed and George decided, rather childishly, to re-nickname him nightmare.
"I didn't know that! You're American!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Doesn't every American have a gun?"
"Oh come on, George, you can't-" Staring at the dull, pointed end of George's umbrella millimetres from his face, Clay changed his answer "You're serious."
"Why were you running from the police, Clay?" George asked once more, trying to sound badass once more. Clay was silent for a moment before finally answering.
"Theft."
George nodded slowly, waiting for some kind of catch or something. When he didn't see one, he pressed forward. "What did you steal?"
"Your heart." Clay winked.
"Oh for f-" George threw his hands into the air, knocking the umbrella against Clay's forehead in the process and almost apologising. Clay's wheezing laugh, squeezing the air from his lungs, assured George that he was fine and didn't need an apology.
It was a wonder, George realised with a flush, that he ever agreed to let Clay stay - especially since he never did find out what it was Clay was running for. Now that he thought about it, George wasn't certain he'd ever actually allowed Clay to stay - not verbally. Clay had simply untangled himself from those blankets once he was sure George's guard was low enough and decided to make George's home his own.
All very suddenly, George was brought back to the present by a hammering at his door. "I know you're in there, Gogy! I'll wait here all day if I have to." Nick sang.
Fuck.
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2k words
Would anyone like a part two of this? There's not a lot of romance this chapter.
Requested by: @eclipse447
Requests are open!
Yours, Dandy