Birthday Fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophiamoon: With worn-out tools (Steve Finnan/Da
Jun. 25th, 2010 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dfotwTitle: With worn-out tools
Summary: After Denmark's defeat, Steve waits for Dan’s return.
Pairing: Steve Finnan/Daniel Agger
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimers: this isn't true and I don't make any money with it.
A/N: forsophiamoon, on her birthday. I wish I could’ve come up with something less angsty, I’m sorry. I hope you enjoy a bit of your almost-OTP anyway. And happy birthday!
You’d thought you’d be more selfish than this. You don’t have great expectations about yourself and with the years you’ve come to embrace and accept your shortcomings much better than your virtues. So yes, you honestly thought you’d be more selfish.
You thought that, when the whistle blew and Denmark’s hopes died amongst the Japanese celebrations, under the worry and the sadness for Dan, there’d be a glimmer of relief because he would soon be coming back to you, heart-sore and fragile, ready and willing to sink in your arms for the time it took him to heal.
You didn’t think it’d be harder for you to watch him walk along the pitch, sweaty hair a mess and mouth open in disbelief, than it was to be left off of the Ireland squad for the crucial qualifier against France and then to see your own fall in such an undignified fashion.
Dan was there for you then, trying to ply your anger out of you with offers of beer and crass jokes about the French that he must have learned from Jamie, until he managed to get you (you, calm, reasonable, responsible you) to shout and swear at the TV like a disappointed fan more. And then he took you to bed and distracted you all night from those dark thoughts, and never failed to give you a quick look and (if he could get away with it) a subtle gesture of affection whenever France was mentioned in your presence after that.
What can you do now? What can you do for your wounded warrior, who is now gathering his companions to say goodbye to South Africa, to the crying fans, to the competition? For the first time in their history, Denmark have failed to progress from the group stage after qualifying for a World Cup and you know, like you know the taste of his tears, that Dan is thinking it is his fault.
You get up and reach for the phone, without taking your eyes away from the screen, in case you can catch another glimpse of your lover on the background of the victory celebrations.
For what feels like a hundred times, over the phone, you’ve told him you’re alright, but now the time has come to see him face-to-face and you know you won’t be able to fool him any more (that is, if your voice over the line hasn’t already given you away, if he doesn’t know you enough to see past the little white lies you can’t bring yourself not to tell him). You hold your head high, like you’ve done since that moment on the pitch when it became obvious that you (that the team) didn’t have what it took to win, but when he opens the door and motions you in, you can’t do more than drop the suitcase on the floor and walk into the circle of his arms, leaning your weary head on his shoulder.
He knows. He understands. He takes you inside and makes you a cup of tea, and keeps up a steady stream of conversation all throughout, to wrap you in the cocoon of his voice, that he knows you love although he can’t understand it.
And just like that, after the shock of the defeat, the endless purgatory of facing the journalists, the grief of having to be strong for those of your teammates that were lost, the bittersweet pride of greeting those fans that were still supporting you on your return to Denmark, you’re home.
You’re not ashamed to cry into his shirt as you sit on the sofa, with both your cups of tea cooling, untouched, on table in front of you. You’re not afraid to come apart in his arms, between great, gasping sobs. He holds you throughout the storm and offers you a tissue when it’s over, and makes sure that when you lean back in his arms, your cheek rests on a mostly dry patch of shirt.
When you can control your gasping breath, you hear what he has been saying, in that dear, low voice, all the while.
“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!”
“What’s that?” you ask, when Steve’s voice fades away, although his hands continue to rub at your back.
“A poem,” he says, and you’re well enough now to huff with impatience at the obviousness; he kisses the top of your head before continuing. “Ruyard Kipling. ‘If’, I think it’s called. A fan sent it to me in a letter years and years ago, and… well, I guessed it’s helped me. Thought it would help you too.”
You’re well enough now not to want to admit you needed the help, even if your eyes are still red, your nose runny, your voice hoarse and you’re clinging to Steven like a child to his favourite stuffed bear.
“I like it,” you say instead, and tilt your head up to kiss him. “Thank you,” you whisper then, and duck your head immediately and reach for your lukewarm tea.
Steve’s hand on your back, and his arm round your shoulders as you both drink your tea, is consolation enough.
Summary: After Denmark's defeat, Steve waits for Dan’s return.
Pairing: Steve Finnan/Daniel Agger
Warnings: Slash.
Rating: PG-13.
Disclaimers: this isn't true and I don't make any money with it.
A/N: for
sophiamoon, on her birthday. I wish I could’ve come up with something less angsty, I’m sorry. I hope you enjoy a bit of your almost-OTP anyway. And happy birthday!You’d thought you’d be more selfish than this. You don’t have great expectations about yourself and with the years you’ve come to embrace and accept your shortcomings much better than your virtues. So yes, you honestly thought you’d be more selfish.
You thought that, when the whistle blew and Denmark’s hopes died amongst the Japanese celebrations, under the worry and the sadness for Dan, there’d be a glimmer of relief because he would soon be coming back to you, heart-sore and fragile, ready and willing to sink in your arms for the time it took him to heal.
You didn’t think it’d be harder for you to watch him walk along the pitch, sweaty hair a mess and mouth open in disbelief, than it was to be left off of the Ireland squad for the crucial qualifier against France and then to see your own fall in such an undignified fashion.
Dan was there for you then, trying to ply your anger out of you with offers of beer and crass jokes about the French that he must have learned from Jamie, until he managed to get you (you, calm, reasonable, responsible you) to shout and swear at the TV like a disappointed fan more. And then he took you to bed and distracted you all night from those dark thoughts, and never failed to give you a quick look and (if he could get away with it) a subtle gesture of affection whenever France was mentioned in your presence after that.
What can you do now? What can you do for your wounded warrior, who is now gathering his companions to say goodbye to South Africa, to the crying fans, to the competition? For the first time in their history, Denmark have failed to progress from the group stage after qualifying for a World Cup and you know, like you know the taste of his tears, that Dan is thinking it is his fault.
You get up and reach for the phone, without taking your eyes away from the screen, in case you can catch another glimpse of your lover on the background of the victory celebrations.
For what feels like a hundred times, over the phone, you’ve told him you’re alright, but now the time has come to see him face-to-face and you know you won’t be able to fool him any more (that is, if your voice over the line hasn’t already given you away, if he doesn’t know you enough to see past the little white lies you can’t bring yourself not to tell him). You hold your head high, like you’ve done since that moment on the pitch when it became obvious that you (that the team) didn’t have what it took to win, but when he opens the door and motions you in, you can’t do more than drop the suitcase on the floor and walk into the circle of his arms, leaning your weary head on his shoulder.
He knows. He understands. He takes you inside and makes you a cup of tea, and keeps up a steady stream of conversation all throughout, to wrap you in the cocoon of his voice, that he knows you love although he can’t understand it.
And just like that, after the shock of the defeat, the endless purgatory of facing the journalists, the grief of having to be strong for those of your teammates that were lost, the bittersweet pride of greeting those fans that were still supporting you on your return to Denmark, you’re home.
You’re not ashamed to cry into his shirt as you sit on the sofa, with both your cups of tea cooling, untouched, on table in front of you. You’re not afraid to come apart in his arms, between great, gasping sobs. He holds you throughout the storm and offers you a tissue when it’s over, and makes sure that when you lean back in his arms, your cheek rests on a mostly dry patch of shirt.
When you can control your gasping breath, you hear what he has been saying, in that dear, low voice, all the while.
“If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!”
“What’s that?” you ask, when Steve’s voice fades away, although his hands continue to rub at your back.
“A poem,” he says, and you’re well enough now to huff with impatience at the obviousness; he kisses the top of your head before continuing. “Ruyard Kipling. ‘If’, I think it’s called. A fan sent it to me in a letter years and years ago, and… well, I guessed it’s helped me. Thought it would help you too.”
You’re well enough now not to want to admit you needed the help, even if your eyes are still red, your nose runny, your voice hoarse and you’re clinging to Steven like a child to his favourite stuffed bear.
“I like it,” you say instead, and tilt your head up to kiss him. “Thank you,” you whisper then, and duck your head immediately and reach for your lukewarm tea.
Steve’s hand on your back, and his arm round your shoulders as you both drink your tea, is consolation enough.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-06-26 07:26 pm (UTC)