teddy altman at the end of the world; billy/teddy, kate, eli, tommy; <10,000 words; R
Maybe things weren’t always so clear, Before, but Teddy thought he understood the world enough, understood who he was in it. These days, the road blurs the routine of search, scrounge, fight, hide, survive into a different kind of world with a new kind of people living it, and Teddy has to learn the type of person it’s making him if he’s ever going to find a way to fit.
Falling Skies AU. Knowledge of the show isn’t necessary as it can be read as an alien invasion au. THO I HIGHLY RECOMMEND CHECKING OUT THE SHOW. Big huge ups to wifey Mici and partner in alien crime Meeya for audiencing/soundboarding/being generally awesome about all my whining.
THIS DID NOT WORK OUT AS WELL AS I WANTED IT TOOOOOO :( BUT THE SLANG WAS SUPER FUN (HA HA CAN YOU TELL /overuses)
Bill’s got a car full of rotgut, but he’s given his trigger men the rest of the night off, because this is one delivery he wants to make himself, and he knows that Kat’s is one of the safest joints in town. One of the safest, sure, with the big guy on the door and the little guy making the rounds inside, but more than that, Bill wants to be free from peepers and crumbs when he makes the drop off, because Kat’s new bartender sure looks smooth, leaning against the back door, with the corner of his mouth turned up like this is the best part of his day. And maybe it is, it sure is the best part of Bill’s - though he’d never say - so he beckons Ted over to get the cases from the trunk, passes him a cigarette still warm from Bill’s own lips, lets the corner of his own mouth turn up as Ted grins around it and blows out a perfect ring.
THIS IS ALL PART OF A DASTARDLY PLOT TO GET ME TO WRITE A RESTAURANT AU ISN’T IT? I AM ON TO YOU, I AM SO ON, AND IT IS NOT GOING TO WORK
IT IS NOT
It’s the end of a long shift, Teddy’s back aches and his arches probably flattened out three hours ago, and he should be taking stock of the flour and the sugar and the fruit in the stockroom, the eggs in the fridge, so he close up for the night and actually get home - no, he should be having Cassie do that, but he sent her home hours ago because - but he’s not really ready to go home yet, no matter how tired he is, because. Because there’s a knock on the back door, the door out from the kitchen to the narrow alley that reeks of sour milk and moldy newspapers that no one uses unless they have to because the stench is enough to crack even Jonas’s stoic facade, the door that’s Teddy’s favorite because it’s the door that leads to his favorite part of the day, that soft, quiet hour when the ovens are ticking cool and the dough is resting in the fridges for tomorrow’s loaves and Billy slips through the door after knocking, bearing a plastic sack filled with comics from his shop next and the brightest grin Teddy’s ever seen. Teddy’s ready for him, always, every day, for this hour when he can feed Billy pastries (today he’s prepared a batch of hamentashen, Billy’s bubbe’s recipe, and he’s dying to know if they measure up) and talk about books and wonder to himself if today’s the day he’ll find the courage to kiss open that smile, chase the taste of his food in Billy’s mouth, and change this stolen hour for something bigger, something more.