Work Text:
Like every day at the office, today was a long one. Askeladd’s eyes are dry and aching, and his head is pounding. He would have gone directly home if he hadn't realized that he's out of food.
Unlike his employees, who can't stop talking at him about their weekly meal prep, Askeladd doesn't have a twenty-year-old's vigor for planning meals. They might have a point, but his eyes glaze over as soon as they get going. Whatever truth is at the heart of what they're saying, it's been distorted by their devotion to it. The almighty macro reigns over the water cooler like a Roman emperor. Askeladd, despite his efforts to avoid socializing with them more than he has to, isn't immune to the base human need for water.
On the bright side, Thorfinn did a backflip for a client earlier. That was fun. He hadn't thought the kid was stupid enough to do it, but he really will do anything if he thinks it will cause Askeladd a problem or get himself a chance at unseating him.
And for what? Vengeance for Thors? His father’s perfectly fine. He just lost his position as the top dog because Askeladd is good at what he does. There’s no such thing as honor in marketing. There are campaigns made and campaigns to be made. Nothing more.
Sighing to himself– Thorfinn can be a fun distraction, but cleaning up after the backflip with the other company's CEO, a stubborn man a decade past retirement, is going to be a needlessly long, arduous process– Askeladd parks himself in front of the corner store's upright freezers and the sad meals within. He can cook. He used to enjoy it, but it takes time and energy he doesn't have anymore. He's in his fifties now. Long days and nights with nothing but takeout are out of the question as much as a long day followed by a home cooked meal. He can hear Canute echoing the wisdom of meal prep and sighs.
How long has it been since he had a home cooked meal? Not that it matters. He's too old to make friends. A partner would resent the hours he works. A child would have to be taught first and trusted not to mess with the food. Perhaps it's due to the time he's spent with Thorfinn, but Askeladd doesn't have high hopes for that. At least Canute is competent in his position now that he isn't reliant on Ragnar. There's some hope for the next generation.
None of that matters now. Askeladd is just too tired to focus. The rows of near-identical frozen meals blur together, and he feels the last of his energy leave with a sigh.
The door to the freezer next to the one in front of him swings open. Someone more interested in dinner than he is must have arrived. Askeladd will just grab whatever this person does. He watches out of his periphery as a man broader than the freezer reaches in.
He recognizes him. His neighbor, Bjorn, is difficult to mistake. His long, dark hair is tied in a ponytail at the base of his neck, and the point of his close-cut beard is braided neatly. His well-groomed head is at odds with his loose sweatpants and short sleeve shirt. Askeladd doesn't miss that the shirt is stretched so tight and short it doesn’t reach his waistband.
When Bjorn is done fishing out a meal, Askeladd lets his eyes follow the low, round neckline. It runs down over the rise of one pec then up the other.
He’s a boxer, Askeladd recalls. He isn't at the top, just a man who’s good with his fists. The black eye from a few weeks back has faded into green. His lip is split, though, and his cheek is swollen.
“Evening, Bjorn,” Askeladd says. “What brings you to this section of the store?”
He's a good cook. Now and then he offers some of what he made to Askeladd “because the recipe made too much”. Askeladd accepts each time. The less work for him, the better, and it keeps his neighbor happy.
Bjorn's crush is so obvious that Askeladd wonders if he thinks he's hiding it. He hasn't done anything with it; he merely watches Askeladd with the kind of soppy expression that belongs on a teenager. Askeladd has had a little fun at Bjorn’s expense because of it. He wasn't malicious; he just stood a little too close or let their hands brush. Bjorn’s face turned red each time.
He isn't much younger than Askeladd. He’s no virgin either, going by the men that leave his apartment at night and the kiss marks on his neck the next morning. He should have outgrown the infatuation stage. They've been neighbors for more than a year. Anyone else would have given up by now.
Askeladd looks him over. There’s nothing beautiful about Bjorn, from his boxer’s nose to his crooked fingers, but sometimes Askeladd catches himself watching him back. His gut doesn't lead him wrong, and it tells him to keep looking. The itch at the back of his neck disappears when they're together.
Bjorn sighs and holds up his right hand. Two of his fingers are in splints.
“Aren't the gloves supposed to protect your hands?” Askeladd asks, peering at them.
“Wasn't wearing 'em.”
“They let you get away with that?”
Bjorn raises his eyebrows. “I didn't realize you’re a boxing man.”
“I’m not. Everyone knows gloves are part of the outfit.”
“I suppose so. Sometimes it's good to be reminded why we wear them.”
“Quite the warning,” Askeladd observes, glancing down at Bjorn’s hand then back up.
“They aren't that bad.”
“And the concussion?”
“How'd you know about that?”
“Do you ever not have one? I’m never sure you'll remember we've spoken.”
Bjorn laughs, and Askeladd shakes his head. His theory that part of Bjorn’s low ranking comes from a tendency toward underground bare knuckle fights grows more plausible. Not the kind of place Askeladd is eager to visit, but Bjorn seems content with it. Given that he lives in the same complex as Askeladd, it must pay better than his legitimate fights.
“Why are you here this late?” Bjorn asks. “Isn't your job supposed to have routine hours?”
“That's what they told us when I signed on.”
“But…?”
“I got saddled with an intern. Cleaning up after him takes more time than he saves me.”
Bjorn nods in sympathy. Not empathy– in his line of work, he doesn't have to be as nice as Askeladd does.
“Rethinking your career?”
“Hardly. It’s too late for me to change.”
“I know a bodybuilder who started in his seventies. You're younger than that.”
Askeladd has a response on the tip of his tongue. He lets it go in favor of a smile. Bjorn is being bold tonight, and Askeladd could use a distraction.
“I am, despite my frozen meals. You, on the other hand, can't really be about to eat any of this.”
“No weigh-ins for a while,” Bjorn counters. “We all like something bad for us.”
“We do, don't we?”
Taking a risk, Askeladd gets a step closer. There's no one else around, so he walks up to Bjorn and lays his hand on his chest. Soft flesh gives until he squeezes it. Bjorn tenses, and the muscle grows firm under Askeladd’s palm.
It's just a little fun.
“What do you like that's bad for you, Bjorn?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “You eat well. You exercise. You have a job. People like you. What kind of vice are you hiding?”
He can almost feel Bjorn’s heart pounding. The dark blush that crosses his face is so out of place Askeladd almost laughs. A big, grown man like Bjorn shouldn't look at him like he wants Askeladd to tell him what to do. Humans have been doing this dance for millennia.
Looking at Askeladd like he isn't sure whether to believe this is real, Bjorn asks, “Did you drive here?”
“No, parking is too much of a hassle. Why?”
“I did.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Yes.”
Askeladd huffs a laugh. He should have expected this. Bjorn doesn't strike him as the type to fool around when he wants something. There will be time later to figure out if he can flirt when he isn't surprised.
Pulling lightly on the deepest part of the neckline, Askeladd says, "Then I accept."
Now and then Askeladd meets people and a sense of déjà vu creeps over him. It brings another feeling with it, usually frustration. With Bjorn, it's more complicated. Rather than pure frustration, he feels inexplicably lonely. The only cure for it is to nudge Bjorn until he stops what he's doing and pays attention to him. He’ll make Askeladd something to drink or rub his feet. He sat down on Askeladd’s lap once, and that's a memory Askeladd will keep for the rest of his life.
Bjorn isn't beautiful. At best, he's compelling. Askeladd likes looking at him anyway. He's wasted more time than he likes to think about watching Bjorn read. He caught himself staring at Bjorn’s face instead of getting undressed once. It was easily disguised, but it chafes at him. He can't explain why he can't stop looking or the strange sense that if he looks away for too long, Bjorn won't be there when he looks back.
“You'll burn a hole through me if you don't blink,” Bjorn calls. He's in Askeladd’s kitchen, cooking something that already smells delicious. His back is to Askeladd, who's sitting at the table, but he has a sixth sense for when he’s being watched.
Askeladd hums. “I can't like looking at you?”
“Are you sick?”
Bjorn turns around and joins Askeladd at the table. He puts the back of his hand to Askeladd’s forehead. It’s warm, and his calluses catch. He’s been cutting fruit; his fingers smell sweet from the juice.
Askeladd brings the hand to his mouth and licks two of Bjorn's fingers. They taste sweet, too. He licks them again, tracing the grooves with his tongue.
Bjorn pulls his hand back. “I'm cooking,” he says, as if he's never been distracted from it before.
“And I'm not sick."
“Clearly.”
Askeladd sighs and flaps a hand at him to go back to cooking. If Bjorn isn't in the mood yet, that's fine. It doesn't take much. He’ll make his way to Askeladd after they eat.
For now, Bjorn goes directly to the sink and washes his hands. Askeladd takes a moment to look him over. Bjorn dresses plainly; when he isn't dressed for a formal fight, he’s in jeans or sweats and a t-shirt. Askeladd is partial to the latter when they're alone. It's always fun to snap the waistband. Bjorn jumps every time.
If Askeladd is lucky, which he is with Bjorn, he’ll get lucky after.
It's been several months since their first dinner, and Askeladd has been meeting with Bjorn regularly since. He's eaten and slept better than he has in years. It's obvious in his work. Thorfinn has been watching him like a wary dog. Floki asked if he took on a new client and didn't tell anyone yet. Atli and Torgrim haven't ventured any guesses, but Askeladd has caught them whispering in corners.
Even Thors, who picks his brat up now and then, commented on his better mood. He got the reason right, but Askeladd isn't about to tell him that. Thorkell is always hanging around him, and if that madman finds out that Askeladd’s “pretty wife waiting at home” is a boxer, he’d demand a fight. Bjorn would be happy to accept. Askeladd isn't going to deal with that unless he has to.
The Ear knows as well, Askeladd remembers. Bjorn dropped off lunch for him last week, and since Askeladd hadn't seen anyone around, he’d been more effusive with his thanks than he normally is. He hadn't realized his mistake until the Ear walked past him whistling nonchalantly. No one else had noticed the odd behavior, but Askeladd had. The Ear doesn't whistle; it hurts his ears.
He hears everything eventually, so Askeladd isn't worried about it. Giving him this secret to play with might make him less interested in listening for others.
“So, how much longer do I have to wait?” Askeladd asks.
“For dinner or dessert?”
“Dinner. Dessert won't be on the table if I ask about it, will it?”
Bjorn grins at him over his shoulder. “You can have it anywhere you want. But dinner will be ready in about ten.”
“But I'm hungry now.”
“You'll survive.”
“Are you sure? My stomach is growling very loudly, Bjorn. What if I have to go somewhere else to eat? Surely other people won't keep me waiting."
Complaint made, Askeladd sits back and waits.
Bjorn stirs for a few minutes longer, but his back is ramrod straight. Askeladd picked the right button to push. The longer Bjorn has to wait to address it, the greater his frustration will be. He won't risk burning the sauce he's babying, so Askeladd has the pleasure of watching the pressure build until Bjorn finally slaps the stove off and shoves the pan onto a cool burner. He doesn't hide his smile as Bjorn stalks back over to him and grabs him by the tie. It's too loose to hurt but brings their faces close.
“You like causing problems,” Bjorn accuses, wrapping the tie around his fist.
“Why would I like that?”
“Because you like testing people. What will you do when I fail?”
“Find another, I suppose.”
Bjorn wraps the tie tighter. “Askeladd.”
“Yes?”
“We have ten minutes left.”
“That's not very long.”
“No, it isn't.”
“Can you wait?”
“Of course I can. Can you?”
Bjorn narrows his eyes. This is the fun part. He can be a real animal when he's in the mood; Askeladd once had a bruise on his ass for a week from a bite in the moment. Bjorn isn't stupid, though, and watching him try to figure out which instinct to listen to is always worth the effort. It's especially so when Bjorn clearly wants one over the other.
Askeladd decides to help him. He unbuttons Bjorn’s jeans and slides his zipper down. “Oops. What happened here?”
Bjorn grunts and hauls Askeladd to his feet. Not content with marching him to the bedroom, he hauls Askeladd up over his shoulder.
“If the meat overcooks, it will be your fault.”
“You could always make me wait.”
“When have I ever managed that?” Bjorn grumbles. He sets off for the bedroom without letting Askeladd answer.
The meat will be cold, but Askeladd won't complain.
“You feel it, too, right?” Bjorn asks.
Askeladd barks a laugh. “A little late to be asking, don't you think?”
He didn't expect Bjorn’s offer to drive him home from work to lead here. He’s a team lead. He shouldn't be pinned to the wall in his office building’s dingy stairwell with Bjorn's shoulder in one hand and his hair in the other.
He doesn't mind that Bjorn manhandled him or the leg Bjorn pushed between his. He doesn't even mind that Bjorn hoisted one of his legs up over his hip.
There's just one problem. “Thorfinn’s still around. He'll kick up a fuss if he catches us.”
He's one of only two people other than Askeladd who takes the stairs. Canute already went home for the day, but who knows whether he stayed there. Sometimes he comes back to work or "keep Thorfinn company". Askeladd hasn't figured out whether he actually means that or if he's just curious. Regardless, the inconvenience of having an intern is unending. Askeladd should have told Thors to teach his own brat.
Bjorn frowns. “Then what are we waiting for? The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish.”
He ducks his head to kiss Askeladd’s neck, and Askeladd hums in pleasure. Bjorn isn't wrong, and if Thorfinn does walk in on them, Askeladd could bribe him into keeping his mouth shut. He's been itching for another chance to try poaching a client from Askeladd. Dangling an opportunity to try would be enough to convince him he didn't see anything.
But there's one other person who takes the stairs: Thors. He doesn't work in this building anymore, but when he does come here, he skips the elevator. The last thing Askeladd needs is a lecture on appropriate workplace behavior.
“Sorry, Bjorn,” he says reluctantly. “I've got a headache.”
The look he gets is sour, but Bjorn sets his leg down.
“That doesn't work until you're in a relationship,” he complains, voice mild. The second complaint is one he won't say outright, but Askeladd hears it clearly. He’ll have to address it soon. He just hasn't decided how.
“So you just wanted a quickie on the stairs,” he jokes.
Bjorn hesitates. His face darkens in a blush, and Askeladd finds himself laughing again. They grow them big in Denmark, but they don't grow them cunning. That's fine with Askeladd. He doesn't need to play chess with his partner. He just needs them to be capable, and Bjorn is good at his work.
Curling the braid in Bjorn’s beard around his index finger, Askeladd drops his voice and says, “Come back to my place. We’ll pick up where we left off.”
“What happened to your headache?” Bjorn asks, both eyebrows rising.
“I heard a rumor that sex can help. You know how I like to test theories.” Bjorn blushes darker, no doubt remembering the last theory they tested, and Askeladd gives him a quick kiss. Bjorn doesn't take the hint. His hands squeeze Askeladd’s hips, and the quick kiss becomes a series of kisses.
God damn Thorfinn.
Askeladd reluctantly pushes two fingers between their lips. “If that little bastard weren't here, I'd let you get away with this.”
“What if I got rid of him?”
“As tempting as that sounds, murder would make more problems for us later.”
“I meant I'd get him to go home,” Bjorn corrects. Despite his tired voice, the corner of his mouth twitches. “Since we’re leaving, do we have to go separately?”
“That depends. Can you keep your hands off me if we go together?”
“I'm not an animal.”
“That's not a ‘yes’.”
Bjorn huffs. “Yes, Askeladd. I can keep my hands to myself for a couple minutes.”
“That's too bad. I’ll have to work harder.”
Smiling to himself, Askeladd slaps Bjorn’s ass before quickly descending the stairs. He hears Bjorn’s startled grunt and the embarrassed hiss of Askeladd’s name, but he doesn't stop. He only moves faster when he hears Bjorn’s feet pounding on the stairs behind him.
If he played his cards right, which he's sure he did, he's going to have a good time tonight. He might get dinner out of it after. Who knows? He might get breakfast, too.
Askeladd finds Bjorn in the tub.
“Somebody got you good, huh?” he asks.
“Two somebodies,” Bjorn corrects. He sounds exhausted, and he doesn't look at Askeladd with his usual interest. He barely cracks an eye open long enough to say, “One of them got me in the liver.”
“Which is bad,” Askeladd surmises. He settles on the edge of the tub. He's still in his suit, but it's one of the cheaper ones. If it gets wet, he’ll live. He's more bothered by how cold the water is when he dips his fingers in.
Bjorn huffs. “Only if you aren't a fan of pissing blood.”
“Are you a fan?”
“I’m not.”
Bjorn exhales deeply and sinks deeper into the water. His forehead is wrinkled with pain, and he lets Askeladd stroke the side of his face with nothing more than a sigh.
“So,” Askeladd prompts, “did you know it was going to be two against one?”
“Had a feeling.”
“Really?”
“Everyone was being too professional. They only do that when they're hiding something. Something was going on, and I found out after I finished my scheduled match. Won that one too easy, which tipped me off, too.”
He shrugs, as if this is normal. For him, it must be.
Askeladd cups some of the bath water in his hand and drops it on Bjorn’s head, only to get a soft, content sigh. “How long have you been a boxer?”
“Long as I can remember. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
He's suited to it. He isn't stupid, but he doesn't have any flashes of genius. He's good with people but in the way that all straightforward people who like to have fun are. He's handsome but not enough to make a living off it. The only thing he truly excels at is hitting things. He won't quit until they make him, and from the sound of it, he's a reliable cash cow.
“And how long have you been juicing?”
Bjorn open his eyes. He looks curious, and Askeladd knows he was right without hearing a word.
“Since I was old enough to know how.”
Askeladd blinks.
Bjorn shrugs. “I figured you'd put it together eventually. Not like I hide it.”
“You don't look after yourself like you should.”
“Says the man sitting on my tub fussing over me. You must be wet.”
“I don't think now is the time for that kind of talk.”
Askeladd smiles, and a bark of a laugh forces itself out of Bjorn. He looks up at Askeladd with bright, happy eyes and grins. He's an expressive one. Askeladd can tell his mood from the set of his shoulders or pout of his lips.
“Is that why your balls are so small?”
“They aren't small!”
“Compared to the rest of you, they are. Tiny, almost.”
“Take that back.”
“Nope.”
“Askeladd–”
“Give me a reason to,” Askeladd allows. “Pick a good one and I’ll reward you.”
“And if I pick wrong?”
“I’ll make you babysit Thorfinn.”
“A terrible fate.” Bjorn sighs. He thinks for a few seconds then says, “I’ll cook you something special.”
“You do that all the time.”
“You haven't had this one. I have to forage for the mushrooms myself.”
“I’m listening.”
“That's all you're getting.”
“What if I ask nicely?”
Askeladd bats his eyelashes, and Bjorn shoves him with a wet, freezing cold hand. The water soaks his white dress shirt, and he feels Bjorn’s attention shift to the translucent spot on his chest.
He's too easy sometimes.
“I suppose a good meal is better than a joke that makes you pissy. But I have one more question. Why cold water? Isn't warm better?”
“I don't know. I've just always preferred it. Why?”
“Well, I thought you might want me to warm you up, but if you're set on being cold– Fuck!”
Bjorn yanks him into the water without warning. Still fully dressed, Askeladd lands in his lap with a string of curses. He shoves Bjorn’s face not kindly, but Bjorn only laughs and wraps his arms around him. He ignores Askeladd’s attempts to shove him away and holds on tighter.
“Hey! Bjorn!”
“Something wrong?”
“I can hear you laughing, you dick.”
Bjorn only laughs harder, and despite the temperature, Askeladd laughs as well. Shaking his head, he pushes out of Bjorn's arms and unbuttons his shirt with shaky hands. He sees Bjorn watching and knows from experience that he’d help if he could.
“I'm not rewarding you for this,” he tells him.
“They're your cheapest clothes,” Bjorn argues.
“I’m more concerned about catching a cold.”
“You could get out.”
“I could.”
Askeladd finishes unbuttoning his shirt and tosses it into the sink. He gets to work on his belt and slacks next. Bjorn watches him stand up and tries to help him balance by holding his legs as Askeladd struggles with his heavy, waterlogged clothes. His boxers come off with his slacks, which he hadn't intended but doesn't care to fight. Bjorn’s hands aren't warm like they usually are, and Askeladd has never liked the cold. He unplugs the bath and turns the faucet to warm.
“You're welcome to leave if you want,” he tells Bjorn without looking. “But I'm not going to get sick because you like to get hit.”
“I don't like it.”
“You don't dislike it enough to avoid it.”
“That's different.” Argument made, Bjorn pulls on Askeladd’s thighs until he sits down. The warm water rises slowly as Askeladd settles between Bjorn’s legs. He lets Bjorn wrap an arm around him, the long tub large enough to accommodate them both with their legs stretched out. He lays his head on Bjorn's shoulder and turns his nose to Bjorn’s neck. He must have showered earlier; he smells clean. Despite the care he takes otherwise, he's a three-in-one man, and Askeladd finds himself relaxing to the familiar scent of his cheap shampoo.
“Long day?”
“Thorfinn told me to go fuck myself in front of a client.”
Bjorn’s laugh echoes through his chest.
“Did you deserve it?”
“Of course not. I was encouraging him to take on more responsibility.”
“So you did.”
Perhaps a little. But Thorfinn was sulking about a client going with another firm. It was annoying, so Askeladd gave him a nudge on where to improve. Typical Thorfinn, he got mad and ran his mouth.
Bjorn lays a hand on Askeladd’s forehead. It must have been kept out of the water. The skin is still cool and relaxes the headache that's been building.
“Careful with that other hand,” Askeladd warns.
“Hmm?”
“I can feel you reaching down.”
“Good.”
They haven't had time to do anything together in a few weeks. Bjorn is the handsy type, so Askeladd isn't surprised that he wants to get back to what they usually do right away. Askeladd himself had gotten used to sleeping next to him. His bed is smaller than Bjorn’s but felt larger without him.
It’s good to be with him again, but Askeladd isn't about to tell him that.