GREAT RESPONSIBILITY PT. 1
Spiderman!Liam Gallagher x f!Reader
SUMMARY: A proposal from the board, whispers of a certain Northern spider lad, and a party made for making connections. Your career may not be where you want it to be, but you’re quite convinced that you could get it there.
WORD COUNT: 5, 586
Prologue | Series Masterlist
Liam sighs as he leaves a lavender scent trail behind him, the abnormally large amount of detergent he used to soak his suit making him feel like a walking perfume ad. It wasn’t discreet, it was akin to a flashing neon sign announcing his very presence. It wasn’t even a scent you would think a superhero would have — no one would have expected the famed Spiderman to walk around the streets of London smelling like a flower farm. It was ridiculous and it was embarrassing and Liam wished he could just take his suit out to the dry cleaners. Maybe then, he’d actually start smelling like a normal person.
But then again, he wasn’t really normal, was he?
“Next time ‘ya take a shot at me, mate, make sure ‘ya don’t miss!” crowed Liam, his usual Mancunian drawl replaced with a garbled and higher posh accent. With Oasis’ flight to fame, a lot of people were beginning to recognize him from voice alone. And he really wasn’t tooting his horn, but you could really hear him everywhere in London. In the cab radio, in a shop’s speakers, on the telly, live at a gig — people were starting to notice him. Which meant that in being Spiderman, Liam really had to be less … Liam.
Which is a shame, because if this wanker knew that he was face to face with Liam Gallagher, then he probably wouldn’t have socked him in the face. Or he still probably would — a lot of people disliked him, really. Still, he would appreciate not having the moneymaker beaten up.
“Not the face!” he whined, going to grab the guy’s fist and launching it back at him. Liam didn’t let up, just plain annoyed now. Honestly, he’s been up for hours, all he wants is some sleep, the high he had from the coke he snorted at the studio earlier had faded long before this fight started, and his face was sure to be a black and blue mess tomorrow. He shoved the blonde man out of the way and dodged an incoming hit from his red-headed partner. Liam kicked out just as the blonde got up to have another go at him, the force of his kick sending him flying with an oof. Cracking his neck, Liam turned to face the red-head, doling out one punch, then two, then a third one just for fun before finally wrapping shit up and shoving the man down and webbing him to the park’s cobblestones. Liam craned his head and did the same to the blonde who was struggling to get up.
“Cunts,” Liam grunted, panting as the two of them wriggled on the floor.
“Fuckin’ spider-freak! You’ll regret —” Liam didn’t so much as blink as he shot out both hands and webbed both the men’s mouths closed, dimming their voracious yelling to muffled grunts.
Liam, petty as anything, leaned down close to the two of them and said through gritted teeth, “It’s Spiderman!” Liam corrected, going as far as to shove the men’s faces back down into the ground.
The night started differently, with a normal pint in his hands, at a normal pub, after a normal day at a normal studio rehearsing normal music with his normal band. It was all good and normal, just like the old days, laughing as Guigsy tried to play the old piano at the pub and Bonehead tried to warble a tune out. An old Elvis song! they cried as Liam was left in near tears as he asked them what the fuck they were trying to sing. Noel was laughing along, arms strewn around a random blondes shoulders as he elbowed Liam on his side and mumbled a joke that Liam can’t even remember now. For once, Noel wasn’t looking at him with his signature annoyance etched on his face. Liam seemed to annoy Noel a lot these days, the random bruises, the late entries, the wrecked vocals from exhaustion, the constant disappearing.
Which is why Liam even debated leaving the pub when the hard-to-miss tingle scored up his spine and landed at the base of his neck. Surely, London could go a night without him? That’s what the cops were for, innit? So Liam settled in the booth, and drank from his pint. It was only when his laugh started to go hollow and the prickle in his neck was getting hard to ignore that Liam stood up and announced that he’d be going to the washroom.
He shed his jeans and parka in the bathroom, hid it in a nook behind one of the toilets, and scampered out the window in his suit.
God fuckin’ damn it.
So here he was, sometime between three and four in the morning, glaring up at the moon as these criminals writhed and wriggled on the floor.
Liam had caught them, crowbars and all, trying to get into the local chip shop a few blocks away from the pub he was at. It was a shame, Liam knew the owners of the chip shop, a married couple that moved into the city just last year and were finally hitting it big with their business. Had Liam not moved quick enough, or had he ignored the prickle in his neck, then Liam would be sure to see the couple’s dejected faces the next time he walked into the shop to buy his usual order.
Liam decided to throw the towel in for the night, supposing that he could still catch up with the lads at the pub at this hour — maybe at a night cap in one of their hotel rooms if he was quick enough. So Liam prowls away from the criminals, and makes his way to the nearest phone booth to call the cops.
“Easy job they fuckin’ have. Just comin’ to collect,” he grumbled as he swung the booth open, only to be met with the snivelling face of a terrified child.
“Are you here to help me?” she said wetly, curled into herself in the dirty corner of the booth, her hands wound around her knees as she looked up at Liam with her teary eyes. She couldn’t have been more than four years old, a tiny lass with a muddy pink coat on and her curly brown hair falling into her rosy face.
Liam melted instantly, sinking down onto his knees on the booth floor beside her. “Hey,” he said softly, his over the top posh accent replaced with his usual Mancunian drawl. And after a quick glance in the direction of the criminals, Liam decides to shed his mask off as well, his dark hair a matted mess where the mask had flattened it. He smiles at the girl, a small quirk of his lips that she shyly returns. He takes it as a victory. “What’s your name, kidda?”
“Rose,” she mumbles, not quite looking him in the eye as she wrings her hands in her lap. Briefly, Liam catches sight of the cartoon print backpack beside her.
“Rose,” Liam says, rolling the name in his mouth. “I like it. It’s just like your cheeks,” he grins. Another triumph, Rose giggles quietly. “Say, Rose, what’s a brave girl like you doin’ out here all alone, aye?”
She frowns, her pout tugging at Liam’s heartstrings. “My mummy went away for a while, left me with Frieda from next door.”
Liam cocked his head. “And is Frieda not good to you?”
Rose shakes her head vehemently. “She’s great,” she says emphatically.
Liam settles himself further in the booth, his knees aching from how he was crouching down at Rose’s level. He scoots over and sits himself beside the girl, her cartoon backpack a barrier between them. “Then what’s the problem? D’ya miss your mam?”
She nods tearfully. “She went to Leeds because my grand-mammy’s sick,” she whispered. “And I miss my grand-mammy so so so much. But mummy said the trip is long and that she’d be back soon. But I really wanted to see grand-mammy again.”
Liam’s heart splits. “Oh,” he says, letting the admission hang in the air. “You really love your grandma, aye?”
Rose sniffles. “She used to make paper birds with me. Then she got sick and I couldn’t see her again. So I thought I’d ride a bus to Leeds to see her but I got lost.”
Liam sighs, leaning his head against the booth. “I’m sorry you can’t see her again, Rosie, sweetheart,” he says, looking at her intently. To his surprise, she looks back at him. “But I’m sure your gran is looking out for you right now.”
“Right now?” she squeaks.
Liam nods, a slow smile creeping up his face. “Maybe it was her that sent me here, y’know. I’m sure she’s a powerful woman, your gran. All she needs to do is think summat up, then it will happen! The universe is funny like that. She wouldn’t want you to be alone and scared in a phone booth, and she wouldn’t want your mamy to be all worried that you’ve gone off. She wouldn’t even want dear old Frieda to be losing her head and running around like a headless chicken try’na find you.” At that, Liam imitates a loud and boisterous chicken, wings and all.
Rose’s giggles permeate the space. “Frieda doesn’t do that!” she giggles.
Liam nods solemnly. “Aye,” he said. “But you never know, do ‘ya? She could be doin’ that right now! Which is why I think I gotta bring you back home, alright kidda?”
Rose pouts, bottom lip jutting out, but decides against arguing. Instead, she dusts herself off, heaves herself off the floor, and swings her backpack over her shoulder.
Liam smiles, a tiny thing in the dead of night, and puts his mask back on, standing up with a drawn out groan. Without thinking, Rose puts her hand in his and settles it right there as Liam calls the cops, as they flee the scene, and as they walk down the silent streets of London with nothing but the padding of their feet on the pavement as their soundtrack.
Through droopy eyes and a sleepy tone, Rose says to him before he drops her off at her window, “You’re very funny, Mr. Spiderman, sir.”
Liam clambers down the building’s fire escape with a bit more pep in his step after that. Maybe the superhero thing was worth it, after all.
***
Maybe the celebrity reporter thing wasn’t worth it after all. Your schedule was jampacked; an up and coming indie rock band’s debut record signing, an American folk singer’s sound check, re-writing your draft from an interview with Jarvis Cocker, a Britpop-filled after-party in the evening, and contemplating your life choices after all was said and done.
You were grateful for the opportunity to write, you really were. But you started this job thinking that it was just a means to an end. That it was just a stepping stone to your true calling — news reporting. Actual news, not just who’s shagging who in the UK music scene.
You sighed as you locked your door, coat bundled tightly and eyes still drooping with exhaustion. In a daze, you walked yourself over to the lift and smile as your neighbor, Elsie, follows you in.
With greying hair, a purse full of caramel sweets, and an eye for trouble, Elsie was easily your most amusing neighbor. She always had a story for each day, and with the way her stories weren’t always told in the past tense, her prime was not yet over. You would have loved interviewing her back in your days in the Features beat in your uni publication.
Day already much better at the sight of her, you smiled and held the lift door open. “Alright, Elsie?” you greet her.
With the way she sighs, you could already tell that she had a story geared up as she stepped into the lift. Six floors down was more than enough time for an entertaining story, you thought as the doors closed and the slow descent of your prehistoric lift began.
“Last night, aye, I was wearin’ me necklace,” she began, showing you the heart pendant with the ruby inset. You nodded at it, the sight familiar on Elsie’s neck. “A gift from my second husband, Earnest. Though he wasn’t a very Earnest man, that lad,” she mused.
You smiled. “Let me guess,” you said. “Did Earnest’s ghost come back last night to say hello?”
She looked at you and wrinkled her brow. “Oh, no, dear. Earnest is still very much alive. It’s a shame. The bastard.” You laughed, she continued. “No, there was this awful commotion down the street and I turned to look. Turns out, it was one of those schemes! I went over to cross the street to help this quarreling couple, but then the man just takes one look at me, then me bosoms where the necklace sat, and clutched it in his greedy hands!”
You gasped. “Your necklace was snatched?”
“Aye,” she said, shaking her head. “And I know I still look fit as a lass in her prime, but I don’t have the knees for runnin’ no more. So I sat there thinkin’, ah, there goes the last of Earnest.”
You tilted your head. “I thought you didn’t like him?”
Elsie shot you a look as if you were the one that wasn’t making sense. “What makes you think that?” she asked, you held in a laugh. You had to ask her about that another time. “Anyway, I got the necklace back because of this spider!”
“A spider?” you said, a thick fog of confusion coating your words.
Elsie nodded. “He had this red and blue suit, see! And a mask that covers his face, and hands that shoot out webs. I’ll say, I’ve never seen anythin’ like it! We didn’t have any of that bollocks back then!”
That’s when it clicked. Elsie was talking about Spiderman. You had seen the papers of course, and the news they rolled out on the telly. He started in Manchester, stopping a bar fight gone too far. Everyone was too sloshed to see who it was, but it was undeniable that the opposing side woke up cocooned in thick spiderwebs. Then after that, it was thieves sneaking into homes in a local neighborhood in Burnage, then a kidnapping in the city, then saving a kid stuck on a rooftop during a fire. Spiderman was a Northern sensation, their very own superhero. It was of great debate whether or not he was actually super, some saying that it must have been a trick of science rather than comic logic as they preferred to call it. But all you really needed to know right now was that he was in London, just in reach.
You thanked Elsie for the story and promised to stop by her flat for tea sometime soon, zig zagging out the building and out the city beyond. You walked with a bit more confidence on the way to the record signing, a proposal already weaving itself in your mind.
Your mood had shifted completely, the light at the end of the tunnel brighter than ever as you went about your day. You sat through the signing, alert and attentive as if it was your first day on the job. You hailed a cab immediately after and got yourself a coffee right before heading in and greeting the American star with a bright smile and a flurry of questions before she headed to the stage for sound check. You re-wrote your article on Jarvis in the cab on the way back to the office, your pencil never stopping it’s course along the page. You were flushed with a giddy sort of happiness a you made your way up the lift and knocked at your boss’ door, already composed and ready.
“Afternoon, Ms. Price!” you greet cheerily enough for her to look up from her desk and narrow her eyes at you. But you were undeterred, still smiling as you sat on the plush chairs across from her.
“Alright?” she says with mild suspicion at your oddly cheery mood. “How was your morning?”
“Amazing,” you say earnestly. “The signing went without a hitch and I’ve already started a few paragraphs of the draft. The American sweetheart was as amazing as she is in her records, and I think I’ll be focusing on batting away the allegations that she can’t sing, since her vocals were strong compared to what tabloids are saying. The interview with Jarvis Cocker has been revised as per your comments. I just need to type it out and then I’ll be set.”
She nodded, satisfied, adjusting her glasses as she leaned back on her seat. “Perfect, just have the drafts sent to me as soon as you’re done, yeah?” she said before clearing her throat. “And another thing,” she began. You blinked, the first sign of your usual downcast attitude peeking through. Ms. Price nearly smiled at the familiar sight. “Your Oasis article was phenomenal. You really put a lot of care into your descriptions of the Gallaghers. Liam especially.”
You smiled hesitantly, you weren’t expecting this. But then again, you did know that that particular article was the best one you’ve managed to write in a long time. “Thank you,” you say.
Ms. Price nods, “Because of that, me and the board have decided to have a profile article on Liam Gallagher for our next issue. One of those detailed articles of him going about his day, the life of a rockstar, what he is outside of that. All that fun stuff, y’know?”
You felt your stomach drop. You knew where this was going and why she was bringing it up to you. “And … you want me to do it?”
Ms. Price smiles. “Of course! Why, you did such a great job with all of two thousand words in crafting Liam’s elusive image that we thought it best to expand on that. And he’s a star, the people just can’t get enough of him. I’m sure that a detailed article on him will be flying off the shelves!”
You shook your head, “Ms. Price,” you started, gathering your confidence. “I came in here today to ask you if I could possibly be transferred to the news section of the publication.” For all the times that you’ve told her this, you could have bet that she would put a hand out to stop the rest of your sentence from flowing out. But she remained seated, still looking at you through her cat-eye glasses and her tailored suit. “This morning, my neighbor told me of a run-in she had with Spiderman — he ran after a pickpocket and returned her necklace to her. And he’s an interesting character! He started in Manchester about two years back, and has recently left a trail here in London. He’s known for stopping petty crimes and handing criminals over to law enforcement, but the crime rate has recently gone down by twelve percent just with him being here! Miss Price, if I could just do a piece on him, I know I wouldn’t disappoint you.”
Assessing as always, Ms. Price leaned forward and put her elbows on her desk and peered at you from above her glasses. “Spiderman, you say?” she asks, curious. “And how do you wish to go about producing an article that’s not been written about him yet? It’s not as if you could get an interview with him, really. And if you do manage to make an article about him, it would all just be regurgitated facts and eyewitness accounts. That’s the difference with the news and entertainment section, dear. You have to work harder for them.”
You frowned. “So that’s a no on my transfer?”
She shook her head, dark hair falling in waves with the movement. “It’s more of a not yet,” she says gently, softening her stance and leaning back. “And I applaud your interest in this spider fellow. But I do think that writing about that would become an oversaturated market soon enough. I mean, a superhero in our midst. Everyone’s talking about it!”
“Right,” you say drily, a sigh almost escaping your lips as you dejectedly sink back into the cushions.
Ms. Price looks at you with a raised brow. “And I’m guessing that that’s also a no on the Liam Gallagher profile?”
This time you don’t resist a sigh. “Do I have a choice?”
The smile she sends you should be reassuring but just makes you sink deeper into your seat instead. It was hard to hate her when she smiled like that. “His agents already approved. So, no, not really.”
So your day ended up right where you began, even the weather matched your mood as grey clouds made the sky overcast and turned the once sunny day dreary as you typed away in your cubicle, totally not grumbling about your failed request at a transfer. And add to that, a new article was now on your beat. It was just a spectacular day. It didn’t matter that you finished writing the rough draft for each article, it didn’t matter that you began to write your possible questions for Liam, and it didn’t matter that you were basically being paid to go to an exclusive party after office hours.
The music scene wasn’t new to you, and neither were their parties. Sure, you once stood wide eyed and gobsmacked at the sheer debauchery of these gatherings, but after your fourth one, you just learned to tune everything out and zone in on a target for the night. That’s what made your coverage of these articles fun, painting a picture of the entire night and turning someone into the main character of the evening.
But at this party, it seemed like the target zoned in on you instead.
With a mocktail in one hand and a notepad in the other, it wasn’t hard to mistake you for anything else other than a reporter. A few other people had stopped to say hi, but Liam wasn’t one for foregoing a grand entrance.
“Oi!” Liam cried from across the room. “Reporter gal!”
You whip your head around from where you were seated at the bar to give him a small wave, to which he returned it ten times bigger in size and enthusiasm. And before you could even turn back to your notepad and sharp observation of the scene, Liam was already shouldering past his musician peers and making his way to you.
“Nice evening?” you ask Liam, mouth quirked in amusement as you sipped on your mocktail.
Liam heaved himself onto the barstool next to you and immediately flagged down the bartender for a lager. “Can’t complain,” he said. In this light, Liam looked in his element, the cobalt blue jumper he was wearing complimented his features, his hair was cut to showcase the sharp angle of his face, and his eyes were particularly shining as the light of the club shined down on him. And hard to miss was the bruise he was sporting on his cheekbone, an ugly thing that stood out against his pale skin, accompanying the fading bruise you’ve come to recognize from the time you interviewed him.
You pointed casually at his face. “That looks like it hurts.”
Liam’s lager arrived and Liam wasted no time taking a gulp before answering you with an arched brow. “Well, aren’t you little miss nosy?” he snorts, foam still sticking to his rosy lips.
You bristled, “I’m not — I just — I was only asking!” you said defensively.
Liam laughed, a loud noise that turned heads all across the bar. “Relax, nosy! Was just jokin’. Got into a fight with someone, that’s all.”
You raised a brow. “With who?”
Liam turned to look at you fully before winking. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he joked, you were about to say something else when Liam burped and tilted his head curiously, “So what’s management tellin’ me about a profile article? It ain’t like a playboy centerfold or nothin’, is it?”
This time, you were the one that laughed. “No, no,” you giggled. “Definitely not a centerfold.”
He nodded solemnly. “Right. Was afraid you’d try to strip me down to me socks on the first day of interviews, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s just essentially gonna be me following you around for a few days, trying to get a peek into your life.”
Liam wrinkled his nose. “And people would like that?”
You snorted in disbelief. “Are you kidding? People would be lining up in shops all over London just for this article!”
Shaking his head, Liam mumbled, “Crazy, that.”
You nudged his shoulder teasingly. “So, how’s it feel to have people lining up all over the country to read about you?”
“Didn’t know the interview started right now,” Liam rolled his eyes, still grinning. “But it feels well deserved, that.”
You chuckled. “Of course you’d say that.”
Liam bumped his shoulder with yours, an echo of your own action as he wiggled his thick brows. “What about you, eh? How’s it feel to be writin’ the articles people are linin’ up all over the country for?”
You sighed, swirling your mocktail by the stem and wishing for the nth time that you could get drunk at one of these things without messing up on the job. “People usually skip over the byline, y’know? I don’t mind, my name doesn’t ring much bells to some people, but it means a lot to me that people like what I write. No matter how much I wish I was writing something else.”
Liam dropped his head and leaned closer, the curious set of his brow etched onto his face. “Y’don’t like what you write?”
You shrugged. “I’m more of a news gal,” you say, as simply as you can, as if it doesn’t sting.
Liam hums next to you. “You don’t like talkin’ to singers in bars at an after-party? What, you’d rather be out coverin’ some crimes instead? I get it, a lot of these lot are proper head cases, yeah? But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“The world is wider than just music,” you muse, sipping your mocktail, notepad fully cast aside now. You sat up straighter in your seat, fully turned towards Liam now, “Like, have you heard that Spiderman’s in London now? I mean, it could be one of those copycats, but he seems like the real deal! A real life superhero, who wouldn’t want to report on that?”
Liam raises a brow, nodding. “So you’re more into superheroes than rockstars, I see.”
You shoot him a wry smile. “When it comes to reporting, then yes.”
“What makes this Spider-lad so interestin’ anyway. Whole city’s yammerin’ on about him. Can’t shut their gob about askin’ who is he? Well, he wears a mask and everythin’, so I don’t think it’s for us to really know. Besides, how do we not know it ain’t a she? Ain’t we supposed to be supporting this girl power thing or summat?”
“It’s Spiderman,” you correct drily. “And I guess the anonymity is part of the charm. It’s like Clark Kent. He could be walking among us right now and we wouldn’t even know.”
“So, look for the nearest lad with a pair of glasses then,” quips Liam before sipping his lager. “All I’m sayin’ is that this spider whoever ain’t as big of a deal as the press are makin’ him out to be.”
You raise a brow. “Keep up with him a lot?” you tease. “You a fan or something?”
Liam rolled his eyes. “More likely that he’s a fan of me,” he snorted.
“Right,” you drawl, drawing out the word in amusement. “If he ever sends you a piece of fanmail, let him know that I’d like to have a chat, yeah?”
Liam sends you a mock salute. “I’ll tell ‘im to wear his Sunday best and bring a bunch of roses, yeah?” You laugh, Liam grins at the sound and leans forward, “Imagine a date with that spandex clad lad. What a nightmare. Y’know, I think that —”
Suddenly, like a switch was flipped on inside Liam, he sat up straighter in his stool, back ramrod straight as his brow furrowed in concerntration. You straightened along with him, a tad alarmed by the sudden shift. “What is it?” you ask slowly, following with your eyes as Liam’s head turned minutely to the left and to the right, shoulders tensed.
“Thought I heard summat,” he mumbled, still distracted by whatever it is that caught his attention. You exhaled, calming a bit. It must have been just something from the party’s noise, or a result of the lager Liam had been drinking nonstop all night, or the drugs he had in his system. Either way, you let yourself relax. But not until … “‘S’cuse me, yeah? Gotta go check summat out for a sec.”
And then, he was gone, sliding out the barstool with practiced ease and weaving cleanly through the crowd and making his way out a dodgy side door.
Naturally, you followed. You sensed a story, and you were getting it.
You didn’t weave through the crowd with as much grace as Liam, it was more like a wave jutting through a rocky shore as you bumped into shoulders and chests, and apologized profusely on toes you definitely stepped on.
By the time you made it outside, Liam was hauling a guy up and off the ground by the waist, while another was held on tightly by someone you didn’t quite recognize. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘ya, fuckin’ bastard! Y’think y’could sleep with my girl and get away with it, huh? I’ll fuckin’ have your head on a platter, mate! Just wait! —” the ranting was unmistakable in the cold London air, the alleyway echoing with the harsh words as the two men, bruised and scuffed up, attempted to have another go at each other.
It wasn’t until you got even closer that you saw the knife in the grip of the man Liam was holding. “Cool off, mate,” Liam grumbled to the writhing man. “Fuckin’ cool it before I call the coppers, aye? What d’ya think ‘yer doin’ with that knife, yeah? Unless y’wanna go to jail, better let that go, you wanker.”
You blinked at the scene in front of you, neither of the men having noticed you yet.
“Yeah, listen to him! Walk the fuck away, Johnny! Walk away!” yelled the man being held opposite him, his pants scuffed with dirt and blood and his face beaten to a pulp.
You quickly piece the scene together. And it wasn’t anything you haven’t seen at one of these parties before. A man sleeping with someone else’s girl, they get caught in the throes, and everything after that is a whole shit show. At least in this scene, there was no girl, barely dressed, standing between them like there usually was.
Rolling your eyes, you decide to walk forward to the mouth of the alley and hail a cab with a sharp whistle. One lad was sent home on a black cab a few seconds later, and the knife wielding one was sent back inside for the cops to collect. And to think that they would have all just gone on like that had you not called a cab.
“Quick thinkin’ there,” said Liam, walking your way as he pocketed the lad’s knife in his trousers. “Couldn’t really have called a cab from over there, but it was a good thing you followed.”
“You really do have a nose for fights,” you observe, head tilted as you smile at him. “Like a magnet, you are.”
Liam’s mouth twists in amusement. “Ha ha,” he says drily. “Nah, just heard all the yellin’.”
“Thought you’d join in?” you tease.
Liam shrugged easily. “Didn’t seem too fun. Maybe next time, though.”
You grin at him. “Hey, maybe Spiderman could be a she,” you tease as you look up at him, the fresh night air cooling your skin from where the club permeated it with sweat. “I don’t really know any man that would make a great problem solver, yeah?”
Liam laughs loudly, uncaring of the night he had just disrupted with the noise. Slinging his arm over your shoulder, he leans over you. “C’mon, nosy,” he said through a smile, you resisted the urge to smile back. “Get yer coat. I think that’s enough fun for tonight. I’ll walk y’home, yeah? Lest any spider weirdos try to get a piece of ‘ye!”
And as you walk back inside the club, still laughing, the booming bass sending a shock through your system as you retrieved your things, Liam let himself look up at the sky and ask London for forgiveness. The city could do just one night without him, really. Besides, he was looking out for you by walking you safely home. That was a charitable act, was it not?
He convinces himself that it was just his civic duty when you come back out the club bundled in your cute coat, your notepad peeking out the pocket, as you walk past him and tip your head to usher him forward.
Liam walks you home, one eye on the city and the other on you. And when he drops you off at your building, he just lets himself pretend, just for one night.
for @strwbryluver, @anjalfc, @bigbluedoeyes (please comment if you wanna be added or removed from the taglist !!)
