mikederrick + i wore his jacket for the longest time
Derrick is fucking terrible about laundry. He leaves it in the washer for days if Mike doesn’t remind him, and pulls clean shit out of the dryer as he needs it instead of folding it and putting it away.
Fuck. He was terrible. Was.
It isn’t like this was that big of an issue. Derrick didn’t do his laundry all that often. Just the occasional load or two when he spent the night at Mike’s, and then back to cycling through the same few outfits over and over until the jeans were sagging too much or he spilled something on his favorite shirt.
So it’s truly just Mike’s rotten luck that a bundle of clothes sits cold and wrinkled in his dryer the day Derrick gets incinerated.
He should move them. He should fold them up, and put them away. Find Derrick’s van, maybe, or give it to whoever is handling the rest of his things.
Instead, Mike sets the dryer on its lowest setting. He lets it run for a few minutes while he makes some coffee and grabs leftover cookies from the tray.
And then he pulls one of Derrick’s sweatshirts out, once again warm and soft. Mike makes his way to the couch with his hands full, turns the television on, and does his best not to think much of anything at all.
(once again I give you… pushing daisies au…. because it is good)
There is nothing Mike regrets so much as bringing Jaylen back. It had seemed necessary at the time, an inevitability he needed to get through without thinking any more about it. But clearly he had needed to think a little bit more. Or a lot more.
Derrick hasn’t come by to see him in a week, and Mike wouldn’t have been surprised if he never came at all. Only now here he is, standing in Mike’s doorway, bundled up against the winter cold and practically shivering from it.
“Hey,” he says, at the same time that Mike says, “I’m sorry.”
They fall into an awkward silence almost immediately, Derrick looking down at his feet as he kicks his boot against the welcome mat. After a minute he nods and looks up, lips twisted to one side.
“You should be,” Derrick says.
Mike’s stomach drops into his toes, until Derrick moves right past him and into the apartment. He’s very careful; despite the narrow doorframe, not one part of him touches Mike.
“I mean, okay,” he says, and Mike stays resolutely in place close to the door. “When you said that touching you would— that I would, or you’d—”
“You’d die again,” Mike says, and despite his best efforts his voice is not as steady as he needs it to be in this moment. “Yeah.”
“Is that, like,” Derrick runs a hand through his hair. It stands on end in some places, raised like the fur of a frightened animal. “Is that any kind of touch? Is it limited to hands, or to fingertips? Anything?”
Mike drags his teeth across his bottom lip, though he knows it only delays the inevitable truth they both don’t want to hear. “If you touch me at all, you’ll die again. And I can’t bring you back.”
Derrick nods, rocking forward onto his toes and falling back on his heels. “Fuck,” he hisses, through his front teeth.
“We can figure something out, though?” Mike offers. “I made it work with Mr. Whiskers.”
“Mr. Whiskers is dead?”
“Well. No, not anymore. But that’s why I have to use gloves to pet her,” Mike offers. He walks over to the coffee table and picks up the gloves in question. “It works, and I think it would work with you too.”
“I’m not a fucking cat, Mike.” Derrick’s about as upset as Mike has ever seen him, refusing to make eye contact in favor of looking literally anywhere else. “You can’t just pat me on the head and call me a good boy and think that fixes shit.”
It won’t fix anything. Mike knows that. There’s not really any fixing what he’s done, but he wants to believe there’s some kind of in between – some way to keep going, to find a new normal that works. He steps forward, keeps going until he’s in Derrick’s space and ignores the way it makes him flinch backward.
“I know this is a big ask,” Mike says, “but I need you to trust me for a minute. Can you do that?”
Derrick closes his eyes. This close, Mike can see his eyelashes; they’ve started to clump together, wet from melting snowflakes. He takes a deep, shaky sigh, and Mike is so ready to be shot down, to be told to fuck off and end up alone, but Derrick nods.
Mike reaches up, so slow it’s almost painful. The scarf Derrick is wearing is impractical for this kind of weather, a thin thing with an argyle pattern. It’s soft in Mike’s hands, though, and he lifts it over the bottom half of Derrick’s face before leaning in to kiss him.
It’s not right. Obviously, it isn’t right. The cloth tickles Mike’s nose and catches against his lips unpleasantly, but it smells like Derrick. Warm like smoke, something sweet lingering underneath. But there’s a brief moment where Derrick’s hands come up, fingers hooking into Mike’s belt loops like they have dozens of times, like he wants to pull him closer.
And then he’s leaping back, eyes wide and startled. “No,” he says, plain and simple and stark.
“I’m sorry,” Mike says. It feels like it’s all he knows how to say anymore.
Derrick doesn’t answer. He tucks his scarf back into his coat and shakes his head, and then he’s rushing out of Mike’s apartment into the falling snow.
“Top five ways for Mike Townsend to die,” Derrick narrates, lying back on his mattress. His legs can’t extend fully at this angle; he props his feet up on the car door and rests his head against Mike’s abdomen.
“I hate this game,” Mike groans, running a hand over his face. “It feels like you want me to get incinerated.”
Derrick laughs, the only indication he’s even heard Mike at all. He holds out a hand, all five fingers splayed out. “Number five: old age, obviously. We’ll all be surprised if you make it that long, but it’s honestly kind of a boring way to go.”
“We can just stop there,” Mike offers, absentmindedly pulling the string of Derrick’s hood until it sits too tight around his face. “I like old age. I don’t mind boring.”
“That explains so much about you, dude.” Derrick sticks out his tongue and bats Mike’s hand away. “Number four, though—”
“Derrick.”
“What do you think it should be? I’m leaning toward the nail bat, myself.” Derrick pushes his hood up and his warm, bright eyes catch Mike’s, hold them hostage. “Abbott’s going to snap one of these days, and she’s way worse than an ump.”
Mike doesn’t respond; if he leaves it alone, Derrick will talk until he’s tired himself out, and then they can fucking go to bed. He absently runs an arm along Derrick’s shoulder instead of saying anything, staring at the dented ceiling of the van.
Derrick stops him, grabbing his hand and tucking down two of his fingers. “Number three,” he says. “The Garages create another song in your name. It is called ‘Mike Townsend (Finally Gets Laid.)’ You’re so embarrassed, you die during its debut concert.”
“If you’ve written those lyrics, you legally have to tell me,” Mike says, twining his fingers through Derrick’s to stop his fidgeting. “Teddy combs through the trash for ideas. We have to burn whatever gum wrapper you wrote that shit down on.”
Derrick rolls his eyes. His sweatshirt is starting to ride up, revealing a line of skin along his waistband. The divots of his hipbones are clearly visible; Mike resists the urge to let go of Derrick’s hand and run his thumb along their sharp slopes.
“Number two,” Mike says instead, “you put on some new weird band you like, and it literally bores me to death. I haunt your ass until the end of time.”
Derrick barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. But then he quiets, and his expression shifts from delighted into something more contemplative.
“Number one,” Derrick says. The pad of his thum runs over the back of Mike’s hand. “Incinerated by a rogue umpire, obviously. Boring, but hey. At least you’ll get another song.”
“Fuck you,” Mike sighs, but there’s no heat behind it.
“Sure.” Derrick, still holding his hand hostage, brings Mike’s fingers up to his lips. “We can do that instead.”
37. The tender ache when you press against bruises
As much as Mike may understand Derrick’s tendency for throwing the occasional rogue pitch, it’s pretty clear from the word ‘go’ that other people in the league don’t approve. It’s the fourth time this month he’s come home like this, with a black eye or a busted nose or bruises on his ribs.
He winces as Mike presses a bag of frozen peas against his head, but even the pain doesn’t shut him up. “Should I start calling you Doctor?” he asks, one eye peeking at Mike through his fringe.
“You could try apologizing,” Mike says.
“Sorry?”
Mike rolls his eyes. “Not to me. To the people you’re hitting.”
Derrick grins. “Not a chance.”
“Well, in that case, you can absolutely apologize to me,” Mike retorts, putting a little more pressure on the bruise blooming across Derrick’s temple.
Derrick hisses through his teeth, one hand coming up to grasp Mike’s wrist. He doesn’t apologize again; but then, Mike hadn’t really expected him to.
Mike knows this is a bit, that as soon as the camera stops rolling Derrick will back off like a switch has been flipped and go back to being a completely normal person. But right now, watching him draw a literal pentagram on the floor in white chalk, it’s hard not to pull his hair out.
“Do you think,” he asks slowly, very aware of the blinking red light on the camera in Shaq’s hand that means they’re still recording, “you could wait until morning to do this shit?”
Derrick looks up from his work, grinning, and the flickering lights from the candles make him look incredibly sinister. “Why would we do that? All the ghosts are out now.”
Mike makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, fingers going white around his flashlight. “You are completely insane.”
“Oh, come on. You love it,” Derrick mutters. Unfortunately, he’s at least a little bit right.
[send me a character/pairing + prompt and I’ll write a short fic about them!]
