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Moving Up

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

part one - part two Summary: Joe's had enough of living with a flatmate, but doesn't leap at the chance to move in with you when you ask. What a dick. It makes you spiral into doom-thoughts until you puzzle together what's actually going on.

CW / disclaimer: angst, rpf (don’t read if this makes you uncomfy), fem!reader, mention of childhood trauma, bad relationship with your mother

Author’s note: idk his flatmate's name, so he's just "flatmate". Joey cries in this, but only a little, and it's 50% because he's just very tired, so don't let it tug at your heart strings too much.

Wordcount: 4k

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You weren’t exactly sure how moments ago you’d felt giddy excitement over the idea, because right now, your blood was boiling. If you were a cartoon, hot air would’ve escaped your ears.

The morning had started peaceful enough; you had breakfast together, Joe had checked on his hungover flatmate, who was still unconscious but very much alive, which was good, and Joe had mentioned wanting to move out.

It was all great fun, sharing London-rent with someone, but he had motioned in the general direction of his flatmate and said he was kind of done with this type of shit.

You weren’t sure if Joe was actively hinting at you to welcome him into your home, but it’s exactly what you did. It wasn’t until you saw hesitance in your boyfriend that you regretted bringing it up at all.

Of course, Joe would be his sensible self, thinking over pros and cons of moving in with you, and you knew what you were like.

That list would hold so very many cons.

Joe probably would say something like he didn’t think it’d be smart. But Joe stayed silent instead, and your mind had wandered off to a time when you’d mentioned moving in together before.

You just liked his company and you’d shown Joe an empty dresser to convince him it wouldn’t be an issue. When Joe asked what you’d done to all your things, you had shrugged and replied, “Oxfam.”.

“Please tell me you’re joking...”

But you hadn't been.

“You donated all your clothes?”

“Not all of them. Just what was in this dresser.”

“Five drawers worth of clothes?!”

You didn’t think it was a big deal. Sure, it had been a little annoying when you realised you only had three pairs of socks left, and you’d also donated a dress you’d borrowed from a friend.

But it had been fine.

Joe had taken you shopping to fill it back up with new items. And he’d gotten a flat. With a flatmate. And that had been fine too.

Joe was quiet for too long, and he wasn’t making direct eye contact.

“Honestly, move in with me.” Your voice was kind, but matter-of-factly, almost as if you’re daring him to it.

“We practically live together anyways, I’m not married to any of my things, we can redecorate, make room for your stuff,” you listed off things using your fingers, but your mind kind of stuck to the word married.

You’d been very adamant about not really believing in marriage, not wanting to ever get married, for several reasons. Was that why Joe was holding off living together? Because there’d be no big future milestone of a marriage? That thought scared you a little, and Joe noticed the subtle change in your face.

“We really could live together,” he leant forward, elbows on the table, hands moving in front of his face as he rubbed his palms together so you couldn't fully read him.

“Well then, what’s the problem?” you asked, getting straight to the point. There was no use in wondering and digging yourself holes you couldn’t think yourself out of.

Joe was silent for a second, and you filled in the blanks even though you knew you really shouldn’t.

Joe’s afraid to tell me he wants to get married and have children with someone.

Suddenly you knew it.

You convinced yourself you could feel it in your bones. You couldn’t feel it in your bones, but thinking it was enough for your brain to set it in stone.

“Is it because I don’t want to get married and have children with you?” you blurted it out, words falling onto the table and remaining there for Joe to stare at.

“In general. I don’t want to, with anyone.” You added quickly, clarifying yourself.

This couldn’t be news to Joe; these were things mentioned before in conversations with friends, with family, but it was the first time you asked Joe directly if this was going to be a problem.

But Joe wasn’t being open, instead very actively holding back, and you hated it.

“What is it, Joey?”

Joe leant back in his chair as he let his fingers loosely hold a knife that pushed left-over bits of breakfast around on his plate.

“I know what you don’t want,”

His face didn’t give anything away.

“And you know I think you’d make a great mother regardless.”

A compliment that means nothing to you. You think anyone could make a great mother if they decided to try their best at it.

Joe’s eyes met yours, and they looked at you with softness and kindness, and then, he said exactly the wrong words that shot hot anger directly into your veins.

Joe expertly links your choice to not want to have children of your own to childhood trauma. To your relationship with your mother.

An assumption you find offensive and completely unfair of him to make, disregarding your interests and wishes for your future. As if you hadn’t thought things over carefully, but had instead let someone else decide this for you which wasn’t the case at all.

“What the fuck does my mother have to do with this?!”

Joe thought he’d struck a chord, something you weren’t willing to face at the minute, and immediately started backtracking.

“That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry.”

It’s too late, his apology meaningless.

“But it is what you meant or you wouldn't have said it!” you raised your voice and squared up for a fight.

Getting to understand your family dynamics had taken Joe some time. Joe’s own parents had divorced when he was only young, but both had found new families, granting him half-siblings and twice the amount of affection.

Sure, he felt like sometimes he needed to fight for attention, but knowing it’s what ultimately lead him onto his career path, he was thankful too in a way.

Your parents had also divorced, but you’d already been in your twenties when they decided to call it off. Divorce had felt like sweet relief to you, because it meant that you wouldn’t be forced to spend so much time with your mother anymore.

There’d been times in your childhood where your mother had decided she needed to put herself first, taking drastic measures and disappearing for weeks on end.

Sometimes months.

It had left you forced to fetch for yourself and often times for your sisters too. You were the eldest and felt responsibility you later concluded no child should ever have to feel. But your dad would always be so proud when he’d come home from work and your sisters would be fed, washed and asleep and there was food waiting for him. You knew he worked hard, making long hours, taking extra shifts, just to make sure that you kept a roof over your heads. And so your chest would fill with pride when he’d eat the food you cooked and it would make up for your mother not being there.

It had left you a funny adult; independent, capable and strong, but childlike and insecure too.

Joe was no therapist, and you didn’t particularly like talking about it, but he’d been around long enough to connect at least some dots.

“Why the fuck would I think I’m like my mother?!”

“You’re not-”

“I am nothing like her; in any way, so obviously, if I were to have a baby – which I won’t because I get to decide that for myself – I wouldn’t fucking be like her then either!” you weren’t quite shouting, but you were being loud enough for Joe to shoot eyes in the direction of his flatmate’s bedroom.

You decided it’s the wrong thing for him to look at, but honestly, he could’ve looked in any direction and it would’ve added to your anger.

Joe had met your mum too, of course.

And at first, he hadn’t understood your disdain.

Your mother seemed a kind woman. She would joke with you as she poured Joe another glass of wine after dinner at her house. And you would seem to enjoy spending time with her, chatting about whatever, racking up anecdote after anecdote. But on your way out, you’d sigh and lean into him, relieved to be out of her presence. You’d seek for comfort in Joe, and would comment on not having to go through that again for another month or two.

Joe noticed subtle differences in you when you’d be around your father. There’d be no expectations on his end, and you’d be more content. It was hidden in little things like you sitting down at the dinner table with your mother, creating a table-width of distance between the two of you, your contact more formal. With your dad, you’d plop down right next to your dad on the sofa, legs touching, hugging as you’d say hi to each other.

With your dad there was space for banter and debate, and with your mother, there was literal space - so much space, between the two of you.

Joe had noticed it in your sisters too. He knew then that you played pretend around your mother and got to be your true selves around your father.

“That woman has nothing to do with choices I make! Full stop!”

You finished it, not wanting Joe to comment on it further.

There was a short silence.

You didn’t want kids because you didn’t want kids. Raising a child? Having it just be in your house all day every day, touching your things? Carrying responsibility for a whole other person? Spending your own earned money on it? Absolutely not your idea of fun.

Why did Joe have to bring your mother into this?

“It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it now.” Joe tried, his voice slightly hushed. He wasn’t in for a fight, didn’t want to match your firey energy. He had meetings to head to in a little bit, and had a hungover flatmate who was still asleep, and so he wanted to push the issue aside.

Park this car for now.

Start it back up later.

“We won’t talk about it later either.” You decided and left the room.

Getting dressed in Joe’s bedroom with the door closed – because flatmate, not because angry but also, a little because angry – you realised that the feeling that overtook you inside of your chest was sadness.

Sad.

Joe pausing this conversation meant that now the topic lingered, and so now you just got to be sad all day.

Because this was all you were going to be thinking about.

But you’d talk later.

So, you burried yourself in thought – a space where you didn’t usually thrive if you were honest with yourself. It was nothing but anger, frustration, doubt and guilt up in there.

Ugh.

What was wrong with you?

You knew the issue.

Felt it deep within the pit of your stomach.

You were afraid you were wasting Joe’s time. You might just have selfishly snooped precious years from his twenties. Years he could have had with someone else who could give him the mundane family life that he was after. Was that even what he was after? Shit you weren’t even sure what he was after – Joe hadn’t been clear about his wants and needs at all. He hadn’t agreed with you or denied your accusations. If Joe was after a happy calm structured home-life with a wife and kids and pets, with bake sales, school runs and after-school-activities – it wasn’t what you were going to be giving him.

Able to? Sure.

Wanting to? Nope.

When Joe headed out, off to work, he found you to say goodbye. You pecked on the mouth, a chaste little kiss followed by a smile. It was fake, and you didn’t like it, but agreed that for now it was nicer to pretend it was all rainbows and butterflies and not threatening dark skies rumbling with thunder.

And then now, here you were.

Already dark outside, late enough for you to be in bed already, but sat on the sofa in silence instead, the air in the room thick and barren.

Not speaking.

Because speaking meant more possibly arguing.

Joe had come ‘round to your place after dinner, and you had both busied yourself - Joe finding laundry around your apartment and collecting it into a hamper, and you rummaging through piles of documents on your desk. You were painfully aware that you were keeping yourself busy with this seemingly aimless task just because talking to your boyfriend didn’t feel like it was an option.

Joe had said sorry. That should’ve ended it.

But it hadn’t.

Because you still didn’t know why Joe had started talking to you about moving out of his flat and hadn’t been clear on his hesitations of moving in with you. And it felt like this might be the beginning of the end. Your foundation was suddenly scarily shaky where it had felt rock solid before. It wasn’t real yet because it hadn’t been said aloud, so in turn you kept your hands busy and didn’t speak. And then, Joe had told you he had an early wakeup call the next morning, so he’d sleep at his place tonight. Would just be easier. The convenience to escape each other for the night should logically bring relief, but it felt awful. It flung more doubt into your brain; maybe you were just a couple that needed to be able to escape each other whenever the situation arose. The thought of grouping yourself in with couples who slept in separate bedrooms made you shudder. You wanted Joe gone, but also there still, neither wolf inside you winning the battle. But when Joe left, it was very clear which wolf you willed to win- you really wanted Joe there still. And so you texted your boyfriend a heart emoji followed by a question mark just moments after he had closed the front door behind him. The simplest way of asking a dangerous question; do you still love me? It took all of three minutes for him to walk back in.

But you didn’t know what to say.

And neither did he.

So after just looking at each other for a couple of seconds, Joe had sat down on your sofa and had started taking his shoes off.

He was staying the night. An hour and a half later, there you were. Tired, sat on your sofa, just listening to each other’s breathing.

Not speaking.

Not arguing. If you were honest the thought of heading out to visit a friend had crossed your mind more than once over the past 90 minutes. You’d complain about Joe and they’d pass you a cocktail and then they’d validate you without question, not even knowing the full story. However more so than validation, you needed comfort right now. And Joey was your Comfort Person™.

So.

You sat, and you touched, and stared into nothingness, and it was silent, and you were tired. Joe’s legs were stretched out in front of you, feet crossed on your coffee table, one ankle resting on the other. To an outsider, he looked relaxed, but you could feel the tension in his body, ribcage flared, fingers fidgeting.

Your knees were high in front of you, feet on the very edge of the sofa, toes toppling over. Joe’s arm wasn’t ‘round your shoulders where it would usually rest. Instead, you were hugging it. Just holding onto it with both of your arms, face squeezed into his bicep letting the full weight of your head rest against it, smelling his skin. Joe barely moved to look at you, wandering eyes doing the most.

He needed to scan your face a second, to read your feelings, but he came up blank.

You were busy staring into space, exhausted eyes, lost in thought but grip unwavering.

Joe kind of wanted to say something, but words escaped him like they’d done for most of that day. You could feel his eyes on you and it made you glance up, your eyes bleary and blinking. Joe was looking at his hands as they rubbed together slowly in his lap.

You know you couldn’t go to bed like this.

At the same time, there was no way you’d be able to muster up the energy, the nerve, or the vocabulary to fix this.

It didn’t help that you were convinced Joe wouldn’t say what you wanted to hear, anyway. And, if he did? He’d be lying. That would be worse.

You felt weak.

Sleepy.

And Joe was warm.

Smelled nice. You gave in and closed your eyes for a few seconds. Seconds easily became minutes.

When you blinked back into consciousness, you noticed it was because you could feel Joe move to sit up. You were unsure if you’d actually slept already, or if you just had lulled in the space between being asleep and awake for a little while. Unsure of how much time had passed, you found it impossible to keep your eyes open for long.

You felt how an arm slipped under your knees, and the arm you’d clung onto pulled itself from your limbs and pushed in between your back and the sofa. You wanted to take control and tell Joe to stop - Joe being sweet to you made your heart flutter, but being sweet was currently the worst thing he could be.

You wanted to move your legs to walk yourself to bed but everything was so much heavier than you anticipated. All you managed was a slight flutter of your eyelids and a hum that left your throat before Joe stood up, hoisting you into his chest.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Joe whispered, using his elbow to open a door and a foot to turn off the light.

Joe carefully lowered you into bed where you found the cool covers. Before Joe’d undressed and made his way over to his side of the bed to lay down next to you, you’d already moved over there. Hogged his space, because even though you were sort of fighting, you still wanted him close.

Joe got it. Understood. Stepped in and cradled your body close to his.

You decided that actually, sweet wasn’t the worst thing Joe could be right now, and you were actually craving more of it.

You sighed deeply, legs, arms and foreheads touching.

Perfect.

Let’s postpone everything forever.

You full-body-relaxed and could feel Joe do the same into the mattress next to you. Sleep was about to overtake you when you decided to open your heavy eyes for just a second to steal a glance at your boyfriend, your faces mere inches away from each other, and you found Joe staring at you. His face was all emotion; nose slightly red, wet big round eyes, and eyebrows scrunched upwards.

The sight of it panged in your chest and your face crumbled quickly too.

Without words shared, Joe hugged you tighter as he fit your head under his and let you cry into the crook of his neck as he sniffled above you.

Pathetic.

Couple of tired angry people, holding each other as they cried.

You only got a couple of sobs out, your body way too sleepy. You wanted to doze off, wake up to a better morning and leave whatever this looming emotion is in the dark of the night. “I love you,” Joe whispered into your hair, just needing to let you know. You had asked, after all. By ways of replying, you squeezed whatever body parts your hands were touching before fully drifting off to sleep. Joe had an early wake up call, and you were awake, but for all intents and purposes, you weren’t.

Joe’d been up for a minute. You’d heard the shower run, and listened to the sounds of fabric sliding over his skin as he got dressed. But you laid still, eyes closed, the bed too warm and comfy, the smell of Joe lingering on your pillow.

Then, you felt his hands on your head, fingers stroking down your jaw before a kiss got pressed to your forehead on a deep inhale.

When his hands lingered, you knew he was just looking at you sleep, taking you in for a minute.

Why won’t he tell me why he doesn’t want to live with me?

You hated how that was your first thought. Joe knew you were awake – you had laid eerily still in the same position for 15 minutes. Unheard of. You weren’t that deep of a sleeper. But he didn’t press it.

“Bye baby,” he whispered, and you felt another kiss on your temple before footsteps left your bedroom, left your hallway, and stepped out the door.

Your mind felt little clearer that day compared to the day before, and your first cup of coffee had given you an idea. The second it popped into your brain, you knew you had to go and question his flatmate.

Immediately.

Joe must have talked to him about moving out, you know, the impact of it quite severe and that. Surely there’d be more information; puzzle pieces you needed in order to fix this stupid issue that you felt had been blown out of proportion. It had made Joe cry. Joe was an easy crier though, especially when tired, but still. It was a rash decision – like all of yours seemed to be – to fly out the door and rush over to Joe’s apartment, but it was a smart one. You were stood in the middle of the flat, 7:50 am, disheveled, hair a mess, but with important questions. Joe’s flatmate was unaware of any underlying problems and had just said: “Oh yeah, he’s been looking at houses.” And you swear you could actually feel someone switch on a lightbulb in your head. Of fucking course.

This asshole.

This stupid idiot man-child didn’t want to move into your tiny little one-bedroom (even though it was nice, and it had a little garden, and it was south facing, and it was in a nice area) - this wanker wanted to buy a house. Had he tried to tell you?

You weren’t sure.

Had he been dropping massive hints you were too oblivious to pick up on?

Probably.

Had your anger ruined a lovely moment yesterday where, if you hadn’t been so mad about a compliment – a fucking compliment, you hate yourself – he would’ve asked you to move in with him?

Most definitely, you decided. His flatmate opened a drawer and tossed a couple of folders onto the table. “He’s been to see these, but I don’t think he liked any of them.” Okay, that’s it. You were going to have to murder yourself. Maybe Joe’s flatmate could help, he had been nice enough to you up until then, surely he’d lend a hand. “I’m an idiot.” You exclaimed, grabbing your phone from your pocket and opening WhatsApp. You sent Joe a photo of the folders, his flatmate in the background of the snap.

It only took a couple of seconds for your phone to ring. “I’m an IDIOT!” you were practically shouting as you answered the phone. “It was meant to be a surprise!” Joe shouted back, matching the energy. “You could’ve just said!” the dopamine-rush from hearing Joe’s laugh almost toppled you over. “But I couldn’t– I got you upset and didn’t want to steamroll over you-” “Joey, you cried.” “You were so sad!” You could hear concern in his voice, and your self-hatred grew deeper as you came to understand Joe had spent the whole evening thinking you’d been sulking about his mention of your mother. And he’d been beating himself up over it because he'd never expected the reaction you'd given.

“I’m fine!”

“You've got a mortgage." A flush of realization rushed over you.

Not only had Joe pondered all night how to make it up to you for getting you upset about a comparison he had made- an unfair one, he agreed. He had also been convinced you might not want to get rid of your apartment.

It was true, you loved your flat.

But a shitty one-bedroom or a house?

With your boyfriend?

"Hey, fuck my mortgage."

That made Joe laugh.

"This needed a careful approach.”

This man.

This.

Man.

“That was you being careful?” Joe could hear the giggle stuck in your throat.

“I tried.” And you could hear him sigh and feel his smile transmit through your phone somehow.

“Joe cried?”