Chapter Text
Accustomed as he is to following the whims of the universe, Dirk has never been very good with practicalities. Mundane tasks such as paying bills, doing laundry, and eating vegetables have often fallen by the wayside in his past. His driving has been called "a terrifying journey to the brink of human mortality". He has killed many plants. However, he thinks impulsively moving to Seattle with three jackets, an armful of shirts and a squeezy clown toy is probably a personal best in the reckless idiot department.
The consequences of this action don't really hit him until he receives an email from his former landlord in London that could kindly be described as "brusque". He gathers that the "Gone to America–will most likely return" sign he left on the door of his flat was not considered sufficient notice for abandoning his lease, and if he doesn't reappear within the next week, his remaining possessions will be dumped on the street for whatever scavengers may have some use for them. Additionally, his landlord hopes that he, Dirk, has found some suitable accommodation in America or whatever godforsaken place he is currently infesting, because he, the landlord, has no intention of accepting Dirk as a tenant once more, even if he, Dirk, were to get on his knees and beg. Where on earth, his landlord furthermore wishes to know, did Dirk acquire so many versions of the same terrible jacket, and what is that suspicious stain in the southernmost corner of the ceiling?
At this point Dirk decides it would be counterproductive to continue reading, and skips straight ahead to writing a cheerful, winning reply in which he informs his landlord that he will be back to pick up his things inside of a week, that he then has every intention of returning to live in America indefinitely, and that to the trained observer his jackets are all completely unique, thank you, and simply signify a strong, cohesive sense of style. He avoids the tricky question of his mysteriously stained ceiling, as he doesn't believe the explanation will improve anyone's mood. He hopes his landlord is well, and that his wife, all of his cats, and his children are in good health.
After he sends the email, he sits for a while, pondering his next course of action. He can afford the flights easily, and it will be nice to have the rest of his things back, but he's not particularly enthused about the idea of returning to England. Maybe leaving the country, even for a few short days, will disturb the tentative equilibrium he has reached with Todd of late. Maybe Todd will realise how much he likes having his flat all to himself again. Maybe he will realise that his life without Dirk is much less likely to involve kidnapping and ruined possessions. Maybe Dirk will return to Seattle with the rest of his things to find that Todd has changed the locks (again) and gone on the road with an American punk band.
He must be broadcasting his conflicted thoughts, because when Todd emerges from the kitchen with his morning coffee, he pauses, raises his eyebrows and says, "... What?"
Dirk really must get better at controlling his facial expressions.
"I have to go back to England," he announces.
Todd's eyes widen.
"Like... permanently?"
"No, no," Dirk assures him, and tries not to smile too obviously when Todd relaxes slightly, glaring at him.
"My old landlord wrote to me yesterday, and apparently I need to go and pick up my things or he'll throw them in a skip."
"A what?" Todd asks, sitting down heavily on the sofa.
"He'll throw them away," Dirk clarifies.
"Wait, you didn't bring any of your stuff with you?" Todd is extremely slow before he's had his coffee. Dirk has made a note of this before.
"No," he says, patiently. "I wasn't exactly planning to move here permanently when I came over for the Patrick Spring case."
"And it's just occurring to you now that your landlord wouldn't store it for you forever?"
Dirk shrugs.
"I didn't think about it much, to be honest. I suppose I should go and clear it out. There are a few things I would like to have, if I'm to live here indefinitely."
He pauses.
"I mean... in Seattle. Here, in Seattle. Indefinitely."
Todd drinks his coffee and says nothing.
"Anyway," Dirk says, recovering smoothly, "I suppose I should go tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Todd says. "To England?"
"Well, yes," Dirk says, already looking up flights. "He says I have until the end of the week and then he's fumigating the place–"
"Fumigating?" Todd says.
"Are you planning on repeating everything I say in that flabbergasted tone? I ask merely for information."
"No," Todd says, "it's just..."
Dirk waits patiently. Todd flounders for a few more seconds and then takes a large gulp of coffee. Dirk goes back to the computer.
"It's just... sudden," Todd says, after a minute. Dirk looks up again.
"Won't it be expensive? Last minute transatlantic flights?"
"I have money," Dirk says, selecting Heathrow from the dropdown menu.
"Oh yeah?" Todd asks, faintly amused. "How much do you have?"
"None of your business," Dirk says, primly.
"Hmmm," Todd says, drinking more coffee.
There's silence for a few minutes as Todd moves slowly into the land of the caffeinated and Dirk tries to navigate the airline website–second in unpleasantness only to navigating an actual airport.
"I don't have much money," Todd says, suddenly.
Dirk looks up, eyebrows raised.
"Oh," he says, nonplussed. "I thought those shirts were an aesthetic choice."
Todd makes his that's not very funny face and says, "I just mean... I would come with you, if I... you'll probably need help with all your stuff. And everything."
He stops again. Dirk waits some more and then says, "It's alright. I'm sure I can manage. Unless. Unless you want to come? I could pay for the flights. If you wanted to."
Todd looks up at him.
"Do you want me to come?"
Of course Dirk wants him to come. Everything is better when Todd is there. Even talking about Blackwing loses some of its painful edge when Todd is sitting opposite him, doing his listening attentively face, like Todd is the filter through which things grow brighter and cleaner and better. Dirk wants to show Todd his old flat. He wants to take him to his favourite bakery and surreptitiously watch him eat a scone. He wants to show Todd his old primary school, point out where he'd scratched his name into the desk. He wants to tell Todd his name. His old one. He wants to show Todd literally everything he has ever done and ever will do, because anything else seems like a waste.
He has just enough sense to not say any of this out loud.
"Yes, of course I do, if you want to," he says. "It is quite a long flight–"
"Okay," Todd says.
"Okay," Dirk says, beaming at him. Todd smiles a little into his coffee.
He looks back at the computer and changes "number of passengers" to two.
Okay.
*
Todd is entirely unsurprised that navigating an airport with Dirk in tow is a completely hellish experience. He's not happy about it. But he's not surprised. Going through security, Dirk, hopping on one foot while trying to remove his left shoe, asks the security team for stories about "the most interesting thing they've found in an orifice". In the gift shop, he insists on buying a souvenir of Washington for his landlord, "to apologize for the inconvenience", and against Todd's express recommendation, purchases a ridiculously ugly mug with a handle shaped like the Space Needle. Todd manages to usher him out of the store and into a nearby café before he can buy gifts for the landlord's wife, their two kids, and each of their four cats. To top off Todd's morning, over breakfast Dirk spends several minutes speculating loudly about the most likely cause of their own hypothetical plane crash–a prospect which he seems to find more enthralling than terrifying–blithely unaware of Todd's increasingly white-knuckled grip on his coffee mug.
"Could you–" Todd takes a deep breath. "Could you stop? Maybe?"
Dirk pauses, taking in Todd's face and his death grip on his coffee, and says, "Oh!"
He leans forward, looking contrite.
"I'm sorry, Todd. I didn't know you were scared of flying."
"I'm not scared of flying!" Todd says, trying to keep his voice level and failing somewhere around the word "flying". He coughs. "I just don't want to hear about all the hypothetical ways we could die in the very near future. That's normal, Dirk. That is reasonable."
"Of course it is," Dirk says, in a tone of exaggerated sympathy. "Just a healthy sense of respect for the laws of gravity."
"Shut up," Todd says, for the seven billionth time of their acquaintance. Dirk keeps talking.
"It's really nothing to be ashamed of. If there's anything I can do to help... I could tell you about some of my past cases!"
"You do that anyway," Todd points out.
"Well, yes, but I could do it soothingly."
"I hate you."
"Whatever keeps you sane," Dirk says, smiling at him in that ridiculously bright way he has, and Todd weirdly feels a little better.
There's a bad moment going through passport control, when the woman behind the desk hands Dirk his passport back and says, "Thank you, Mr Cjelli, have a pleasant flight."
Dirk stiffens all over and gives her a wooden smile, carefully not looking at Todd. Todd had seen Dirk's old name written down during the whole Blackwing fiasco, but he'd never mentioned it. Dirk doesn't go by it anymore, and they're doing an excellent job not talking about, or ideally even thinking about, anything related to Blackwing or the CIA. Now he wishes he knew how to bring it up, if only to assure Dirk that it's not an issue. Not for him. They sit down in the waiting area, watching the planes outside and the loud children inside, running around with their arms outstretched yelling, "whooosh!"
There's silence for a few minutes and then Todd says, "What made you decide on Gently, anyway?"
Dirk looks at him, startled, and Todd continues to look out the window like none of this is any kind of big deal.
"I mean, detectives want to sound tough, right? Why not...Dirk Roughly?" He feels his face heating up and coughs. "Or. Something like that."
"I'm a holistic detective, Todd," Dirk says, with a poor imitation of his usual enthusiasm. "I don't go around the place beating people up and shooting at them. There's a certain amount of finesse involved."
"Dirk...Smartly," Todd says.
"Hmmm. Sounds like I'm a tailor."
"Or a math teacher."
"I rather like the idea of suiting my name to my profession," Dirk says, and thank God, he's smiling again. "Dirk Softly: Haberdasher."
"Dirk Smoothly," Todd says, "Dating Advisor."
"Dirk Firmly, Personal Trainer."
"Dirk Calmly, Yoga Instructor."
"Todd Yachtsman, Boating Enthusiast."
"No. We're not doing me."
On the plane, Dirk falls asleep on Todd's shoulder about fifteen minutes into the ten hour flight, snuffling and muttering into Todd's shirt. Dirk's sleep talking has been a source of endless amusement to him for the last couple of months, but he feels strangely protective of it now. He doesn't want a plane full of people to hear Dirk saying things like, "The lamp needs a good home", or "Well obviously not exclusively potatoes". They won't get it. Todd doesn't always get it either, but at least he has some context.
Dirk spends most of the flight in this position, waking up once to eat, apologizing for appropriating Todd's shoulder, and then immediately falling asleep on top of him again once he's finished his meal.
Todd manages to doze for a while, but is mostly hyped up on caffeine and anxiety, a familiar if irritating cocktail. He wonders what Dirk's old place is like. He wonders if Dirk met clients there, or if he had an office. Dirk hasn't brought up getting an office in Seattle yet, or mentioned Farah's backing offer again. He hasn't even tried to find a case. Todd supposes Dirk usually waits for the universe to bring him a case, but he has wondered why Dirk doesn't seem a little more antsy. In the back of his mind, he can't help wondering if Dirk just hasn't really committed to staying in Seattle yet. Maybe this whole thing has been an extended vacation for him.
Half of Todd's brain is arguing that of course Dirk wants to stay. He's spent the last two months living in Todd's apartment, buying him new kitchen appliances and cooking him terrible food, and saying things like, "I fancy a film tonight–maybe we could watch the new Star War?" Dirk likes him. He wants to be convinced of that. Dirk sleeps next to him and stays up talking to him after he's had nightmares. Dirk stops him before they leave the apartment to make sure he has his meds, and asks him if he's eaten enough vegetables that week, even though Dirk wouldn't know a carrot if it bit him on the ass. Dirk wants to be with him. Or. To live with him. To hang out with him. In his apartment.
The other part of Todd's brain, the part that kicks into high gear whenever anyone says anything particularly aggressive or anything a little too nice, has a different opinion. Why would Dirk want to stay in Seattle? He's not from there. It's not the safest place for him to be, probably. From what Todd gathers, Dirk spent fifteen years in England, completely unbothered by psychotic CIA agents, and the week he stepped foot on American soil, he was kidnapped and experimented on. It's arrogance of the highest order to believe that Dirk would really want to uproot his entire life and risk his safety for a guy he's known for two months, and who spent the first week of their acquaintance mostly yelling at him.
Todd is painfully aware that he invited himself on this trip because he hasn't spent more than a couple of hours away from Dirk since that first night after Blackwing when Dirk snuck into his apartment to nap on his couch. The thought of sleeping alone for three, or possibly four, nights, is scarier than it has any right to be for a grown man who up until recently had no roommate and a pretty sparse social life. But he's afraid anyway.
When it comes down to it, Todd is afraid that Dirk will see his old place, and he won't want to leave.
Dirk doesn't wake again until a voice comes over the speakers to inform them that they are beginning their descent into London. He rubs his eyes, and leans unceremoniously across Todd to look out the window.
"I think you're going to like London," he says, settling back into his seat and smiling at Todd. "It rains a lot, and everyone is very unfriendly."
Todd tries not to look amused, but Dirk is grinning at him, looking like a friend, looking like someone who is glad to have Todd nearby, like someone who is making fun of him with affection and without malice, and Todd cracks and smiles back, just a little.
"I'm not following your logic, here," he says, trying and failing to salvage his glare.
Dirk shrugs, still smiling. "I suppose it's just a hunch."