When Andrew and Sally had gotten together, Andrew had said he only had one request of Sally, and that was that Sally and he were completely exclusive. Andrew could put up with a lot of things - he was willing to do lots of things - be he required his relationships to be exclusive. It was really the only line he drew. He did whatever Sally asked him to do and he had enjoyed it! He didn’t mind that their sex was focused mainly on her. He liked making Sally happy, he liked taking care of her and taking her led. It was nice not having to think about himself and to just do what he was told. It was nice letting someone have control so he didn’t have to be on top of everything all the freaking time and be the one someone else worried about for once.
But he didn’t want her to be giving orders to anyone else.
He didn’t want to have to share her, didn’t want her mind to be on anyone else but him. He’d lived his entire life being someone that no one ever thought about, so he required his partner to be the one person that thought about him exclusively. They could have a world full of friends and hang out with them all they wanted, but when it came to someone considered a lover, Andrew wanted to have that title alone so that intimacy could be shared between just them.
And Sally had swore to him that as long as they were together, it would just be them, completely exclusive.
And he believed her.
He smiled to himself as he went down the dark hallway, passing Sally’s study and the neatly kept guest room before he went down the stairs to the first floor, humming to himself as he went into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and pulled out a few things, bringing them over to the counter to throw Sally together a salad just the way she liked it. She was big on salads and wanted one pretty much with every meals, so he had become a bit of an expert on making them.
He set that aside and got out a small frying pan before he went back to the fridge to get a single chicken breast out, sticking it in the pan on the stove before he scrubbed up his hands. He put a lid on the pan and turned it on, grabbing a tomato slice from the salad to pop it in his mouth before he padded over into the darkened living room, navigating around the furniture by memory to stand in front of the couch and turn on the tv in hopes of finding something to have on in the background while he cooked, preferably a rerun on his favorite cop drama, something he had seen pretty much every episode of and thus wouldn’t need his constant attention.
The screen bathed the room in a pale light and he suddenly saw he was not alone in the dark living room.
A man sat in the arm chair right next to the couch and was looking at Andrew with a thousand yard stare, the light from the tv casting an eerie glow on his face. At his feet was a pair of duffle bags, one of which was half open to reveal an impressive amount of firearms, a mean looking rifle sticking out and pointing directly at Andrew.
Andrew’s stomach dropped. When he lifted his gaze again he saw the man had a patch on the camo colored jacket he was wearing that read DAWSON and Andrew’s stomach nearly fell right to his feet.
It was Mr. Dawson.
Thee Mr. Dawson.
Andrew had built up this image of Mr. Dawson in his mind because there were zero pictures of him around the house. He had always imagined Mr. Dawson as being a short, fat, and ugly man with an ugly laugh and greasy hair – someone that had no redeemable physical qualities what so ever. It was because of this that Sally had to open her marriage. Mr. Dawson was just so horribly unattractive, she just couldn’t be with him sexually or was willing to wait around for him to return.
But Mr. Dawson was not unattractive.
In fact, he was devastatingly handsome, in Andrew’s opinion, the sort of guy that all the girls in high school would be swooning over while he awkwardly stood by, trying and failed to draw their attention back to him with talks about class or awkward jokes. Mr. Dawson’s hair was buzzed off completely, he looked like he hadn’t slept or bathed in two weeks, but that somehow didn’t manage to detract from how attractive he was. Thick muscles, high cheek bones and a strong jaw, full lips-
And a thousand yard stare, focused completely on Andrew.
Andrew looked down at himself. He was wearing Mr. Dawson’s sweat pants and a shirt from Sally’s high school - from Mr. Dawson’s high school, he knows, so this was probably Mr. Dawson’s shirt as well. Andrew glanced over to the kitchen, half expecting there to be more huge men of the military ready to kick his ass that he had also overlooked. Nope. When he looked back he saw Mr. Dawson was slowly standing up now to stand at his full height, nearly a full two heads taller than Andrew’s own five foot ten height.
Seeing him now, Andrew - who had always been very secure in his own comfortably athletic build - realized in that moment that Mr. Dawson could break him over one of his heavily muscular thighs no problem. He could also probably punch his fist right through Andrew’s face without breaking a sweat.
“Uh-” Andrew struggled out before he unconsciously took a step back, “Sally!” He called out, his voice breaking as his stomach fluttered anxiously.
The lady of the house came down in a flimsy shirt that didn’t quite reach past the curve of her bottom and fully cover the lacy underwear she wore, a flirty look on her face that fell right off her face when she saw her husband. Her lips curled and she opened her arms. “Corey.” She said, her voice stunned and a little annoyed. “You’re home.” She deadpanned.
Mr. Dawson slowly turned his face toward his wife, but kept his gaze on Andrew, who was starting to sweat. “For good.” He said in a low rumble, his dark gaze jumped over to Sally. The gaze he gave her wasn’t any kinder than the one he had given Andrew. “I was discharged.”
Sally’s eyebrows shot straight up. “Oh.” she said flatly. “I see...” she said slowly, like she was trying to figure out how she felt about that.
Andrew let out a long breath. “I’m just going to -” He winced when Mr. Dawson’s gaze cut back to him. “I’m just going to go get changed.” He swallowed thickly as the other man lifted a corner of his lip in a sneer of acknowledgment and Andrew backed away to go around the couch and hurry to the stairs, telling Sally in passing that he had something on the stove and to keep an eye on it.
He stopped a few steps after the top, just out of sight of the living room, to listen as Sally asked her husband what had happened.
Apparently, Mr. Dawson had had an incident that saw him shooting a few extra people that didn’t need to be shot, so he got discharged, honorably because the people he shot weren’t exactly in consideration for sainthood. He then snapped that he wasn’t impressed that she had some kid wearing his stuff from high school, which she responded to by saying she wasn’t impressed he got forced into early retirement.
There was an icy silence and Andrew took the opportunity to get dressed, nearly tearing the room apart to find some of his own clothing. He became all too aware in that moment that he had been way too comfortable wearing Mr. Dawson’s things. When he had his own clothes on he went back downstairs to find the couple were exactly where he had left them, Sally at the bottom of the stairs and her husband standing by the armchair, the married couple in a tense standoff.
Andrew stood awkwardly next to Sally, staring at the rifle sticking out of one of the duffle bags.
“Andrew,” Sally said sweetly, catching his attention. She was giving him a sugary look, fluttering her lashes. “Be a dear and take Corey’s things to the guest bedroom.”
“Fuck that.” Her husband hissed out, “I’m sleeping in my own bed.”
“Your bed was thrown out five years ago. It’s my bed. In my house.” Sally hissed right back. “Where I’ve lived for the past ten years.”
“Paid for by me.” Her husband growled, “All your money went straight to your fucking education.”
“Which is going to have to pay the bills now that you fucked up and got yourself fired!” She snapped.
“I have retirement!” He shouted back at her.
“Which will go far back in fucking Willow’s End, but not here in the fucking city, Corey!” She shouted.
“Don’t fucking bring up that place again or I’m going to fucking call your fucking mother and tell her our fucking address!” He screamed. At the look of horror and sheer disgust on her face, Andrew figured he should be working on dinner and let these two figure things out. He started to inch toward the kitchen. “I’ve been sleeping on a fucking cot for longer than you’ve had the stupid fucking mattress and now I want my time with it! I deserve to sleep in a good bed!”
“Oh you deserve?!” Sally roared.
“Yeah!” Mr. Dawson snapped back. “I deserve!”
“You deserve?!” She returned, louder this time.
Andrew entered the kitchen and went about fixing something more substantial, silently throwing together a thing of spaghetti and garlic bread as the couple screamed at each other, cursing and spitting venom as they unloaded what felt like years of tension.
He hoped that putting some good food in Mr. Dawson’s stomach might help him see things a little bit more logically.
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