𝐈 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 |80's mechanic!austin x best friend!reader
summary: it's starting to look like he might never make it out of the friend zone. austin has been in love with you for as long as he can remember, and he's terrified that you'll never see him as anything more than a best friend and protector. with the fear of you one day outgrowing him fresh on his mind, he's now hell bent on getting you to view him in a different light. madly in love and terrified to lose you, austin butler is playing for keeps.
pairings: 80s mechanic! austin x childhood best friend!reader
word count: 4.8k
notes/warnings: SMUT! in part two, virgin!austin. . . need i say more?, i love pining and this fic is testament to that, shaky/hurried hands, who doesn't love a good best friends to lovers fic, he has a deep southern accent, austin is the small town's metalhead and he's swelteringly hot without even trying. (this is going to have to be two parts because it turned out too long after editing. the smut alone is like. . . five pages on google docs.)
The incessant metallic clinging and loud mechanic whirs echoed against the cement flooring of the auto body garage. The sun was peeking just over the trees right outside the open garage doors, the spring sky slowly burning gold and pink. Most of the men were rushing to finish up with the vehicles that they were working on, eager to get home to their families after a long day of work. There was one mechanic though -who might be young, but made up for it with skill- was still elbow deep under the car’s hood, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. He’d only been looking at the car for five minutes and knew exactly what was wrong with it. The elderly woman had gotten her car towed all the way to Travis’ shop after the damn thing stalled out in the middle of the Winn-Dixie parking lot. The young mechanic could see her through the lobby’s windows watching him, her tiny wrinkly hands balled up into nervous fists.
“Aye- Austin?” Travis jogged right up to Austin, placing his hand down on one of the side mirrors as he waited for the diagnosis.
“It’s not the engine. The transmission,” He pointed towards the old hunk of junk, leaning his head back under the hood to show his boss. “It’s completely shot. She said it will jerk when she accelerates and the wheel will sometimes shake when she’s goin’ fast enough. What’s happening is that it’s slippin’. The damn thing won’t stay in gear. This car is ten years out of date- I mean. . . It's a ‘74. So even if we order the parts-”
“It’s gonna cost more to fix than it would be for her to just buy a whole new one.” The boss finished for him, sighing when he saw Austin nod his head in agreement.
The long haired blonde blinked his eyes against the burning sunset, shooing a gnat away from his face as he leaned his hip against the car. He crossed one booted foot over the other as he waited patiently for the man to make a decision. While Travis enjoyed making money, Austin knew that the bastard was above stealing it from little old ladies. With a small huff of defeat the middle aged man began walking back in the direction of the lobby, most likely to break the bad news. He stopped just before he opened the door, pointing a quick finger-gun in Austin’s direction.
“Are you comin’ over to Mark’s cookout tonight? You can bring your girl.” He called out over the loud noise.
Austin shook his head before flashing the man a little face of distaste.
“I’ve gotta go to my dad’s house to grab some of my old shit. Besides- I don’t have a girl to bring.”
Travis shot him “a face” right back, but one of disbelief. “Yeah, right. A girl doesn’t just bring her friend a hand packed lunch every other day unless she was hopin’ for somethin’ to happen between them..” And before Austin could even defend himself the man was gone, sauntering solemnly over to the corner where the elderly woman was sitting.
You weren’t the one that was hoping for a chance at romance, but Austin was. He’d rather die than admit it, but his co-workers' words lit a small fire in his chest; a hopeful pyre that didn’t dim.
The wooden stairs were old and weather worn, the nails rusted with age. Austin always felt a sense of dread when he heard the familiar creaking under his feet, and the fact that he could hear the television droning on from inside of the trailer didn’t make it any better. It meant that he was home, and the blonde knew what that meant. A fight was sure to ensue, and after the shitty day that he had at work, that was the last thing that he wanted to endure. He found that the door was unlocked, per usual. The inhabitant of the rickety death trap didn’t have anything worth stealing.
“Why are you here?” The middle aged man looked terrible for his age, though Austin blamed that on the endless supply of alcohol and drugs that ran through the man’s system.
Austin cleared his throat, closing the door behind him with a grimace. He didn’t want to be here, but there were still a few boxes back in his old room that he needed to grab. After that he’d be gone for good, or at least that’s what he told himself anyway. His no-good father was used to relying on other people to save the day, one of those people being his own son.
He blamed his strong sense of duties on the fact that he was raised in the deep south. “Being a man” was hammered into his skull from the moment of his very conception. Taking care of your family, especially when they are unable to do it for themselves, was considered a must. Austin had always hated his father. In fact, he couldn’t remember a single time in his life when he had felt gratitude or love in any magnitude towards his father. Still, he was a man and needed to provide for his family. . . right? He didn’t want anyone to think less of him for abandoning his father. More than anything, he didn’t want the wrong kind of gossip ending up in the wrong people’s ears.
What was important to him now was getting the hell away from his abusive father. He was old enough to start thinking about what he wanted for himself in the future. He’d always craved companionship with a certain person. . . children were on his radar too. The last thing he wanted was for his druggie father to be in his own kid’s lives.
The lanky man didn’t fit in the small home anymore, and he hadn’t for years. Both physically and emotionally, he had outgrown his prison many moons ago. He took a few seconds to look around the living room. Now that he wasn’t there to clean up after the grotesque man, the house smelled absolutely putrid. Austin’s nose wrinkled in disgust, eyes dancing along the empty beer cans and overflowing sink.
“Jus’ gettin’ the last of my stuff.” Austin grumbled, his bulky black boots sticking to the dirty linoleum floors as he tried his best to breeze past the older man’s old recliner.
A hand reached out, gripping at his wrist to stop him. Austin looked down, the muscles in his sharp jaw clicking as he held back the urge to rip himself out of the man’s reach. He knew that he was too big for the man to intimidate now, but his body still remembered the pain his father had put him through as a kid.
“Ya talkin’ bout that toolbox?” The man’s voice was gravely, all thanks to the menthols he religiously smoked. Austin could smell the Miller Light and smoke coming off of him now. It was nauseating.
The blonde ripped his eyes off of the man’s face, peeking off down the hall to see his old bedroom door wide open. He had locked it from the inside and crawled out the window the last time that he was here, taking the spare key with him. It was still tucked away safely in his wallet. His breathing stuttered when he realized that the doorknob had been taken off completely.
“I need it for work. What did you do with it?” Austin tried to school the deep southern accent out of his voice. He got into the habit of doing that around his father from a young age, desperately wanting to seem as different from the old man as possible.
“If that’s what yer here for, don’ bother. I sold it.” The young adult’s heart sank to his ass, and this time he didn’t hesitate in ripping his wrist out of the man’s hand.
“To who? Where is it?” Austin questioned heatedly, staring daggers into the old man’s face.
The sandy haired man was staring back at the television now, watching old reruns of some shitty old Western movie that must have come out in the sixties. He didn’t answer Austin, too drunk to care and too high to listen.
“Dad!” Austin’s deep voice boomed, echoing around the filthy trailer. “Where the fuck did you take it? The pawn shop off’a Assembly Street?” That was where his father often sold stolen shit for a few extra bucks.
That got the other man’s attention. He didn’t take kindly to being yelled and cursed at, especially not by his son. He could always deal it out, but refused to take it. Ray Butler had stopped beating on his son during his Junior year in highschool though, realizing that the boy was now bigger than him. Out of a cowardly fear for his own safety, he stuck to the emotional abuse instead, which only got worse once he didn’t have a true outlet for his frustrations. Austin bristled as he watched the old man glare up at him, taking a long swig from his beer before answering.
“I took it to Keith’s. If ya needed it so bad, why the hell didn’t you take it with ya in the first place? It’s in my house, so I can do whatever the fuck I want with it.” It was surprising how coherent the man was, especially since he must have been drinking all day long.
Austin’s father hadn’t had a job in the last seven years, but still managed to scrape by somehow. He was a petty thief whose criminal record stretched all the way back into his boyhood. He had raised the blonde to be the exact same way, but the only thing Austin had truly adopted from his “teachings” was a shared hatred for cops and a scrappy sort of resourcefulness. The other kids that he was forced to interact with at school were the ones that taught him how to fight. They enjoyed taking turns trying to beat the shit out of the town’s poor kid, but once he finally hit his growth spurt in the summer after sixth grade the roles were largely reversed. Nobody messed with him by the time that he had entered high school. He was feared by his peers and just as hated.
The negative image that he had created served him well though. Not only had he made a name for himself, he had also gained the ability to protect his best friend, which was the only thing he really cared about. Getting the dog shit knocked out of him was one thing, but seeing boys and girls teasing her was a different story. He remembered storming into the girl’s bathroom during his junior year very vividly, yanking up one of popular blonde’s by the back of her shirt.
“I’m a Butler, so don’t think that I’m above hittin’ a girl.”
He’d constantly ask you if the bullying persisted even after that, but you always went out of your way to tell him that they had stopped their teasing. Austin was made fun of because he lived in a trailer that should have been condemned long since they originally moved in and barely had enough money to get school supplies every year, but you were picked on because you were perfect. It didn’t make any sense to him, but girls are strange creatures. You made good grades, was the nicest person he had ever met without even trying, and your natural good looks made matters even worse for you. Getting the mean girls to steer clear of you wasn’t the hard part, but keeping the male pervert’s away was an entirely different story.
It didn’t help that after a long day of putting up with the constant glares, rumors, and telling boys to back off, he’d be forced to come home to incessant tongue lashings. He barely had time to study after taking care of the forty year old drunkard, hence his rotten grades in school. You could only do his homework for him so many times, but hey- you tried. He graduated because of you, at the very least.
He had landed a job as a mechanic straight out of high school, having been skilled for his age. Who knew that driving a shitty lemon of a car that he constantly had to fix up would lead to a career? He had gotten lucky, which was a rarity in his life.
Getting his own place was one hell of an achievement, but his past always found a way to come back and haunt him.
Austin stormed through the connected kitchen and down the hall, sucking in a deep breath before he entered the room. All of the boxes that he had stacked in the corner had been ransacked and picked clean. It was Austin’s fault for thinking that a simple locked door would keep his father out. The blonde could scream over his stolen Iron Maiden and Dio tapes later, for now he needed to focus on the important thing: his tools.
“You sold them to your crackhead dealer? For what? A bag, right? That was over a hundred dollars worth’a tools!” He screamed from the backroom, kicking an old wooden chair that had been junking up his old room for ages. The thing went flying, hitting the opposite wall with a resounding cracking noise.
Austin was covered in car oil, smelled like gasoline and sweat after a long day of work, and all he had wanted was to slip in the trailer undetected and grab his things. He had hoped that his father would have been passed out in his room by now so that he could have been in and out without being forced to converse. Nothing ever seemed to go his way. The blonde reached for the metal baseball bat that he still had stuffed under his childhood bed, knocking it against his boot a few times before storming out of the room, pushing past his father and heading straight for the front door.
“Austin, wait,” The male knew what was coming. The only time his father ever referred to him by his name was when he wanted something. “Can you give me twenty dollars? I need’a pay the power.”
The baseball bat felt heavy in his hand. He balanced the weight for a second, his jaw clicking as he imagined just how good it would feel to bring it down on top of the other man’s head. If Ray ended up dead, he was sure that he could blame it on a handful of people who he had stolen from or cheated. Austin didn’t need that on his conscience though. So instead of barking back a reply or even pulling out his wallet, he yanked his hand away with a grunt, storming out the door.
“Jus’ use the money that you got from sellin’ all’a my shit.” He called out before slamming the door behind him, the small and dingy diamond shaped window vibrating with the force of his anger.
“Is your mama home? If not then I’m gonna use your shower.” Austin gently pushed his way into the house, kicking off his dirty work boots before bounding up the familiar carpeted stairs.
You blinked in the entryway, slowly closing the front door before turning around to watch him go, the chain from his wallet jingling with his movement. With a small sigh you locked it behind you, following up after him.
“Well hello to you too.” You teased, watching him open up the linen closet so that he could grab a towel. He was caked with grease, his sun kissed cheeks speckled with black and gray. His black work shirt fit snugly on his form, having shrunk in the wash. At his hip, swinging around with every step that he took, was his black handkerchief. It was also wrecked with engine grease, having been used to clean his hands one too many times that day. He looked devilishly handsome, but he always did. Nothing new.
“Sorry. Really bad day. Just got back from Keith’s place- he had some of the shit that I left at my dad’s.” He left the bathroom door open as he slipped off his socks, then hurriedly took his shirt off and threw that into the dirty clothes hamper. His small apartment didn’t have a washer and dryer hookup, so he had been doing his laundry at your place for the last two months.
You didn’t mind, and your mother and father hadn’t noticed either. You sucked at your teeth, turning around to give him privacy. You heard the shower turn on, then the familiar clanking of his chain wallet hitting the side of the sink. Once you heard the shower curtain open and close you turned around, seeing the room empty, his dirty clothes piled neatly in the hamper. You closed the bathroom door behind you as you stepped inside, jumping up on the counter so that you could swing your legs back and forth as you spoke. He seemed frustrated, and you could tell that he needed to talk about it.
Growing up in a tragically tiny town meant that everybody was always in each other’s business. From preschool to your senior year in high school, every moment was spent with the same exact children. You could count the newer families to move into the small community over the last five years on one hand. Life was slow moving in the old south, and things were horrifically monotonous. You and the blonde had been stuck together like glue ever since primary school, and you didn’t see it changing in the future.
To say that you knew Austin like the back of your hand was an understatement. Every flaw, quirk and triumph had either been discovered by you, with you at his side, or involved you in some way. In a town filled with mostly elderly folks, kids often found a group of likeminded people and stuck with them for the entirety of their lives. It was horribly predictable of the two of you, yet here you two were, connected at the hip. The bond between you and Austin went above just being best friends. It was something tied to your soul. It wasn’t just hard to imagine a life without him in it, rather it was impossible.
He didn’t have to tell you that he was angry for you to know that he was beyond aggravated. The restlessness was plain to see. Whether he would be upfront and tell you about the reason or not, you could tell that he needed someone to just sit and listen. Austin wasn’t the kind of person to talk in depth about the things that really upset him. He was more of the “suffer in silence until I inevitably blow up” type. You, on the other hand, weren’t afraid to whine and cry to him about even the slightest of inconveniences. The two of you were polar opposites, and yet it just worked.
“Keith let you in the house?” You asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow as you watched the steam beginning to curl up and over the curtain.
Austin let out a humorless laugh, and you could imagine him shaking his head back and forth. You smiled despite the situation, bringing your hand up to your mouth so that you could bite down on your thumb nail. You instantly regretted it, pulling away to see that you had already chipped your freshly painted fingers.
“A’course he didn’t. I broke into the fucker’s place. Got my tool box back, but the damn thing had been ransacked already. The bones picked clean. I’m out over fifty dollars in tools- checked it once I got back into the car.”
“Jesus- did he see you? That guy is absolutely insane.” Thankfully, you’d only met the man in passing a handful of times. He was the crazy townee that everybody knew and feared. Keith was the kind of person that you point out to your developing teens to scare them away from drugs and alcohol. “If you don’t want to end up like Ole’ Keith, you better not touch that stuff.” He had a bunch of handmade signs outside of his house with bible scriptures on them, meanwhile the man was dealing meth and coke to make a living. As was the deep south, filled to the brim with religious and moral hypocrisies.
Either you were a devout Christian or just another local crackhead. Thankfully, you and Austin didn’t fall into either of those categories. You seemed to have made one of your own over the years.
“He wasn’t home. His truck was gone. The dude left his bedroom window unlocked, so I just ripped the screen off.”
You used to worry for Austin on a daily basis. The burns and bruises he’d come to school with broke your heart, but no matter how many times you begged your parents to let the blonde come and live with you, they always let you down. You were happy that he finally had somewhere safe to lay his head at night, though he still hadn’t broken the habit of spending most of his down time with you (and you prayed he wouldn’t ever grow out of that habit). As soon as he got off work he was making his way up to your bedroom, often dead tired down to his bones or pissed off. Your parents were gone most of the time anyway though. Your father was a hotshot business man who was away for work most of the time, and your mother insisted on following along with him after the “incident” that happened when you were twelve.
Men who spend most days without their wives and children breathing down their neck usually take advantage of the opportunity. Your father was no different. He was no saint. Then again, neither was your mother. She took most of her frustration out on you after that, and though you knew that her outbursts weren’t a direct cause of anything that you had personally done, that didn’t make it any better.
Austin was just as much your therapist as you were his. Maybe that was the cause for your codependency. . . either way, neither of you regretted it. It only strengthened the bond, really.
After Austin was showered and dressed in an outfit that he had left at your house some weeks ago, the two of you found yourselves sprawled out on your bed. You were busy finishing up some homework for one of your classes, and he was reading one of your magazines. He had his head hanging off the side of the mattress, ankles crossed up on one of your pillows. His wet hair was dripping onto your floor. The constant droplets hitting your outdated shag carpet lulled the two of you into a comfortable silence. The two of you didn’t need to talk
“Where’s a newer one? This one’s a year old.” He suddenly dropped what he was reading onto the floor next to his head, sitting up so that he could face you again.
You scrunched up your nose, dropping your psychology textbook beside you.
“That is the newer one.” You told him, to which he scooped it up and off of the floor, turning it over and pointing at the date.
He was right. It was old.
It was the June twenty-first issue, the date clear to see on the front: nineteen eighty-four. Bob Dylan was posed on the front in all of his tambourine-man glory.
“Shit. Sorry, Aus. I thought I handed you the Beatles Anniversary edition.” You started to stand up, but he waved you off.
“I should probably get going anyway. I have to try to cook myself something. If I don’t eat now then I’ll jus’ go to bed hungry.”
You had hoped that the two of you could order pizza tonight, but you kept your mouth shut. Lately you found yourself clinging to him a little bit harder than usual. Maybe it was the stress of your sophomore year in college, but you couldn’t be certain. You tried to school the disappointment off of your face as you nodded, standing up to walk him back to the front door.
“Are we still driving down to see Dave’s show? His band sucks, but he’ll be disappointed if we miss it.” He asked you at the front door, shoving his sock clad feet into his work boots and tying them up haphazardly.
You slapped your forehead with the palm of your hand, eyes wide. You’d completely forgotten about your friend’s show tomorrow. You’d planned to stay after class and study in the library, but you didn’t mind cramming for next week's test. Austin laughed, the sound causing you to smile to yourself. His laugh was deep, rich and completely contagious. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around your wrist to pull your hand away from your face.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” He leaned down so that he was at your height, his smile practically blinding.
You sucked in a breath, but nodded your head anyway. It was hard not to notice his beauty in moments like this. He’d always been handsome, but lately you’d been looking a little too closely at that. A sick twinge of guilt soured your stomach, a feeling of what could only be categorized as “betrayal” causing your face to flush. He was your best friend, and if he knew that you were looking at him like that he would probably be disgusted with you. Hell, you were horrified by your own thoughts recently. You tried to blame the odd feelings on your long-standing lack of romance, but you were starting to believe that was just an excuse.
“I completely forgot.” And you felt bad about it. You’d been so busy with your school work, the recent fight that you had with your mother and. . . well. . . Austin. You cleared your throat softly, kicking at an imaginary pebble on the tiled floor to try and distract yourself.
Austin seemed to notice the change in attitude and put his hand on the top of your head, ruffling your hair in the way that he knew you despised. He chuckled when you slapped his hand away, instead moving his hand to the base of your neck so that he could pull your much smaller form against his in a tight hug. He’d always been lean and tall, but his physically demanding job had caused his muscles to fill out. He felt warm and strong, smelling of your shampoo.
“I’ll drive us tomorrow, alright? Maybe you can get some studying done in the car.” And with that he removed his arms from around you.
You felt the loss of his warmth like a slap in the face. You let him go though, watching as he bounded down the steps towards his van, his keys jingling in his hand with the movement. He was in higher spirits after spending a few hours in your presence. He felt lighter, like some of the crushing weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. You leaned against the doorframe, peeking your head out just to watch him.
“I love you! Drive home safe, alright?” You called out.
Austin couldn’t fight off the blush that raised to his ears, but he turned around and quickly returned the sentiment. You had told him that you loved him every day, but his heart still pounded like it had the very first time. Only these days he wished that you really meant it.
That you loved him the same way that he loved you.
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“i can’t keep kissing strangers, pretending they’re you.” | Austin!Elvis x fem!reader
12 years ago, Elvis chose his career over you. What happens when he shows up at your door asking for a second chance?
a/n: this is entirely based on a dialogue prompt I saw from @twelvegods: “I can’t keep kissing strangers, pretending they’re you.” apparently it was a really good prompt because it inspired all 8,735 words of this lol. I I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it <3 Thank you all again so so so much for 500 followers!!
Word count: 8.7k
Warnings: a couple swear words, lots of angst in the first half, Y/N has trust issues oops, I think that's it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!
Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍
“I’m gonna marry you someday.”
That’s what Elvis Presley had said to you when he was just 20 years old and his career was starting to take off, thanks in large part (as Elvis said) to the Colonel. And you, being the young girl in love that you were, believed him.
What a fool you were.
You managed to stay together for another year before the Colonel, his claws digging into Elvis’s heart and soul to bleed all the green he could out of him, managed to convince him that appearing single would be what was best for his career— he had to let all those screaming girls believe they had a chance with him, after all.
“Baby please,” Elvis pleaded, “this is for my career. I promise it won’t be for long. We’ll get back together, you’ll see.”
You shook your head, “No, Elvis. I’m not gonna sit around waiting for you like some damsel in distress. If you want me, keep me. But otherwise…”
You paused, waiting for him to say something. Begging, pleading, praying he would say something, that you had managed to change his mind.
When he said nothing, you exploded.
You had screamed and cried, and he had screamed and cried, and you had taken your things that had made their way into his room in Graceland and stormed out of his life for good, only pausing to give him one final sincere “I love you” before you walked out the door.
The last image you had of him (that wasn’t on a tv screen or poster) was of him standing in the foyer in Graceland, tears streaming down his face, refusing to chase after you.
You hoped that time would eventually heal your wounded heart, but apparently whoever said time heals all wounds was a fucking idiot because it was now just over a decade later and you were still as in love with Elvis Presley as you had been when you were one of the only girls in the world who knew his name.
He, evidently, didn’t feel the same.
That much was clear, at least, based on the way he was still overly flirtatious with his audience in his shows, not to mention the rumors about relationships with his movie co-stars. In his shows, before he went off to Germany, he had taken to stepping down into the audience and kissing practically every woman in the room. That alone cleared any remaining doubts from your mind that he still thought about you in any capacity, despite that little voice in the back of your head that still held out some futile, desperate hope.
You’re about to curl up on the couch with some tea and your copy of Anne of Green Gables — exactly what you need on a rainy day like today — when someone knocks on your door.
“You expecting anyone, Y/N?” your friend Annie calls from the hall. You had been living with her for about 5 years down in Louisiana, after the memories in Memphis had become too much, and you loved it.
“Nope,” You call back, wondering who on earth would be knocking on doors in this weather. “If it’s one of those door-to-door salesmen, slam it in his face again.” You suggest with a laugh.
“Will do,” comes her reply, and you can hear the smile in her voice.
You turn you attention back to your book as the door opens, and nearly spill your tea all over yourself as you hear a sultry drawl you hadn’t heard in person in over a decade.
“Hi Annie… is Y/N here?”
There’s a moment of silence where you’re sure Annie is as stunned as you are, then:
“Maybe,” she replies curtly, “What do ya want?”
Annie knew the whole story of you and Elvis, and she had sworn that she’d never let you get hurt like that ever again.
“Please, Annie, I just wanna talk to her.”
“And why should I let you? You’ve got a lotta nerve comin’ here after what you did—“
You’re not sure what prompts you to set your book and mug down and sigh “Annie, just let him in,” but you’re just as surprised as Annie is that you did.
She reluctantly steps aside to let him in, eyeing him warily the entire time.
Your eyes drink him in; this is the first time you’re seeing him in person in over 12 years, and your mind automatically catalogs the differences since you last saw him. He’s tanned, with a few more freckles, a result of the California sun, no doubt, and tinted glasses hide his eyes. His burgundy suit is soaked, and his hair, which was no doubt carefully styled before, now flops onto his forehead, dripping into his eyes.
He takes off his sunglasses, revealing tired blue eyes. From the way his eyes track along your body, he was drinking you in the same way you had done him.
There’s a beat of silence, then his eyes finally meet yours.
“Hi,” he says softly.
You maintain a straight face, unwilling to be taken in so easily.
“What do you want?” you ask, your voice cold. You want nothing more than to rush into his arms, but you remind yourself: he chose his career over you, and never looked back.
“I fired the Colonel,” he blurts, after several moments of trying to figure out what to say.
“About time,” you snort, dropping your serious demeanor for a split second, “but what does that have to do with me?”
“I made a mistake, Y/N. A lotta mistakes, really, but letting you go was the biggest one I ever made in my life. I missed you so, so much, and I—“
You cut him off, “Elvis, cut the shit. You made it very clear you moved on from me.”
“Y/N, I never stopped thinkin’ about you, I promise.”
“Sure, and was that before or after you kissed every girl in the audience at the end of every damn show?”
“Y/N, I—“ he starts, frustrated, then takes a deep breath. He starts again, calmer, softer, “I know how that looks. But I… I can’t keep kissing strangers, pretending they’re you.” He looks earnestly into your eyes.
You feel your cracked heart melt just a little at his words, and yet…
“I don’t…” you sigh, “I don’t believe you. You put your career before me over a decade ago, and I tried to move on, but I couldn’t when I was seeing your face and hearing your voice everywhere, and it hurt like hell. And now you walk back in here, tell me you just made a mistake, and… what? Expect me to take you back just like that?”
“Please, Y/N,” he says, an echo of his plea back when he broke your heart for the first time, “I know I messed up bad, but… it’s you. It’s always been you, with those girls in the audience, even with Ann-Margret… I was always thinkin’ about you. And I’m willin’ to do whatever I have to to fix this. Anything. I mean it.”
And you can see the conviction in his eyes, like he’s that little boy again who believed he was Captain Marvel Jr. and could fly his family out of poverty to the Rock of Eternity. You know in your bones that he’d buy you the moon if it meant he could love you again.
But you’d made the mistake of believing his promises before.
“Elvis, I don’t know if I can trust you. How do I know you won’t drop me when your next manager thinks that’d be ‘what’s best for your career’?”
He winces as you throw the Colonel’s words from all those years ago back in his face. “I know I ruined any kind of trust you had in me that day, and I can’t tell you enough how goddamn sorry I am, Y/N. But I’m not askin’ for you to forgive me right now, I just want a chance to try and fix this. That’s all, I swear.”
He waits as you process his words, practically holding his breath as you think of how to reply.
“I’ll think about it,” you say softly.
He nods. “That’s all I’m askin’ for, sw— Y/N,” he fumbles to avoid using the old pet name for you.
“I think you should go now,” you say, your voice cold again to hide how the almost-pet name brought a storm of feelings rushing back..
“Right, um..” he fumbles around in his pocket, producing a scrap of paper with a phone number scrawled on it, “Gimme a call, if you want? I’ve gotta head back to Memphis in a couple days, that’ll probably be the easiest way to reach me if you, uh, decide anything.”
“Okay,” you nod, glancing at it quickly before stuffing it in your pocket. The number was for Graceland’s house phone; a number you’d never forgotten for a second, not that you’d be telling Elvis that.
“Well, um… bye Y/N, Annie,” he nods as he moves past your roommate towards the door. He pauses, hesitating for a moment before turning back to you. “You look good, Y/N,” he says softly before heading back out into the downpour.
The “you, too” you whisper in reply is lost in the sound of rain hitting the pavement outside.
The enormity of everything that had just transpired suddenly hits you and you fall back onto the couch, tears welling up in your eyes.
Annie rushes over, concerned. You look up as she fusses over you.
“Was that… did that actually just happen?”
Annie nods, “Yeah, it did, honey. I can scarcely believe it myself.”
“Did I do the right thing?” You wring your hands, suddenly second-guessing every decision you made during the interaction with Elvis.
“I know I’ve always said that I’d punch him in his smug face if he ever showed up here after what he did to you,” Annie says, “But I see the way you look at him when he shows up on the TV, and that ain’t the look of someone who’s just angry at an ex. You’re still in love with him, honey, I know it, and I feel like a fresh start is what both of you need. I don’t mean to overstep,” she drawls, “But if I can give you some advice: just start over as friends. Don’t jump back into a relationship right away. Try to make it organic. A clean slate.”
“A clean slate,” you echo, processing her words.
You mull over what to do for a few days, worst and best-case scenarios swirling around your brain, and eventually dial Graceland. Your foot taps anxiously as you lean against the wall by the phone, listening to it ring.
“Hullo?” A raspy voice comes over the receiver.
“Hi, Elvis,” you say, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s, uh, it’s Y/N.”
“Oh, hey,” he stammers, sounding less like the confident King of Rock and Roll superstar and more like the shy little kid you’d grown up with, “Uh, how are you?”
“I’m alright.” You reply, “Look, I did some thinking about what you said and, well… I’ve got a couple questions before I decide anything.”
“Sure, yeah, what is it?”
“Well, first of all… why now?”
“Huh?”
You sigh, “It’s been over 10 years, Elvis. What made you come back now? What made you fire the Colonel after all this time?”
“Well, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t very happy with the movies the Colonel was signing me up for. And then he planned this whole silly special for NBC…” he sighs, “I’ve been lost ever since I lost Mama— before that, even, when I lost—“ he cuts himself off with an awkward cough, “uh, anyway; he wasn’t helping. And I finally realized that he didn’t really care what I wanted to do. It was all about profit for him,” he says quietly. He goes on to explain hiring Binder and Bones to help with the special, to “find himself” again, and the realization he’d had that he hadn’t truly felt like himself since he’d left you.
“Hm,” is your only response at first, trying to shove down the warmth growing in your chest. “Well, um… thank you for telling me.”
“You’re welcome. I want you to know, Y/N… you can trust me. I know I ruined that back then, but I’d really like a chance to try and rebuild it with you if I can.”
“I think I’d like that, too.” You say after a moment of silence. “Look, Elvis, I… I don’t think it would be a good idea, if we’re gonna do this, to pick up right where we left off. We need a… a clean slate. So what if we started over as friends?” You fidget with the phone cord as you await his reply.
There are several moments of silence, and you're wondering if something happened with the call before his raspy drawl comes over the phone once more.
“I’d love to be your friend again, Y/N.”
A wave of relief floods your body, and you smile. You think for a moment before speaking again, saying hesitantly, “I’m coming up to visit for Mama’s birthday next weekend, and… maybe we could see each other then? That would be a ‘friend’ thing to do, right?”
“Yeah, I’d… I’d really like that.”
“Great, well,” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, “I’ll just give you a call when I’m back home and we can figure everything out then?”
“Whatever works for you is fine with me,” he assures you, “I’m lookin’ forward to it.”
“Me, too,” you say softly, allowing a tiny bit of the warmth you felt earlier to creep back. “I’ll see you next weekend, then.”
“See you then,” he says and with a click, the phone is back to humming a dial tone.
You’re buzzing with anticipation for the next week, not only excited to see your family but also to see Elvis.
“Y/N!” Your mother rushes out as you pull into the driveway of your family’s Memphis home, “My baby’s home!”
“Happy birthday, Mama,” you smile as she rushes up to give you a hug, squeezing you tight.
“Thank you, darlin’. Come inside, honey, come in!” she insists, grabbing your suitcase from you despite your protests.
“Honey!” she calls to your father as she leads you into your childhood home, “Look who’s finally decided to come for a visit!”
“Mama, I was just here for Easter,” you remind her as you head to the living room to greet your father. “Hi Daddy,” you smile as he pulls you in for a hug.
“Good to see you, sweetheart,” he says, “Louisiana treatin’ you well?”
You nod, “Mhm. Everyone’s real nice, and Annie’s always lookin’ out for me.”
You fill your parents in on life in Louisiana, and in return they (your mother, mostly) regale you with all the Memphis gossip you’ve missed. Apparently the young couple next door had a baby recently, another young couple in town just got married, and oh yes, Elvis came back fr—
“Mary Ann, you know I don’t like talkin’ about that boy!” your father exclaims, cutting your mother off.
“Well, I don’t know what you want me to do, Walter,” your mother retorts, “It’s not as if we can pretend he doesn’t exist, not when he’s such a big part of this town…”
As you listen to your parents bicker, you decide that now might as well be as good a time as any to bring up your new friendship.
“Actually, Mama,” you interrupt their bickering, “I’m gonna try and meet up with Elvis while I’m in town this weekend…”
Your father’s expression flickers between confusion and anger at your words, while your mother’s morphs into one of delight.
“Oh honey, that’s wonderful!” She exclaims, “Though I admit, I thought you’d’ve at least called to tell us you got back together—“
“Mama!” You cut her off, heat flooding your face, “We’re not back together, I promise,” you add with a glance over to your father. “He showed up at our place last week, we had a talk, and we’re gonna try to be friends again.”
“Well I’m glad to see the two of you are startin’ over, honey,” your mother says with a smile
“I still don’t trust that boy,” your father grumbles. “Just… be careful, alright?”
You nod, “Of course, you know I always am, Daddy.”
”When were you two planning on meeting up?” your mother asks.
You shrug, “We haven’t figured out the details yet. I was gonna call him today to sort everything out.”
”Well you should invite him over for dinner while you’re in town.” your mother suggests, with just a hint of a mischievous sparkle in her eye, ignoring your father’s clear alarm at the suggestion.
You groan. “Mama, no, he really doesn’t need to come for dinner—“
”Y/N L/N, inviting a friend over for dinner is a polite thing to do,” your mother scolds, “and in this house we are always…?”
“Polite and respectful,” you mumble, repeating the words that had been drilled into you in childhood.
She nods, satisfied. ”It’s settled then. You two will have your little meetup and then he can come over for dinner that night, or the next if it suits him.”
”Yes, Mama,” you say, resigned. “I’ll go call him now.”
You make your way over to the kitchen, dialing the number you’ve had memorized for over 12 years.
“Hello?” The same raspy voice comes over the receiver.
”Hey, it’s um, it’s me. Y/N.”
”Oh, hey. Um, how are ya?”
”I’m alright. I’m back in town now, and Mama’s bein’… well, Mama, so you can imagine.” you say with a soft laugh.
”Oh, I can imagine,” he agrees, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “How was the drive up?”
The two of you make small talk for a bit, slowly easing back into being a part of each other’s lives, and eventually you remember the reason you called. “Oh, yeah, by the way; I was calling to see if there was a day or time that worked for you as far as meeting up this weekend?”
”Oh, yeah.” You can hear some rustling on his end, and you assume he’s checking his schedule. “I’m actually free this afternoon around 1 if that works? Or tomorrow?”
You weren’t prepared to see him quite so soon, but you suppose now is better than putting it off until tomorrow. “This afternoon is perfect. You still like that diner on Beale Street, right?”
He hums an affirmative, and you smile, “Great, I’ll meet you there at 1, then.”
”I’ll see you then,” and the line clicks back to a dial tone.
You head back to the living room, entering to see your parents doing a wonderfully poor job of pretending as though they weren’t listening to your conversation. You roll your eyes.
”I assume you already heard, but Elvis and I are meeting for lunch at 1, just as friends, Mama,” you say pointedly, noting the beam on your mother’s face. “I’ll ask him about dinner then.”
Your father harrumphs, but mainly keeps silent, a firm frown on his face.
”That’s wonderful, honey,” your mother beams, “You’ve gotta get goin’ pretty soon then, huh?”
“Huh?” You glance over at the clock on the mantle and sure enough, it’s already 15 past noon and you still haven’t changed out of the outfit you wore for the 6-hour drive up to Memphis. You grab your suitcase and race to make yourself presentable, managing to change into a dress that seems nice enough for a lunch outing (but not too fancy), fix your windswept hair, and reapply your makeup in a cool 30 minutes before racing out the door.
Before you can make it out to the porch, though, your father stops you, calling your name as you’re about to step out the door. You turn, “Yes, Daddy?”
He has a solemn look on his face. “Just… be careful, darlin’. You know me, I hold grudges like no one else, and I admit I still haven’t forgiven him for what he did to you all those years ago. If you let him in, and he hurts you again somehow I… I don’t know what I’d do.”
You step back into the room and envelop him in a hug. “Thank you for looking out for me, Daddy. I’ll be careful, I promise. I’m not the same girl I was when I met him.” You add with a sad smile.
He squeezes your hand comfortingly, “I know you’ll be smart. If he does anything, you come right to me and I’ll sort him out, alright?” You nod and, satisfied, he kindly shoos you out the door with a soft “Go on, have fun.”
You pull up to the diner to find that Elvis is already there, if the deep purple Cadillac parked nearby is any indication.
He waves from a booth near the back as you enter, his bodyguards seated at a table nearby. You slide into the seat across from him, pushing down the butterflies that threaten to stir. It might’ve been a bad idea to choose the place you went on your first date, you realize belatedly, but too late now.
“How are you?” he asks with a casual smile.
“Pretty good,” you reply, “My parents have been updating me on all the Memphis gossip I’ve missed since I was away, very exciting stuff,” you say sarcastically. “Mama says hi, by the way.”
“Tell her I say hi back,” he grins.
“Will do. Uh, how are you?” You say, trying to fall back into the rhythm of talking to him.
“I’m alright. There’s this big thing I’m gonna be workin’ on soon, I’m pretty excited for it.”
“Oh, big thing?” You ask, your interest piqued.
“It’s a…” he pauses, looking around, “no one really knows about it yet, so you gotta promise not to tell anyone, alright?”
You nod, and he continues, leaning in to whisper, “You remember that special I told you about, the one that Steve and Bones are helpin’ me with? It’s gonna be a TV special for NBC. A Christmas show, kinda.”
“Kinda?”
“Well, it’ll have a couple of Christmas songs, but I really want it to be about finding myself again. Gettin’ back to the real Elvis.”
“Sounds exciting,” you reply, a genuine smile coming across your face at how excited he seems.
A starstruck waitress comes to take your order, and the conversation continues.
“So,” Elvis says, “how are you doin’ in Louisiana?”
“I actually really like it there,” you reply, smiling. “Annie’s great, obviously, and I found a job at a bookstore that I really love, things are goin’ pretty well. I do have the occasional grumpy customer, but that’s just how it is.” You finish with a shrug.
“Grumpy customer? Sounds like you’ve got some stories to tell,” he says, sounding genuinely interested, and you can’t help but launch into the story of a man who was sure that Stranger in a Strange Land was in the nonfiction section no matter how many times you tried to lead him over to science fiction.
You finally fall back into a rhythm of friendly conversation, trading stories for over an hour before you finally bring up what your mother had asked.
“Oh by the way,” you say, sipping your milkshake, “Mama wanted me to invite you to dinner tomorrow night.”
Elvis nearly chokes on the fry he’s just taken a bite of. “Sorry, what?”
“I told my parents that we were meeting up and she was adamant that I at the very least invite you to come over for dinner tomorrow— you know how she is about politeness—“ you explain, “but I promise, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I completely understand, I’d be more than happy to make up an excuse for you.”
“And refuse an invitation from Mrs. L/N? It’s like you want her to kill me,” he jokes. “I’d be more than happy to come,” he says, in a more sincere tone. “Besides, friends come over for dinner right?”
“Of course,” you say, trying to reassure yourself as much as him, “and Mama’s very excited to see you, so be prepared for that.”
“I always am,” he replies with a smile.
You arrange for him to come over at 7 the next night, and the rest of lunch goes smoothly until the check arrives, which starts off a round of bickering between the two of you about who should pay.
“Please let me get this, I want this to be a start to making it up to you,” Elvis argues.
“I appreciate it but I’m perfectly capable of paying for lunch, thank you very much,” you retort, and this goes on for several minutes before the two of you eventually agree to split the check.
“It was good to see you, Y/N,” Elvis says as you exit the diner, his bodyguards dutifully on alert as they follow you out.
“You, too.” You say. “I…” I didn’t realize just how much I missed you, is what you want to say, but instead, you go with “I had a good time.”
His face lights up as if those 5 little words were all he needed to brighten his day. He steps towards the Cadillac, throwing a friendly wave to you as he calls “See you tomorrow!”
You wave back, and you don’t realize how happy you are until your cheeks start to ache from smiling on the drive home.
The next day, your mother is practically frantic, bustling around the house making sure everything is perfect for when Elvis gets here.
“Mama, it’s not like it’s the first time he’s ever been here! And we’re just friends, please try to remember that.”
“Alright, alright, I know, honey. I just think it’s nice that you two are spending time together again, that’s—“
The doorbell rings, and your mother jumps into action, plucking microscopic bits of lint from your dress before hurrying to the door and opening it with a polite smile.
Elvis stands on your porch, bearing a polite smile and a bouquet of lilacs. “Hello, Mrs. L/N.”
“Hello, Elvis!” Your mother beams, “It’s wonderful to see you again. And you brought Y/N flowers, how sweet!” She looks pointedly at you.
Elvis lets out a nervous laugh as he steps into the house, “Actually, Mrs. L/N, these are for you. A birthday gift.” He holds out the bouquet to her with a shy smile, looking remarkably like the shy boy he had been back in ‘51 when you first became friends.
“That’s very kind of you, thank you dear. Wasn’t that kind of him, Walter?”
“Very kind,” your father grumbles in a tone that makes it seem as though Elvis had brought a pile of mud as a gift. He nods a greeting, “Hello, Elvis. California’s treatin’ you well, I hear.”
“Uh, yes, sir, it is. Thank you.” he replies.
When your father doesn’t respond, Elvis turns his attention to you. “Hi, Y/N.”
“Hi,” you reply, resisting the urge to fuss with your dress.
The awkward silence that follows is broken as your mother ushers everyone to the dining room, arranged so she and your father are at the heads of the table while you and Elvis are sitting across from one another.
The meal begins, and the conversation that follows is strained but polite, with your mother eagerly asking questions about life in California and Hollywood and Elvis answering modestly then turning the conversation back to your family, remaining the picture of a Southern gentleman. The conversation remains polite apart from your father’s not-so-subtle grumbling about Elvis running off the California, and just when you think it can’t get any worse, he decides to bring up the rumors of Elvis’s womanizing.
“So, Elvis,” your father says casually, though his eyes remain calculating, “what’s all this I hear about you and… what’s that actress’s name, Ann-Margret? Or have you moved on to someone new by now?”
You feel your face flush, and you’re sure the mortification shows on your face as you hiss for your father to stop, please.
“Oh well sir, that’s really all just the tabloids tryin’ to get their stuff to sell, there’s no truth to that at all, I promise. Ann-Margret is a good friend of mine now, though.” Elvis answers politely, unfazed as your mother quietly scolds your father.
“Walter, quit it, you’re scarin’ the boy!”
“Well good, he should be scared after what he did to my little girl!”
“Dad!” you exclaim, mortified, “We talked about this! We’re friends now, you promised you’d be polite!”
“No, it’s alright, Y/N,” Elvis assures you, briefly breaking eye contact with your father to glance over at you, “He’s just lookin’ out for you like any father would, and I respect you for that, sir.”
Your father grunts a reply, and the conversation picks up again, still polite but even more strained than before.
Elvis remains as polite as ever, even offering to take care of the dishes — “Oh I can get those plates for ya, don’t you worry Mrs. L/N” — and despite your determination for a clean slate, your mind betrays you, reminding you of how shy and overly polite he was the first few times he was over for dinner, especially after the two of you first got together. Sure, he’s gotten a little more confident, which you’ll admit is kind of attractive, but— NO.
You firmly cut off that train of thought, no matter how badly that little voice in the back of your head (the one that practically melted at the sight of him at your door with a bouquet, reminiscent of your first date) wants to keep on track. Just friends, clean slate, you remind yourself.
After the dishes are done, your mother prepares coffee for everyone and the four of you head to the living room. At one point, Elvis gets up to get a refill, and your father follows him.
Your father approaches Elvis once it’s clear that neither you nor your mother will be getting up, and corners him.
“Now Elvis, I’m gonna try to be polite, because my daughter’s told me you two are tryin’ to be friends and I respect her wishes, but I don’t trust you after what you did to her. And if I get even a hint that you’re playin’ with her feelings, well… I’m afraid that won’t end well for ya, son.”
Elvis nods quickly, “Sir I promise you, I have no intentions of playing with your daughter’s feelings. She’s very dear to me, and I swear I’d do anything to make sure she’s happy.” He says, conviction clear in his eyes.
Your father eyes Elvis for several long moments and, apparently satisfied, returns to the living room with more coffee for you and your mother.
Elvis takes a breath to compose himself — he’s forgotten how scary your father could be when he wanted to — and exits the kitchen, re-entering as you’re laughing at some comment your mother made.
You turn as he enters with a wide smile on your face, and he’s suddenly slammed back to a time where you looked at him like that every time he entered a room— when you looked at him as though he’d hung the moon and stars just for you.
Fighting the urge to rush over and kiss you senseless — that’s not something a friend would do, he reminds himself — he moves to sit in the armchair across from you, turning his attention to whatever neighbor your mother is gossiping about tonight.
The night eventually winds to a close and Elvis thanks your parents profusely for “a wonderful meal and even better company.”
Your mother waves off the compliment modestly, “Oh it was nothin’ darling. We’ll be glad to have you back anytime. Y/N, why don’t you walk our guest out while we take care of these last few things?” she says, gesturing to the coffee mugs still sitting out.
Elvis gives one last wave to your parents, wishing them well, before stepping out to the porch with you.
“Well, my parents loved you,” you tease as the two of you make your way to the pink Cadillac looking more than slightly out of place in your modest gravel driveway.
He lets out a shy laugh, “They haven’t changed a bit, that’s for sure. Your daddy’s still as protective as ever.” His tone softens as he continues, “It was nice seein’ them again. ‘Specially your mama. She’s always been better to me than I deserve.”
Acting on impulse, you lean over and squeeze his hand as you remember his own mama isn’t waiting for him at home anymore. “You’re welcome over anytime. I mean it.”
“Thank you,” he replies in a near whisper. Your hand stays clasped with his, the warmth of him tempting you closer, and his gaze drifts slowly down to your lips before the two of you snap back to yourselves and create a respectable two feet of distance between you.
“Uh, anyway,” you attempt to continue the conversation, refusing to acknowledge that moment of… whatever that was, “Are you gonna be here for a while longer?”
He shakes his head, “I’m actually gonna be leaving for California again tomorrow.” he says almost apologetically, adding with a nod to the house, “But I’ll still be able to call ya for a bit, right?”
A frown crosses your face as you remember: “I’m actually headin’ back to Louisiana tomorrow. But,” you brighten, “I can give you my number for down there if you want?”
“I’d love that,” Elvis smiles.
You rummage around in your pockets for anything you can scribble on, producing some long-forgotten shopping list and a small pen. You scrawl your phone number down and hand it to him, determinedly not noticing the sparks you feel as your fingers brush.
“I’ll call ya every night,” he says as he stuffs it in his pocket, “I’ll need ya to keep me updated on all the Louisiana gossip, hm?”
A sad smile crosses your face at the memory of the last time he’d made a promise like that. Despite all your talk of a clean slate, you can’t help but remind him, “Let’s not make promises you can’t keep, Elvis.”
You give him one last wave, wish him goodnight, and walk back inside, his pleas of “What? No, Y/N, this ain’t gonna be like that!” falling on deaf ears.
You put on a brave face for your parents the next day, joking about what a coincidence it was that both you and Elvis happened to be leaving town on the same day, but behind closed doors, you’re unable to block the memories of the last time he had promised he’d call you every night: when he went along with the Colonel on Hank Snow’s tour.
1955
“I’ll be back in time for prom, darlin’, I promise,” Elvis reassures you over the phone. “I’ll bring you a corsage, we’ll have a great time.”
“Okay,” you reply, “I’m sorry, I know I must sound silly, but I’m just really lookin’ forward to going with you.”
“That’s not silly,” he assures you with a soft laugh, “I’m lookin’ forward to it, t—“ he cuts off, and you can barely make out what sounds like a knock on the door on his end of the line. “That’ll be Scotty again, no doubt.” he groans good-naturedly. There’s some shuffling as he makes his way over, yanking the door open with a “Scotty, how many times do I have to tell ya—“
“Elvis?” you say, concerned at how he cuts off mid-sentence, “Is everything alright?”
There’s a moment of silence, after which he stammers out a response.
“I, uh… I gotta go, I’ll call ya back, darlin’, alright?”
He doesn’t bother to wait for an answer before hanging up, but in the split second before it goes to a dial tone you can just make out a woman’s sultry voice over the receiver.
1968 - Present Day
He had still called after that, but not as frequently; certainly not every day like he promised. And while you forgave what happened on tour, you had never quite forgotten what him being away for a stretch of time could mean.
Still. Clean slate. Maybe this time could be different, you reasoned, though you were barely convincing yourself at this point.
You head back to Louisiana, promising your parents you’ll visit again soon and that you’ll give them a call as soon as you get home. You stumble through the door of your little house, exhausted after the 6-hour drive. Annie rushes over to hug you.
“Hey honey! Good to have ya home,” she grins, taking your suitcase from you, “I’ve got lunch for ya, you go sit down. I’ll put this in your room. And then I wanna hear all about how that li’l meetup went,” she adds with a wink, gently shoving you towards the kitchen while she heads down the hall.
You smile as you enter the kitchen to see a little card with the words “Welcome Home” in Annie’s signature scrawl next to a plate on the counter. You take a bite of the sandwich waiting for you — grilled cheese, Annie’s specialty — and finally allow yourself to relax. At that moment, Annie slides in with a mischievous grin, plopping herself down on the stool next to you.
“So…” she leads, a sparkle in her eye. “How was it?”
“It was good,” you reply, purposefully misinterpreting her question, “We took Mama out for dinner and I made her a cake—”
Annie cuts you off with a playful swat to your arm, “Not that! Elvis,” she says, dragging out the ‘s’ longer than necessary.
You roll your eyes, “Fine! It was… fine. We met up for lunch at this old diner we used to go to, we talked… Mama had me invite him over for dinner, and he brought flowers for her” you say pointedly, noticing the gleam in her eyes. “It went well, all things considered. Daddy did have some things to say, he still hasn’t quite forgiven him for what he did, but Elvis was a real gentleman the whole time. He actually went back to California today, filming somethin’ for TV, but he said he wants to keep in touch.”
“That’s great, honey!” Annie squeals, “I’m glad y’all are doin’ well.”
You give a weak smile in return. “Yeah, he said he’s gonna call every day, but…”
“Oh…” Annie’s eyes soften in understanding, recalling what you had told her about your relationship before. “Y/N, I know it might be scary, but what if it’s different this time? What if he actually keeps his promise? He’s said he wants to work on trust with you again, right? This is the perfect opportunity for him to prove to you that he’s worth trusting. And if he doesn’t,” she adds in a lighter tone, “I’ll fly out to California and sock him right in his pretty face myself.”
“I know you will,” you laugh, “but you’re right, I’ll—“
You’re cut off as the phone rings, and you lock eyes with Annie. It can’t be him already, can it? No, it’s probably your parents calling to make sure you made it home safely, you reason as you move to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Y/N,” the heavy drawl surprises you, and you nearly miss what Elvis says next, “I’m glad I caught you, I was callin’ a bit ago and got quite a tellin’ off from Annie sayin’ that you weren’t there yet.”
At that you turn to glare at Annie, who only gives you a smug, mischievous smirk in return.
“Yeah, I just got in maybe twenty minutes ago,” you reply, the shock slowly fading into a kind of warmth as his voice washes over you.
“How was the drive?”
“Long,” you say with a laugh, “I’m glad to be home now. How’s California?”
“‘S alright,” he replies, “I just got back from finalizing some stuff with Steve for filming tomorrow.”
“Oh yeah,” you recall your conversation from a few days ago, “The Christmas special, right? Or,” you correct yourself, “the not-entirely-Christmas special.”
“Exactly,” he laughs, “I’m actually pretty excited about it.”
“That’s good,” you smile, “I hope everything goes well.”
“Thank you, Y/N,” he says sincerely. “But anyway, enough about me. How are you?”
“Well, Annie had one of her famous grilled cheeses waiting for me when I got here so I’d say we’re off to a pretty good start. Tomorrow’s an inventory day at work, though, not nearly as exciting as filming a special for NBC.”
He sucks in a breath in sympathy, “I remember you never liked those days. Good luck with that,” he says, “and I’ll tell ya what: I’ll make sure to tell you all about the boring parts of filming so ya don’t get too jealous, how ‘bout that?” he teases
“Sounds perfect,” you laugh.
You don’t even notice the time flying by as the conversation continues, the two of you talking about everything and nothing, and you fall into a rhythm of talking for hours every night. Slowly, the nagging fear you feel that today’s the day he won’t call starts to fade, and you look forward to your nightly chats where you fill him in on any interesting customers and he tells you about the goofs he made that day during filming.
“I’m not kiddin’, I legitimately forgot the words!” he laughs.
Your only reply is to laugh even harder at the image of him surrounded by cameras forgetting the words to Heartbreak Hotel.
“Alright, come on, it ain’t that funny,” he says in a mock-hurt tone.
“Oh, I promise it is,” you say, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, “I might need you to send me a copy or whatever of these goofs, I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.”
“I’ll see if I can arrange that for ya…” he replies, his voice trailing off as he seemingly turns away from the receiver for some reason.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, just someone at the door,” he assures you, “Gimme one second.”
There’s some shuffling as he makes his way to the door, and your surprise at the thought of him carrying the phone with him across the room turns into a sinking feeling in your stomach as you hear the squeak of a door open and the muffled sounds of a woman’s voice. Your heart sinks as the memory of that day on his tour starts to play again in your mind, a cacophony of not again, I knew this would happen, I shouldn’t have trusted him filling your ears.
“-N? Y/N, you there?” You slowly blink back to reality as Elvis calls your name over the receiver, “Everything alright?”
“Y-yeah,” you reply hesitantly as he dives into an explanation about some crazy fan sneaking past security to his room. He pauses, picking up on the uncertainty in your voice.
“Y/N… you can talk to me, you know that, right? What’s wrong?” he says softly, and he sounds so genuine you want to cry.
“It’s… it’s silly…” you reply, embarrassed at the thought of telling him that that memory from all this years ago still haunts you.
“You don’t have to tell me, but I’d really like to know if I can help,” he replies patiently.
You sigh, and launch into an explanation of that night back in ‘55. “You just hung up on me, and the last thing I heard was some woman’s voice, and I didn’t realize how much that hurt me until I started worrying about who you were with whenever you were gone for a long time.” You explain softly, nervously fiddling with the phone cord.
“So just now, when you heard that girl at my door…” he sighs, realization dawning on him, “that brought all that back, didn’t it? I’m sorry, Y/N.” He says, and the sincerity of his words does bring tears to your eyes this time.
“I’m alright, I promise,” you reassure him, “surprised you turned her down,” you tease, wanting to move on.
“I don’t do that kinda thing anymore,” he laughs, picking up on your attempt to move to another topic, “besides, why would I stop to talk to some stranger who thinks they know everything about me when I could talk to you?”
Your heart flutters at the compliment, and you hope he can’t tell how much you’re blushing over the phone, “Aw, you’re sweet.”
There’s a moment of silence; not an awkward one, but comfortable, like the two of you don’t need to talk to enjoy each other’s company, even if it’s just on the phone. The moment is cut short, however, as Elvis speaks up again.
“I was thinkin’— and you’re free to say no, of course— well, Steve’s organizing this screening of the special before it airs. Right now it’s just Steve, Bones, Dad, Jerry, and me, but I’d like you to be there, too. Maybe get an opinion from someone who’s not family or paid to be nice to me.” He jokes.
“I’d love to,” you reply, “I’ll have to see if I can get off work, but if I can I’ll absolutely be there. And don’t worry, I’ll be brutally honest about the whole thing,” you add teasingly.
“I’m countin’ on it.” He laughs, “I’ll call once Steve has the day arranged and hopefully you can make it.”
The date Steve apparently figures out is November 19, two weeks before the special is actually set to air. Elvis relays to you that he’s arranged to do the screening at Graceland, and luckily you manage to convince your boss to give you both that day and the following day off for the long drive. Your parents are delighted to see you, of course, and you just barely miss the knowing smile on your mother’s face as you gush about how well your friendship with Elvis is going. Your father has warmed up to him the slightest bit, it seems, since your visit back in June, if the fact that he doesn’t scowl at every mention of Elvis’s name is any indication.
You take a deep breath as you pull up to Graceland. You force down the surfacing memories from the last time you were here, when Elvis officially put his career before you. Clean. Slate. you forcefully remind yourself as you step up to the front door.
The door swings open barely half a second after you ring the doorbell, and you find Elvis standing there, a nervous smile on his face.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s a moment where the two of you simply stare at each other before he blinks, as if coming back to his senses, and steps aside to let you in. “Come on in, lemme introduce you to everybody,” he says, leading you to a room with not one, not two, but three TVs mounted into the wall, as one of his household staff comes to take your coat. 4 spaces on the immense couch taking up most of the space in the room are taken, one by his father and three others by people you don’t recognize. “This is Jerry, my manager,” Elvis says, gesturing to a man in a brown suit who looked to be in his late-20s with shaggy blondish hair, “and Steve and Bones, the masterminds behind this whole thing,” he introduces the two men sitting beside Jerry with a smile, one with neat brown hair and an ascot tied around his neck, the other with dark curly hair and round glasses. The three men give you various waves and smiles.
“And of course you know my dad,” Elvis finishes, gesturing to where he’s sitting next to Bones.
“Of course, hi Mr. Presley,” you say with a smile, coming over to shake his hand.
“Good to see you again, Y/N, how’ve ya been?” he asks as you take a seat next to him.
You’re hyperaware of Elvis sitting next to you as you make small talk with everyone, carefully leaning so that there’s a bit of distance between the two of you. As the screening begins, your attention is torn between the performance onscreen and real-life Elvis making jokes in your ear about “this is actually the take right after that goof I told you about—“ Your senses are full of him: the scent of his cologne, his arm brushing against yours, the feeling of his breath on your neck as he whispers to you, and it takes more and more of your energy to actually focus on the TVs in front of you.
About half an hour into the special, you excuse yourself and wander out to the hall, needing a break from the proximity. You don’t realize Elvis followed you out until his hand gently wraps around your wrist, making you jump.
“Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were alright” he explains, releasing you.
“I’m fine,” you assure him, “just… needed a break.”
“It was that bad?” he jokes, “Damn, I’ll have to let Steve know.”
You shake your head, “No, no, it’s not that, it’s…” You hesitate, unsure if you should say what the real reason is. Your friendship is going so well, you’re not sure how he’ll react if you admit that your feelings for him were back in full force, that in truth they never really left.
“What is it?” he asks, concern in his eyes.
You take a deep breath, deciding it’s now or never.
“I’m in love with you. I never really stopped being in love with you, if I’m being honest. But being with you these past few months, being your friend again… I’ve loved it. I’ve loved talking with you on the phone for hours about everything and nothing, seeing you talk with my parents like nothing’s changed, and I… I wanna try again. For real this time.” You bite your lip, nervously gauging his reaction.
“You— you mean that?” Elvis asks softly, eyes wide.
“Yes,” you reply, “I mean it.”
“Y/N, I’d… I’d love that. I promise,” he says sincerely, “I’ll do it right this time. I’ll be the man you deserve.” He steps closer, his lips now just a breath away from yours. “Can I—“ his eyes flick from looking into yours down to your lips, “I really wanna kiss you right now.” he breathes.
You nod your consent, and he swoops down to capture your lips with his, one hand cupping your cheek while the other grips your waist, pulling you close. Your arms wind around his neck up into his hair, mussing the carefully styled locks as you savor the feeling of his lips velvet-soft against yours. He walks you backward until you’re pressed against the wall, his lips never leaving yours as his body presses against you. Eventually the need for air gets the better of you, and he reluctantly pulls away, keeping his forehead and nose pressed to yours as if he can’t bear to be any farther away. His blue eyes lock with yours as you catch your breath.
“I missed you so much,” he breathes, lips brushing against yours, and the amount of love clear in those 5 little words brings tears to your eyes.
“I missed you, too,” you reply softly, a smile spreading across your face.
The two of you stay like that for a while, pressed against the wall of the hallway, before Elvis mumbles “As much as I’d love to just stay here with you forever, we should probably get back before they notice we’re gone.”
“Oh, right,” you laugh sheepishly as you remember the reason you were there in the first place.
The two of you slip back into the TV room, your absence seemingly having gone unnoticed, and assume the spaces you had occupied before you left, with one small difference: your hand is intertwined with his throughout the rest of the screening.
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