#I drink plain milk every mornin

[curlynerd]

Dean Winchester hates mornings.

It might have something to do with the four hours of sleep that precede them. Or perhaps the lingering memories of dragging a grumpy, petulant 12-year-old Sam out of bed for school when he was still an equally grumpy, petulant kid himself. Or maybe he just isn't wired to handle the early hours.

Whatever it is, Dean Winchester hates mornings.

And yet, he still wakes up early every day.

Drags his ass out of bed with a grumble and a sigh. Keeps his curses as quiet as possible so he doesn't wake Cas beside him. Scrubs at the sleep making his eyes gritty. Shuffles into a pair of pajama bottoms and his slippers with a disgruntled huff, like having to deal with the early morning chill is one of life's greatest inconveniences.

At the doorway, Dean pauses and looks back. Cas is still blissfully unconscious, his breathing slow and heavy and relaxed. The second Dean got out of bed he snagged all the blankets and cocooned himself in them, but by now his hand is out, searching for Dean so he can wrap his arm around him again. When it fails to find him, it curls around Dean's pillow. Cas buries his nose in it and lets out a tiny coo of contentment.

Dean smiles, his heart so full it aches. For just a second, he considers crawling back into bed with Cas. Succumbing to his hatred of mornings and going back to sleep with Cas nuzzled up against him like Dean is his personal teddy bear.

But he doesn't. He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible and shambles down the hallway.

Dean's not quite firing on all cylinders without coffee in his system, so he bangs his shoulder on the doorway as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, and he swears a blue streak on his way to the sink. He's still grumbling under his breath as he grabs the lid of Sam's shaker bottle from the side of the sink and washes it with as much malcontent as he can muster. Sam always forgets to wash it when he rinses out his bottle, and Dean always has to clean it the next morning so Sam doesn't get yesterday's nasty protein shake crap mixed in with today's. He sets it beside the clean bottle and makes himself some coffee.

It's not long after the smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen when Sam walks in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and wearing running clothes like the health freak he is. "Hey."

Dean grunts in acknowledgement. Words are for after coffee. Sam starts making himself a protein shake without so much as a 'thank you' for cleaning his lid. Hell, he's probably not even aware Dean does it for him.

"Oh, can you do extra spinach in my omelette? Gotta use it up; it's getting kinda wilted," Sam asks on his way out the door, like it's a given Dean will make him an omelette. Because it is a given. Five people in the bunker and someone needs to make breakfast for them all. Might as well be Dean. "And tomatoes?"

"Yeah yeah, have it your way, Burger King," Dean grouses as he pours himself a mug of coffee. He dumps what's left and fills the carafe with more water.

"Awesome, thanks." And then Sam's gone off to do horrifying morning activities like jogging.

Dean, however, is doing something even more horrifying. He fills the coffee maker with pumpkin spice flavored coffee and grimaces. But God help him, Cas loves the stuff. And Dean loves Cas, so he'll make him some freakin' pumpkin spice coffee. Though this is the only point in the entire day when he questions his love for Cas. Just a little bit.

As nutmeg and cinnamon fill the air, Dean chugs his respectable cup of plain ol' dark roast and browses the contents of the refrigerator.

Blueberries. He should use those up too. Dean plucks them, some eggs, some butter, some milk, and all of the stuff for Sam’s atrocious vegetable omelette from the fridge.

Jack comes shuffling in while Dean is mixing up blueberry pancake batter, looking sleepy but chipper. He looks even happier when he sees what Dean’s cooking. “Excellent timing! Chop Sam’s tomatoes for me,” Dean commands before Jack even has a chance to say a ‘good morning!’ or grab some juice. The coffee is finally kicking in and dragging him into full wakefulness, but the patient parts of Dean’s brain don’t come online until at least 9am.

Eileen isn’t far behind Jack, but she takes one look at Dean with his spatula and Jack at the cutting board and immediately backs out of the kitchen. “Sorry! Dunno what you’re saying!” she shouts as she retreats, as if she expected Dean to try calling out orders after her. “I’m gonna shower!” Dean sighs and shakes his head. Probably for the best. She handles produce and a chef's knife the same way she does with vampires and a machete.

“Hello, Dean. Jack.” Cas drags himself into the kitchen with half-open eyes. His sleep-rough voice is adorable. The wild shock of hair standing up on one side, even moreso.

“Mornin’ Sunshine!” Dean croons at full volume, like he does every morning, because he’s kind of an asshole and secretly likes the way Cas scowls at Dean’s energy as he makes a cup of his terrible pumpkin spice coffee.

Cas comes up behind Dean and rests his chin over his shoulder to watch him cook, like he’s too tired to even bother holding up his own head. Dean has to be careful how he moves his arm so he doesn’t burn himself on Cas’ hot mug, but he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t one of his favorite parts of the day. Cas tucked up against his back, sleep hazy and warm from their shared bed, those beautiful blues blinking owlishly as Dean makes food for their family.

“Sure you don’t want any?” he asks, pointing down at the griddle even though he knows the answer already.

“No, too early to eat,” Cas grunts by his ear. “Coffee is enough. It smells delicious though.” He tilts his head down to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s shoulder before he pulls away to slouch down in a chair and finish waking up.

By the time Dean finishes breakfast, Sam and Eileen have filtered in too, completing their packed table. For a brief moment it’s utter chaos as everyone grabs plates of food and cutlery and coffee and juice, but before Dean can blink everyone is settled, chowing down on their breakfast or quietly drinking their awful flavored coffee. Dean lets out a weary sigh and sinks down into a chair next to Cas with his own stack of pancakes. It’s way too early to feel this tired.

Almost immediately Cas tilts sideways until he’s using Dean as a headrest again. "I don't see how you can stand getting up so early," Cas says around a slow sip of his coffee. He closes his eyes in appreciation and hums softly.

Dean glances around the table. At Sam, his overly long hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, scrolling through his phone as he shovels egg white omelette into his mouth like he's starving for it. At Eileen, a pleased grin on her face as her closed fist moves in a circle in front of her, her thumb pointed down over her stack of pancakes. At Jack, watching her intently as she teaches him a new sign, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth until a bite of pancake falls off it and smacks onto the table, making Eileen laugh.

At his family, fed and caffeinated and content, ready to start their days because Dean took the extra time to get things off on the right foot.

"I dunno," Dean says with a shrug as he passes Jack the bottle of syrup. He grins. "I kinda like mornings."

[justlookfrightened]

Random #13 from the prompt list? And do you post these delightful models in AO3?

I also had an anonymous request for this prompt. It’s from this list. 13:  “YOU SAID TO BE HONEST STOP HITTING ME!”

Jack didn’t think of Bitty as small.

Sure, intellectually he knew Bitty was physically smaller than he was. Bitty was a good six inches shorter and probably 65 pounds lighter, at least at the beginning of Jack’s season. That was what had stood out to Jack the first time he met Bitty, when Bitty was a good 15 pounds lighter than he was now.

But. The way Bitty filled a room, filled a home, filled Jack’s life with warmth and sweetness and spice, that had nothing to do with Bitty’s physical stature.

And even if Bitty was smaller than Jack physically, he was in no way weak. Jack pitied any fool who took Bitty lightly. He was a dynamo on the ice, speeding past opponents and bringing energy to his own team. He was also a force to be reckoned with not just in the kitchen, but anywhere in the realm of baking and communications. He had made the condo into a home not just for Jack, but for both of them.

Bitty was … Bitty was as big and warm and powerful as the sun streaming in the bedroom window.

With that satisfyingly poetic thought, Jack propped himself on an elbow, leaned over to plop a kiss above sleeping Bitty’s ear, then rolled over to get out of bed.

He would let his fiance sleep in a little. Yesterday had been a big day for him -- for both of them -- with graduation and then formally getting engaged (and Bitty passing out), the impromptu hockey game and then dinner with their friends and parents.

Bitty had somehow been radiating joy and wilting with exhaustion when Jack had opened the door to the condo and said, “Welcome home, bud.”

Jack had bent to kiss Bitty on the threshold, and ignored the throat clearing from the corridor behind him.

“That should be a fine,” Shitty said.

“Can’t fine a man in his own home,” Bitty said, breaking away.

“It’s your home, too,” Jack said.

“Who did you think I was talking about?” Bitty responded.

“Whatever,” Lardo said. “Come on, you lovebirds. Some of us are tired and want to go to bed.”

That made Bitty pull away for real, saying, “I know y’all know where the guest room is, but I’m not sure when the sheets were last changed. If you’ll give me just a minute --”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Shitty said, at the same time Jack said, “Marta changes the guest room sheets every week. Even if no one uses it. It’s fine. Let’s go to bed.”

“But do y’all want something to drink? I can whip up some snacks,” Bitty said.

“We’re all tired, dude,” Lardo said. “And stuffed. Let’s get some rest.”

If Jack and Bitty did not go to sleep immediately, well, the guest room was at the other end of the hall and no one needed to know.

But now Jack was up, Bitty was sleeping, and people were going to be hungry. Jack had spent enough time with Bitty over the years to handle pancakes. He could at least get them started, he thought.

Once he finished in the bathroom, Jack went to the kitchen and pulled out flour and milk and eggs. He looked up a pancake recipe on his phone -- Bitty never used a recipe at all -- and added baking powder, salt, sugar and oil to the ingredients on the table.

He knew from watching Bitty that he should combine the dry ingredients first, then add the wet ingredients all at once. Then he mixed the batter, careful to make sure he scraped the flour mixture from the bottom of the bowl and stirring until the batter was smooth.

He heated the griddle and added a little oil, the waited for Bitty to get up.

The aroma of coffee did the trick. Jack heard Bitty close the bathroom door and he tipped the first ladleful of batter onto the griddle.

It was smoking in almost no time, and burnt before Jack could get it flipped.

He turned the heat down and, after waiting a minute, tried again. This time it took a lot longer for the pancake to feel solid enough to turn over. It never got quite as brown as Bitty’s pancakes did, but Jack thought it looked solid enough as he put it on a plate just in time to set in front of Bitty, who padded into the kitchen in his sleep shorts and bare feet.

“‘Mornin’,” Bitty said, nuzzling into Jack’s side before sitting at the breakfast bar.

“I made pancakes,” Jack said. “Or, well, a pancake. So far. Try it. Be honest.”

Bitty pulled the plate toward him and tore a bit off with his fingers and popped it in his mouth plain, with no butter or syrup.

“How is it?” Jack asked.

Bitty chewed, and chewed some more, and then swallowed.

“Um, it’s a little chewy?” he said. 

Jack felt his face fall just a little.

“It tastes pretty good,” Bitty hurried to add. “The texture’s just .. a little rubbery. Did you try it?”

Jack shook his head.

“Well, then, that’s your first mistake,” Bitty said. “The first one’s always for the cook, both because it gives you a chance to make adjustments and because they just don’t always turn out the best.”

Bitty gave Jack a gentle hip check.

“Move over,” he said. “Let me see.”

Bitty dipped the ladle in the batter and let it run back in.

“I think I know the problem,” he said.

“That you didn’t make them?” Jack hip checked him back.

“No,” Bitty said. “How long did you stir this? You want the ingredients just combined. Otherwise they get --”

“Rubbery?”

“I was going to say chewy,” Bitty said, twirling away and pulling down another mixing bowl. “I’ll make a another batch.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” Jack said, pulling the bowl away. “I’ll make them.”

“And I’ll do what, sit here and look pretty?” Bitty said, dipping a spoon in the flour.

“Works for me,” Jack said, trying to take the spoon from Bitty.

Bitty did not give it up easily, slapping at Jack’s hands, and then laughing as Jack slapped back at Bitty’s hands.

“That’s what you get for calling my pancakes rubbery,” Jack said, and Bitty giggled and the flour drifting in the air caught the morning light.

“Pancake!” he said. “Singular. And you said to be honest! Stop hitting me, you moose!”

Jack managed to grab both of Bitty’s hands and hold them behind Bitty’s back.

“Got you right where I want you now,” Jack said, leaning down to kiss the tip of Bitty’s nose.

“Bitty! Are you okay?” Shitty slid into the kitchen in his socks, and nothing else, just as Bitty turned his face up for a real kiss.

Bitty turned his head to stare at Shitty again.

“What? Why are you naked in my kitchen?”

“You said he was hitting you,” Shitty said. “And Jack’s my best brah, but you know you can ask for help --”

“He wasn’t hitting me!”

“You said, ‘Stop hitting me!’ and I come in here and he’s restraining you --”

“We were goofing around,” Bitty said. “He wasn’t hitting me for real.”

“Besides, he started it,” Jack said.

“You’re sure?” Shitty said. “Because no one should take advantage of someone else just because they’re big enough to --”

“You think Jack would take advantage of me?” Bitty actually laughed out loud, then turned to Lardo, who had finally made her way into the kitchen, dressed in pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. “Lardo, do you believe him? He thinks Jack would use his size against me.”

“Never,” Jack said. “Seriously, Shits, that’s as ridiculous as you trying to push Lardo around. I can’t even imagine that.”

“Yeah,” Shitty said. “I guess I can’t either.”

“You bet your ass you can’t,” Lardo said.

Bitty took advantage of the lull to say, “Shitty, you need to get some clothes on before you come back here. Jack, if you want to make the pancakes, be my guest. But I’ll sit right here to talk you through it.”

“See?” Lardo said to Shitty. “I told you it’s the other way around. Jack likes it when Bitty tells him what to do.”

[ruckystarnes]

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Barista!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Everyone

Warnings: none

Words: 1,386

Square Filled/Daily Prompt/Prompt: Y2: WinterShield/Stucky 

Written For/Dedicated to: @buckybarnesbingo​ & @mcu-christmas-exchange​ / @bangyababy​

Summary: Bucky takes initiative after Natasha points out that the same guy keeps checking him out every day while he makes his coffee. 

A/N: This is my story for the MCU Christmas Exchange so this is specifically dedicated to @bangyababy​. I hope you really like it!

"He's cute," Wanda whispered to Bucky as he filled the cup with the blended beverage he just finished. His brow knitted and he huffed a sigh.

"Wanda, I'm not looking to date anyone. Remember? I'm going on a sabbatical of the romance kind?" He snapped the cover on and set the cup down on the counter. "Grande mocha frappuccino for Doreen?" he called out, smiling when a teenage girl came up and took the beverage with a girlish smile.

"Thanks Bucky," she giggled and winked at him.

"See you tomorrow, doll," he replied and turned back to Wanda as his hand automatically went to the next label.

"You flirt with teens but you won't check put the cute blonde that just walked by," Wanda complained. 

"Again, not interested." He looked down to see that the two orders he grabbed were the same thing and quirked his brow. "He drinks cinnamon dolce lattes that’s half caf? Why not just get it full caf and up the size?"

"Since when did you start judging people on what they drink, Barnes? He comes in every day and orders two," Wanda smiled, "he checks you out every time. You are so blind, Bucky. Live a little, why don’t you.” The redhead turned and walked back to the register to take the next customer’s order. 

When Bucky chanced a look at the blond man, he caught him staring at him, making the beefcake of a man blush and turn away, giving Bucky time to openly check him out. Steve, as the drink tags stated, was thin and slight with sandy blond hair and blue eyes (from the quick look gave). Delicate features that was appealing to him and maybe Wanda was right. Maybe he should take a chance.

He looked at the tag again, curiosity rolling through him as to why this guy would order two of the same drink when a larger one would give him the full benefit. He shook the thoughts away and made the lattes, trying his best not to take another look at the tickets and decided to ‘live a little’, like Wanda said. One look up to make sure this Steve wasn’t looking and he grabbed a pen, scribbling awkwardly on the cup. 

After sticking the stickers over the hole in the lid and placing the cups in the drink tray, he called out Steve’s name and gave the blond a smile and bid him a good day.

*~*

Steve was still cursing in his head when he pulled into the underground parking at his work. For the fifth day in a row he had chickened out on talking to the cute brunet that was there every morning to make his and his boss's coffees. The redhead, Wanda, always would strike up a conversation until the next customer came along. And the time he would normally walk in was always crazy busy so it wasn’t hard for Steve to convince himself that it wouldn’t be a good time to ask the quiet man out for lunch.

The elevator ride was slow, hitting almost every floor to let the others off first before reaching the eighth and final level where he worked. He pushed every thought of the blue-eyed coffee hunk aside and walked straight to the door that led to Natasha’s office, knocking softly.

“C’mon,” a feminine rasp answered. 

“Mornin’ Natasha,” he smiled, walking over to hand her cup from the tray. “Medium cinnamon dolce soy latte, no whip, half caf, extra flavor and caramel.” Natasha was his boss at the paper and he was in charge of bringing her morning coffee before he started on his opinion article for the weekend. It only took once for him to mess up her order, giving her his plain black coffee instead of her sweet one, with enough milk and sugar in it that made it debatable if it were coffee or not, before he ordered the same thing for him so he wouldn’t make it again.

“Thank you Steve,” she replied,  not even looking up from her screen. “Remember, I need your edit by four o’clock today.” 

With that, he bid her a good day and left, sitting down at his desk, ignoring the coffee  that was left over and started working on his article after logging on. He didn’t even notice the email he had gotten from Natasha until it was well after she had left for lunch.

~*~

Bucky’s phone buzzed, alerting him to a new message. His heart left and his stomach dropped at the thought of it being the blond from before. He had taken Natasha’s advice and lived a bit by writing down his name and number on one of the blond man’s cups before setting them in the drink tray. It had been almost five hours since Steve had collected the drinks and it was agonizing to him, both regretting it and craving for the man to call or text.

“Wanda, I’m going to take a break,” he called to the redhead who was busy wiping down tables from the lunch rush they just had. She nodded and he made his way to the back room, pulling his phone out to see one message from an unknown.

Unknown: May I ask as to why you wrote your name and number down on my cup this morning?

Shit. Was this a wrong move to do and now he had blown his chance on a possible maybe? His thumbs shook as he tapped out his response.

Bucky: I must have mistaken your cup for someone else's. Sorry.

Now he sounded like a fucking player., and when the response came, his heart nearly jumped out of chest.

Unknown: I had an employee run for it, like always. You must have meant it for him? Unless you aren’t into guys? Or are you bi? It doesn’t matter. If you meant it for Steve then his number is 212-555-4563.

Did he read that right? That he wrote his number down and it ended up being for someone else? Relief washed away any embarrassment he had and copied the number down before shakily dialing it.

He could do this. 

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

He hung up. He couldn’t do this. There was no way he could. Once Steve answered, he would have to explain how he got his number, and what would he think then? 

Before Bucky could dwell on it any further, his phone buzzed with a message. When he looked, it was from the number that he had just dialed. Swallowing hard, he swiped it open and read the text.

212-555-4563: I’m sorry I missed your call. I was told that this number would be. So, who is this?

With hesitation, Bucky typed out who he was, and the response was quick to follow in that of a call from the number.

“Hello?” Bucky asked tentatively, a hand carding through his dark locks.

“Hi, Bucky? This is Steve?” The man speaking sounded just as unsure as Bucky felt, and it made him smile.

“Yes, hi. Um, sorry for the mix up,” he rushed,  and took a deep breath, telling himself not to be an idiot and ruin this any further than it already was.

“No, it’s okay. I sort of force myself to like the kind of drink she gets because I ruined the first time around with giving her my black coffee,” Steve chuckled and Bucky wondered if he was standing or sitting.

“So, anyway, I guess the number on the cup was for me then? As that Natasha never has stepped foot in your coffee shop in ever?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah it was. Sorry if it felt like a cop out. I just...I didn’t want to come off as strong,” Bucky winced, thinking how stupid that reason was.

“I get it. Hard to know if someone is interested when you don’t talk. So, since we are talking...are you?”

Bucky couldn’t help but roll his eyes at how ridiculous the question was since he had gone through the trouble of giving this man his number and it ended up with a stranger instead.

“Of course,” he replied, a faint smile on his lips, “I wanted to see if you wanted to go for a drink on Friday.”

“Yeah, I would love to.” 

[yaelaswritingspace]

Sixty Four

Angsty DaiSuga, because why not. Inspired by a combination of reading fractalbright’s beautiful fic distortedly, yours and the song ‘When I’m Sixty Four’ by the Beatles running in my head ‘cuz we’re practicing it for choir. I recommend you listen to it before reading!

“When I get older, losing my hair . . .”

Daichi blinks awake, sleep receding in a gentle wave. The curtain are pulled apart just so, letting warm sunlight stream over the bed, and the familiar tune washes over him, transporting him back to years ago in a matter of seconds.

“Many years from now . . .”

A quiet thump as something is set down on the dresser, the rattle of ceramic cups and small, silvered spoons. Daichi mouths the next words almost unconsciously, blank eyes on the muted orange curtains.

(‘They’ll make it look warm and homey, Daichi - especially since you decided our room would be fine with just plain white walls. Honestly, the sheer lack of taste you have is unbelievable.’)

“Will you still be sending me a valentine . . .”

He squeezes his eyes shut against the memories - a pink tongue sticking out teasingly, brown eyes sparkling, that half smile that blossomed into a delighted grin so easily -  and begins to get up, groaning softly when his back twinges in protest.

The song stops immediately, and warm hands are on his shoulders, easing him up.

“Good morning, Daichi. How are you feeling today?”

He looks up into dark eyes and pale skin, a beauty spot and a sweep of silver hair across the forehead, and swallows the quiet pain easily. It’s become second nature, now.

“Well enough, Koushi. Could you help me to the bathroom? And the kitchen, after I’m done with the hot chocolate.”

“Of course, Daichi.”

It’s maybe half an hour later that Daichi is sitting at the dining table, his hands curled around a cup of steaming coffee. Koushi had handed it to him almost absently, two spoons of sugar and a dash of milk mixed in perfectly. Effortlessly.

(‘Sacrilege, that’s what it is. The only coffee worth drinking is pure black - don’t you make that face at me!’)

Suga would have said that. Suga would have protested, teased him mercilessly, refused to add any sugar at all until Daichi caught him by the waist, pressed him against the counter, kissed him until he melted - and then again until the coffee was abandoned without a second thought. They’d come back later to find it stone cold and undrinkable, and of course Suga would blame him for that, pouting like a five year old while his eyes danced.

“ . . . would you lock the door? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty four?”

Daichi sips the coffee, feeling the warmth spread through his chest. Yet it doesn’t quite counteract the small, cold pit in his stomach, and he contemplates telling Koushi to stop singing - or at least to pick a different song. Chances are, though, if he did, Koushi would pick something silly, like Crazy in Love - he’s had an unaccountable liking for that song, of late, and if he sang that -

Daichi knows his cheeks are going red, he can feel it, and he hurriedly sips again, firmly pushing away the memory of what he and Suga were doing the first time he heard that song.

(‘You have to admit it does kind of suit the mood.’

“Oh, my g- Suga, it most certainly does not!’

‘I’ll have to go and thank you neighbours for it later.’

‘ . . . devil.’

A cheeky look, pink cheeks, still panting above him, chest rising and falling like an ocean Daichi can drown in - does drown in - over and over and over again.

‘Angel.’

And again.)

The pan sizzles as Koushi slips a spatula under the egg, sliding it off, being careful not to break the yolk. Two slices of bread, a knife and cheese, and then he’s waiting politely by Daichi’s chair, calm as a mountain lake.

“Will you be needing anything else, Daichi?”

“No, I don’t think so. Start with the garden before you sweep, will you?”

“Of course.”

Koushi slips on bright red gardening gloves - Suga’s beloved gardening gloves - and heads outside, clippers in one hand, trowel in the other. Daichi watches him go, hears the song start again, hears it float in through the open window.

“Doing the garden, digging the weeds . . .”

And he can’t resist it any longer. He’s swept back to his twentieth birthday, his twenty-third, his thirty-fifth, his thirty-ninth -

(‘Mine forevermore,’ Suga sings, a soft murmur against his lips. All Daichi can taste is cake cream, sugary and oversweet; all he can smell is sputtering candles, melting wax, Suga’s cologne -

‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?’

- and all he can see is Suga, still beautiful with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and fading hair.

‘Of course,’ he breathes, resting his forehead against Suga’s. ‘Always.’

And Suga smiles back, eyes deep and dark and overflowing with love.)

Daichi blinks, wiping away a lone tear that’s trickled down his cheek.

“Will you still be sending me a - will you still be sending me a - will you still be sending me a -”

He sighs, gets up slowly, sticks his head out of the window. “Koushi,” he calls. “Come in, please.”

Koushi walks in abashed, head hanging. He hates it more than anything when he fails in a function, any function at all - even if it’s something as minor as singing a song he knows Daichi likes.

“It’s okay. Just stand in your charging port for a bit, will you? That usually helps.”

He doesn’t even vocalize an affirmative, just nods and walks away, steps dragging. Daichi sighs again, rubbing a hand over his face before he reaches out and touches the first number on speed dial on the videophone.

The screen springs to life, hologram projecting solid light into the air. The voxels shimmer, blur, and then compose themselves into Kuroo Tetsurou’s yawning form.

“Mornin’, Daichi,” he says sleepily. “Wasn’t expecting a call, something wrong?”

“Hey.” Daichi swallows, making sure his voice doesn’t wobble. “No, it’s just that Koushi needs a checkup.”

“Yeah? What’s the problem?”

“He’s been forgetting more often that usual, vocal function getting stuck, random loss of motor control - the usual.”

“Mhm. He’s, what, at least twenty years old?”

“Twenty four.”

“RIght. Well, it’s probably the usual, like you say. Bring him in whenever you like, I’ll let Futakuchi know.”

“Thanks, I’ll send him in by tomorrow. Were you working the whole night, by the way?”

“Yep. We’re on the verge of a breakthrough with constructing the first accurate, viable empathy program - or so Matsukawa says. He’s been driving us like dogs.”

“Retire already, why don’t you? Leave the revolutions to the younger generation. Besides, you can’t pull that hairstyle off with white hair. I mean, it’s not like you could with black either, but -”

“Oh, lay off,” Kuroo says lazily. “Like you have a strand of black hair left. Besides, I’m only sixty three, you know. Nobuhiko is still active, and she’s seventy five.”

“The mother of the robotics revolution gets a free pass, Tetsu. You don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll retire when I’m seventy, Sawamura, and not a moment before.”

Daichi shakes his head. “At least get some sleep.”

“I’m going, I’m going. God, you’re worse than Kenma. Okay, so send Koushi in, I’ll make sure I’m there myself, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Cool. Oh, Daichi -” Tetsurou hesitates, pauses in the motion of breaking the contact. “Happy birthday.”

Daichi swallows again, harder than before, pushing it all down. “Thanks.”

He can see a glimmer of sorrowful understanding in Tetsurou’s eyes, even through the hologram, just before it fizzles out. He stays still, staring at the place where the image had been projected, clenching his fists desperately.

But he can’t, he never can withstand it. It breaks over him, a flood of sorrow and nostalgia and I miss you I miss you I miss you resounding through his heart, pounding into his aching body with pain that hardly seems to diminish, year after year.

At least no one but Koushi will ever know how he spent the morning sobbing quietly into the table. But he gets up, eventually, wipes his tears, washes the dishes, opens the curtains, smiles at Koushi when he’s done charging, reassures him, and . . . gets on with his day.

It’s what Suga would have wanted, after all.

And this will happen again next year, he knows, every year from now, it’ll happen even when he can’t remember Suga’s voice or the colour of his hair or how they both clung to Asahi, sobbing, after Nationals. But he takes solace in the fact that even if he ends up unable to remember anything about Suga at all, there will come a time when he will lie under the earth as well, cold and quiet, and when that time comes, when his mind and heart and soul end up somewhere brighter and bigger than this world -

- Suga will be the first one to greet him, smiling like they’ve never been parted.

[chezzkaa]

Cinders - Chapter 19/36

All Chapters

SUMMARY: The crew is beginning to feel like a family again, and families have traditions. Yours just happened to be Saturday morning pancakes with assistant chef Ryan.

WC: 3030

Geoff had long since left you to your own devices to find somewhere more comfortable to sleep, and though it had been lonely you’d found solace in the silence achieved before the sunrise. Jeremy is the first of the crew to drag himself from his cave and forge a path to the coffee machine, oblivious to your existence as you regard him over your third cup of tea. A pang of sympathy shoots through you as you take in the exhaustion set in his bones, his bright eyes dim beneath the large bags carving across his face.

He makes it as far as sitting at a table opposite your own to drown himself in caffeine before he notices you, watching him as his exhaustion seeps away whilst your eyes gleaming impishly within  similarly large bags etched permanently into your features. With a start he brightens, his face lighting up into a beam and a surprised ‘oh!’ slipping from his lips.

It doesn’t take him long to detach himself from the chair and make his way over to you, plopping down with a smile and splash of coffee. “Mornin,’” he says cheerfully, sipping the scolding liquid and pretending not to feel it burn the inside of his mouth as you snigger, “you sleep alright?” “Yeah,” you tell him between mouthfuls of your drink, “it’s nice to actually sleep in a bed again, and not on a gurney.” He laughs at your statement, the room instantly feeling lighter as your voice joins his. “At least someone got some sleep,” he complains, pressing a palm to his eye and rubbing away the grogginess while grimacing comically; “my studio is right between Gavin and Michael.” “Aww fuck,” you giggle, patting the top of his head as he rests his forehead against the table with a groan, “you’re welcome on my couch any time.” “I might have to take you up on that,” he mumbles into the table top whilst you giggle, beginning to stand and move into the kitchen. “As long as you don’t mind waking up as early as I do.” “Ew, pass.” “Your loss,” you smile, messing with his hair as you pass him, diffusing the purple with your fingers.

“You hungry?” you call to him while begin to rummage through the cupboards for your supplies, his head lifting at the prospect of food. “Fuck yeah,” he beams as you arrange your set up, laying out ingredients and stepping back to admire the station, “what do you have in mind?” “Pancakes,” you tell him as he moves to sit at the kitchen island eagerly. “Wait, where are you going?” he asks as you start to leave the room, but you throw him a reassuring smile, “I’m gonna need one last thing.”

Jeremy’s can’t contain the utter astonishment plastered to his face as he watches you pulling a sleepy and barefooted Ryan by the hand, his sweatpants and maroon t shirt tossed clumsily onto his body, hair tumbling in golden waves around his face. The unfamiliarity of the man stood in the kitchen leaves Jeremy in shock, unable to comprehend the sleepy softness of his features while Ryan bends down to allow you to place an apron around his neck; groaning lightly.

You beam up at the man stood before you and stand back to admire him in his ‘kiss the cook’ apron, Jeremy’s whooping causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and groan again. “Your hair is in the way,” you comment, tapping your chin as he looks at you through warm eyes, secretly enjoying himself despite the laughter erupting from Jeremy perched at the bench. Snapping your fingers you stop his hands that move to tie his hair up, instead zipping away and returning with a plain black cap and passing it to him. “It’s only hygienic,” you tell him with a shrug as he turns the cap around and brushes his hair from his face, positioning it backwards and offering you a kind smile.

“Good to go,” he says, voice deep and husky from sleep. With joy you spin to the counter, only to have him grab your hand and subtly remove the ring you had forgotten you were wearing, your face turning a delicate pink as he repeats, “it’s only hygienic.” An abashed smile quickly flits across your face as you turn back to the bench and begin to open bags of ingredients, Ryan now chuckling to your side and putting a few frying pans on the heat, a blob of butter in each.

“God, it’s almost as though you know what you’re doing!” exclaims Jeremy, leaning his arms on the island counter and peering into the bowl you were dividing flour and sugar into. “Well, yeah,” replies Ryan as he returns from the pans and opens the free range egg carton, cracking six into a jug, “we used to make pancakes every Saturday.” You can’t help the giggle that disperses flour into the air at Jeremy’s utterly flabbergasted face as he stares at the scariest man he’s ever met, of who is now moving smoothly through the kitchen as if it were his second home.

“Oh, my god,” comes an eager voice from the kitchen entrance, Jack bounding into the space cloaked in a bright and flora dressing gown, her hair a mess of fire atop her head, “are these Mad Hatter Pancakes?” She rushes over to the bench and grabs Ryan by the shoulders to stare at him suspiciously, their faces perfectly level to one another before she pulls him into a tight hug. “Oh fuck I’ve missed you, Ryan,” she breathes over the small pained noise being crushed from Ryan’s lungs, his arm trying clumsily to pat Jack reassuringly on the back. Finally releasing him she jabs a finger at you while you begin to portion out baking powder, her eyes narrowing; “whatever you’re doing, just keep doing it.” “Yes, ma’am.”

With a satisfied nod she backs out of the kitchen, racing to her room to change out of her sleepwear and gather up the rest of the crew, her excited voice echoing through the hallways. “Okay, so I have a question,” pipes in Jeremy as Ryan sloshes milk into the jug containing the eggs, beginning to whisk them frantically, the younger man tearing his eyes from the hallway Jack had disappeared down, “what the fuck is a Mad Hatter?” Ryan shrugs as he puts the bowl down with its contents now combined, leaning around you and letting a gentle hand move to your lower back to warn you not to step back. “It’s our team name,” you tell Jeremy, minding out of the way as Ryan plucks the salt from your side of the counter, returning to his concoction and cracking it in. “Mad,” you point to Ryan and he yawns loudly in response, “Hatter,” you motion to yourself and Jeremy nods in understanding.

“Like Alice in Wonderland,” he says gleefully, watching as you combine the wet and dry ingredients together, offering the final bowl to him so that he has something to do. “Exactly like Alice in Wonderland, it’s what inspired the name Cheshire after all,” you respond, handing the dirty materials to Ryan after he turns the heat of the pans down, moving them to the sink. “Cus you’re like, an insane cat who enjoys playing with people’s safety?”  His words cause a chill to drift across your shoulders while you carry more items to the sink, Ryan’s scrubbing motions stopping for a moment as he hears Jeremy’s question. Chewing your lip, you turn back to him with a cloth and wipe the surface down, “almost, it was the favourite character of someone close to me. She was so in love with the book.” Your words fade away as you force your mind to lock, restraining it from venturing into the past.

Jeremy’s face drops slightly as he offers you an apologetic smile, handing back the bowl he had managed to mix completely, lump free and faintly bubbling. Taking it from him you return the smile and quickly brush past Ryan as he finishes the dishes. Readying the measurement cup, Ryan joins you with a lopsided grin while firmly grasping his own. “On the count of three,” you tell him, his head nodding vigorously as Jeremy inches closer to get a better view; “three!”

Batter flies into the pans, the two of you expertly filling the cups and pooling the liquid onto the steaming surface until all of the batter is gone and 5 large frying pans are sizzling, happy and full. High fiving each other you slam your palms together, finger gunning one another as quick as possible, only for you to realise you were a fraction behind. Gasping you collapse to the floor with a cry of ‘blarg’ while Ryan laughs deeply, Jeremy’s higher pitch filling the room as you rise to your feet again, clutching a spatula and a wide grin. “The fuck did I just watch?!” questions Jeremy through his confused amusement and leaning back in his chair, only to fall off it and splatter onto the floor.

You have to wipe the tears from your eyes as you double over in reams of laughter, clutching your sides as Ryan crosses his arms and leans against the table, lowering his forehead onto them as he chuckles uncontrollably. “What’s so funny?” you hear Ray’s voice ask from the entrance, groggy from sleep and watching the scene unfold in front of him with confusion. Managing to stand you let your giggles subside, beaming at Ray’s dishevelled self while move back to the frying pans and thrusting a second spatula into a still laughing Ryan’s hands.

Ray’s eyes widen as he realises what you’re cooking, suddenly becoming incredibly eager as he bounds to the bench, stepping over Jeremy with a yell of ‘every man for himself!’ as he scampers into a stool.  As Ryan and you begin to flip the pancakes to reveal the golden crust you can hear Jeremy struggling to his feet before sweeping through the kitchen and collecting every type of topping he can find, littering the bench with empty plates and cutlery. Ray is too busy greeting the rest of the crew as they file in, faces lifting as they inhale deeply, murmurs of ‘Mad Hatter Pancakes’ rolling through the room.

As you both pile plates high with pancakes and place them on the counter the mounds disappear almost instantly, the crew shovelling them onto alternate plates before drowning them in their favourite toppings. The kitchen fills with warmth and happiness as you beam, Ryan returning to the pans to shift the remaining food onto a serving plate. You can’t help the love swelling in your chest as you watch your family huddle around one another laughing, Ray pulling an intense frown and holding two thumbs up above his head while Jeremy looks over his shoulder from talking with Trevor as he demolishes his breakfast, giving you and affectionate smile.

From across the kitchen you watch Geoff attentively converse with Jack, intense admiration and respect in his eyes as he observes the woman stack her pancakes and dress them in butter and maple before tucking in, laughing at Geoff’s stories in between bites. Matt has a clumsier and impossibly high pile of pancakes for his frame, but you can help but admire his determination as he joins Ray and digs in. You let Ryan pull you into an affectionate hug before he busies himself around the kitchen, too caught up in the atmosphere before you make your way over to Jeremy and Trevor, having not previously introduced yourself to the blond man.

He swallows and looks nervous as you approach, but a strong clap on the back from Jeremy fills him with confidence. “Trevor,” he says happily while giving you a one armed hug, “I’d like you to meet Y/N.” You offer him what you hope is a friendly smile to ease his fears, and he seems to settle as his shoulders relax. “Hey,” he holds out his hand to shake your own, eyes warm and their depths constantly moving like molten caramel, “it’s nice to finally meet you and not be threatened.”

“Wait, have I threatened you before?” you ask, eyes narrowing slightly as a blush rises in his cheeks. Ryan joins yours group, a plate full of pancakes and a pleasant smile adorning his lips. “Yeah, remember?” interjects Ryan, munching on his breakfast, “Trevor worked at the liquor store by the boardwalk that we blew up a few summers ago.” You smile broadly, flashing your teeth at the memory before realising the trauma you must have put him through. “Oh god, I threatened you with a fucking knuckle duster,” your voice is affronted, but Trevor just laughs and scratches his jaw, your eyes faintly making out the pale scar you had left behind. “Jesus, I’m sorry man,” you try to apologise but he waves away your concern, grinning. “Don’t be, if you hadn’t nearly killed me I wouldn’t be here.”

“Wat?” the word is short and abrupt, making Jeremy and Ryan chuckle together between shovels full of pancake. “After the ordeal I tried super hard to become a part of the crew, didn’t happen until you’d... you know.” “But, why?” “Oh, so I could kill you in your sleep.” “Joke’s on you, I don’t sleep.” “Ouch.” “I also don’t die... It’s a new development.” “Don’t crush his dreams, Y/N,” Jeremy lectures you as Trevor lowers his head sadly, kicking his feet. “I mean,” you start, watching Ryan out of the corner of your eye as he detaches himself from your left and heads towards the kitchen to put his plate away, “I’m flattered. Really, I am. It’s good to have goals.”

The sound of a woman shrieking happily crashes through the gentle happiness you had found yourself in, whipping around on high alert only to stop at the sight Meg holding her arms open wide and bouncing in front of a sheepish Ryan, her purple locks swinging effortlessly. “Ryan,” she complains joyfully as he leans in to hug her, “I came by your place when we landed, but I couldn’t find you.” Pulling away and narrowing her eyes she looks him over suspiciously, taking in his warm demeanour and comfortable clothing with a delicately raised eyebrow.

“What’s happened?” asks Meg suddenly, steering Ryan away from the crew by his elbow, her face concerned while Gavin shrugs and loads up a spare plate before joining yourself, Jeremy and Trevor. You greet him happily by bumping a shoulder into him, grinning as he tells you how much he’s missed Mad Hatter Pancakes. However, you still keep an eye on Ryan and Meg, curious as to what she could possibly be worried about. “Are you in the middle of a personal crisis?” she demands in a hushed whisper while gripping onto Ryan’s arm, “do you need support or something?” You hear him chuckle and try and reassure her that he’s fine, but she isn’t having it. Instead she crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow questioningly, “what’s going on with you, where did you sleep last night?” “I mean...” “Are you doing drugs?” “No, not at all; listen, Meg, did Gavin not tell you-” “Is it a girl?” “One of them is female, yes...” “Rye Rye, you better tell me what the hell you’ve been doing before I call someone to take you for a psychiatric evaluation-”

Her words cut off as Ryan rushes over to you and grabs you by the collar of your hoodie, pulling you back to Meg as her mouth hangs open, before he throws his arms out to direct her attention towards you. With an awkward wave you blush slightly after having overheard their conversation, but you pull her into a hug as she begins to cry your name. With tears streaming down her face she laughs through her sobs, returning your hug while Ryan steps back and beckons Ray to join the fray. Gingerly he shuffles from his seat, the idea of facing emotion so early in the morning very off-putting, but as soon as Meg spots him she released you and embraces him as well.

“Gavin didn’t tell you?” Ray manages to ask whilst his face is smooshed into Meg’s shoulder, and she just shakes her head, “what an asshole.” “Speaking of assholes,” starts Geoff, standing from the table as Michael and Lindsay finally enter the kitchen. Lindsay pulls you into a bone crushing hug, her pastel pink hair tickling your nose as she tells you how happy she is that you’re not dead anymore whilst Geoff clears his throat to capture everyone’s attention. “Thanks to our resident chefs we should be all set for the day. We’ve all got our assignments and I want everyone on their best behaviour. This shit is important,” he jabs his finger at Gavin, of who yelps in offence, “so let’s do this right.”

The crew begins to disperse from the kitchen and join up into their respective teams, Ryan huffing beside you before beginning to tidy up the kitchen. You follow his lead, moving to collect the plates left scattered across the tables until Geoff stops you. “I’ve got something for you to do,” he says, holding out a piece of paper, “There’s a guy I’d like you to go and interrogate, he’s a relatively new and influential news personality in Los Santos.” You raise an eyebrow, listening attentively as Geoff speaks, “Lil J and Ryan are the only ones who’ve actually spoken to him, and that was way before he moved down. But he’s known to be a resident expert for this immortal crap. It’s about time we did some research.”

You stare down at the name and address written on the page in surprise while Geoff regards your expression curiously. “You’re fucking kidding me,” you manage, passing the paper to Ray of who is as equally shocked as you. “You’re serious?” demands your partner, handing back the details as Geoff smiles. “Turn it over,” he tells you, and you follow his instructions, “it’s your second task.”

“This is a grocery list.” “Yup, have fun dudes.”