#and everything goes bananas and somehow stays exactly the same

[berrybanana-arts]

Nandermo as a close runner up where the WRITERS will fight you-

“It would be an inappropriate boss/employee relationship!!”

MEANWHILE, THIS SCENE EXISTING:

billford is the only ship where they can be this homoerotic in canon and ppl will still fight you

[obae-me]

Devil Kart

Fire. Still-burning flakes of ash floated down from the now smoke suffocated sky. Rubble laid down at their feet. Splintered wood. Glinting shards from broken windows. Bricks and foundations of pieces of their home, the House of Lamentation, scattered amidst the yard like abandoned tombstones. For but a moment, all of the residents and their invited company stood still, gazing at the pillar of fumes pouring out from the enormous gap that had been blown out from the sturdy mansion wall. They took in its destructive beauty, taking note of it as the result for their horrendous mistake. One that would not be made lightly again. Suffice it to say, this hadn’t been the first nor the last time this building would be torn asunder. It’s beloved owners were demons after all. However, this fact did not bring comfort to those soaking in the situation at hand. Although for some it did bring great amusement. 

“Well…” MC sighed. “This definitely ended worse than Uno.”

Our favorite demon brothers along with MC, invited Diavolo, Barbatos, and the residents of Purgatory Hall to invite them in a fun game night. Who knew Mario Kart could be such a deadly game?

Lucifer

Character: King Boo

He offered the character with the title “King” in it to Diavolo first, but when Diavolo chose someone else, he didn’t hesitate to pick the ruler of...whatever these specter-like creatures were. 

He plays ruthlessly, constantly throwing bananas, hiding fake boxes in the real ones, whatever devilishly sneaky trap he can lay, he’ll have it done. Even if he doesn’t win, he’s going to take whoever threw that red shell and drag them down to the last in line with him. More often than not, he finds himself winning anyway. He’s not a huge fan of playing games that he deems...childish and illogical, but secretly he deeply enjoyed it. Even for only the value of all his brother’s various expressions when he’s the cause of their suffering.

The destruction wasn’t quite his fault...fully. He’d never do something so idiotic in front of the Prince of Demons, but in his anger and desperation to stop the fight to save face, it was more figurative fuel for the eventual literal fire.

Mammon

Character: Roy Koopa

He really wanted Bowser, desperately so, but Diavolo had picked him already. He almost had an idea to fight Diavolo for the right to play him, but one look at Lucifer’s expression, now sporting a very angry vein in his forehead, and he settled for someone else. Roy Koopa, whatever he was...with his sunglasses and spikes, was a decent second choice. 

He’s not quite sure what the goal is, to be completely honest. He’s seen racing before, even gambled on it, but this one has a lot more rules and...weapons than he’s used to. Is he supposed to be killing people? Is he supposed to have the most money? He’s more focused on collecting items and coins rather than making sure he’s the first in line. Unfortunately for him, he’s often the one targeted for bombs and bananas. 

He ended up being one of the main suspects of the destruction. He didn’t start it, but once he got involved, he made everything so much worse. Why did everyone always go right to him to accuse him of something, eh? Why was Satan spouting off that all of this might as well be his fault? He’s upset over his constant losing too.

Levi

Character: Mario

If you think he’s choosing anyone else other than the popular main character, you’d be comically wrong. He considered maybe taking Princess Peach, but someone already chose her. 

He knows too much about this game. After all, it was a special gift MC had given him. A game from the Human Realm. He did want to explain and rant about all the things it was lacking, but he had played much worse before. So, like he did in most-if not all-of his games, he quickly learned all the ins and outs. He’s a master at drifting, finding the secret shortcuts, and dodging items. However, anything can happen in this game, and for all his talents, his brothers are experts in misfortune. He almost rages more than the demon of Wrath himself. 

It’s possible a lot of this is his fault. He couldn’t help it, when it came to video games, no one should be able to beat him so easily. He couldn’t contain his anger. He had been AT the finish line when someone unleashed a blue shell. He ended up getting hit with such a bombardment of items after he’d been stunned, he ended up last place. Dead last. People were going to pay.

Satan

Character: Dry Bones

Honestly he chose the character that looked the least annoying and cartoony, that was his only motivation. So a skeletal Koopa with glowing yellow eyes seemed a decent enough choice. 

How did he get roped into such a childish game? He’s not exactly sure himself. It might’ve had something to do with MC’s begging eyes or even just the thought of digitally torturing his brothers. He’s even more brutal than Lucifer. While Lucifer puts all his tricks into sneaky items, Satan will not hesitate to be brash and use all his items on one person. Is three red shells a bit overkill? Probably, but he doesn’t care. He’ll also bump people off edges, and of course, somehow he always gets the blue shell. Does he typically win? No. Does he always make everyone else scream in anger and openly love it? Yes. 

For once, he didn’t throw the blue shell, but right after Mammon, Levi figured it was him. Accusing him of always sabotaging people, always stirring up people just to tick them off. Levi hadn’t been wrong, but he didn’t like being compared to Mammon, it insulted his intelligence. Also he just had a lot of pent up anger he needed to release. This game for all it’s merits was starting to drive him mad. He and Levi kicked things off, Mammon joining in soon after.

Asmo

Character: Princess Peach

He has no idea who these characters are but you know he has to go with the pink princess. And with a name like Peach? He had no other choice. She’s almost as cute, flirty, and pink as he is. Almost. 

He doesn’t really care for this game or the idea of winning it either. The thing he specializes in is drama. He adores messing with the other player’s feelings. He’ll randomly make alliances for the sake of spicing things up, but he won’t hesitate to quickly switch sides if it makes for a good match. Oh yay, he’s almost helped Solomon past the finish line, how beautifully heartbreaking would it be if he used the red shell he’s been holding onto? The only person he’ll truly team up with to help them win is MC. Or will he? 

Oh he is loving this. The fighting, the drama, he was hoping for something to this scale. Leave it to his family to always be causing trouble. The whole video of what happened is now on Devilgram, and it is blowing up. Almost like that wall did. 

Beel

Character: Yoshi

He’ll admit, he wasn’t even fully aware they all would be playing a game. All he heard was that everyone would be hanging out together, having a fun time, eating snacks. He’d go anywhere if there were snacks. When he shrugged and asked Levi to choose a character for him, Levi suggested Yoshi, the adorable and iron stomached dinosaur. Beel enjoys him. 

He’s the only person who doesn’t stir things up on purpose. He doesn’t like being aggressive, and honestly, he’ll brake his digital vehicle and let someone else pass him if they’re being chased by a shell so he can take it instead. The only time he sabotaged a match was when they played on a tasty looking map and he subsequently tried to eat the TV. If he ends up winning it’s just because no one has the heart to throw anything at him. That or they’re too focused on targeting someone else. 

When stuff goes down, he’s just trying to keep MC out of this. He went to work scooping up the humans and the tiny angel and brought them to safety. It was a good thing he did too, who knows what would’ve happened to all of them had they stayed in the room. He does now have a craving for roasting marshmallows, though.

Belphie

Character: Rosalina

He really didn’t care who he played, he barely had the energy to play in the first place. He eventually settled on Rosalina because she looked like a soft character, surrounded by stars. He liked stars.

He didn’t even realize that Beel had carried him to everyone while he was asleep. When he woke up, MC had asked him kindly if he wanted to play, and even though he had coldly said no, he grabbed a controller anyway. If he can even manage to stay awake enough to start the race, he’ll put no effort into anything. He’ll just shrug anytime he falls off the course or gets hit by someone. No one knows he’s actually quietly seething. Part of his struggles might be due to the fact he’s trying to play while he’s laying down. Once he started sitting up, eyes laser focused on the screen, MC knew it was starting to spell trouble.

It was him, he did it. He threw the blue shell. Why? Curiosity maybe, mixed with a hint of spite and laced with some sweet revenge. He was sick of seeing everyone win when he hadn’t won a race himself. He was ready to cause some problems, they always ended up being entertaining.

Diavolo

Character: Bowser

He had a hard time choosing at first, he’s just so excited to actually be playing a game, with friends! It’s a very youthful thing to do. He eventually settles on Bowser, appreciating his features, big and menacing, and they both have the same red hair! He finds it immensely enjoyable. 

He also has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He always has to ask what the buttons do, even if he’s already asked three times already. Admittedly, he’s just happy to be doing anything other than work. Corruption, torture, and ruling his kingdom of demons can wait. He never really has the chance for this ever, and he’s playing with a bunch of friends. He’s extremely elated. The only one who really dares to even attempt to sabotage Diavolo is Lucifer. It’s possible the eldest brother is taking this game a bit too seriously. Diavolo ends up winning a few times purely out of respect for his royal status, and the little gold trophy brings such a smile to his face. 

He could’ve done without the destruction part. He does love a good explosion from time to time, but his fun adventure with his friends has now gone up in flames, and right after he had been neck and neck with Lucifer. He does prefer that his student council uphold an image, but he had been having too much fun to worry about it now. He’ll look over it this time.

Barbatos

Character: Shy Guy 

He’s not sure who to choose, so he might as well pick the little...creature with the mask and mysterious aura. But, to be fair, he chose mostly at random. 

He was very grateful to have been invited to play along with his Lord and his friends. He can’t remember the time he was allowed to just...play something...for fun. However, all he really knows is his duty and his job to serve Diavolo at every turn. His main goal in this game is to make sure Diavolo wins. He’s surprisingly on par with Levi at this game despite having never touched it before, and he can single-handedly force the match to go in Diavolo’s favor.  

He helps Beel in escorting people to safety, and already he’s made preparations to put out the fire and get to work fixing the damage. Again. Now he has to change his ‘Days Since The House Of Lamentation Was Damaged’ sign in his room back to zero. To think they had almost made a new record. 

Simeon 

Character: Random

He can’t just decide on one character, not when they all look like so much fun. He doesn’t want to leave any of them out, and so each match he’ll choose a new character. He wants everyone to have a chance. 

He’s the same as Diavolo in the case that he has no idea how to control this thing. He’s still learning how to use a D.D.D. for heaven's sake. Which button is ‘go’ again? Once he thought he almost won, when in reality, he ended up doing three laps going in the opposite direction. He did actually win once, but no one knew for the life of them how, when he had been holding the controller backwards the entire time. He won’t throw anything at anyone ever. Mostly because he’s an angel, but also because he has no idea how to even use items. 

He was a little confused and disappointed when the fighting started. He mostly just worried for MC’s safety. He was disheartened to hear how casually they were reacting to this. He made sure to promise to invite them over sometime for a nice calm game that wouldn’t end in inevitable chaos.

Solomon

Character: Waluigi

He’s a human, he’s been on the internet, he knows the memes. He doesn’t need to say anything more on the subject. 

Like Asmo, he’s almost more focused on the people playing the game than the actual game itself. He might even help Asmo in secret alliances. He’s just incredibly amused with how the demons are acting. He also might have set his phone to record audio during all the matches. He now has several amusing phrases from multiple demons such as ‘you’ll take my banana and like it or choke’, ‘I would’ve finished first if you hadn’t rammed me so hard’, ‘I’ve been covered in goo’, and many more. The recordings ended up being mostly cussing, sadly, but those few gems he’ll be keeping for the foreseeable future. 

He was prepared for something like this. MC had recounted the many stories of games that met unfortunate ends. He’s got a spell prepared to at least attempt to mitigate some of the harm.

Luke 

Character: Toad

His main motivation for picking Toad was because he thought he was some kind of muffin. Apparently there’s a popular Celestial world treat that looks shockingly similar, much to Solomon and MC’s silent distress.

He keeps trying to tell anyone that he’s not a child so he’s not enjoying this. Everyone can tell he’s lying due to how wide-eyed he is about it. He’s honestly having the time of his life until all the demons keep cussing so badly he feels like his ears are going to literally bleed. After Luke started to question exactly where Satan meant when he said Lucifer should shove his shells somewhere, MC and Simeon decided to take turns covering his ears to preserve his innocence. 

He’s going to do his best to act like he didn’t cry when all the fighting and explosions started. After his shock, he focused on making sure MC is extra safe. He insisted that MC stay at Purgatory Hall until things were fixed.

Note: I am so behind on finishing headcanons and yet... despite having strange writer’s block I managed to come up with this at 3 am...I have no some regrets. 

Based off of:

MILD LESSON 24 SPOILERS

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Hi, but um, why did I see no one talk about how the strict and grumpy Lucifer played Mario Kart with the Prince of Hell?!

[scoopsgf]

can i get a good night’s sleep? can i PLEASE get a good night’s sleep?!

or: five times peter parker doesn’t sleep + the one time he does

my contribution to the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange! this is for @snarky-drabbles - I hope you enjoy it! 

1. 

The first time is actually just the first in a while. Peter’s had problems sleeping ever since he was a little kid; it was just one issue of many that stacked up on top of each other, resulting in his personal belief that he must be the most difficult kid to look after on the planet.

Asthma meant hundreds of dollars spent on inhalers, covering what their shitty insurance didn’t. His poor eyesight was the same story and the bullies that used to break his glasses had never helped. But it wasn’t just physical crap, of course: he’s had anxiety for as long as he can remember.

There are cute side-effects like panic attacks and nausea, not to mention the constant sense of impending doom he’s been nursing since… well, birth, probably. When he was younger he’d worry about whether or not the taxi driver had enough gas in his car to get them where they needed to go, or maybe Ben would get shot at work (ironically enough, he’d never worried that Ben would get shot off-duty, and there is a teeny superstitious sliver of him that believes maybe if he had considered the possibility it never would have happened, like some kind of a reverse jinx or something).

One of the other cute things that comes along with it is insomnia.

So here he is, pacing in his kitchen at three in the morning because May isn’t home yet.

Her shift ended at two. She’s usually back within a half hour considering the hospital isn’t far, hence his agitation.

He’s tried calling and texting to no avail, and he keeps telling himself that everything is fine, that she probably just got held up; meanwhile his subconscious provides a great slideshow of mental images that speak to the opposite—her getting kidnapped because somehow someone links her to Spider-Man, her getting hit with a car, mugged, shot, slipping on black ice—and that’s actually not far-fetched considering it’s January, there’s a lot of it, and so he pulls out his phone and types, You didn’t slip on black ice and die did you? to May.

No little dots appear to signify that she’s typing. The message doesn’t even change from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’.

She has her read receipts on. She’s promised him. There’s no reason she’d change that, right? But maybe she accidentally switched them off when she was scrolling through her settings.

He calls her.

“Hi, this is May Parker, I’m unavailable at the moment but if you leave me a message I’ll get back to you as soon as—”

Peter hangs up with a dissatisfied grunt.

It’s only then that he realises, to his great dismay, that he’s paced all the way onto the ceiling.

In his shock he loses concentration and falls. “Ow, fuck.” He pulls his aching knee to his chest. It’ll no doubt be bruised soon. “God has forsaken me.”

He picks up his now cracked phone and texts Ned:

I just fell off the ceiling at 3 AM in the morning

Don’t ask me what I was doing on it

Every bone in my body is broken :(

No reply comes which is pretty typical; Ned probably passed out in front of his PC like, hours ago. Peter can picture it: the light of his computer screen casting a blue glow over everything in the room, his head probably tucked into his arms to muffle his snores (and there’s also probably a bowl of stale popcorn spilled across his floor at this point), his creepy mother lurking in the doorway—or worse, trying to find out how to snoop through his laptop while he’s out of it.

Peter could totally go swing down there and help the guy out. It would be something to do anyway.

But no. The door is too far. His suit… too much work. It’s definitely better to just stay here curled up under the table like a little turtle.

But wait—a blanket.

Is it worth the effort? Probably. Peter scans his immediate surroundings and, oh boy, Lady Fate is actually on his side tonight because there’s a gigantic purple fluffy one hanging off the couch and it only takes a little bit of physical exertion to yank it down and wrap it around his body.

He burrows deeper into it and scrolls through Instagram. MJ posted a picture of a banana today. Literally like, just a banana. No caption, no explanation on her story, nothing.

Peter double taps it and comments: i hope u asked before u took his jacket

No like. No reply. That makes sense. It is three in the fucking morning, after all.

No. Three thirty. It’s been an hour and a half.

What had May said once? That it was okay to call someone if she was two hours late?

Peter tries texting and calling one more time and then just sits there, staring at his home screen and watching the minutes pass. At exactly four AM after much deliberation and stomach churning, he calls someone else.

Three rings later: “I’m in Vienna right now so this better be good.”

Peter feels even more nauseous than before. “Oh,” he says. “I guess—never mind, then. Sorry.”

“Wait, wait, that was just for show and I’m greatly intrigued as to why you’re calling me so… early? Late? Anyway I’m out of the conference room now so lay it on me.”

Against his will, Peter’s lip quirks up. “Um, it’s kind of stupid—”

“Nothing is ever stupid,” Tony says. “Especially when it’s coming from the brain of a kid with an intelligence quotient of 260.”

He feels his cheeks heat up and then it all just comes tumbling out, “It’s really late and May was supposed to be off at two and home by two-thirty, but she’s not and I don’t know what to do. I tried calling and texting but she’s not replying and I know that I’m probably just building it up in my head but I can’t help freaking out because like, what if she got stabbed or slipped on black ice or—”

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

Tony’s voice has softened immeasurably. Something uncoils in Peter’s stomach. He flops onto his side and closes his eyes. “I’m breathing.”

“That’s good, kiddo. Now just hang on a sec, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“Well she works there, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“And you haven’t tried calling them yet, correct?”

“...Correct.”

“Ergo,” Tony says.

“But I—”

“Yeah?”

Peter bites his lip and then he just blurts it: “I don’t want you to hang up.”

He feels like such a child but the thought of losing connection with Tony is literally making his heart palpitate and his palms sweat. He needs someone. He needs an adult.

“Well lucky for us both I have two phones.”

Peter cracks an eye. “You what?”

“I’m Tony Stark, don’t question it. Hang on, let me just—hello, hi, um, I need this room. No, it can’t wait. Yes the whole room. Yes locked. I don’t know, five minutes? Ten? An hour? No, I’m not joking. Thank you. Thanks. Yeah. Okay. Bye now.” Something slams shut—the door to the office Tony just stole, probably. “Okay, just a sec, I have the number for the reception desk she works at in my phone.”

Peter, for some reason, feels immeasurably comforted by that. He sits in silence gnawing on his lip while Tony has a somewhat muffled conversation he can’t hear the other side of. Then, “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Okay, well, they said she’s covering for someone and can’t get to the phone because a baby had to have emergency surgery so she’s literally in the OR as we speak. Pretty badass and not bad as far as excuses go. Now that you know she’s fine and not dead by ice, how about you get some shut-eye, okay kid?”

Peter swallows. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Tony.”

“No Mr. Stark this time, huh?”

“It’s too late for formalities.”

“I see,” Tony replies. “Sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead. Peter, slightly relieved but not fully consoled, rolls over to face the door. He doesn’t sleep at all that night and is still there when May comes home at six in the morning with bagels and apologies.

—

2. 

The anniversary of Ben’s death is always super weird.

This time it takes him a few minutes to remember what day it is: he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth and then it hits him like a train: oh, it’s been three years.

Then comes May. She usually tries to cook something for breakfast but like always it burns. He leaves the bathroom to the sound of the smoke alarm and fans a cookie sheet at the screeching little device while she swears up and down in Italian.

“It’s okay, May, really—”

“No, it’s not!” She snaps, tossing a batch of blackened cinnamon rolls into the trash. “I just want this day to be easy for you!”

Peter goes over to her and, after kicking the oven door shut with his foot, pulls her into his arms. May starts to cry even though she tries not to; sniffles turn into barely stifled sobs. He knows that it’s harder for her than it is for him. Ben was her husband and they’d been married for thirteen years when he died. Sometimes he still catches her looking to see if he’s laughing too when they watch TV, only to find an empty recliner.

“It’s okay for it to be a bad day,” he whispers. “You know that, right? I mean, I love you to pieces, May, but I don’t wanna see you bending over backwards for me.”

“But that’s my job, doofus.”

Peter pulls back. He’s an inch taller than her now. “No it’s not. We take care of each other, okay?”

Then comes school. Ned usually hovers nervously like an agitated gnat, too afraid to say anything, not sure if he should act normal or be sad in solidarity, which means it’s kind of Peter’s job to set the tone. As he’s putting his combination in for his locker he asks, “So did you beat that level of Obra Dinn last night?”

Ned, shoulders slumping with relief, starts to ramble on about how hard it was to do and how it took him like, thirty whole tries.

They go to class. Peter zones out. He doesn’t bother making more web fluid or ditching and he gets so inside his own head that Coach Wilson compliments him again during gym class. Peter deliberately slows down after that, even if it’s kind of irritating; being physically active actually helps work off his anger.

Because that’s what he is more than anything else: angry. At the mugger, yeah, but at himself more than anything else. It was his fault that they were out that night, anyway. It’s a wonder that May doesn’t hate his fucking guts.

When school is up Peter comes home to an empty house. He thinks about going on patrol but doesn’t really feel up to it, and then he feels bad for not wanting to do it because like, what if someone is dying?

So he puts on the suit and swings from rooftop to rooftop, but there’s no action today. Peter eventually settles on a fire escape with a burrito. A stray cat hops up after a while and, despite his matted fur and crazy eyes, Peter decides he has a kind of quiet dignity about him and names him Charles.

“Do you like beef?” He asks, holding some out for Charles to sniff. The cat yowls and, without any warning other than that, nearly chomps Peter’s fingers off to get the meat.

“Ow, jeez!” Peter shakes his wrist. “I was literally giving it to you for free, but go off I guess.”

Charles blinks his big brown marble eyes and then literally jumps off the fucking ledge. Peter leans over and watches him scamper across the street, somehow not getting hit by any traffic. Sometimes he thinks his spidey sense is more like feline sense in that way: he could probably manage the same thing with his eyes closed.

After a while the sun sets and all of the streetlights turn on. Peter does another patrol around the immediate vicinity but again, nothing. He stays out anyway though because he’d rather do his Chemistry homework behind a dumpster than sit alone in the apartment with nothing but the quiet for company. At least out and about there are sewer rats and mangy dogs and shady characters who actually just turn out to be skateboarders.

Peter is almost done with his assignment when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He looks up and finds Iron Man himself coming in for a landing. The suit drops with a barely audible clunk; it’s Mark 54, the sleekest and most lightweight model yet.

“Oh thank God,” says Tony’s voice, “you’re not dead.”

Peter frowns even though Tony can’t see it. “No,” he agrees slowly. “Why would I be dead? What are you doing here?”

“Well, your aunt called me in a panic at around four when she got home and you weren’t there, and then I checked the scanners and saw that you’d been here, completely stationary, for like five whole hours—needless to say I had a little bit of a heart attack and here I am, relieved and also mildly infuriated. Care to explain, young padawan?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again and, “It’s four AM?”

“Four fifteen,” Tony corrects.

“I didn’t even—I didn’t know! Shit, May’s totally gonna kill me, I might as well be dead—”

“Woah woah woah,” the faceplate lifts, “calm down, okay? No one is mad. Just, uh, concerned, I promise.”

Peter is still frantically packing up his school supplies and not really listening. He only stops when Tony gently touches him by lightly gripping his elbow. “Kid?”

Peter stares down at the older man’s hand. Behind the mask his eyes start to burn. “Ben died.”

“Pardon?”

“Ben died,” he repeats louder. “In this alley. Two years ago.”

All at once Tony’s face falls. He moves to sit by Peter on the grimy floor of the alley while the suit hovers nearby, a hollow shell, just the way Peter feels now.

“Kid,” Tony says, “take off the mask.”

“What? No, I’m in public—”

“No one’s around,” Tony says. “Just take it off, okay?”

Peter does, reluctantly peeling it back to reveal his tear-stained cheeks. Tony stares for a second and then, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Peter. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I—” he chokes. “I’m just so tired. I’m tired of having to watch May be strong for me when I can’t be strong back, and I’m tired of Ben not being around. I miss him and it—it’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s not. It’s never fair. That’s why it hurts, kiddo. You’ve got all this love and no place to put it.”

Peter bites his lip to stop it from quivering and looks away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I just feel pathetic.”

“Don’t,” Tony says firmly. “I felt the same way after my mom died and it… In some ways I don’t think the feeling ever actually went away, but uh, take it from someone who’s had a lot more time to process: no one is expecting anything from you, okay? And I can guarantee there’s not a single human that thinks two years is long enough to be perfectly fine again. You’re allowed to still be upset about this.”

And Peter is. He’s really, really fucking upset about it and so tired of holding it in. Tony pulls him against his chest when Peter starts to cry and it sort of seems like he’ll never be able to stop. There’s just so much, so much guilt and pain and all kinds of other bullshit that he refuses to lay on May.

So he lays it on Tony. And it’s surprisingly not horrible or awkward or even the end of the world.

“You good?” the older man asks, when Peter finally sobers up enough to wipe his cheeks dry and take a few steadying breaths.

“Yeah,” he says, voice ragged and awful-sounding. “Um, sorry. For freaking you and May out and ruining your shirt, I mean.”

“You know there’s this really snazzy invention called a washing machine—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Tony laughs and it makes Peter laugh too, and the tension between them just sort of dissipates. “Speaking of clothes,” Tony claps his hands together, “you got any to wear in that backpack?”

“Uh, jeans and a hoodie?”

“Fantastic, incredible. Throw them on, I’m taking you out for breakfast.”

“But what if someone sees?!”

“Let ’em. I’ll have Pep release a statement claiming you as my personal assistant or head intern or something.”

“That’s totally unrealistic.”

“Do I care? No. Just—okay? Up and at ’em, make haste, come on. What do you feel like, pancakes or waffles?”

They bicker about which is better the entire way to the little diner Tony choses, and Peter comes home full an hour later. May is fast asleep at the kitchen table. He kisses her forehead and starts on breakfast for her.

—

3. 

He’s thirty minutes into helping MJ study for her AP French test when she finally gets a question wrong. “‘Il n'est pas clair que’?” Peter queries, holding up the flash card.

“‘It’s not certain that’?”

He makes a pitying noise. “Close. ‘It’s not clear that’.”

“What’s not clear, exactly? That if I see one more word in French I’m gonna blow my brains out?”

Peter snorts. “No, actually it says more clarification is required on how much you like your boyfriend. Suggestions to improve that include: a hug, a kiss, both—”

“Neither?”

He pouts. “Mean.”

MJ rolls her eyes, but she kisses him first. She tastes like the Twizzlers they’ve been eating and her hands are in his hair and she laughs when he presses his lips to her cheeks and nose and forehead.

They somehow end up in an incredibly compromising position. “You know,” MJ muses, “I don’t think I’ve been studying the right kind of French.”

Peter, hovering over her (oops), nods in agreement. “This kind is definitely way better.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s so consumed with this: her and him and the smell of her jasmine shampoo—that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Almost.

Peter rips away abruptly. “What was that?”

She groans. “God, you’re such a dog sometimes.”

He ignores her, sitting alert with his eyes narrowed at the window and, sure enough, there it is again: a faint, blood-curdling scream. “Someone’s being attacked or something. Maybe four blocks away tops.”

MJ squints. “Don’t tell me you can echolocate.”

“I—” Peter’s mouth snaps shut and then opens again. “I actually don’t know. Anyway, I gotta go.”

He presses a quick kiss to her cheek, throws on his jacket, and quickly ducks out her fire escape (which happens to be the same way that he came in). He slips the mask on and tosses his hood up; it’s raining in heavy, icy sheets and Peter is drenched within seconds of swinging. He remembers the first time he’d gone out during a storm; the webbing he’d made hadn’t held up because the chemical formula hadn’t accounted for the massive amounts of water-based reaction, so the biocables had evaporated as they left his shooters. Thankfully he hadn’t jumped first that day, otherwise he would be a Peter Pancake.

Another scream sounds. Peter follows it and winds up latched onto the side of a two-story brick building. There’s an incredibly dark alley below, but a quick flash of lightning tells him everything he needs to know: one man is trying to wrestle a woman down, while another is rifling through her purse. He’s also holding a gun.

“Oh, cute,” he mutters sarcastically.

Peter tries to time it right: he takes aim and shoots a web right at the weapon with the next bout of lightning, but to his immense misfortune, the armed mugger had already seen him and was aiming right back. The bullet hits Peter in the side.

“Ow,” he says, “that was uncalled for.”

He drops. His side is throbbing and hot but he ignores it in favour of disarming the guy who shot him. It’s a brief struggle but Peter ends up whacking the gun out of his hand and webbing it to the wall opposite. Then he knocks the guy out with a solid upper cross to the temple.

Peter rounds. The assailant has already fled, leaving the woman shivering but relatively unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asks.

“Me? That guy shot you!”

Peter looks down at his side which is now stained with blood. “Oh, yeah.”

He’d actually forgotten for half a second. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he’s starting to really feel it: a burning sensation in his abdomen, an aching that pulses from his stomach to his chest. Ah. Wonderful.

A little dazed, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. Super healing. Are you good? You need me to call you a cab?”

“What? No, um��the police station is like, down the block, I can go get them.”

“Are you sure? Because I can totally do that—”

“I can handle myself,” she says sharply, bending down to pick up her purse and the discarded items within. “It’s just… there were two of them and there was a gun and—”

“I get it,” Peter says, his hand pressing harder into his side as the world grows blurrier around the edges. “You really don’t want me to at least walk you down?”

“I’ll take a taxi,” she says. “You just, um, get yourself fixed up, okay? And thanks.”

“Yeah, sure, anytime! But, y’know, preferably never again,” Peter says, and proceeds to swing away.

—

Tony doesn’t expect to get woken up at two AM after only just falling asleep five minutes before, but such is life; FRIDAY’s voice bleeds through the speakers above to inform him that Spider-Man is currently rifling through the Med-Bay and bleeding from a wound on his side.

Pepper looks at him. “You heard that too, right? That was real?”

“It was real.”

They both scramble out of bed. Tony takes the lead, throwing on his jacket as he runs toward the elevator. It’s times like these when every second stretches out into an eternity; it takes maybe five of them to get from their floor to the Med-Bay, but it feels like forever.

The doors open and there’s Peter, perched on a gurney with his shirt gone and a whole lot of blood staining his side. He’s bent awkwardly, clearly trying to feel his way around whatever wound he’s got.

“Um,” Tony says, approaching, “What.”

Peter looks up and—yeah, he’s lost a lot more blood than Tony had originally thought. His face is fucking drained. “Hey,” he says, offering a jaunty wave before returning his attention to his side. “I got shot.”

“Oh!” Tony nods. “Oh, okay. What the fuck, kiddo?”

“I know, right?” Peter glances up. “Hey, Pepper.”

“Peter,” she returns. “Do you mind if I wash my hands and take a look at that?”

“If you want. It’s kinda gross, though.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Through this exchange Tony was already washing up, and now he dons a pair of gloves and sits on the rolling stool. “Looks like it’s through and through,” he tells Pep over his shoulder. “Could you grab a couple suture kits and, uh, the stuff?”

Pepper makes a face. “The stuff?”

“You know,” Tony says, “The Good Stuff.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that stuff.”

Tony feels around the area. “Do you know what kind of gun was used?”

“Looked like your standard nine mil,” Peter replies. His voice is growing a little slurred.

That’s good though, about the gun. Means there’s probably not any bullet fragments to worry about. Tony grabs a load of gauze and presses it against the wound. He checks Peter’s pulse while he’s at it and finds that it’s slowed considerably. “We’re gonna have to get you some blood, too. A neg, right?”

“Yuppers.”

Tony excuses that because after all, the kid is bleeding out on a table. Said kid actually starts to swing his legs back and forth and, yeah, that’s not gonna fly. “Do me a favour and lay back? I’m gonna put this towel right under you for now.”

Peter doesn’t have any arguments, or if he does, he doesn’t vocalise them. Pepper comes back in with the kits and drugs and, because she’s just smarter than him like that, bags of blood.

Tony grabs the vials first and loads up a syringe. Peter is pretty numb to all of it until the needle goes in. Then he frowns. “Why are you injecting me with alien blood?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not alien blood, it’s a pain killer. A serious one at that, so you’re probably gonna feel a little out of it for a while, okay?”

Peter frowns. “Is it for Steve?”

Tony tenses, but it’s only for a second. “Yes,” he says, somewhat tightly.

“Ugh. What a turd, Mr. Stark. You’re giving me turd vitamins!” Tony scoffs while Pepper laughs. Peter notices. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re not helping me here,” Tony says to her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here, have some thread.”

Tony sighs. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

Peter does. Pepper passes him various supplies and they work together to sew up both ends of the gunshot wound. By the time they’re done, Peter hasn’t moved once, but his eyes are open and he’s frowning.

“How do you feel?”

“Wired,” he says.

“Seriously? Bruce never said anything about the side-effects, but I figured they’d be like normal pain-killers; make you drowsy and all that.”

“No,” Peter sits up quickly and doesn’t even flinch. “I feel like I just got steroids or something. Are you—are you actually telling me that Captain America’s drugs are infused with a stimulant? What, so he can keep fighting even when he’s in the middle of dying?”

Tony blinks. “Well that was smart of dear Banner.”

“Yeah, or insane.” Peter flexes his hands. “I feel like I need to go for a run, or like, break something.”

“Let’s avoid that,” Tony says, pushing him back down. “You need to heal, not mess yourself up even more, understood?”

Peter stares. “Is it normal to see sounds?”

Pepper bursts out laughing again. “I’m sorry,” she says when Tony glares. “Really, I am, I promise. Peter, honey, how about we get you to a bedroom where you can rest up? We’ll call your aunt and explain everything.”

—

Everything is going fine until May asks, “How did you get to the Tower so quick, then?”

Peter blinks. “Hmm? Pardon?”

“If you were at Ned’s,” May says, “how’d you manage to swing all the way across town?”

Peter opens his mouth and closes it. “I, uh… well, funny story, um… I wasn’t actually at Ned’s?”

There’s a pause over the phone. Pepper, who’s holding it, raises an eyebrow. May says: “You told me you were going to Ned’s, Peter.”

His face feels hot. He hopes it isn’t red. Both Pepper and Tony—from the doorway with his hands stuffed in his sweatpant pockets—are staring. It’s almost as bad as if May were really here.

“Well I was going to Ned’s, but then I changed my mind and went somewhere else and oh—look at the time! I think we’re going through a tunnel—”

“Don’t even try to pull that crap! That’s it, I’m coming over there—”

“May,” Peter says, serious now, “you’re in the middle of a shift, there’s people dying. Just—I’m perfectly fine, I took my Captain America drugs and everything is gonna be okay.”

“But you lied to me.”

“No, I changed my mind.”

“And went where?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Peter.”

“May.”

She groans from the other end of the line and demands to speak to Pepper one on one. Tony’s fiancé grins and switches off speaker, before slipping out with a bright laugh to finish off the conversation. Tony stares expectantly. “So where were you?”

“Oh my god, not you too. You know, on second thought, I actually am completely exhausted and—”

“Uh, nope,” Tony flops down onto the bed. “Fess up.”

Peter sighs. He squirms down and covers his pillow with a head. “No.”

Tony joins him under it. “Tell me.”

Peter scowls. He rolls onto his side so they’re facing one another. “I was with my girlfriend.”

“Oooo—”

“Shush! It’s… it’s really not a big deal and I haven’t told May yet because MJ and I haven’t even really talked about it and it all happened super fast and—” he remembers to breathe, “I just… I always tell May everything, you know? But I kind of just felt like… this was something I had to figure out first on my own. Maybe it’s stupid, but I know she’s gonna be super hurt when she finds out it’s been a month and I haven’t said anything—”

“Kid,” Tony cuts in. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Peter promises, because he is. He’s also just incredibly hyper and stressed.

“It’s a normal instinct to want to figure things out and define them before you start announcing them to the world. I get that. But you’re still a kid, Pete, and even if you don’t want people prying into your love life, we still need to know where you are in case something goes wrong.”

Peter harrumphs as he turns away. “There’s a tracker on my phone and my suit. It would be easier to find me than anything else.”

Tony clicks his tongue. “You got a point there.”

“I just wanted time.”

“I know.”

“But I really like her, okay? Like she’s so smart and she’s got this really dark sense of humour and she’s actually kind of terrifying sometimes—”

“Oh, the scary ones are always fun.”

They stay up talking through the night and, when the sun comes up, Pepper joins them with a tray of freshly made blueberry waffles. May arrives around the same time and, looking too tired to be mad, simply drops onto the bed with them and steals what’s left of his food.

—

4. 

Peter is on patrol when he hears it:

a soft, quiet yelping coming from somewhere down below the rooftop he’s perched on.

At first he figures he’s imagining things, but then his ears perk again. He leans over the building’s edge to find the source of the noise.

In the dark it’s hard to make anything out, so he climbs slowly down the side of the wall, squinting. There’s another yelp and a low whine, almost pained. Peter zeroes in on the sound and creeps toward a set of dumpsters; they’re so full of trash they’re overflowing, and it’s underneath a broken down cardboard box that he finds it... 

A puppy.

Now, Peter is no liar. He’s wanted a dog since he was like, a fetus. The words ‘A dog’ have been on every birthday and Christmas list for as long as he can remember. It’s only recently, in the years since Ben’s death, that he’s pretty much given up—after all, May is so overworked and they can barely afford to feed themselves. How could they afford a pet?

But also…

This is the cutest dog he’s ever seen.

It’s tiny and fluffy and brown and has the biggest, saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

Peter kind of just stands there staring like an idiot for a good few seconds and then slowly kneels down. “Um, hi,” he says, in the gentlest voice he can manage. The puppy, who can’t be older than a few weeks and looks completely starved and exhausted, whines in response.

Peter holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. It lifts its head lazily and leans forward, nose twitching and dry. “You need water, huh? Come on, I know a place.”

—

“Shelob,” Tony greets without looking up from whatever project he’s working on. “What can I do for you at… one in the fucking morning?”

“I need your help with something, but you have to promise you won’t get mad or make me get rid of him—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what have you done now?”

“He was just so helpless and cold and small and…” Peter swallows and reveals the puppy, presently wrapped up in his hoodie. “Meet Nugget.”

Tony’s face is the epitome of Disappointed Dad. He stares, open-mouthed, and after a second his shoulders fall. “Well, fuck.”

Peter snuggles Nugget against his chest and steps closer, but then Tony holds up a hand to stop him. “Nah-ah! Not until that thing gets a flea bath!”

Hope sparks in Peter’s chest. “You mean we can keep him?”

“I mean there’s no way I’m getting near him until I know I won’t break out in hives.”

“That’s not how fleas work.”

“Do I care? No. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

—

“Why do you have flea shampoo?”

Peter’s inquiry is made tentatively. They both have their hands in the sud-filled sink as they systematically wash Nugget’s fur.

“There was… an incident a while ago. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Peter stares. Blinks. “Okay. Well, I think he’s clean.”

Nugget barks as if in agreement, and so Peter and Tony lift him out of the basin and set him on a pile of no doubt expensive, fluffy white towels. Tony takes the lead after that. He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with the yapping, impatient puppy—even when Nugget tries to claw at him and shake himself dry, Tony never loses his cool.

A few minutes later they’re sitting on their stomachs watching Nugget stomp around on a blanket. There’s water in a bowl for him at one corner and a plate of chopped up chicken at another.

“I can’t take him home,” Peter says morosely after a few minutes. “May won’t let me keep him.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where does she even think you are right now?”

“...In my bed.”

“Wow,” Tony says, deadpan. “Okay, well, I most certainly can’t keep him either.”

“What?! Why not?!”

Tony sighs. “I’m Iron Man, if you hadn’t noticed, kiddo—”

“Oh, what, so you’re too tough to look after him?”

“No, I’m too busy. I spend like, twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in a day in my shop and the rest of the time I’m on my knees apologising to Pepper and begging for forgiveness. There’s no time in-between to feed the pup, walk the pup—”

“I could come by,” Peter blurts. “Like, once a day, and I could make sure he’s eaten and play with him and stuff. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger—”

“Except to press ‘purchase’ on my shopping cart full of dog food—”

“Tony,” Peter cuts in, pleading, “please? I can’t just drop him off at some kennel so they can—” he covers the dog’s ears, “so they can euthanize him in a week when no one buys him. He deserves so much better, you know?”

Tony frowns, considering it, and Peter waits with his breath caught in his throat until, “God, fine.”

“Yes!”

“But! But! A pet is a serious responsibility, okay? You might as well be adopting a child—”

“What would you know about raising kids?” Peter asks, only jokingly, but Tony just stares and then, for some reason, smiles.

“You have to make sure he’s happy,” Tony says. “You have to be there for him in whatever way he needs, alright? I’ll set up a pen in the penthouse and you can make sure he works off his energy there, and if I have time I’ll even take you both to the park. And if he ever happens to pee on my carpet, I’m counting on you to clean it up.”

“Don’t you have, like, housekeepers for that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but this is character building stuff.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll clean up the pee.”

They continue to iron out the details for a while and bicker over whether Nugget’s last name should be Parker or Stark, and it’s only when Pepper walks in—still in her pajamas, bleary eyed and complaining that they woke her up—that they both decide it should be ‘Potts’.

—

5. (+1)

It starts with a headache.

He’s bent over his desk studying for a Calc test when the throbbing begins. It’s not so bad at first, but after a half hour or so his vision is swimming and he keeps having to take breaks to massage his temples and close his eyes. The equations are all blending together and he can’t think straight anymore.

Peter decides to give up right around then. After all, if he’s not gonna retain any of the information, why bother?

May pokes and prods through dinner. Peter tries to fool her by acting like everything is normal and okay and even manages to make her laugh once or twice.

Inside, dread is coiling through his stomach like an irritated snake. He knows what’s coming next; after all, he doesn’t really get sick anymore, so what else could it be?

Peter tries to sleep but ends up tossing and turning for most of the night. He falls into some kind of half-conscious daze at around four in the morning and rouses about twenty minutes later, soaked with sweat and aching everywhere.

Feeling like he’s gonna vomit, Peter kicks off his blankets and strips the sheets off his bed. He takes his shirt off because the fabric is too abrasive against his skin and it’s like he can feel every fibre tickling against it, grating and chafing. He curls up into a tight ball and covers his ears with his hands to block out the now amplified sounds of the city: car alarms, dogs barking, music playing.

Normally Peter loves the way New York is never silent. Now, he just wishes everyone would shut the fuck up for once.

When he stumbles out of his room a little while later, May is already gone. She’d told him the night before that she had an early shift and for once he’s actually grateful. Haltingly, Peter gets ready for school. He’s already skipped three days this month and if he misses this Calc quiz he’s gonna fucking bomb the class.

May would kill him.

It’s better to suffer a little than die.

Brushing his teeth makes his head spin and the minute he wriggles into his clothes he feels like a caged animal about to claw his skin off. Everything takes so much longer than normal. He doesn’t eat because the mere thought of food makes the back of his throat sting with bile.

On the train, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to tune out the constant screeching of the rails. One day, on God, he will make it a personal project to oil every fucking line in the subway.

At his fifth stop, an old lady boards and all the seats are taken.

Peter swallows thickly and stands. Black spots dance in his vision and he grabs onto the overhead bar—something he hasn’t actually needed to use since he was a little kid—and tries not to pass out.

He almost misses the stop to get to school, but slips out at the last second, millimetres away from getting his backpack caught in the doors. Peter is hot all over and lightheaded as he makes his way out of the station. It’s even hotter up above, what with summer coming now and all.

Peter is late and he doesn’t need his watch to tell; Flash’s car is already parked out front instead of zooming through the drop off to run him over (which, hey, silver lining), and the majority of the student body is already inside.

Peter has to stop multiple times on his way to Spanish just to breathe. By the time he gets there he’s at least ten minutes late for roll call.

“Mr. Parker,” his teacher greets, unimpressed. “So glad you could join us.”

Peter makes a noise and takes the proffered quiz. He wonders absently why some people choose to teach. What is it, like, some kind of power trip for them?

He has five minutes to finish the quiz but doesn’t make it past the first question. Ned volunteers to collect them and stops at Peter’s desk while Professor Scott outlines today’s lesson plan.

“Dude,” he whisper-hisses, “you look like complete shit. What on Earth are you doing here right now?”

“Test,” Peter mutters dully, resting his cheek on his hand and closing his eyes. “Here you go. Didn’t finish it.”

Ned takes it carefully, holding it with two fingers like it’s covered in disease. “Do you want me to get the nurse or something?”

Peter hums. “No. Just… headache.”

Slowly Ned backs away. “Um—”

“Mr. Leeds!” Professor Scott says, loudly. Ned jumps. “Is there a problem back there?”

Yes, Peter thinks. You’re the human version of nails on a fucking chalk board. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just start on the vocab.

Only he accidentally says all of that out loud.

The whole class is staring. Flash is slack-jawed. Betty Brant’s eyes are the size of small moons.

“Parker,” Scott grits out—and Peter has denominated him to just Scott now out of reciprocation and spite; “You just earned yourself a shiny new detention. I’d like you to take this slip to the principal’s office. Please.”

Oh, thank God. At least it’ll be quiet there.

Peter stands and brushes past Ned and it literally feels like flames of hell are licking against his skin. He almost vomits. This is decidedly not good.

He takes the paper. “Gladly, good sir.”

When he’s gone, there’s an outburst of muttering that his enhancements let him hear. It only makes the overload worse. Peter covers his ears with his hands again and, overcome with a sudden wave of vertigo, ducks into the bathroom.

He barely makes it to the toilet before emptying his stomach of last night’s food.

Peter sags against the wall, panting. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to stop spinning. About ten minutes later, the smell of jasmine shampoo—normally welcome—causes him to lean over and retch again.

MJ pokes her head inside the unlocked stall. “Jesus,” she whispers. The second her hands touch his body he flinches and she immediately retracts them. “Fuck, sorry. Ned said you wigged out in Spanish. I looked for you in the Principal's office but you weren’t there and... What’s—what’s wrong? I thought you couldn’t even get sick.”

“Bad headache,” he mutters, spitting into the toilet. It’s easier than explaining about his freakish mutations and how they sometimes go completely haywire, leaving him on edge and nauseous and irritable.

MJ grabs him some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. “Did you take anything?”

“Pain meds don’t work on me.”

“Does May know? You should have called in.”

“Couldn’t. Can’t miss my test.”

She sighs. “Your final is like fifty percent of your grade and you could pass it with your eyes closed. You can miss your test, you’re just afraid of getting anything lower than an A.”

Peter is silent. “You got me there.”

MJ’s hand twitches like she wants to touch him but knows she can’t. “You need to go home. Lie down, get some rest.”

“May is working,” Peter says, “and if I have to take the subway again right now I’ll die. I really will. It’s so—the smell and the noise and I can’t sit down and—”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Just give it.”

She’s holding her hand out for it and giving him a no-nonsense expression that kind of reminds Peter of Pepper Potts on a rampage. He’s seen what happens to Tony when he crosses her, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Hold on.”

She stands and leaves. Peter closes his eyes again. He tunes out her conversation because if he doesn’t, he’s absolutely gonna vomit again and nobody wants that.

MJ slips back inside the stall. “Okay, solved. Do you still feel like you’re gonna vomit?”

Peter thinks about it. “No.”

“Good. We’re gonna go to the nurse, okay?”

“Oh boy.”

—

Tony Stark walks into Peter’s school and finds the hallways empty. The classroom doors are shut and the muted sounds of teachers lecturing are the only signs that anyone is here at all.

He finds Peter in the infirmary, sitting on the examination table with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes.

He’s at his side in an instant. “Kid?”

It’s surprise that gets Peter’s eyes open, but the little spider baby immediately regrets it. He flinches and sucks in a sharp breath. “Tony,” he whispers, like the name is all he can manage and the questions will have to wait for later.

Tony looks him over. There are no obvious injuries. The girl on the phone had said it was just a headache, but Tony is way more experienced with Peter’s brand of bullshit and knows there’s usually something else going on beneath the surface.

“I’m gonna go talk to the nurse and then get you out of here, okay?”

A nod.

It’s always a bad thing when he doesn’t argue. Peter Parker would start a fight about what kind of pizza to order, even if you suggest the kind he really wants, just to be a stubborn little shit about things.

Tony slips out of the exam room. The nurse looks up when he enters her office. “Oh my—Mr. Stark?!”

“Yes, hello,” Tony takes a cautious step forward as she stands. He doesn’t bother to sit. “I’m here to pick up the little gremlin in there.”

Her face flushes. “I didn’t know you’d been called, I—I figured I would just let him wait it out, you know? He didn’t want to be touched, so it was hard to figure out what was up and—so it’s real? About the internship?”

“Of course. Why would he lie?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Well… you know how kids can be.”

“Do I?”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Tony sighs. “Look, Nurse—uh, Timms—Nurse Timms, can I please just sign the kid out and take him home? He’s clearly in pain here.”

She starts rifling through her desk for a form. “I mean, I can admit you to take him home, but I really suggest you talk with the principal first—Peter was given a detention before he was brought to my ward, see, and I was—” she shakes her head. “I thought he might be faking.”

Tony stares without blinking for a whole five seconds and then, “Detention? For what?”

“I heard he bad-mouthed a teacher or something. But to be fair, Professor Scott isn’t exactly what I’d call patient.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Tony takes the form she hands him to sign, “my kid doesn’t fake. He has a condition, see. Gets uh… overloaded. Sounds, smells, it can be too much for him. Probably why he snapped.”

“That… that makes sense.”

“Yes,” he says succinctly, and hands the paper back. “You’d know that if you bothered to ask. Anyway, I’ll be going. Thanks for the help, Nurse Times.”

“Uh, it’s—it’s Timms—”

The door shuts behind him.

—

MJ was forced to go back to class. She’d argued and protested but Nurse Timms was insistent. So, MJ had relented. She’d pressed the lightest of kisses on his forehead and it surprisingly hadn’t felt that bad, and then she’d gone.

Tony Stark had shown up about twenty minutes later and it’s just when Peter’s starting to think it was all just a vivid hallucination that the smell of coffee and motor oil fills his senses again. It’s overwhelming but not debilitating.

“Kiddo,” Tony whispers, ���is it okay to touch you?”

Peter cracks an eye. Everything is bright but Tony’s suit is mercifully black, so he focuses on that. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna move.”

“Well I gotta get you outta here somehow.”

“But my detention—”

“I already got you out of it,” Tony says breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tony,” Peter says, cheeks flushing. “You can’t just bribe my principal into—”

“I didn’t bribe anyone. I just explained the situation and besides, Morita’s an old friend.”

Peter closes his eyes again as he frowns. “You’re friends with my principal?”

“I’m a benefactor for your school, too,” Tony says. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.”

Something shifts in the air. Tony is sitting now. “Happy’s waiting outside,” he says, “but whenever you’re ready.”

Peter thinks about it for a few seconds and decides it’s gonna have to happen at some point, anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off now. Slowly he takes a deep breath and manages to sit up with Tony’s help. The older man tries to avoid touching him as much as possible, but surprisingly enough the weight of his hand against Peter’s spine isn’t crushing or aggravating. It doesn’t hurt.

“Baby steps,” Tony says softly. “We’ll take you out the side door, okay?”

Even getting to the door is slow going but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Right before they open it, Tony stops and pulls his sunglasses off. “Here, try these.”

Peter puts them on. He feels ridiculous because like, they work on Tony who was literally born in the seventies, but Peter really doesn’t dig the groovy shades. Regardless they’re better than nothing and even help a little.

The halls are empty again. Most of the students will be in the gym right about now, or the cafeteria for lunch. They don’t run into anybody on the way out and as soon as they’re in the back of the car, Peter sags against Tony’s side. He feels like he’s just run ten miles.

“Drive, Hogan,” Tony says, and then the partition glides up.

For a few seconds it’s almost completely quiet. Noise suppression tech, Peter realises, and he feels like he could cry from relief. For the first time in hours there’s just… nothing. No traffic, no dozens of students talking at once. The air conditioning unit is filtered, so he’s not being attacked with the smell of body odour and clashing perfume scents and Axe cologne. There’s just Tony and beautiful, amazing, showstopping silence.

Tony shifts a little. “Better?”

Peter nods, figuring it’s still probably not safe to speak.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tony says softly.

—

Peter doesn’t remember much after the car ride. He can vaguely recall protesting getting out of the Audi, and he remembers Tony assuring him that everything would be okay, and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back in an utterly dark bedroom. The walls are insulated just like the car had been, so there’s just no sound, and the bed sheets probably have the highest thread count of all time.

Something shifts beside Peter and he realises Tony is there, feeling his forehead.

“What—?”

“Oh, hey,” Tony greets. “I think you might’ve blacked out there. All the noise hit you at once when we got out of the car and you just…”

“I fainted?”

Tony snorts softly. “Relax. It happens to the best of us. How do you feel, Webster?”

Peter hums. “Bad.”

“Let’s try a scale of one to ten.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Ten.” Tony lets out a little grunt at that and so Peter elaborates, “It was at like, a twenty this morning, so.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony’s grip shifts to Peter’s wrist to measure his pulse. “This okay?”

“It’s fine.”

And it really is. He doesn’t feel like burning his skin off or anything. Tony’s hands are just warm.

“Any idea what brought this on?”

Peter shifts a little. “I uh… haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.” He swallows. “Like, at all.”

“And how long’s that been going on for?”

“I don’t know. On and off for a few weeks, I guess.”

“Jesus,” Tony sighs and pulls his hand away. He rakes it through his hair. “Kiddo, what have we said about communication? Does May know?”

“....No?”

There’s a long pause where Tony just kind of sits there thinking, like he wants to say whatever comes next carefully. He massages his temples and then: “Alright, scooch over.”

“What?”

“Make room for me.”

Peter blinks and then, tentatively, scoots over a little to allow Tony room to lie down. The older man does, arching his back a little and grunting in pain because he’s like, ancient. They’re not touching, but very slowly Peter starts inching closer again. Eventually he works up the courage to try resting his head on Tony’s chest, which is terrifying not only because it’s Tony Stark, but also because he’d rather not have his brain implode.

Nothing happens. “Your fabric softener must be like, super expensive,” he whispers, because this is actually better than the sheets.

Tony snorts. “I’ll ask Pep about it.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and before he knows it, his eyes are closing. For once they actually feel heavy, and the steady rhythm of Tony’s heart beat is soothing, dependable.

Tony’s hands brush lightly over Peter’s hair and then thread through it. “Too much?”

“No,” Peter promises. “Good.”

And so Tony’s fingers run through his curls over and over, gently, lightly. His thumb sweeps over Peter’s cheek once, too, and then he starts muttering in Italian.

Peter cracks an eye. “Are you telling me your grocery shopping list?”

Tony laughs a little. “My mom used to do it for me,” he says. “Something about just hearing her speak the language made me feel… relaxed, I guess. Didn’t matter what she was saying.”

Peter smiles and wraps an arm around Tony’s torso. “Tell me something else.”

“You wanna hear about the time I almost blew up a Chem lab?”

“Uh, duh.”

So Tony launches into it, speaking in a low voice and absently twisting one of Peter’s curls around his finger. It feels nice and the headache is fading fast.

Peter sleeps. 

[ggukcangetit]

Chocolates & Laundry Do Not Mix - JJK fic

title: Chocolates & Laundry Do Not Mix [Prequel to Crime & Punishment]

pairing: jungkook x reader

rating: PG 13

warnings: language, y/n uses a pillow to deal with her frustration, not much else?

word count: 3.5k

summary: when your best friend, Namjoon, asks if a junior from his business ventures class can live with you till his lease comes through, you don’t think much about it. But one month with Jeon Jungkook proves to be extremely difficult because of how little the boy says but how much he seems to topple over without much effort.

a/n: this is the first fic for jungkook’s birthday! happy birthday to the bestest, most lovely, wonderful, soft-hearted boy out there. we love you, koo! wishing you happiness always <3

Before Jungkook

Namjoon is a great guy. He’s smart, funny, considerate, thoughtful, kind, and definitely one of the best looking guys out there. You love him, you really do. But there are times when you wish you could roundhouse kick his dimpled ass out of the window. And this would be one of those moments. 

“It’ll only be for a couple of months, y/n.” Namjoon sat down on the grass, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Seokjin reached over you and handed him the last neatly packed chicken wrap he had brought. “The lease at his old place ran out last week, and the place he’s going to move to doesn’t allow tenants before August. You’re the only one of us who currently doesn’t have a roommate.”

You frowned, the wonderfully seasoned chicken inside Seokjin’s wrap not really registering in your system. “Seokjin can’t?”

“You do know that I just graduated and will be moving to a different city in a couple of days, right?” He shot you a look and promptly flopped onto the grass dramatically.

“What about Yoongi?” 

“He’s moved in with his girlfriend.” Namjoon quirked an eyebrow. “Do you not read any of the messages in the group chat?”

“Jimin? Hobi?” You were desperate at this point.

“Hobi lives with me. And Jimin lives with Taehyung right now. But the two of them are planning to move into a new apartment before classes start in the fall and Jungkook will be staying with them after that! So what do you say?” Namjoon stared at you expectantly. “Can Jungkook crash at your place for the summer?”

If it were up to you, some random junior from Namjoon’s business class would not be crashing at your modest apartment while you slaved your ass off working part-time so that your job prospects would be minutely better at the time of graduation. But then - you stared at Namjoon’s inquiring gaze and Seokjin’s knowing eyebrow raise - it was never really up to you, was it? No. Somehow, all decisions in your friend group had become a matter of collective responsibility. Yoongi wants to buy a new sound system? Well, it must be compatible with the latest AR gaming technology so that Seokjin can come over and use it whenever he wants. Hobi’s ordering a designer jacket for his birthday? It can’t be orange because Jimin wouldn’t be caught dead wearing orange. 

And the list goes on…

What it ultimately came down to was that Jungkook would be staying at your place over the summer. If you said no, your friends would definitely understand… But you would feel like a piece of shit for the rest of the year. So-

“Thanks for letting me stay here, y/n.” Jungkook wasn’t what you had expected. Although you had received very contrasting, even conflicting, descriptions of him from your friends.

“He’s a shy guy,” Namjoon said while walking his bike out of the university courtyard. “Doesn’t speak to a lot of people easily.”

Seokjin, naturally, had said something completely different. “He’s the toughest guy I know. Dude could easily bench press us all at the same time.”

That had left you a little worried so, of course, you decided to speak to Hobi. “Jungkook? Haha! That guy’s really something else! He barely sleeps at night because he’s playing video games! And he’s a snack monster!”

Your mind immediately went to the basket of snacks you kept at your apartment. There was no way this guy would touch your stuff, right?

“Jungkook’s a total prankster!” Jimin giggled while sipping his iced tea. “You should see the stuff he and Tae get up to sometimes!”

“It’s no big deal.” Your reply lacked the minimal amount of enthusiasm required to not be considered a big deal, though. If Jungkook picked up on that, he didn’t say anything.

Week 1 with Jungkook

The first couple of days went by without any issues. He seemed like a quiet guy who kept to himself - so far Namjoon’s description had been the most accurate - and you supposed two months with him around wouldn’t be terrible.

That’s where you were sorely mistaken. Suddenly, you found the fridge full of banana milk cartons - not a few bottles, mind you, but a few cartons of banana milk. Every single cupboard in the kitchen was now stuffed with protein supplements, low carb snacks, and the entire country’s supply of instant ramen. Now, you didn’t have anything against instant ramen per se - heck, you really enjoyed the beauty of a quick delicious meal at the end of a long day - but this was pushing things a little. Because for every single instant ramen packet placed in the kitchen, something of yours had to be displaced rather dramatically.

For instance, you had woken up early one Tuesday morning, craving chocolate chip pancakes like nobody’s business. The chocolate chips were kept on the middle shelf of the third cupboard from the left - as they had been since you had moved in a year ago. You knew exactly where your things were placed and, having the unassailable confidence of an only child who has never had to share their space and now lives on their own as well, you opened the cupboard door without looking up. This was clearly not as smart a decision as you had imagined because a ton of instant ramen packets came cascading down on your head. 

Jungkook came rushing out of his bedroom, alarmed by the sound of loud and colourful cursing coming from the kitchen. “Is everything okay?!”

The look on your face was probably one Seokjin would have laughed at until he had tears in his eyes. But Jungkook, completely unacquainted with your temper and the peculiar things that set you off, looked like he had just found out that he was allergic to both banana and dairy. Actually, he looked more like Hobi the day he had come home to find Jimin and Taehyung working on the latter’s art project which had resulted in the most tragic paint spill on the most beautiful white carpet in the history of college roommate sagas. 

“Oh shit! The ramen- I’m so sorry, y/n!” Jungkook ran towards you to try and help. Unfortunately, he was both hesitant to physically check if you were okay and eager in his desire to make things alright, resulting in a collision which sent you hurtling towards the ground in what would have been an extremely nasty fall. To Jungkook’s credit, he had some insanely rapid reflexes and managed to catch you before you hit the tiled floor and cracked your skull open. 

There was a brief moment between when he wrapped his arm around your waist and when your brows furrowed in annoyance, where you caught a whiff of his apple-scented shampoo and noticed the tiny mole on the bridge of his nose. 

Cute.

You wriggled out of his hold and fixed him with a look that, hopefully, conveyed that you were supremely displeased with his ramen placement without actually having to tell him off. 

“S-sorry about that.” The look had done its job. Jungkook quickly gathered up the fallen ramen packets and stuffed them into the nearest drawer - which then could not be closed.

“How much ramen do you have…?” Your annoyance was replaced with sheer curiosity at this point.

“Oh, uh… I won a gaming contest and the first prize was a year’s worth of instant ramen.” He scratched the back of his neck self-consciously, cheeks turning pink in embarrassment.

You sighed. “Come on, let me show you the extra storage space behind the shoe cupboard.”

Week 2 with Jungkook

Jungkook wasn’t a loud and inconsiderate roommate. In fact, after the ramen debacle of the first week, he had been coexisting with you quite beautifully. Sometimes you would cook dinner, curse at the fact that you had to cook dinner, and then secretly cherish the absolute delight on Jungkook’s face as he ate the dinner you had cooked. Other times, he would tap into his self-proclaimed noodle know-how and whip up some sort of deluxe instant ramen dish, which always turned out to be heavenly and it was all you could do to stop yourself from moaning in pleasure while you both slurped the noodles.

Then, of course, were the times when you ordered takeout, and somehow attracted all the ravenous souls present on the group chat. It didn’t matter whether it was sushi or tacos or fried chicken or pizza or chinese or even a batch of mini donuts from the tiny shop opposite your apartment - all six of them invariably came knocking a few minutes before the food was delivered.

“Gguk, how’s the summer internship going?” Yoongi was holding his third slice of pizza, sitting on the floor with his legs spread haphazardly. This was one of the rare times when he had dropped by for a random friday hangout - his friday nights were usually reserved for his girlfriend. 

Jungkook looked up from the game he had been playing with Taehyung and Seokjin. “Oh, it’s fine. The usual internship bullshit.” He let out a small winner as his car flew past the others just before the finish line.

“This damn game is rigged,” muttered Seokjin. “How come nobody but Jungkook ever wins?”

“That’s because you suck, Jin!” Jungkook ducked out of the way as Seokjin reached out to punch him. “Face it, racing games aren’t your thing.”

At the other end of the room, Hobi was dozing off at the dining table while Jimin and Namjoon played their 9th game of Go Fish. Yoongi bit into the pizza and motioned Taehyung to get him a beer from the fridge. 

“We should go clubbing.” Taehyung’s impulsive and, frankly, terrible ideas were usually a result of a three-game losing streak. If there was anyone who hated losing more than Seokjin, it was the raven haired guy with soft curls falling on his forehead, staring at all of you with his piercing gaze.

“I’m exhausted. I had classes from 9-7 today,” said Namjoon, waving his hand dismissively.

“I work on Saturdays, Tae. You know that.” Seokjin got up and stretched his arms above his head. “I’m going to head out now.”

“The rest of us can go then.” Taehyung was nothing if not persistent. 

“Hobi’s passed out already. And Soya’s waiting for me at home. So I’m going to drop him and Joon at their place, and then head back myself.”

These negative responses did nothing to deter Taehyung’s determination to go clubbing, which meant that you found yourself smooshed into the back of an uber with Taehyung and Jungkook as Jimin sat shotgun. Not only did you absolutely hate clubbing, but the fact that both Jungkook and Taehyung were very well-built, muscular guys, meant that you basically had one butt cheek of space to sit on.

“You okay?” asked Jungkook, before the four of you walked into the club.

“My left butt cheek is asleep, but otherwise all good.” He giggled at your response, gently laying a hand on your back so that you wouldn’t be separated from the group.

An hour later, you were completely certain of three things.

First off, there was nothing in the world that could make you enjoy clubbing. Not the location, not the music, and not the people you were with. Secondly, the three boys you were with not only had devastating good looks, but also managed to shake up the club with their crowd-pulling dances. Jimin’s style relied heavily on his seductive hip movements while Taehyung was destroying everyone with his smoldering expressions. Jungkook, meanwhile, was running completely on an adrenaline rush, and matched Jimin and Taehyung move for move, adding a sexy amount of aggression to the dances as well.

And finally, Jungkook, despite his muscles and dancing and adrenaline, liked to cuddle when he was extremely exhausted and had someone in his vicinity. That someone happened to be you that night as you came back to the sofa to find him curled up into a ball, his mouth slightly open as he slept peacefully. Your mistake was trying to place a blanket on top of him because you soon found yourself being pulled into his embrace as you became Jungkook’s personal cuddle pillow. You could say that you struggled for a long time, trying to break out of his grasp but he was just too strong for you, so you eventually gave up and fell asleep while cuddling with him on the sofa.

But then you would be lying. 

Week 3 with Jungkook 

Not that you would ever admit it, but Jungkook had a very pert bottom. As bottoms go, his was definitely somewhere in the top tier. The general consensus on campus was that Jimin and Taehyung were the usual contestants in the battle of the first-rate bottoms. But those of the general consensus had clearly never seen Jungkook in skin-tight jeans, kneeling on the floor while trying to reach for the remote that had fallen under the sofa. 

“You’re zoning out again!” Seokjin was seated opposite you and snapped his fingers in front of your face. “You know I hate being ignored, y/n.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t ignoring you…” Your cheeks colored as you tried to rid your mind of the images of Jungkook from that morning, reaching for the highest shelf and flashing a beautiful strip of impeccably shaped abs.

“Tell me you aren’t daydreaming about Jungkook’s ass.”

“I am not daydreaming about Jungkook’s a-” You closed your mouth quickly, slapping Seokjin’s arm for good measure. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Work’s so boring and you’re so predictably entertaining, y/n,” he grinned and bit into the chocolate cupcake in front of him. “I miss seeing you everyday.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” you grumbled.

“Nah, but seriously, Jungkook’s a solid guy - pun completely intended.” You rolled your eyes as he snickered at his joke. “You two would be good together.”

“You’re well aware of my stance on people setting me up, right?” You raised an eyebrow at him.

“No one’s setting you up. I’m just saying -” Seokjin popped the remaining half of the cupcake into his mouth - “if there’s potential, you shouldn’t stop yourself.”

Unfortunately, any potential that may have been present, completely fizzled out when you got home that afternoon. You had made one thing perfectly clear the day that Jungkook had moved in with his stuff - your snack supply was completely off-limits. Yet here you were, staring at a near empty basket while Jungkook lounged on the sofa with chocolatey fingers and an empty chips packet lying on the table. 

Pert bottoms definitely did not trump snack supplies - as Jungkook found out the hard way when a pillow came crashing down on him with the wrath of all your ancestors combined.

“Y/n! What the fuck?!” he yelped, ducking from your well-aimed blows.

“My snacks! They’re off limits! Asshole!” You punctuated each word with a smack of your pillow.

“Stop! Stop!” He grabbed the pillow from your hands and threw it as far as he could. “I’m sorry! I was really hungry and there wasn’t anything else at home!”

His stupid big doe eyes were just too damn sincere and you felt yourself deflating and sinking into the sofa. After making sure that you wouldn’t attack him again, Jungkook sat down beside you, nudging you softly with his shoulder. “I was going to go to the asian store once they open in the evening. Do you want to come with and help me replenish the snack supply?”

You huffed in annoyance but gradually rested your head on his shoulder. Jungkook had lived with you long enough to know that that was a yes.

Week 4 with Jungkook

Choosing movies to watch over dinner was always something you struggled with. Not when you were alone. No, you knew exactly what you wanted to watch. Your Netflix suggestions were appropriately lined up with crime dramas and sci-fi thrillers. It was only when there was someone else watching with you that the situation became contentious. Namjoon had a penchant for documentaries, and Hobi and Jimin liked watching musicals. Seokjin refused to watch anything even remotely close to a horror film, and Yoongi and Taehyung always voted for heavy art films. And Jungkook-

“I am not watching Titanic.” You settled into the sofa with your bowl of pasta, reaching forward to grab the soda can on the table.

“Come on, y/n! It’s a classic!” Jungkook whined. You had realised that the boy whined a lot over little things like movie selections and waking up before 8 am. “A tragic tale of true love.”

You snorted into your food. “True love would’ve been if they’d both survived.”

“You’re so cold.” There it was, the infamous Jeon Jungkook pout. It didn’t make an appearance often, but when it did, you found yourself growing weaker and much more likely to give in to whatever stupid thing he wanted.

“Fine. Put it on. But don’t blame me when I end up scrolling through Instagram the entire time.”

“I won’t,” he grinned and sat down next to you. The sofa dipped considerably and you found yourself sliding towards him involuntarily. It wasn’t that this position was uncomfortable - you were actually really fond of unwitting physical contact with your friends. The only problem was the way your heartbeat quickened every time the unwitting contact was with Jungkook. 

By the time the movie was over, Jungkook’s nose was running. It was no secret that he cried during sad movies but you still loved teasing him about how easily characters brought him to tears.

“Damn, look at you crying over Jack and Rose. They’re just fictional characters and Rose didn’t even die! What would you do if I was in their place? Would you cry over me too, Gguk?” You nudged his shoulder playfully.

“No.” His reply was firm and you wondered if he had been offended this time.

“No? Why not?”

“I’d never let that happen to you.”

You could safely say that you had never bolted to the bathroom as quickly as that moment, splashing your cheeks with cold water to bring down the flush.

This wasn’t the only time Jungkook had left you completely speechless, however. He ordered takeout much more than you did, not having time to cook much because of his internship. And his takeout orders usually consisted of either pizza or fried chicken. On most days, you were done with dinner by the time he got home and ordered takeout.

On one such day, you looked up from the spreadsheet you had been working on, your stomach clearly unsatisfied with the grilled cheese sandwich you had eaten a couple of hours ago. Making your way to the kitchen, you rummaged through the contents of the fridge, huffing in annoyance as you found nothing suitable for your current hunger-related dilemma.

“Do you want pizza? I’ve finished but there are a couple of slices left.” Jungkook pushed the box towards you and turned his attention back to his phone. It was a veggie supreme - something that Jungkook always ordered.

“How come there aren’t any olives?” you asked, knowing that that particular pizza store always put olives on their veggie pizzas.

“I asked them to take out the olives.”

“Why? I thought you loved olives.”

“I do. But you don’t eat olives.”

Your mouth hung open for a moment. “But you ordered the pizza for yourself…”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want the olives to stop you in case you wanted to have a slice.”

He hadn’t looked up during the entire conversation but you could see the way his cheeks turned pink and how he kept tugging at his ear. You, yourself, felt your heart soar and bit into a slice of pizza - trying to stop the shit-eating grin from spreading on your face.

After Jungkook

It turned out that Jungkook didn’t need to stay at your place for more than a month. Jimin and Taehyung had somehow convinced their landlord to allow them to move in a month ahead of the designated move-in date, which meant that you were once again living alone. 

It was weird. There was a lot of space in your cupboards once again and the fridge didn’t always smell of chocolate shakes and overripe bananas. You were also free to choose whatever movie you wanted to watch with dinner. But something still felt amiss…

You sighed and reached for your basket of snacks, frowning as your fingers swiped at thin air. Your eyes widened as you glanced at your previously well-stocked supply of snacks, noting the distinct lack of at least 75% percent of its contents.

“JEON JUNGKOOK!”

please leave a comment if you enjoyed this story!  tagging @holynamtiddies​ , @hauntedlilies​

[ombreblossom]

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon. 

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk. 

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone. 

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively. 

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.” 

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?” 

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.” 

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife. 

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions. 

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” 

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.” 

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction. 

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar. 

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily. 

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat. 

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?” 

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart. 

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?” 

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes. 

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

[inkedmyths]

Evening Breeze

Here it is!! After so long! More Feral!

This one's pretty soft ngl

---

Night had long since settled. The skies were clear, giving Twilight a perfect view of the stars. It was fascinating, really. He didn’t think he recognized any of the constellations. Was this Hyrule the same one he’d walked across, just countless years in the future? Or was it some sort of parallel plane of existence? He had no idea, and perhaps was putting too much thought into it. Did it really matter, in the end?

Wild had drifted off to sleep moments before. He wasn’t sure exactly how comfortable the boy was in the position he’d fallen asleep in, legs tucked close and body curled at an odd angle, but he wasn’t about to question it as it seemed it worked well enough for the younger Hero. Perhaps, he decided, the less he questioned about Wild, the better.

He couldn't see Feral nearby, and glanced around momentarily. Had he wandered off somewhere? He was still concerned about the outcome of the earlier conversation. A quiet sound met his ears, and he whipped his head towards the source in surprise.

Feral was leaning against a tree nearby. That wasn't necessarily odd, but Twilight was surprised to see he had a ukulele in his hands and was quietly strumming it. With a glance at Wild's sleeping form, he pushed himself to his feet and quietly made his way to where the shadow was sitting.

He paused midstrum, looking up. "What's up?"

"Nothing, really," Twilight said, shrugging. "Came to see what you were doing. Where'd you get the ukulele?"

"I carry it around." That answered exactly nothing, but Twilight decided it wasn't important. Though it did raise the question of if Feral had his own storage. He obviously didn't have his own slate, so…

He shook the thought away. Not important, and he suspected the answer would give him a headache. "Didn't think you were the musical type," he said instead, sitting beside him.

Feral shrugged. "Fair enough, but I'm far more musical than Blondie Bumble-fingers over there," he said, nodding at Wild's sleeping form.

"That so?"

"Oh yeah. He couldn't play three notes in tune if his life depended on it." He strummed a chord. "Not a bad singer, though. It's pretty funny actually. Can sing, can dance, but hand him an ocarina and you're treated to the most offkey playing of a nursery rhyme you've ever heard."

Twilight snorted. "But you can?"

"Sure thing." Feral grinned. "I've used this here instrument to annoy the hell out of many an enemy. The banana fuckers give the best reactions, but it's fun to lead lynels on a wild chase while improvising a song on exactly how ugly they are."

"So it's a tool of chaos?"

"Of course!" Feral paused a moment. "Well, part of the time, anyway. I do actually play. Like, real songs, I mean."

Twilight nodded thoughtfully. They sat in silence for a moment before he spoke again. "So… how'd you pick it up in the first place?"

Another pause. "It's been a while. But… it was the first time we visited Lurelin Village. It's a little place on the coast, a fishing town. Nice place, good people. We go down there when we're in the area, sometimes take a raft out to sea and hang out, look for treasure."

An image flashed to Twilight's mind of another Hero, younger than them, with a freckled face kissed by the island sun, hair swept by the ocean breeze, and sea green eyes. Wind would love Wild when they met, he was sure of it. "Sounds nice."

"It is. So, anyway, one day we were wandering around, doing our normal thing. And we passed by this dude with a group of kids at his feet, and he had a ukulele and was strumming a song and singing with them." Feral strummed the instrument in his lap, replaying the chords in his mind. He was silent again.

"What song?" Twilight asked after a moment.

"Well, I think he played a few. The one I really remember…" He played a few chords, and a familiar tune stood out, and now Twilight was reminded of a different Hero.

"Zelda's Lullaby," he said, reminded of a quiet night where the eldest Hero had taken first watch, playing the tune on his beloved ocarina.

Feral nodded. "You know, I'm not sure why I stopped. It's not like I had any reason to when there were other things to do. I guess I was curious about it, so I stayed and listened for a little while." He fingered the strings, more fidgety than actually playing. "The guy, Cloyne, noticed me, and beckoned me over. Asked me if I knew any songs or knew how to play. I said no, of course. Asked if I wanted to learn how to play something. I said sure. Maybe it's just another quirk of mine or something, but I caught onto the simple chords pretty quickly. It was actually pretty fun, and I liked it, so I stuck around a little while."

It was an odd mental image, Feral among ordinary Hylians, singing and playing a song, but perhaps not an overly outlandish one. If you didn't pick up on his too-bright eyes and cold skin, it was easy to pass the shadow off as one of the Sheikah. Perhaps that's what they did. He'd have to ask about that at some point.

"Of course I left a little later with Link, but before we left the village path, he stopped me and asked about the playing. I shrugged and said it was just kind of something that happened on a whim. Link being the way he is pressed further, asking if I enjoyed it and had fun. I said sure, because it was, and then…" Feral smiled down at the instrument, shaking his head. "That blond idiot ran all the way back to the village to run around and ask anyone if they had an extra he could buy."

Twilight laughed. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, he did, and ran around from building to building until he found someone with one they were willing to sell. Proudly marched back up the path and presented it to me, telling me to learn how to play whatever I wanted. So here I am, playing whatever I feel like."

"That's a little ridiculous, but from what I've seen of Wild, completely believable."

"Yeah," Feral laughed. "He's a dork like that. It wasn't the first or the last time he did something like that, too."

"Some sort of compulsive gift giver?"

"A little, yeah. It's more like he goes out of his way to help people and show them he cares, y'know?"

Twilight hummed, smiling. Yeah, he could easily picture that being a trait of the younger Hero. All of the Heroes had something like that, in a sense. A drive to help others. An inherent kindness. He himself traveled cross-continent to help others.

They said nothing for a while, the only sounds being the faint rustling of leaves and the soft plinks of the strings as Feral brushed his fingers across them. Twilight found himself beginning to grow tired, the day's traveling and the incident with the Lynel catching up with him. He rubbed his face in an attempt to stay present.

"You can sleep, you know." Twilight glanced over as Feral spoke. "It's been a long day. I can keep watch."

"You sure?"

"Of course. Besides, I'll probably do a better job of it than you." The shadow grinned. "Perks of being nonmortal: I don't need to sleep."

That was certainly a perk. "Can't argue with that. Wake me up if there's trouble, though?"

Feral shrugged. "No worries. If anything worth knowing immediately happens, expect a face full of Energizing Elixir."

Twilight made a face. "On second thought, I'll stay awake."

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Feral snickered.

He frowned. After the frog incident, he wasn't so sure. Though, speaking about nonmortal… "Are you doing alright? After earlier, I mean. I know it was… a lot."

Feral quieted. "Yeah, I'm okay. Like, it doesn't surprise me, I mean. I told you before, I'm well aware I'm the exception to the rule." There was a weight to his words, something being implied there, though Twilight couldn't be sure what. "I guess I'm just… on edge."

"How so?"

The shadow looked him in the eye, growing unusually serious. "Look, I may not know everything about what's happening, but I do know this: other things like me out there? Things that have ill intent? That are completely unchecked, unbound, with no thought to anyone else's well being? That's bad. Really bad."

His throat tightened. "It is."

"I don't like that situation with the Lynel. If what you said is true, and there are more monsters out there that are affected like that, then that puts a lot of people in danger." He glanced towards where Wild lay sleeping. "People here are just beginning to get out and explore, see the world, rest easy. If they get hurt or worse by this…"

"I know. Believe me, I know." Twilight thought of Ordon village, surrounded by forest. Forest that could all too easily hide infected monsters. "That's why we're here. Why we're looking. It's a Hero's job to protect people, and that's what we're going to do."

"Of course. I'll be there too." His signature grin returned to his face. "I want to find out what it's like to punch another shadow in the nose."

Twilight snorted. "Maybe you'll just pass through each other."

"Or maybe his face will explode."

Groaning, he covered his eyes. "That is not a mental image I needed. Now I'm more tired than before."

Laughing, Feral waved him off. "Go to sleep then, Frog Foot. I'll let you know if I punch anything."

Rolling his eyes, Twilight stood up and returned to where he'd set out his stuff for the night. He glanced at Wild, who was still fast asleep, and now in a somehow more uncomfortable looking position. What a pair these two were. He settled down, giving the tree where Feral was sitting one last look before he closed his eyes.

Just in case, though, he slept face down.

[hms-chill]

Birthday Breakfast

Summary: It's Alex's birthday, and Henry is going to surprise him with breakfast in bed, and it's going to be beautiful and domestic and perfect.

--

The best thing about Alex's birthday coming after Henry's is that, if Alex has a particularly sweet birthday idea, Henry can borrow it and claim that it was part of his plan all along. In his defense, Henry had a birthday plan in place back in January. They're taking the weekend to go camping upstate, a celebration that starts the minute they both get off work, but he hasn't figured out how to tell Alex about it yet. All Alex knows is that he's not supposed to plan anything for the weekend. Luckily, Alex has the perfect idea without even knowing it.

On Henry's birthday, Alex woke him up with a full English breakfast in bed, going one step farther to include actual crumpets unlike any Henry's seen since he moved to New York. Somehow, Alex had managed to make crumpets exactly the way Henry likes them, down to the blackcurrant jam, and he'd kept them a complete surprise. And, while Henry's not the best cook, he knows Alex deserves to be pampered the same way. A nice breakfast tray with the booking confirmation postcard will be the perfect start to Alex's morning and the perfect reveal of their weekend plans.

The first task of the morning is to get himself awake and out of bed without waking Alex. Morning Alex is a stunning sight, and waking up next to him still feels like a blessing every time it happens. They'd spent so long waking up on different continents and in different time zones, just being together every morning feels miraculous. But this morning, Henry doesn't have time to revel in it, only to whisper a quiet thanks to Santa Maria, realizing as he gets up that it's something he's picked up from Alex. He presses a gentle kiss to Alex's forehead, sees the way he shifts and reaches for Henry's now-empty side of the bed and settles for curling around one of Henry's pillows like a koala. He's still pretty deeply asleep, which means that hopefully, Henry will be able to make breakfast before Alex wakes up.

Henry gets to the kitchen, and he takes a second to figure out where to start. He'd debated doing huevos rancheros, but he knows he'd do them wrong; the Diaz family recipe for them is infuriatingly vague and guarded like a dragon's treasure. So instead, he's opted for crepes, based on a recipe he's got on his phone. They look simple enough, and the crepe spreader he'd ordered online came in two days ago, so he's as ready as he can be.

The actual process of making the batter is quick and easy, and before he knows it, he's pouring a careful scoop into the skillet for crepe number one. It goes surprisingly well. It's not the best crepe he's ever seen, but it isn't burnt or raw, and he'll settle for that for now. The second crepe works, too, and the third. And while the fourth is cooking, he decides he should probably start on the fillings. They only put sugar on the crepes they'd had in Paris, that weekend when they'd woken up together and the whole world had seemed beautiful and perfect, but Henry doesn't trust his crepes to be that good. So instead, he's got all sorts of fresh fillings and different spreads, and he's bringing the whole mini crepe bar to Alex. He pours crepe number four, then goes to the refrigerator for all the fresh fruit he'd stocked up on the day before. There are blueberries and strawberries and raspberries and bananas, all ready to be cut up and moved to little bowls for Alex to construct his own perfect crepes.

Crepe four is less than perfect; it gets a bit burnt while he's getting fruit ready, but Henry forges on, starting bacon for a savory option and coffee to go on the side. He finds the confirmation postcard from the campground and writes on the back, "'I live for Friday, & you. My man-- my beloved man'-- Benjamin Britten to Peter Pears, c. 1941". The next step is to flip a crepe and get back to chopping fruit, and Henry starts to fall into a rhythm, sorting different spreads and sauces into the right containers and getting them and the fruit all settled onto the tray. He manages to keep flipping crepes when they need it, and he's rather proud of his ability to multitask, even fitting in a quick run up to their bedroom to make sure that Alex is still asleep.

When he first starts to smell something burning, he flips the crepe and it's not that, so he assumes he must be imagining things. It's his paranoia that makes it seem smoky in the kitchen. That is, he's assuming it's just his paranoia, until his phone lights up with a notification from their security system: "Smoke detected in the kitchen!"

A moment later, the fire alarm blares.

The bacon. Oh god. It's black and smoking like anything. Henry pulls it off the stove and immediately douses the charred remains in water, but the massive puff of steam only makes everything worse. He opens a window and frantically tries to wave the smoke out, barely remembering to get the crepe off the heat before it makes the situation even worse. When the alarm is finally quiet and things have calmed down, he turns around to see Alex appearing in the doorway to the kitchen, all bed head and rumpled pajama pants, tired blinking and massive yawns.

"H? Everything okay, baby? It smells like smoke."

"I... I made breakfast. It was supposed to be a nice breakfast in bed, but um... I'm sorry. Happy birthday anyway?"

The concern melts from Alex's face, and he crosses the kitchen to pull Henry in for a hug. "I love you so much. Want me to go back to bed and pretend I'm still asleep so you can wake me up and surprise me?"

Henry smiles, presses a kiss to Alex's forehead, and says, "well, that would mean you'd have to leave, and that's never something I want. Just... sit down, and it'll be ready soon. I'm sorry I woke you, and that there won't be bacon."

He turns back to the tray as Alex says, "don't be sorry. I love you." Instead of sitting down at the table and waiting, Alex wraps his arms around his boyfriend, nuzzling his face into Henry's shoulder. "I'll just fall asleep right here; you wake me up when you're ready."

Henry laughs, helpless to do anything else, and Alex hugs him a little more tightly. True to his word, he stays glued to Henry's back as Henry moves everything onto the tray, arranging it just so and making sure that the note is unmissable, dusting the crepes with powdered sugar and adding their coffee and tea. Once it's all ready, he turns to kiss the top of Alex's head, running his hands through Alex's hair gently.

"It's ready. Good morning, love. Happy birthday." And yes, this is a day about celebrating Alex. Technically, all the gifts should go to him. But as far as Henry's concerned, every second he gets to spend with Alex this close is a gift all its own.

On AO3

Notes: Hi it's Alex's birthday and these boys deserve the best. That's it; that's the author's note.

If you want to support the “Hannah Makes Art” fund; consider buying me a Ko-fi? I know not everyone can, but if you’re able I’d appreciate it!

[tuck-everlasting-shitposts]

How would the tucks deal with ww2?

An interesting predicament to be sure.

I feel like at this point, the Tucks have relocated for a few decades to stay out of Tree Gap (cause yknow the whole shooting Banana Man thing) but I don't think they'd go very far. Maybe a couple towns over? Anyways, point being Mae is 100% at home and the boys are all out travelling.

Miles happened to be in London at the time the war started and, he isn't sure how exactly, but he ended up signing up to fight. He's generally apathetic and aloof but is considered one of the most morally, emotionally and physically hardy people anyone has ever seen. He's a great storyteller. He's also the one there to comfort others when they lose a friend, cousin or sibling. Someone once saw Miles in the dark, quietly crying and no knew why exactly. He writes letters to his family and he writes secret letters to Winnie and plans to drop them off when he gets back home.

I feel like Jesse probably ended himself up somewhere COMPLETELY random. Dude's in like the buttfuck middle of Australia and doesn't even know anything happened until he comes home for a visit in like '43. As soon as he's done visiting home he heads straight for the first place he can sign up. Idk why but I feel like he ended up being a pilot. Everyone who talks to him always leaves feeling happier. He somehow always has candy on him. His friends treat him like the baby because of his supposed age but after the first casualty, they see the side of him that is so aged and broken over years and years of wear. Sometimes they'll show up to a town and Jesse will peel off to talk to some elderly person. He seems to genuinely know all these people and no one gets it. Jesse and Miles end up in the same town one day and have the happiest reunion they've had in awhile.

Angus actually decided to get off his ass and do something. He actually ends up being an army chef (little known fact, Angus makes some damn good food) and offers anyone and everyone company and stories. He makes up stories based off of various things he's done. Everyone thinks of him as an uncle or father figure. He continues to communicate with his new "kids" for years after everything ends.

Like I said before, Mae is at home. But that doesn't mean she's not doing anything. She is staying very, very busy. She joins every single group she can. Quiltmaking, gardening, working a part-time at a factory a few towns over... she just does not stop. She gets so many letters from her boys. She still goes down to Tree Gap woods every few days to check the spring. She actually started talking with Winnie and Hugo. Hugo just assumes Mae is an old friend (which i mean yeah). He doesnt know the secret.

[sebstanismyman]

The Supermarket Mishap

Summary: Eddie goes to the store with his 4 year old daughter and suddenly finds her missing. Richie is just fortunate enough to be caught with her, and a raging Eddie misunderstands the situation.

Word Count: 2,536

A/N: This is the first fanfic I’ve ever written, so i apologize for any mistakes. constructive criticism is great, I’ll try to fix anything I got wrong and work to improve my writings! I hope you enjoy! 😁

~~~~~~~~~~

Eddie had woken up this morning to his four year old daughter, Abbie, jumping on his bed. Myra and Eddie had been together for 3 years before they decided to have kids. However, a few months after Abbie was born, Eddie realized how toxic his relationship was, how eerily similar Myra was to his mother, and he never wanted his daughter to have the same childhood he suffered through. He divorced her quickly and fought for sole custody of Abbie. Myra put up one hell of a fight, but Eddie won in the end, thank god.

“Daddy can we have froot loops for breakfast?” Abbie asked tilting her head to the side, looking up at her dad with doe eyes. Eddie has realized that she only does this because it usually works in her favor, but how could he say no to that face?

“Yeah sweetheart, we can have froot loops this morning.” He told Abbie, getting out of bed and carrying her to the kitchen. Setting her down at the table, he went to get out everything they’d need for breakfast. After pouring the cereal in the bowls he grabbed the milk from the fridge, only realizing then that there was just enough milk for one bowl of cereal. Not wanting an unhappy child this early in the morning he decided he’d let Abbie have the last of the milk and they could go shopping later.

Once they finished breakfast, Eddie got both himself and Abbie ready to go to the store. They were about due to fill the pantry up anyways, so he made a list of everything they needed and they were off.

Abbie held her dad's hand all the way into the store, once inside they let go so Eddie could grab a shopping cart. Abbie stayed close by her dad and followed him wherever he went, commenting on just about everything in sight. This was typical for a shopping trip, Eddie would routinely go through the store getting all the essentials, Abbie following and constantly asking for random things from the shelves. They were standing in the produce section near the bananas when Abbie saw someone she thought she recognised. “Hey, Daddy-”

“No Abbie, you’ve already got to pick more than enough things to put in the cart. No more, okay bug?” Eddie wasn’t even looking at her when he was talking, too invested in getting everything crossed off his list.

“But Daddy, I saw-”

“Honey I said no, no more asking.” At this point the girl was curious about who she saw, and she was upset that her dad wouldn’t listen to her. She saw the man walk by again only seconds later and decided to go see who it was. Eddie wasn’t looking so she took off. The man took off down the rows of aisles and turned down one of the farther ones. He was very tall and very fast so it was hard to catch up to him. Abbie started running, trying to figure out which aisle this guy turned down, finally finding him by all the breakfast cereals.

She walked up to him as he was eyeing the different kinds of cereal. “I had froot loops for breakfast this morning.” Abbie happily stated, startling the man as he didn’t realize anyone was there. Once he turned and looked at her she knew exactly why he looked so familiar. She gasped, eyes widening “You’re the funny guy from tv! My dad watches you on the tv when its bedtime. He says I can’t watch it ‘cause I’m not old enough. How old do I have to be to watch you on tv? What’s your name?” she rushed out in excitement. This only shocked the man even more. He looked around and there was no sign of this little girl's parents anywhere. He was sure she couldn't have come here all alone, so he decided he’d help get her back to her parents.

He squatted down to her height so he could talk to her easier. “Hi!” He said smiling, “My name’s Richie, what’s your name?”

“I’m Abbie, how old do I have to be to watch your tv show?” She asked again with a questioning gaze.

Richie smiled at that, this kid had most likely barely seen him on tv, but recognised him enough to approach him and talk to him as if they’d known each other for months. “Well, you have to be a big kid to watch my shows. But only your parents can tell you when your big enough. Speaking of, where are your parents, huh?” He asked with hopes of finding them. Richie didn’t want this little girl to be walking around the store alone.

“My daddy was looking at the fruit when I saw you. I don’t know if he’s still there though. That was a long time ago.” Abbie said, even though in reality it had only been about 5 minutes. “We had to go to the grocery store because I had the rest of our milk with my froot loops this morning, so we were all out. And it’s not good to be all out of milk, ‘cause it helps you grow big and strong!”

Richie chuckled, he had very little experience being around kids, but he seemed to be doing ok if Abbie’s enthusiasm was anything to go by. “Alright Abbie, well I bet your dad is worried about you, how about I go with you and help you find him again, okay?” Abbie nodded and at that Richie stood up. The four year old wrapped her little hand around a few of his fingers, and they were off. “So he was by the fruit when you started to follow me?”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t let me tell him that I saw you, so I left. You’re nice. Why can’t I watch you on tv?” Abbie asked again, looking up at Richie as they walked towards the last place they knew Eddie had been.

“Well… uh, there are some things that I do and say that you probably-”

“HEY FUCKER!” They heard from behind. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY DAUGHTER!” Richie turned around to see a furious looking man running towards them. Abbie suddenly let go of his hand and ran at her dad. At that, Eddie seemed to have lost the angry look in his eyes, bending down to envelop his daughter in a tight hug as she ran into his arms.

“Daddy! You said a naughy word. You know what that means.” That took Eddie by surprise. Surely Abbie had to have more to say after somehow being taken from him than that. He set her down and was looking over her as gently as possible, seeing if any damage had been done. “What are you doing? Do I still get a quarter ‘cause you swore?”

He looked at her one more time with worry written all over his face and brought her into a tight hug. “Are you okay sweetheart? That guy didn’t do anything to you did he?” Eddie asked looking back over his daughter's face. He peered over her shoulder and saw the man was still standing there. Though now with his diminished rage, he realized he knew who this guy was. Richie Tozier? The stand up comedian had taken his daughter? This had to be wrong. Richie Tozier was known for many things, but there had never seen anything bad in the news about him ever. He was an asshole in some of his bits on stage, but he always seemed so genuine and caring off stage. He had even been caught multiple times helping out at random animal shelters all over his tours.

Abbie started talking, interrupting Eddie from his thoughts. “He helped me find you!” She said with a bright smile on her face, “He’s the funny guy you laugh at on tv that I can’t watch. I saw him so I followed him but he walks really fast, and I know I’m not supposed to run inside, but I had to to catch up to him ‘cause he’s so fast! And he says only big kids can watch him on tv, and since I’m a big girl now ‘cause I’m four, does that mean I can watch it with you?.”

So Richie Tozier hadn’t taken his daughter after all, she went off on her own. “Baby, you know you can’t run off without telling me, we talked about that. How do you think that made Daddy feel when I couldn’t find you? And you’re not supposed to talk to strangers. What were you thinking! I was so worried about you sweetheart.” Eddie went on, standing up with Abbie still in his arms, holding her tight. He noticed Richie was still standing there, looking awkward as hell if we’re being honest. Eddie figured he owed the comedian an apology, so he started walking over. He felt awful, very loudly and publicly accusing some big shot comedian of kidnapping was definitely not one of his finest moments. “Hi… uh, so there’s been a misunderstanding and I uh, apologize for yelling at you across an entire store.” He started, looking rather guilty. “She’s all I really have right now, and I instantly thought the worst when I saw you with my daughter. I shouldn’t have assumed you were taking her, I mean she’s four and has ADHD. My first thought should have been that she’d wandered off, not that someone had taken her, so I’m sorry.”

Richie couldn’t stop staring at Eddie the entire time he was talking. The man was breathtaking. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful, and he had the whole dad thing going for him. He was obviously protective, as well as exceedingly feisty. From what Richie could see, this man was the whole package. He must have been staring for a few moments too long, because Abbie soon had to pipe up with a comment about it. “Did you forget how to talk? Did Daddy scare you? It’s ok, he’s not mean I promise, he just yells sometimes.”

“Oh uh, no no it’s ok. I understand it probably looked really sketchy to see some random grown ass man you’ve never met before holding your daughters hand. I’m sure someone got a video of that whole chaos filled interaction and I’ll be having a fun conversation with my manager, but oh well. What can you do.” Richie said, shrugging his shoulders. He never took his eyes off Eddie once, opting to stare into those captivatingly soft eyes. They were both smiling at each other so endearingly, anyone from miles away could see the pending attraction. Still smiling, Richie stuck his hand out for Eddie to shake. “I’m Richie by the way, but I’m guessing you already know that judging by Abbies knowledge of who I am and following me all the way across the store, just to tell me what she had for breakfast.”

Eddie shook his head, taking Richies hand. “Yeah, I know who you are.” He said blushing and averting his gaze for a second, “My name’s Eddie”

“Well Eds, I’m extremely happy I dragged my ass out of bed this morning to get some shopping done. It’s a pleasure to meet you, and if you’d let me, I’d like to take you out sometime.” Richie couldn’t wipe the shit eating grin off his face if he wanted to. Seeing Eddie blush like that made him feel things he’s never felt before, and it thrilled him to his core.

“I’d love to. Though I feel like it should be me taking you out, seeing as I caused a scene that’s probably gonna have repercussions on your career. The least I could do is take you out to dinner.” Richie could tell Eddie honestly felt guilty about the whole ordeal. He couldn’t really blame him for the way he reacted though, he was only acting on his parental instincts afterall.

“How about you give me your number, and we hash out the details from there?” Richie asked, taking his phone out of his pocket and handing it to Eddie who gladly took it, entering his phone number and contact information.

“Well, I’ll uh see you around then it looks like?” Eddie asked, setting Abbie down and taking her hand in his. He had a hopeful look in his eyes that Richie wanted to get lost in once again.

“You bet your ass you’ll be seeing me again if I have anything to do with it. I’ll text you later today Eds.” Richie said as he started to walk away, “Bye Abbie, stay with your dad now. See you soon Eddie.” and with a wink, he went back to his shopping.

Abbie was slightly confused as to what just happened. “Did the funny guy from tv just ask you on a date? Am I gonna have two dads now? That’d be so cool! There’s a boy in my class who has two dads and he’s cool, we’re friends. Now I can tell him my daddy is just like his!” Opting to not comment just yet and explain to her once they get home, Eddie brought Abbie back to the produce section where he left his cart and went ahead to finished his shopping.

Bonus:

“And then this tiny angry man started running at me and this child. He was the literal human embodiment of a chihuahua I shit you not!” The crowd laughed, making Richie smile, remembering the day he met Eddie and Abbie. “ Anyway, he was running at us, yelling a bunch of shit and basically accusing me of kidnapping, I’m honestly surprised I’m not in jail right now, just because of all the people who witnessed that. I mean who’s side are they gonna take? Some guy with a kid that’s clearly not mine, or a raging pissed off Dad, who looks like he could throw a bus at someone if they got in his way.”

Eddie was backstage, watching Richie live from one of the many screens that had back there. He loved hearing this story over and over again. He’d told Richie to stop calling him a chihuahua, but it looks like Richie yet again didn’t listen.

The crowd was in hysterics, as per usual, as Richie continued on with his bit. “Yeah and guess who was the dumbass who married the guy? I mean who the fuck goes out and gets married to someone, who’s first words to them consited of ‘hey’ and ‘fucker’ in that order?! Yeah, me. I chose that. I decided ‘hmm? Do I want to get yelled at by a small angry man for literally all of my actions and decisions? Yeah I think I do. I’ll go buy a ring’ and now I get screamed at four times a week for leaving cupboard doors open. That’s the life I choose.”

The night went on with many more jokes, and Richie and Eddie returning home later that evening. They kissed Abbie on the forehead after tucker her into bed, then they were off to sleep themselves, cuddled together and ready for whatever tomorrow had in store.

[akjensen-writes]

holdin’ out for a hero

short story - wlw [Whitney/Taylor]

TW - suicide idealization (brief)

“That’ll be 13.95.” 

Taylor says it automatically, feeling more like a robot than a person. She waits patiently as the customer across the counter inserts their card into the reader. It buzzes several times before the card is removed. She glances at her watch as discreetly as possible. Her red cashier’s vest reads ‘I dig Mr. Pig’ and if that isn’t bad enough, she’s got another three hours left until the end of her shift. An end that can’t come soon enough, for so many more reasons than sheer boredom.

Thursday nights at the Piggly Wiggly, aka the Pig -- pronounced “the Peeg” from the heavy accents of the locals -- are never very busy. They carry the same droning, languid feeling that Taylor can hear coming from her own voice, and she spends more time staring at the clock and contemplating her own existence than actually doing anything.

She’s been here for four years, which is approximately three and a half too many, with no escape plan in sight. The pay is dismal, but it’s a job, and in a small southern town, that’s really all she can ask for. But she’s trapped, and every day the walls seem to close in on her a little more. If this is the best she can do, then she isn’t sure what the point is anymore. 

Chris, the cashier in the next lane, methodically swipes product across his counter with mind-numbing precision. Cereal, beep. Bananas, beep. Eggs, beep. All in a steady, even rhythm. Boring, beep. Useless, beep. Taylor taps her fingers on the counter. The same ‘80’s mix of songs rotates over and over again on the dated speakers. She wonders how many times she’s listened to it all the way through at this point. A thousand, maybe. She knows she can recite every track, sing every lyric, and that in and of itself is nothing to be proud of. 

Bonnie Tyler’s rasping voice cuts into the silence. I’m holdin’ out for a hero ‘til the end of the night. 

“Aren’t we all, Bonnie?” Taylor mutters to herself. “Aren’t we all?”

Tonight is the night, she thinks, as she plasters a smile on her face and hands the change over to her customer. Her lane is once again empty. The fluorescent lights buzz above her as she stares into space. Tonight is her last shift, for good. Tonight is her last anything. She’s going nowhere, and doesn’t even have the energy to care about it anymore. It’s not like it would matter. She could disappear off the face of the Earth and she doubts anyone would so much as blink.

It isn’t sadness, really. It’s just nothing. Deep, dark, nothing.

“Hey Taylor, I’m headin’ out.” Derek, the weekday manager talks as he’s coming around the corner. He always does that. He starts his sentences while he’s at odd places in the store, appearing just as his thought trails off. His beady little eyes dart around nervously as he glances at her register. It’s a silent reminder to thoroughly count the money before she turns over the key. He’s nice enough, Taylor thinks, even if all he does is sit in the back room and watch reruns of old ‘90’s cartoons. Nice enough is all it takes in this town, apparently. But a small pang of sadness hits her in the chest as she thinks about the fact that she’s never going to see him again. 

“Have a great night,” Taylor says, nodding at him, trying to commit his squirrely features to memory. He has a small chin and scruffs of facial hair that he only keeps to look older than he really is. These are the two distinguishing features that stand out as somewhat noteworthy. In that moment, she feels sorry for him. “Thanks for everything, Derek.” 

She feels weirdly nostalgic, nudged on by the anticipation of tonight being the end of everything. Derek has done exactly nothing for her, except leave her alone, which she supposes is something to be thankful for. He narrows his eyes in suspicion as he looks her over. 

“Uh, sure,” he replies, frowning. “Just don’t forget to lock up, okay?”

It’s such a trivial request, but it fits, somehow. Don’t forget to lock up. Don’t make a mess. Just get it over with quickly and be done, will you? We don’t have any time for this. 

Taylor almost smiles. 

The sound of a throat clearing breaks the moment. She turns her attention back to her line. JenandJudy are standing there, wearing identical flannel shirts, staring at her with sweet, expectant smiles.

“How’s it goin’?” they ask, together in perfect unison. Taylor nods at them and starts scanning their items. A case of beer, and a bottle of whiskey. They’re probably going to the woods for a bonfire. 

They all went to high school together, and at one point, Taylor assumes Jen and Judy were separate entities. But for as long as she can remember they’ve been together, their names a one word anomaly. JenandJudy. They’re the kind of lesbians that have now merged identities so ferociously, there’s no telling where one ends and the other begins. It’s borderline creepy, the way they almost look like twins at this point, but no one ever comments on it out loud. Taylor assumes that’s just what happens when you fall in love, but something about it seems a little...much.

Not that she would know.  

“You should come to the clearing,” Jen suggests, with Judy nodding emphatically. “We’re headin’ there in a few.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Taylor verbally agrees, while mentally declining. The clearing is a dump, almost literally, where everyone in town gathers as an excuse to do something other than sit at home. Taylor hasn’t been there since she was 15. JenandJudy smile, satisfied at doing the bare minimum in extending the invitation. 

Judy’s arm stays protectively around Jen’s waist. She watches her with starry-eyed fascination as her girlfriend pays. ‘Look at this incredible specimen!’ her eyes seem to exclaim, like it’s the singular most fantastic thing she’s ever witnessed. ‘She pays for groceries better than anyone I’ve ever seen! Can you believe it?’

Taylor snorts to herself. She isn’t mad, or even put off by it. It must be nice to have someone who thinks you’re fascinating, even when there’s nothing remotely amazing going on. The jealousy is warm and cozy, like a blanket she can pull snugly around her shoulders in her hour of need.

“See you later!” they announce, gathering their alcohol and heading for the door. Taylor waves a final goodbye.

“How do you tell them apart?” a voice teases from somewhere behind her. She turns, and instantly she’s met with bright hazel eyes that seem so sharp, they could probably dissect her right where she’s standing. Taylor swallows several times, unsuccessful in her attempts to get her mouth working properly. She smiles weakly, shrugging. “I’m just kidding,” the blonde stranger says, running her fingers through her hair. Taylor catches the way her slightly tanned cheeks flush, and a warmth runs through her chest. 

“It’s a good question,” Taylor says, glancing back out the door where JenandJudy have just left. “At this point, I don’t think I can.”

“Fair enough,” she giggles, and Taylor’s heart, inexplicably, flutters. 

Sexy customers are not really a thing at The Pig, and when it happens, it’s almost like spotting a unicorn. In all the years Taylor has been working here, it’s only happened half a time, and that’s because the woman in question was wearing so much makeup that Taylor couldn’t make an accurate assessment. 

She’s suddenly acutely aware of her horrifying vest, and the fact that her brown hair is disgusting, all matted and greasy against her scalp. Of course this would happen tonight, of all nights. The final night. Why couldn’t she have made an effort, just this once? Maybe she should have planned better. But she knows no amount of planning would ever prepare her to lock eyes with someone as stunning as the girl in front of her now.

She adjusts her dark framed glasses and tries to focus on doing her job without saying anything horrifying.

There are only two items to scan: a sympathy card and flowers. Taylor glances up at the stranger and notices her wringing her fingers together, looking around the store with a sort of forlorn expression. She clears her throat. 

“These are really pretty,” Taylor offers, gesturing at the flowers as she scans the other item. She doesn’t know why she comments. She usually makes it a rule not to get involved in other people’s purchases. It’s none of her business. Whenever she goes shopping, she’s so conscious of what’s going through the clerk’s mind that she almost can’t stand it. But this feels different. Magnetic, somehow, like she’s drawn to this girl, like not saying something is a worse transgression. Besides, she started it. The conversation feels like it has to go somewhere. 

“You think?” the girl replies, taking them with a skeptical smile. It’s a lavender themed wildflower bouquet. Classy, in Taylor’s not-so-expert opinion. “I wasn’t sure.”

“They’re great,” Taylor assures her.

“They’re for my friend,” the girl explains. “Her cousin died, and I wanted to stop by and do something nice for her, you know? But I’m the worst at these things. I never know what to freakin’ say.”

“Sometimes just showing up is enough,” Taylor says, and she means it with everything she has. She wishes more people would understand that. Just being there means everything.

“That’s a good point,” she replies, looking thoughtful. “It’s always nice to know that people care. I wish we didn’t always wait for funerals to show that to each other, you know?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“It’s too late, and then what?” the girl asks, almost exasperated. “It’s not fair. People should just be nicer to each other.”

“They should,” Taylor agrees, her heart pounding as they make eye contact. The girl smiles, a dazzling, dreamy smile, and Taylor’s insides melt. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The girl takes her change and shrugs. As she gathers her items, she pauses and nods at Taylor again. “Thanks for listening to me ramble,” she says. “Genuinely. I haven’t come to this grocery store before, but I just moved from across town. I think this is going to be my new regular spot. I’m sure I’ll see you around soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Taylor promises. 

Her eyes follow the girl to the exit. She watches her carry her items carefully, her other hand fishing in her jeans pocket for her keys. Taylor stares long after she’s gone and decides that maybe, just maybe, she can hold on for a little longer.

----

The charming stranger returns a week later, on an unassuming Tuesday evening to do a routine stock of groceries. Taylor is working, holding on to the hope of being able to see her again. If that makes her pathetic, then she’s already mostly made peace with that. She sees the stunning blonde sashay in around 7pm, wearing the exact same outfit as she wore when Taylor met her: a red zip up sweatshirt, white tshirt, and jeans that seem to be tailor made for her. Taylor’s mouth is instantly dry, her insides pulsing like the walls of a night club. The girl glances at her phone with a focused expression, before placing it in her pocket. 

Taylor wonders idly if she normally shops on off hours like this, but she supposes she’ll figure it out sooner or later. That’s the thing about always working at a place so integral to people’s lives: the routines become part of her. She knows Mr. Jensen, the math teacher, always shops on Wednesday mornings because he has two free periods and hates crowds. He stocks up on Folger’s coffee like they’re going out of business, and he has a particular affinity for Corn Flakes cereal. 

Taylor can tell you about most of her regulars. She knows their preferences, their routines, their schedules. She even knows their moods. An extra bottle of wine for the dark haired lady who works downtown? A rough week. Lactaid milk for the balding guy that lives in her apartment complex? His mom is coming to town. 

All this without saying much more than “paper or plastic?” and “did you find what you were looking for?”

“Hey!” a now familiar voice announces. Taylor turns, and once again is taken by mystery girl’s marvelous hazel eyes. She’s smiling like they’re in on a tremendous secret, even though there’s nothing coincidental about running into her here. 

“You’re back,” Taylor greets, trying to keep her voice steady, like she hasn’t been counting down the minutes until she could see this girl again. She absolutely has, but no reason for her to know that. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yup,” the girl says, piling her items on the conveyor belt. “Most importantly--” she reaches into her cart and picks up a bottle of wine. A red blend from Napa. That tracks. Pretty girls from out of town drink smooth red wines. Everyone knows that. 

She slides over her ID and Taylor scans it quickly. Not too quickly to notice her name, though. It’s like a slight-of-hand card trick, the way she does it without moving her eyes. The result of years of on the job training. She can’t say the Pig didn’t give her at least one weirdly applicable skill.

The blonde’s picture beams back at her. Whose DMV photo comes out this gorgeous? Taylor bites her lip as her gaze flickers to the flawless face in front of her. Nice to meet you, Whitney Matthews, of Cherry Grove Court. According to her license, she’s 24 as of April 4th, making her two years older than Taylor. She slides the ID back and rings up the rest of her items. The haul is mostly produce, almond milk, eggs. She’s clearly a responsible eater, one of those people who seem to be into wellness. She probably does yoga. Taylor sneaks a glance at Whitney’s legs. 

Definitely yoga.

There’s a few frozen pizzas and a surprising appearance from a large bag of skittles. Taylor grins as she rings them up. 

“I love skittles,” Whitney says with a teasing smile. “Don’t judge me.”

“Who doesn’t love skittles?”

“Thank you,” Whitney nods, approving. She grabs her bags and puts them back in her cart. “Same time next week?” She chuckles when she says it and Taylor’s cheeks flush, as if this is a standing date the two of them now have. 

With a nod she replies, “I’ll be here.”

Whitney gives her a little wave, and Taylor wonders if she’s like this with everyone. Is she a serial conversationalist, making flirtatious small talk with every clerk in town? Or is this something a little more significant?

She knows what she wants the answer to be.

---

From then on, every Tuesday, like clockwork, Whitney comes into the Pig and does her usual shopping trip. She always seems to wear her signature red hoodie and jeans, like she’s got her own version of a grocery uniform-- only hers isn’t mortifying and ugly. Quite the opposite, if Taylor has anything to say about it. It’s casual and sexy which is a combination only Whitney can pull off with such ease. She usually has her hair up in a ponytail, but sometimes she comes in with wavy, sunkissed locks, and Taylor can’t seem to shake the desperate need to run her fingers through it.

Today is a skittles day, which means Whitney’s in a good mood. These are the weeks Taylor loves the most. This is when Whitney gives her teasing smiles that stay on her face a little longer than usual, and offers tidbits about her day. She’s a nurse in the orthopedic wing at the hospital, she says, and this week she got to scrub in on a really complicated sounding surgery. A knee reconstruction, or something. It’s so impressive that Taylor almost forgets she’s supposed to be scanning groceries, lost in the idea of Whitney out there doing good, saving lives. She feels inadequate in comparison, but can’t seem to dwell on it while Whitney is here looking at her like she’s the only person in the world she wants to talk to. 

Sometimes, on weeks like this, she’ll share her weekend plans, or talk about something she’s planning to cook. She likes to go hiking, which isn’t a surprise. She also loves Italian food. Taylor listens and catalogues everything in a mental Whitney spreadsheet that she keeps in her brain, in case she ever has a reason to need it.

She hopes one day, she will. 

Some weeks, though, Whitney only buys the staples, and her smile is a little slower, her eyes a little muted. She’s more tired, or stressed, or something that Taylor can’t detangle, and those are the weeks Taylor wishes didn’t have to exist. On those days, it’s almost like the little light in Whitney flickers, too exhausted to be kept on at the normal brightness she exudes. She quietly greets Taylor, and thanks her when the transaction is done. She puts her bags in her cart and slowly shuffles out of the store, leaving Taylor alone with nothing but Bonnie Tyler crooning in the background. 

Turn around, bright eyes.

“Shut up, Bonnie,” Taylor mutters, disappointed.

---

Taylor tries to avoid working Saturdays because the Pig turns into an overrun madhouse of exhausted mothers, screaming children, and bleary eyed white collar workers who can’t sneak away from the office any other time to do their shopping. The lines are nonstop. The shelves are in a perpetual state of near-depletion. Everywhere she looks, it’s a disaster, the store ground zero of a perfectly executed attack.

But the extra cash is necessary if Taylor is going to go back to school. She decides to get serious about it on a random night when her shift ends. Whitney had been in, elated from a successful day caring for a patient with a broken leg, and something in Taylor just clicked. Maybe this isn’t everything her life has in store for her. Maybe the Pig isn’t her last stop.

Nursing probably isn’t a good fit, she’s squeamish around needles and doesn’t think she can handle that much potential death. It’s ironic, considering her state of mind a while ago, but the two ideas remain disconnected. She considers teaching, or journalism, or maybe even accounting. She’s always been good with numbers. The options are suddenly endless.

She’s giddy at the prospect, and it seems to overflow into her work. She’s chatting with customers for no reason today -- asking more than the obligatory questions, and even going so far as to compliment a lady’s hair cut. Everything feels brighter, somehow. 

The morning goes by in a blur of produce codes and aisle clean ups, but the pace is strangely satisfying. It’s already 2pm by the time she checks her watch, which is astonishing. Her face hurts from smiling at so many people, but that’s a nice problem to have. She turns her attention to the next customer and her heart catches in her throat.

“Twice in one week, lucky me,” Whitney says cheerfully, smiling a hundred watt smile as she places the divider on the belt to separate her items from the person behind her. “How ya doin?”

“Great,” Taylor squeaks, her voice cracking horribly. She clears her throat and studies Whitney’s stuff. A birthday cake and some wine. Taylor’s stomach drops. She glances at her watch. April 4th. “How--how are you?”

It’s Whitney’s birthday, but she doesn’t want to bring it up. She doesn’t want to explain why she knows it, why April 4th is ingrained in her memory. It isn’t for any creepy reasons, honest. She just finds Whitney fascinating on every level. And a little sexy. It’s not a crime to be invested.

Whitney shrugs. “Oh, you know, doing okay,” she says, and it isn’t very convincing. She looks suddenly defeated, and Taylor wants so badly to help. 

“Got any plans tonight?” she asks, hoping it might coax something out of her. She wants Whitney to be doing something extraordinary, to have a day that celebrates her, the way she deserves. But her demeanor stays reserved. 

“Dinner with my parents, and my sister,” she says softly. “Nothin’ crazy.”

“And cake, of course.”

“And cake,” Whitney agrees. “Of course.”

The receipt is printed, and Taylor finally cracks. She wants to ask about her family, about her sister. Is she older or younger? Is she anything like Whitney or completely the opposite? Does she get along with her family?

“Is it your birthday?” is all she asks instead, the only question she already knows the answer to. She blinks at Whitney carefully.

Whitney’s cheeks flush as she nods. “The cake gave it away, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Taylor replies.

“Pretty sad, I know, buying my own cake,” Whitney shrugs. “It kind of snuck up on me this year.”

“No, it’s not sad,” Taylor says, trying her best to reassure her. She carefully places the cake in a bag and gently ties the top. Their hands touch as Whitney takes it, and a jolt goes through Taylor’s core. She swallows heavily, trying to gain her composure.“This way at least you know you’re getting one you like, right?”

“Very true,” Whitney finally smiles. “Something about bakery frosting, I swear. I don’t even care what kind of cake it is, but this frosting is addicting. My mom is probably baking something, so she’s going to be so pissed.” She laughs at that, and Taylor joins her, for the simple fact that Whitney seems to finally be cheerful. 

“I hope you have a really great birthday,” Taylor says, handing her the receipt. 

“Thanks,” Whitney takes it, her nose scrunching as she smiles. “I’m glad I saw you.”

Whitney exits, and Taylor’s eyes follow her for a few seconds. She wonders, briefly, if Whitney is happy.

---

Conversations have never come easy to Taylor. People are fascinating, but only from a distance. She likes to observe, to formulate an idea of a person curated from the tidbits they choose to share. She’s always been told she’s a great listener. Mostly, it’s because she doesn’t have a choice. She doesn’t want to say something stupid or awkward and disrupt the connection she has with someone. Instead, she nods along, perfectly content to absorb whatever people feel like sharing.

Whitney doesn’t seem to mind Taylor’s silence. She’s warm and genuine, always patiently nudging the conversation ahead and navigating when Taylor prefers to coast. Granted, they don’t sit down and have long heart to hearts, but their connection is purposeful. They speak with intent; Whitney always seems to focus on Taylor and only Taylor when they speak. She isn’t on her phone or reading over her shoulder or flipping through a magazine. She even goes as far as pausing on unloading her groceries in order to finish her thought, or wait for Taylor’s response. She’s probably the worst to stand behind in line, because she never seems to be in a rush. She simply exists in the moment, thoughtful and patient and kind, allowing herself to simply be.

Their routine continues week in and week out. Whitney comes into the store, seeks out Taylor’s line, and pauses to catch up. They’re cautiously toeing the line from acquaintances to almost-friendship, a gray area that Taylor knows is going to eventually require a leap. But just seeing Whitney’s face light up when she holds up two bags of potato chips one Tuesday night in late May is enough for Taylor to be grateful. 

She’ll take Whitney in any form she can get, even if it’s just as the adorable customer with the dazzling eyes who gets overly excited about a potato chip sale.

“Buy 2 get 2, I’m so freaking pumped!” Whitney exclaims, placing them down on the belt and grinning in triumph. She doesn’t usually buy chips, so Taylor’s eyebrow raises in question. 

“What?”

“You don’t usually buy them,” Taylor shrugs, scanning the package. Lays BBQ and Wavy. Interesting.

“My friend is having a barbecue and I’m on snack duty,” Whitney says, surveying the rest of her items with a frown. She places her hands on her hips. “What am I missing?”

Taylor follows her eyes and takes note of the contents: several kinds of dips, and what looks like one of each type of chip flavor the store carries. She shakes her head and grins. “Did you leave any on the shelves?”

“Very funny,” Whitney rolls her eyes.

“Sweet tea?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t see it,” Taylor frowns, searching again. 

“What?” Whitney tilts her head thoughtfully to the side before her eyes widen. “Oh! Sweet tea. Sweet tea! I thought you said sweetie.”

Whitney’s cheeks flush, and the muscles in Taylor’s stomach clench at the unexpected endearment. She’s warm and tingly all over, and might actually pass out, now that she’s processing the whole exchange. Whitney reacted so naturally, like tossing out ‘sweetie’ is just something they casually do.

Taylor chuckles, shaking her head. “They basically sound the same, yeah,” she agrees, and Whitney holds her hand loosely over her mouth. 

“I’m an idiot,” she says. “No, I don’t have sweet tea. Should I?”

“Sort of a requirement around these parts.”

“Dang, the more you know.” Whitney glances at the drink aisle and back to Taylor. 

“No worries, I’ll go get it for you,” Taylor says, already turning toward the aisle. She slips past several customers and heads for the back of the store. She could navigate with her eyes closed, but she still picks up the pace so she doesn’t keep Whitney waiting. She grabs the biggest one she can find and heads back to her register. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Whitney gushes, and Taylor feels her cheeks burn. That’s her, the friendly neighborhood sweet tea proctor. 

“It’s not quite the real deal, but it’s damn good,” Taylor says as she rings everything up. 

“The real deal huh? You’ll have to tell me how to do that,” Whitney says. She places her card in the reader and grins. “I’m obviously not from here originally.”

She has a smooth accent, but not one Taylor can easily place. Her voice isn’t nasally like a northerner, but she talks faster than most of the people around here. It’s actually been driving Taylor crazy for weeks.

“Where are you from?”

Whitney gives her a teasing smile, her full lips twisting as she grins. “Guess.”

Taylor thinks about it more. Their eyes meet and her heart flips, the way it always does when Whitney’s around. She squints and sighs. “California?”

“Nope,” she replies, her smile radiant. She’s positively giddy at the idea of this game. “Guess you won’t find out.”

Taylor holds out her receipt. Whitney reaches for it, and Taylor pulls it back at the last minute. “How about now?”

Whitney’s mouth hangs open playfully as her eyes widen. “Taylor!”

She almost drops the receipt. It’s the first time Whitney says her name, and it sounds incredible coming from her lips. She has never been more thankful for her ugly name tag than right at this moment. She wants to ask her to repeat it, to find some way for her to say it over and over and over. Taylor. Her name is suddenly majestic.

Whitney grabs the receipt, catching Taylor in her tailspin. She flashes it in victory. “Don’t worry,” she says, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Taylor says as Whitney gathers her bags. “Bye Whitney.”

“Later, Taylor,” she replies with a sweet smile, and Taylor’s entire body vibrates with something magical.

---

The summer is a whirlwind of activity. Besides the holiday rush, this is the only other time where Taylor notices a deluge of milestones. Graduations, weddings, christenings, all seem to be taking place in June, July and August. She recognizes Mrs. Johanssen from the library, coming in for a graduation cake. It’s for her son, she beams, he’s graduating from college, can you believe it? Taylor smiles and rings it up, sending her on her way with congratulations.

Mr. Hood, the hulking owner of Smash Fitness, comes in one morning for a dozen pink roses and a pink balloon. It’s for a christening, he says, blushing. His muscled hand is surprisingly gentle as he cradles the stems of the flowers. His arms practically burst through the sleeves of his suit. His baby girl, he gushes. Did she want to see pictures? Taylor obliges, and smiles, and wishes him the best. His eyes are misty as he thanks her and heads out on his way.

It’s a strange phenomenon to be present for the significant events in people’s lives without really knowing them. But Taylor shares something with each and every person, experiencing pieces of their joy as if she’s actually present for their celebrations. It’s one thing about this job that she’s grateful for. There’s an unexpected connection now, and that makes it mean something. 

Whitney comes into the store more often, celebrating her own set of milestones. Taylor watches day in and day out as she buys graduation cards, and birthday cakes for family members, and a wedding card for another cousin. The wedding is going to be in Napa, she tells Taylor, starry-eyed. Isn’t that cool?

Taylor smiles, thinking of Whitney in a beautiful bridesmaid’s dress. Not the kind that awful brides make their friends wear so they look frumpy in comparison. But the real classic kind, a deep blue or a maroon, maybe, that would fit her like a glove and make her tan skin look incredible. She nods along with Whitney’s excitement, hoping for pictures, even though she knows that’s far fetched.

Taylor gives her the receipt and her bag and wishes her a great trip. She feels the way Whitney keeps her eyes on her as she starts to ring up the next customer in line. 

“Can I text you?” Whitney asks softly, so softly that Taylor almost thinks she’s imagining things.

She turns to face her, and sees Whitney’s hopeful smile as she holds out her phone. “If you want,” she says. “I thought I could send you pictures from the wedding.”

“Yeah,” Taylor says. She has to shake her head to make sure this is really happening, but then she nods, taking Whitney’s phone. She puts in her number and hands it back. “I’d love that.”

“Great,” Whitney says, staring at her phone briefly before nodding, satisfied. “I’ll do that then.”

For the first time in months, Taylor catches the music on the speakers. 

Somewhere just beyond my reach, there’s someone reaching back for me.

---

The following Tuesday, or Whitney day as Taylor secretly refers to it, is awful, because Whitney is out of town. She wakes up in a sour mood, despite the fact that they text now, which is a significant step in a fantastic direction. It just isn’t the same, knowing she won’t see her face in person, or get to listen to her talk about her day with a wry smile, or get teased for still not being able to guess where she’s from.

The day is long, but at least Whitney is diligent with her messages. That’s one thing Taylor was happy to discover with this whole development. Whitney doesn’t just text -- she writes. She sends her silly messages, almost a stream of consciousness that Taylor can actually picture her saying in person. It makes getting through her shift infuriating, for the simple fact that she can’t focus enough to reply. Even though that’s absolutely all she wants to do.

She asks for Taylor’s opinion on Wonder Bread, and what there is to wonder about, but then she answers her own question since she’s clearly sitting here wondering about it. She asks about Taylor’s work schedule. She tells her about the California weather. She sends a picture of a palm tree. She apologizes for sending so many messages. 

Taylor quickly sneaks a look at her phone and tells her it’s okay. She likes them. 

Finally, she sends a picture of her in her dress. Taylor’s face blazes. Whitney’s hair is done up in an elegant updo, a few pieces curled perfectly to fall along her cheek. The dress is magnificent -- a coral color that makes Whitney’s eyes pop. She’s got a sly teasing smile, like she wants to appear unsure that looks amazing, but knows she looks beyond.

“Dammit,” Taylor mumbles to herself, closing her eyes and trying to keep steady. It’s all she can do to stay rooted to the spot instead of hopping on a flight to who knows where California and trying to find her. 

“You have beautiful eyes,” she replies, which doesn’t convey what she wants to say at all. In a fit of embarrassment, she pockets her phone. 

The week is painfully slow, but somehow, they make it to next Tuesday. Taylor is on her “lunch” break, a 4pm slot that is closer to dinner, but no one cares enough to be technical about it. She’s sitting at one of the tables by the deli, which she does on occasion when the store is slow. The employee break room is dark and depressing, with a TV that only plays 3 channels, 1 of which is Fox News on repeat. She’d rather face awkward conversations and customer questions than Tomi Lahren, thank you very much.

She feels someone standing near her and she glances up, practically choking on her sandwich when she realizes it’s Whitney. She’s radiant, smiling like she’s got a trick up her sleeve and Taylor is so overjoyed she almost stands up to hug her. She isn’t much of a touchy feely person, but Whitney has her head spinning in so many directions, she might just make an exception.

“Hey!” Whitney exclaims, claiming a chair for her own and plopping down. “Can I sit here?”

“You already are,” Taylor says, chuckling. Whitney rolls her eyes. 

“Smart ass,” she says. 

“You’re here early,” Taylor says, checking her watch.

“I didn’t go to work today,” Whitney says, shrugging. “I took an extra day off. Jet lag is a bitch.”

Taylor nods as if she understands, but she’s never been out of the state. She takes a sip of her soda to try to steady her nerves.

Whitney taps on the table nervously. She’s fidgety, and gorgeous, and Taylor wants to just reach across the table and hold her hand. She doesn’t. She knows it would be weird, or something. It’s confusing. She’s pretty sure Whitney feels the crazy connection between them, but it’s also something she’s going to have to act on. Taylor doesn’t want to make anything uncomfortable.  

“I’m not really good at this, and I know I should have done this a long time ago so I’m just going to ask--” Whitney starts, her eyes darting from the table to Taylor and back down again. “Um--”

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask yet!”

“I feel like I know you,” Taylor replies, shrugging. She doesn’t care what Whitney is going to ask. She already knows her answer is always going to be yes. 

Whitney pauses. “Yeah,” she agrees, an airy chuckle escaping her lips. “I feel like I know you, too.”

“So what were you going to ask?” Taylor’s stomach is in knots, but the good kind that comes from anticipation and excitement.

“Oh right,” Whitney bites her lip, like she’s trying to keep the words contained before blurting them out in an incoherent jumble. “Would you want to go out sometime?” Another breath. “With me, I mean?”

As if Taylor would want to go out with anyone else. 

“It’s still a yes,” Taylor says softly. Whitney meets her eyes and a look of relief passes over her face.

“Yeah?” Whitney scrunches her nose and grins. “When’s your next day off?”

“Tomorrow I finish at 3,” Taylor says. “I’m free the whole night.”

“Tomorrow it is,” Whitney slaps the table with a snappy grin and stands up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a ton of shopping to do.”

Taylor nods her goodbye and takes another sip of her drink. 

Forever’s gonna start tonight, Bonnie Tyler exclaims. For once, Taylor thinks she might be right.

---

The most disorienting experience is shopping at another grocery store. Their layout feels twisted and wrong, the lights a weird, new-age dimness that makes her forget what time it is. Taylor peruses the aisles slowly, going over her list with precision. 

She doesn’t like to shop at the Pig too often since she knows everyone there. It just turns into an hour of unnecessary conversations then two hours of jumping in to actually work, even if she’s off. Tonight she’s on a schedule. She only has a few hours before her night class at the community college. She’s almost finished with her first year, which is crazy. Accounting, which is smooth and satisfying, the numbers crisp and clean and honest. 

But she’s also taking creative writing, too. She has too many stories to keep in her head. 

The frozen aisle is up next. She places three frozen pizzas in the cart, grinning to herself. They taste like cardboard, but she isn’t going to complain. She stocks up on almond milk and eggs, and gets all the fresh produce. Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Whitney, reminding her about dinner tomorrow, as if Taylor could ever forget. Tomorrow is Whitney’s birthday, and she’s been planning a weekend trip for them for months. She’s going to surprise her and take her to Florida where, it turns out, Whitney is from. It only took several agonizing months to pry that information out of her, but Taylor finally landed on a quality guess. 

She thumbs through several cards, none of them saying exactly what she feels, but she ultimately settles on one with two puppies. Can’t ever go wrong with puppies. She tosses in a bag of skittles and heads for the check out.

The clerk is a quiet girl who smiles at her briefly before scanning her items. Taylor fixes her shirt, a nervous habit when she doesn’t know whether to make conversation or not. She absentmindedly fiddles with the buttons, wondering if this shirt is hers or Whitney’s. It doesn’t really matter.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the girl asks, her bored eyes still focused ahead of her, trained on the screen. 

“Yeah,” Taylor says, confidently. “Yeah, I did.”

[zutaras-where-its-at]

21: “He’s a bad kisser”

I’ve been busy the last week with moving to a new place and trying to get everything set up, so I apologize for the lateness of these requests, but don’t worry, I’m still attempting to get through as many as possible!

Every prompt is ending up longer and longer than I had originally intended, but I’m not mad about it lol. This one is definitely my cheesy shipper heart talking, so it’s mostly fluff and dialogue, and wholly indulging my shameless wishful thinking.

[Set during “The Ember Island Players.” The conversation we all wish had happened.]

xxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He doesn’t really know why he edged Aang out to sit next to her. He doesn’t really wanna think about it. Call him a coward, but the realization waiting for him at the end of that particular rabbit trail isn’t one he’s necessarily prepared to confront.

What he does know, however, is that he possesses incredible hearing, even with his scorched ear. And when the two actors on stage portraying Jet and Katara begin to incessantly flirt with one another, Zuko almost chokes on his spit when he hears Katara mutter under her breath beside him.

“He’s a bad kisser.”

Zuko shoots her a bewildered look and hisses, “What?”

She startles, apparently not realizing she had spoken aloud. “I—uh, what?”

Zuko whips his head back to stare at the actors, who are now grossly entwined with one another, and he can’t unsee the image of the real Jet and Katara locked in an embrace.

“You and—“

“Shut up!” She cuts him off with a harsh whisper, her cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. Her eyes flick to the others behind them, but they’re too busy watching the entrance of their own characters. “Just shut up.”

“But he was insane!”

She blinks, then leans closer, dark brows scrunching together. “Wait. How do you know Jet?”

Before he can answer, Toph punches Katara in the shoulder and tells them to quit gossiping.

Zuko crosses his arms and tries not to glare through the rest of the play. His foul mood only worsens as the night wears on. Intermission comes and goes. The cringeworthy moment between his actor and Katara’s passes with discomfort from both parties and light teasing from the others. The traumatic end goes up in literal flames, and finally, they’re free to leave.

The night air is cool and dry against his skin, and Zuko takes a deep breath, attempting to calm the convulsing fire within him. Sokka and Toph attempt to cheer up the group, and even succeed in bringing out a few laughs from the others, but the mood refuses to shift beyond that.

The moment they step foot in the beach house, everyone disperses to their respective rooms. No one seems up to any games or conversation anymore.

Zuko lays in bed, eyes staring blankly at the wood panels above him. His mind is still racing and his head feels like it might explode, so once the noise of people moving around in the house finally dies down, he throws on a shirt and makes his way to the kitchen. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to scrounge up some of his family’s old alcohol in one of the cupboards.

Zuko is in the midst of cursing at all the empty bottles of wine and whiskey he finds in the pantry when she walks in.

“What are you doing?”

He jerks up on reflex, smacking his head against the shelf he’s leaning over and curses again. Apparently, his incredible hearing only picks up on disturbing and uncomfortable information from his enemy-turned-friend, but is useless when that aforementioned friend actually sneaks up on him.

Zuko throws a look over his shoulder to see Katara standing in the doorway looking mildly amused.

“I’m trying to get drunk, but it looks like I’m shit out of luck.”

She snorts and walks to the wicker basket sitting on the counter. Her nimble fingers glide over the assortment of fruit before she picks up a ripe looking mango. Her other hand grabs the small knife beside the basket before she’s walking out the way she came.

“Well, I’m going to get some fresh air. Have fun.”

He stares after her for a moment, rubbing at the bump that’s beginning to form on the back of his head. Making up his mind, he finally ditches the disappointing liquor cabinet, grabs an ash banana, and follows her to the porch.

She’s already slicing the mango into halves when he joins her. She doesn’t look up when he sits down next to her, but she does tip her head up in acknowledgment.

He watches her shave off a piece of the mango and stick it in her mouth, watches the pale juice slip down her fingers and over her wrist. He blinks hard and focuses on peeling his banana. They eat their fruit like that, just sitting on the front steps in a mutually maintained silence.

Zuko would even go so far as to call it peaceful. That is, until she takes it upon herself to violate the quiet mood.

“Did you really dump Mai in a letter?”

It’s so far from what he expected her to say that a sharp laugh manages to escape him. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t exactly trying to dump her, but she took it that way anyways.”

“What were you trying to do?”

Zuko sighs and throws his banana peel into the shadowed bushes at the bottom of the steps with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t know. I—I guess I just didn’t want to drag her into my mess. Things were already complicated between us, even after I returned to the Fire Nation. In a way, I thought I was doing her a favor by leaving without saying goodbye. She doesn’t deserve to suffer from my choices.”

“Well, it sounds like she’s suffering anyways.”

He bristles at that, voice growing cold. “Don’t act like you know her or our relationship. Everything I did was—“

“Zuko, relax.” Her eyes are wide, caught off guard by his biting tone. “I wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything. I just...I can imagine how she feels—knowing that you’re doing what you think is best, but she can’t help you. That’s probably a tough spot to be in.”

Slowly, Zuko let’s the tension seep out from his shoulders, resuming his previously relaxed state. “Yeah.”

An apologetic smile tilts her lips. “In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best time to sympathize with her side. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs and fiddles with the hem of his tunic. “You’re right though. Even when I try to do the right thing, I end up hurting someone.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees her shift a little, her body turning just the slightest bit more towards him.

“Look, Zuko. If the right thing was always the easiest thing to do, then nobody would struggle to make the right choices.” She hesitates for just a second before continuing. “Do you regret leaving her and coming to join us?”

He feels his heart beating slow and steady against his rib cage, and before he can really process the question, his answer is slipping out with a confidence he hadn’t realized he possessed. “No, I don’t. If I had stayed, a part of me would have hated myself for ignoring my destiny, and I know that I eventually would have hated her for it too.”

She reaches over and briefly squeezes his arm before letting go again. The skin there tingles in the seconds after her hand withdraws. “Then you’re okay. You can’t control anyone else’s feelings, only your own. Mai is strong. She’ll be alright.”

Uncle would love you, Zuko thinks.

He doesn’t realize he’s said this out loud until she laughs and shakes her head.

Suddenly, he remembers a part of the play that had him puzzled.

“Were you really the Painted Lady?”

Her laughter abruptly cuts off and she sheepishly tugs on a lock of hair. “Only for a little bit. The part about healing the people and cleaning the river is true, but the playwright added about twelve more explosions than there actually were. Plus, I had Aang, Sokka, and Toph to help me out.”

“But did you actually destroy a Fire Nation factory?”

A defensive look shutters her face, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Yes, but the factory was polluting their water! And the soldiers from the factory were—“

“Do you wanna be my partner sometime?”

“—taking all the medicine from—what?”

He tries valiantly not to laugh at her incredulous stare.

“Do you want to be my partner sometime?” He leans back on his hands, legs straightening out in front of him. “The playwright got a lot of things wrong. That time Aang got captured—Zhao was the one who caught him. I was the Blue Spirit that broke him out.”

She gapes at him, lips struggling to form words.

He grins. “I just think that the Blue Spirit and the Painted Lady might make a good team.”

Her mouth opens and shuts a few times before she lets out a soft “huh” and squints her eyes at him.

“So...Between chasing after us and commanding a squad of soldiers, you somehow found the time to be a street vigilante?”

“Between running away from me and helping the Avatar save the world, you somehow found the time to make out with a teenage terrorist?”

It slips out before he can stop it, and a pang of guilt sweeps through him. He winces, afraid that he’s just ruined a perfectly civil conversation because of his irrational jealousy curiosity.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I wasn’t—“

His rambling cuts off when she starts to laugh. It’s a little brittle and a lot loud, but it’s laughter all the same.

She stops, smiling ruefully up at the night sky. “Yeah, I guess it does sound pretty stupid when you put it that way.”

“It’s not stupid.”

She lets out a long sigh and flops onto her back, arms splayed haphazardly above her head. “No, it is. I mean, in my defense, he was one of the first boys my age that I’d pretty much ever met, and he did happen to be extremely charming. That was also back when life didn’t feel like it was always on the cusp of the end of the world. But all of that...I mean, the kissing and stuff...it’s all just a waste of time right now.”

Zuko doesn’t quite know what to say to that, an odd mix of sympathy and disappointment swirling his stomach.

“Surprisingly, he kisses better than Jet. But only by a little.”

“Who?”

“Aang.”

Zuko’s eyes almost bug out of their sockets for what feels like the millionth time tonight. He scrambles to twist around and look at her. “You’ve kissed Aang?”

She hardly moves, eyes trained on the stars stretching above them. “Well, he kissed me. Twice, actually.”

There’s a beat, and then Zuko is bending over his knees with his head in his hands, half-groaning, half-chuckling.

“Of course he did.”

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“No, no! I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

She covers her face with her hands and Zuko leans back on one elbow, stifling his chuckles.

“I’m not laughing at you. I just find the situation kind of ironic.”

One droll eye peeks out at him from between her fingers. “Ironic how?”

He blanches, realizing too late that this conversation has taken a rapid turn for a topic that he has shoved (guiltily, shamefully) deep into the recesses of his mind. Stuttering, Zuko gestures emptily with one hand.

“I just meant—well it’s—,” a half-grunt, half-squeak escapes his throat and Zuko would very much like to die right about now, “I’m just saying that—“

She isn’t covering her face anymore, so he can see the delicate lift of her left eyebrow in all its judgmental glory. He looks away.

“I just think your taste in men is interesting.”

He continues to avoid her eyes, but he can still feel her searching gaze on the side of his face.

“That’s not what you were going to say.”

“What? Yes it was.”

She rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Zuko, you’re a terrible liar. What were you really going to say? Why do you think it’s so ironic that Aang and I have kissed?”

The logical part of his brain warns him that telling her the truth would be a very large mistake, strictly cautions him that it would only complicate their hard-earned friendship. But the other part of his brain—the part that fully soaks in her un-ruffled, overly-composed appearance and longs to just smudge it with a streak of his own insecurity and embarrassment—that part quickly bashes the logical part in the face with a tsungi horn and leaves it to bleed out in a ditch.

“I find it so ironic, Katara, because a genocidal homeless kid and a twelve year old monk have managed to accomplish what I’ve been wanting to do for ages now.”

She blinks, and Zuko feels the sharp sting of a blush crawling up his neck, but the damage is already done and he refuses to be the first to look away.

A string of emotions shifts like shadows over her face—confusion surprise embarrassment. Realization.

Her lashes flutter, her lips part, and her eyelids lower to half-mast. Zuko has to clench his teeth to hold back a groan.

“You,” her breath skates across his face (when did they get so close?), “want to kiss me?”

He doesn’t trust his voice at the moment, giving her a jerky nod instead and then immediately wanting to sink into the floor.

But she hardly seems to notice his jittery body language. Rather, a slow grin curls at her mouth, and a cheeky glint makes her eyes sparkle up at him in a way that warns of danger. He doesn’t know why, but it turns him on a little.

“Well, clearly, you have quite the challenge waiting for you in the kissing department. How do I know you won’t be just as terrible of a kisser as Jet and Aang? Really, I don’t know if this is worth the risk for me.”

His nervousness begins to fade with her teasing, and he lets out a huff of laughter before doing what he does best. He rises to her bait.

“I might just be the best goddamn kisser in the whole Fire Nation, and you would never have the privilege of experiencing that unless you kiss me.”

Katara guffaws and levels him with an appraising look, her face tilting just the slightest bit up.

“Oh, so now it’s me who’s kissing you?”

He gives her a sage look, hair falling across his brow and tangling with his dark lashes. “That’s right. You better seize this rare opportunity before it slips right through your fingers. I have plenty of other suitors waiting for me, you know.”

Her snort nearly pulls a chuckle out of him, but he manages to maintain some semblance of a straight face.

“Plenty of other suitors, huh?”

“Plenty. Appa is the next on my list.”

One of his long fingers lightly coils around one of her dark, thin ones. With their faces mere inches apart, Zuko can see the mirth bubbling in the blue of her eyes mixing with something even brighter, something he can’t put into words but he can feel in his bones.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be shown up by Appa, now would I?”

When she finally presses her lips to his, Zuko swears that a Katara-shaped hole has just been carved into the puzzle that is his fate.

[jkslug]

foul mouth | kth ceo au

∷ Cursing out and not recognizing your boss earned you his constant (and annoying) attention alongside a new nickname.

Taehyung x Reader

Words: 4,689

∵ fluff

∵ ceo au ,,, e2l au

“Um… you,” a hand was pointed towards your face, “photocopy 2 of everything then man the desk,” now a tonne of papers was slammed in front of you, sending a gust of wind backwards and shocking you from the force they were dropped at.

Getting bossed around was something you had to get used to being a junior secretary at a huge up and coming company- a new junior secretary who also only started three days ago.

There were also nicknames; they were rather degrading as most people never bothered to learn your name until they decided you could last at least four months here. Nothing too special; most people opted for: ’hey you!’ or ’thingy’ and the most welcoming- ’newbie’.

You had to take it on the chin, this was your job -a well paying one- that you weren’t planning on losing any time soon. So the workload and rude coworkers are something you’ll have to get used to, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t annoying as shit.

”It’s Y/N,” managing to wrap your tiny hands around the blocks of paper, you lifted up the weight, ”you should know; you’re the one who hired me Amanda,” your boss or head secretary, Amanda, didn’t have time for ’casual’ conversation (somehow, knowing your name was casual) and anytime anyone brought up anything other than work she shut it down. So making friends was out the window.

”Alright then Adrian,” not even close, “can you stop messing around and photocopy these for me quickly. I want to go to lunch,” you did admire her however; the way she managed to talk with you, the person on the phone, the person in front of her, all while clicking the mouse to add another tab onto the already filled screen on her computer was multitasking skills beyond even your own mother. And the fact that she still managed it with impeccable slicked back hair, untouched skin and a perfect pantsuit combo was some sort of sorcery.

”Chop chop,” Amanda waved her hand in your general direction and went back to her multiple conversations.

The sigh that fell from your mouth was heavy enough to even worry the man standing behind the desk, but nonetheless, work was work and you were willing to commit until this job inevitably kills you.

The walk to the photocopy room wasn’t that far, so you didn’t bother thinking about the fact the trip back you were carrying double the weight until you were there, smacking your head against the photocopier for your sheer stupidity of not doing this in two trips.

”Finally,” Amanda got up from her chair, not to help, but to grab her purse, ”I’m going to get some food and I’ll be straight back as I still don’t trust you here alone. Put the papers on my side of the desk,” oh, that’s a nice feeling.

Being bashed and then ordered around again. You stood there, loads and loads of paper somehow balanced in your hands as you watched Amanda walk away, heels clicking against the tile floors with every self-entitled step.

You set down the papers with a slam next to her computer, the pens laid on her desk dispersed and you didn’t make an effort to pick them up. A favour for a favour.

Expecting a clear desk, you sat down in your chair with the annoyingly squeaky wheel and gasp at your computer screen. You stared at what was normally a flawless sheer black, clean screen that had transformed into a mood board for yellow and pink post-it notes, all similarly decorated with a neat ’A’ at the bottom of the task set on each one of them.

”Fuck sake!” You bang your head onto the keyboard; unintelligible combinations appearing onto your Microsoft Excel and stretching the collum as your profile stays firmly pressed against the board.

”I know the feeling, but maybe keep the language to yourself, you’re in a public space,” an unfamiliar voice ringed in your ears, the tone of was deep, but it was smoother than caramel; you could fall into it and listen to it all day… but once the words registered in your mind your head shot up, hair flying everywhere and out of your pathetically tied bun.

“There you go,” the man watched as you appeared from under the desk like a bunny coming out of a magicians top hat, “you need to let me in. I’ve lost my ID and can’t get through the turnstiles. You have to let me in, I would jump over, but I don’t want to rip this suit.”

Not only were you the secretary for this building and company, you also were the ’gatekeeper’- as you liked to call it. You and Amanda decide who goes in and who doesn’t; people who work here have an ID to get them past the turnstiles, and others, who have scheduled appointments, are given a temporary guest ID to let them in. This guy, however, has neither of those things and Amanda made it very clear: ’never let someone who doesn’t have an ID or appointment through. Or else’.

And as a new employee under her care, you didn’t want to embarrass you or her.

“I can’t do that sir. You don’t have an ID or an appointment so you can’t go through,” you say with a monotone voice a shuffle through papers to make yourself look busy.

The look he fires back to your remark is either completely disgust or shock, ”my face should be ID enough.”

Wow, what a cocky little shit. You scoff and smile, shocked by his attitude.

”Your face? Sorry, but as a person who works here, I’ve never seen you around,” you roll your eyes and turn away, sitting back down in your chair, ”you can’t go through.”

“You’re just a secretary, who have you seen around and what do you do anyway?” You could see the self-entitlement dripping off of him.

Your blood starts boiling and you slam your hands on the desk, rising slowly and building up and ready to burst like a volcano. At first, before you took this job, you would’ve thought the same thing, but finally having the experience of being a secretary and the workload, you were ready to punch this guy square in the face.

”Just a secretary? Sorry, sir,” you over pronounce the sir, ”but i’m not just the fucking secretary, I also manage the damn gates.”

”Revolutionary. You hold the company on your shoulders,” you didn’t much enjoy the sarcasm or smile that this man’s mouth is showing.

“Alright you fucking listen here mister,” you lean over the counter while pointing a finger, officially done with today and this random dude, “I work fucking hard, this job is hard as shit I hope you know that. Also, I’m not letting you in the bloody building, okay?”

The fact that he was still grinning was all the more frustrating; you wanted to slap it off his face.

”You have such a foul mouth,” he speaks softly, but with a teasing smile which aggravates you further.

”You have a foul personality. Don’t come over to me and demand stuff I can’t give you like a spoilt child,” you spit at him. Honestly, if he caught you at any other time, you wouldn’t be this fired up.

”Actually you can because I’m-”

”Mr Kim?”

Both you and the frustrating man turn to see Amanda, standing there, half-eaten sandwich in her left hand, ”are you here for your afternoon meeting?”

Confusion struck; Amanda knew him? Who’s mister Kim? What meeting?

Your confusion wasn’t exactly hidden; it was pretty obvious to Amanda what happened as she clicked her heels back around the desk to your side to look for the guest IDs, all while shouting/whispering in your ear, ”he’s the CEO of the company, Kim Taehyung. And you’ve made him late for a meeting”

The expression on your face was priceless; Taehyung had to let out a small snicker as your eyes slowly but surely widened and your back straightened up. Words were on the tip of your tongue but came out as stupid stutters instead of the calm and sweet, honey voice he had.

Amanda handed over the ID and shook her head, apologizing on your behalf, “sorry, they’re the newbie,” you could feel the cheeks redden and you hoped he wouldn’t point it out, but after talking to him for only 3 minutes, you felt like he’s a person who would.

“Alright foul mouth, think you can remember this face for next time,” the way you tried to hide the incredulous look on your face only made Taehyung smile wider.

Taehyung bid farewell to Amanda and walked over to the turnstiles, letting himself in and running to the elevators.

”Hey y/n,” Amanda nudged your arm; you were expecting a scolding for not knowing who the owner of the company was, but you got, “I think he likes you,” you see her smiling for the first time as she walks back to the seat.

You were left in a daze… he likes you? And Amanda knows your name? It got you blushing even more than usual… Taehyung did, not Amanda.

“What?” You blinked at her. Too many thoughts that ’what’ was the only word you could let out.

“Well, he fired the last secretary because they couldn’t remember his name… so I guess he likes you,” Amanda shrugged.

You visibly gulped. You were in for it. This guy was bad news. And he was your boos.

“Should I get my dog the banana costume or the Dorothy costume for Halloween?”

It had only been a month since you had started work here and Amanda had taken a complete 180. The two conversation topics you and Amanda fall back on when the awkward silence fills the desk is her dog, Grumples (which you didn’t mind, like, at all) and Taehyung, the CEO (which you did mind, making it Amanda’s favourite subject topic)

”Those Dorothy shoes look like they’re from build-a-bear,” you lean over and give your input as she shows you her phone.

Amanda nods in agreement and keeps scrolling, “banana it is,” she copies you and rests her feet on the desk next to yours.

Over the past month, yours and Amanda’s computers slowly got closer and closer together -as did your friendship- and now you were reading a magazine and resting your feet on the desk.

Old Amanda would’ve erupted if she saw the both of you. Maybe once Amanda found a conversation topic that was mildly amusing (Taehyung, unfortunately) she got attached to you.

At least she knew your name now.

“It’s September, why are you ordering now?” You questioned

“I don’t trust delivery services at all,” Amanda responded.

”I can pay for next day delivery for you,” the deep, honey voice had shocked you once again- at least Amanda was there to flinch too.

As Amanda keeps her cool and places a hand on her chest to calm down her heart, you, on the other hand, jump up in your chair with a, ”what the fuck!”

”Wow, foul mouth has foul feet too,” Taehyung poked your big toe on your foot, which is sprawled out the desk; you flinched away while yelping- his hands were incredibly cold.

There was no one in the lobby and your feet hurt from the heels, who really would blame you for taking them off and relaxing- letting them breathe perhaps.

”W-what are you doing down here? Get back to work!” you struggle to fumble off the chair and stand up, blubbering uncontrollably as you slip slightly while trying to maintain some composure.

”You’re the one who’s resting their dirty feet on the front desk foul mouth!” Taehyung retorted, causing a small gasp to fall past your lips in offence; the nickname and him calling your feet dirty somehow cut deeper coming from his lips.

Amanda, like always, sits at the side and watches you and Taehyung’s usual ’run-ins’ with an amused look on her face.

These ’run-ins’ have been occurring more than you would like them to. It seemed to start happening after you embarrassingly didn’t recognise him as the CEO of the company you work for (you have brushed up your knowledge on the company after that incident) and then cursed him out.

The ordinarily quiet lobby (apart from mornings and rush hour when everyone leaves) now always -what you thought- had a scampering child running around in it. Taehyung was constantly there, popping up unexpectedly to get a reaction out of you- specifically a reaction to get you cursing at him again just to tell you off.

Just when you thought you got rid of the insufferable nicknames, another one came out of nowhere. ’Foul mouth’. So what you had a slight potty mouth? It wasn’t a big deal. But when Taehyung pointed it out, it became some sort of horrible thing you should stop doing. Obviously, you didn’t.

Every time the name dropped from his lips it was always spoken as a hum; a horrible nickname sounded sweet with his voice; like he was singing a beautiful song every time he said it, and you hated it. You were sure he didn’t know your name as that’s all he ever called you.

He shouldn’t even be down here; he should be in his office, a hundred feet away from you.

”Mr Kim, leave before I fucking drop kick you,” you slammed your hand down on the stapler, connecting the two papers and showing hostility in your irises.

”I love it when you talk dirty to me baby,” Taehyung rested his elbow on the desk, cheek resting in his hand as he stared at you lovingly; the look in his eyes was bewildering, it looked so real, but you knew it was just some tease.

“Go upstairs,” you hiss as a warning.

“This is so cute,” Amanda chuckled and was practically eating popcorn as she watched you both. Witnessing you and Taehyung squabble was her new favourite pastime. 

You knew because she told you.

Amanda chirping in was ignored and Taehyung continued the conversation, “if you actually read my schedule, you would know I’m going out to negotiate a business deal so-” Taehyung showed his mature side by flipping you off with both hands.

”Of course I read your schedule!” no, you didn’t. You read ’Mr Kim’s sc-’ and tossed it into the trash.

“I know you didn’t, but i’ll forgive you,” Taehyung flashes a bitter smile as you watch a sleek black car pull up in the street through the lobby windows. You didn’t want to guess how much it was, but it looked expensive. The tinted windows and paint job looked as if they cost more than your monthly rent.

Taehyung notices the car too and starts walking backwards slowly, keeping his eyes on you, “bye foul mouth,” a wink was directed at you, as was a shit-eating grin before Taehyung turned around and left the building, pulling a large coat on to cover his already large frame.

A wink. How cheesy.

”Did you see that? Mr Kim winked at you,” Amanda chirped in, poking your sides playfully.

”It was cringey.”

”Why are you blushing then?”

“Should I get my dog the elf costume or the reindeer costume for Christmas?”

“Those hoofs look deranged.”

”Elf it is.”

“It’s November, why are you ordering now?”

You and Amanda looked over at each other- you’ve had this conversation before.

Smiling at the infamous deja vu, you loosely chuck your wallet into the handbag that was definitely too big for the things you normally carry and grab your phone, ”do you want anything?”

”No, just be quick y/n,” Amanda’s workaholic side was evident in that sentence, wanting you back from your break as quickly as possible.

You nod and circle round the desk, quickening your pace as you don’t want to face Amanda’s wrath if you’re late.

”Wait! Y/n!” you whip your head around, expecting to be faced with Amanda’s face, but instead, a thick coat harshly smacked into your face and fell into your arms, ”you forgot your coat.”

Saluting to Amanda, you dash out of the door and give her another reason to scoff at you. You carelessly scramble to pull the coat on; the soft fabric touching your skin as you pulled your arm through the sleeve, tips of your fingers visible at the end.

The doors at the exit automatically opened once you were close enough and you swiftly stepped out, smiling to the bodyguards before doing so.

Cold air breathed into your skin once you stepped outside, hitting you like a truck; red cells rising to your cheeks to protect you from the harsh breeze. Your coat was already wrapped around you, adding another layer of protection as your flimsy dress and wool tights are useless against this weather.

It wasn’t unbearable, but you wanted to get out of the bitter weather and find something to warm up your hands; the nearest cafe to the building was a safe bet.

The place was small and quaint, so whenever someone walked in, the bell would ring and almost every face would turn to you, checking the arrival of the new person is acceptable enough to stay here.

That’s exactly what happened to you; not only did the warmth from the heaters hit your face, about 8 different eyes burned holes into you too- effectively heating you up more.

Looking down, you sauntered forward, avoiding the looks as you neared the counter. The man in front who had just finished his order turned around and- oh fuck.

“Mr Kim?”

The egregious smirk etched its way onto Taehyung’s face -insufferable and handsome as always- as he finished his order with, ”-oh, also a latte for foul mouth too,” he spins around, smile still present, ”you like lattes right?”

”I hate them,” you keep lying so he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of being right, ”and you’re not paying for my coffee- why are you even here?”

”It’s my day off. You really don’t read my schedule do you?” Taehyung looked slightly hurt, but the teasing kind that suggests he’s upset you aren’t obsessed with him. Like you’ll be obsessed with someone so full of himself to think like that.

”I did!” that was true. You eventually looked.

You tried resting on your tiptoes, looking past the tall man, but your view was blocked by his annoyingly becoming face, “and cancel the damn latte!” you shout to the barista, unable to get past the wall that is Mr Kim.

You let out a heavy sigh at him rotating his head around and gesturing at the poor barista to make it anyway.

Stumbling back, you finally got a good look of Taehyung in casual clothes. Well, casual enough for a businessman like Mr Kim. A striped, collared red shirt layered with a navy cardigan and a trench coat you really didn’t want to guess the price of.

Everything looked seamlessly exceptional on him, wearing it with so much confidence is what made him all the more attractive; any piece of clothing that was worn by him gained value by 100% just because it touched his skin. You shamelessly got too lost starting at him to notice the hand waving in front of your face.

”Foul mouth?” a look of genuine concern crossed his face, “stop spacing out.”

The nickname brought you back- does he even know your name?

”A cappuccino and latte to go?” the barista called from behind you, holding the plastic cups towards you.

There was no way you were letting Taehyung pay for you; your pride wouldn’t let you- even though it was just coffee.

You swatted his hand away that held a wad of money and dug into your oversized handbag to pull out your flimsy wallet. You handed the barista a 10 and refused the change.

“I was going to pay for that,” Taehyung held up his arms.

“Tough,” you grab onto both coffee cups, harsh pricks of warmth stabbing at your fingertips and tickling up your arm. To say it woke you up a little was an understatement.

Forcing the coffee into his open hand, Taehyung tried resisting, ”but-”

”Just because you’re ‘rich’,” you used air quotes with your free hand, ”doesn’t mean you have to pay for everything.”

Normally, Taehyung was not one to show when certain words affected him -being a businessman it could come in handy- but those small, simple words struck a chord within him. He never noticed; everyone always expected him to pay; everyone always waited until he reached for the bill first. It was refreshing to hear it.

Taehyung just froze up; a smile on his face and coffee in hand, the heat from the plastic cup is not the only thing sending tingles of amiability up his spine.

It took you a second to notice Mr Kim was staring at you. You couldn’t help but tease, waving a hand in front of his face and smiling at him, ”are you having an embolism?”

You had got him to laugh, which you were curiously happy about.

”No… thank you,” Taehyung looked down at the ground while holding up his cup, grinning just to glance back up at you with that boyish smile that would make any girls heart flutter. Including yours.

”No problem,” the air gets awkward so you step back and out of it, ”I should get back to work before Amanda kills me.”

”I could walk you b-”

”No! I’m fine!” you rush out the door; heart at a pace that wasn’t what anyone would call ’normal’ and cheeks completely burning. The cold breeze was barely doing justice in cooling you down.

”Guess what,” Amanda grins as she looks up at you as she sits on the other side of the desk.

”What?” it was like you knew what she would say, but you ask anyway because you had just arrived and slumped on the customer side of the desk.

”I cancelled the elf costume and went for the reindeer anyway.”

You roll your eyes at Amanda- of course she would.

Amanda greeting you by talking about her dog didn’t cheer you up like it normally would. This morning had been unbearable and it hasn’t even started properly. All it took was one thing -that one thing is waking up late- to screw up the rest of the day.

”We have Mr Kim’s new schedule for this week,” Amanda held out the piece of paper whilst typing on the computer, once again showing off her prodigious multitasking skills.

The paper flew out of her two fingers as you snatched it from her and speed-walked around the desk. Crashing down onto your leather seat you read through it with gleaming eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by your desk buddy.

Things between you and Mr Kim have been… friendly? What was once teasing and cursing back and forth turned into genuine conversations every time he came downstairs, (there was still a little teasing and cursing) becoming significantly uninteresting to Amanda, which was a plus for you- although he did still call you foul mouth, proving your suspicions that he didn’t know your name to be true.

Running your fingers over the ink on the page, you memorized as much as you could on first glance, however, it came to a halt once it landed over the end of today.

Monday 5:30 - Dinner date.

A date? The words tasted strange on your tongue and you haven’t even said it out loud yet. You didn’t even know he had time for dates, but you knew it didn’t sit well with you; a grip was on your stomach and the fact that you felt like that, felt wrong entirely. He was basically your boss.

Your upset face was obviously more noticeable than you first thought as it attracted the attention of Amanda, ”something wrong?” she notices the placement of your finger and smirks.

”Jealous?” she spoke in that annoying mocking voice again.

”No,” you slammed the paper onto your desk, becoming engrossed with your computer screen instead, ”why would I be jealous?”

”Because you secretly like your boss and he’s going out with someone who isn’t you,” she had pinned the tail onto the donkey. The donkey was you and the tail was the cold hard truth.

”Fuck off.”

”Stop sulking!”

You scoff at Amanda as you continue to indeed, pout.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t get that upset over it, it wasn’t a big deal at all; he could even have a girlfriend for all you know. What you were really pouting over was the fact that Taehyung had not come downstairs at all today. It has become a habit and you had got used to it, getting comfortable with his presence being there.

You let out one big, final sigh as you start packing up; you hurriedly shove everything into your handbag, mumbling curses to yourself when you accidentally dropped your phone to the floor.

Bending over while praying it didn’t smash, you retrieve your phone and stand back up straight to meet a face you say you’re comfortable with, but still get scared of every time it appears unexpectedly.

”Mr Kim!” you place a hand over your chest and try to calm down from another jumpscare, ”what are you doing down here?”

”You really don’t read my schedule, do you?” Taehyung studies your every movement as you walk around the desk, ”I have a date.”

You press a smile together and raise your eyebrows, ”have fun,” lowering your face, you start speed walking for the door.

As you listened to your heels click against the floor rapidly, another sound of steps close-by catches your attention. You stopped abruptly and whipped your head to the side to see Taehyung.

”Mr Kim what-”

”I prefer it if you would call me Taehyung.”

”But you’re my boss-” you tried speaking again, but inevitably got interrupted.

”And you’re my date y/n,” your heart sped up and somehow slowed down at the same time. He said your name and date in one sentence, ”so let’s go,” your hand was taken from you as Taehyung dragged you away; Amanda excitedly waving you out of the door.

”Mr- Kim, what’s going on?” Taehyung somehow managed to get you into his car before answering your constant questions.

You were both in the back seat and you could not be more confused. You were his date? He knew your actual name?

Taehyung slowly reached over you, grabbing the seatbelt and helping you strap in; the close proximity was deadly as you held in a breath. You could feel his breath tickling the peach fuzz on your cheeks, which were bright red by now.

”You’re my date,” you felt the seatbelt click in place, ”because I like you. You stand up for yourself, which is hot, and are more caring than you think… and I wanted to take you out.”

You were a stuttering mess, words failing to get out, but you managed a small, ”w-wh-well what if I-I don’t want to go out?”

By the smirk on Taehyung’s face, you could tell he was planning something, ”tough,” you watched his dilated pupils getting closer and closer to you; hands nervously sweating and gripping onto the seat once his lips collided with force onto yours.

You felt two hands softly hold your cheeks, easily covering each one with how huge his hands were.

Just like everything else, Taehyung effortlessly got whatever he wanted and you relaxed, kissing him back; fluttering your eyes shut, your hands fell on top of his, softly caressing them as your lips worked together as if that was their sole purpose.

Everything was still confusing for you, but this felt right. It felt comfortable.

Taehyung was the first to pull away, causing the tiniest whimper to fall from your lips once he did. Your foreheads gently lean against each other; his cheeky grin still visible as you gulped.

”You know… for such a foul mouth, I didn’t expect you to taste so sweet.”

Taehyung may have got a smack around the head for that, but, he still pulled you back and enjoyed the taste of your lips for the whole ride to the restaurant.

[starryviolentine]

Color Me Blue (That’s Me Without You): A Pre-Apocalypse Story

Part 1 (here)     Part 2 (here)     Part 3 (here) Part 4 (here)     Part 5 (here) 

Part 6/10: Bend and Break

When Brody shuts off her alarm without immediately getting out of bed, Violet assumes that her friend is just extra tired this morning and wants to get in a few more minutes of rest. Now that she thinks back on it, though, that should’ve been her first clue that something wasn’t quite right. Brody never oversleeps and never hits snooze.

Nevertheless, Violet lets her be and finishes getting ready on her own, and when she returns to their bedroom she finds Therissa and her backpack already gone, meaning that their older roommate has already left for breakfast, or whatever it is that teenagers do in the morning before class. At first glance the room seems empty, so Violet figures that maybe she somehow missed Brody on her way back from the bathroom, but then she steps farther inside and almost does a double-take. There’s a perfectly Brody-sized lump underneath the blankets, still in exactly the same spot as Violet saw her last.

“What are you doing?” Violet asks incredulously. “We’re gonna be late.”

When she’s met with complete silence, Violet’s first thought is that Brody is still asleep. A rare opportunity has presented itself… she just has to take it. Lips curling into a mischievous grin, Violet leaps onto the bed, crawls right on top of the other girl and sits on her legs. She pokes Brody in the side with her finger, knowing full well that her best friend is extremely ticklish there. “Brody, wake up.”

Brody jolts slightly, letting out a small, squeaky yelp, and the reaction sends Violet into a fit of giggles.

“Seriously, though,” says Violet, getting to her feet, “if we don’t leave in, like, ten minutes we’re gonna miss breakfast.”

Instead of jumping right up and freaking out about being late for class like Violet expected, Brody sinks deeper into her blankets until her head disappears under the covers. When she finally speaks, her voice is muffled and barely audible. “I’m not going.”

“What?” Raising an eyebrow, Violet yanks the blankets away and grabs Brody by the arms, pulling her upright. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Can you tell Ms. Martin that I don’t feel good?” Brody’s shoulders slump and she reminds Violet of the sad, floppy ragdoll that used to sit on a shelf at her grandparents’ house. Even her voice is quiet and weary, lacking its usual spark.

“Are you sick or something?”

Brody draws her legs up to her chest and hugs her knees, keeping her eyes downcast. She gives a small shake of her head. “No, but…”

There is definitely something wrong with Brody. Violet, starting to worry a bit, takes a seat on the mattress and scoots closer to her friend. “Are you okay?”

“I-I don’t… I don’t know what to do, Vi…”

Violet tries her best to follow, but she has no idea what Brody’s talking about. Whatever it is, she knows that it’s got to be serious. She hasn’t seen her friend this upset in a long time. “What’s wrong?”

Brody’s voice cracks. “Everything!”

The more emotional Brody gets, the more tense Violet feels. Big feelings make her uneasy and she never knows how to handle them. And this time, they’re not even hers. When it comes to Brody, Violet’s number one priority is diffusing the situation as soon as possible because there’s nothing worse than seeing her best friend upset. The scariest thing about these situations actually has nothing to do with how overwhelming they can be… it’s the fact that Violet gets so worried that she won’t know the right thing to say or do to make Brody feel better.

Right now, in their room, it’s just the two of them. No backup. Violet’s confidence falters. “Should I get Therissa?”

“No!”

The answer is shrill and comes a little too quickly.

“Okay,” Violet says cautiously, raising her hands in defense, “that’s a thing I’m not gonna do.”

“Sorry...” Brody lowers her voice and her eyes turn apologetic. “Vi, I don’t… I don’t think Therissa likes me.”

Violet gives a small sigh. At this rate, they’re definitely not going to have time for breakfast. She might even be late for class, too. Not that she really cares that much, anyway. Brody is way more important. Violet makes herself comfortable, moving into the space next to her friend so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Did something happen?”

“She seemed mad at me the other day, when I got back,” Brody explains, voice softer than Violet’s ever heard it before, “a-and I don’t… I don’t know why…”

Violet listens as Brody’s voice grows dangerously higher in pitch with every word.

“Has she ever said anything to you? Like, maybe… maybe I get on her nerves because I talk to her too much, or that I’m annoying, or… something…?”

“I don’t think she hates you,” Violet says, intending for her statement to be reassuring, but she immediately regrets her choice of words because the girl next to her starts to cry. “I mean, she talks to us sometimes, right?”

“She likes you, Vi. You did your nails together... ” Brody pauses to wipe her eyes with her pajama sleeves. “I think she only does stuff with us because you’re there. I’ve lived with her for almost three years and she’s never asked me to do anything with her…”

This is the second time Brody’s brought up the whole nail painting thing, so she really must have wanted to be there. If Violet could go back in time, she would tell Therissa that she would only let her do her nails if she promised to do Brody’s, too. Actually, that’s not a bad idea... Violet sits up a little straighter. Maybe they should just talk to Therissa about all of this! “Hey, maybe we should go talk to her. I mean, you guys could work out your stuff, and then we could just ask if she could paint your-”

“Vi, no!” Brody cries, sounding appalled. “We can’t!”  

Once again, it seems like Violet has unintentionally said the wrong thing. “Or, you know, we could not do that, either.”

“We can’t mention any of this to Therissa, okay?” Brody turns to Violet and speaks in a serious, almost pleading tone. “I don’t wanna bother her. Vi, you can’t tell her. Promise me you won’t.”

“Okay, fine, I won’t,” says Violet, somewhat reluctantly. Even though she’s not keen on leaving Therissa in the dark, especially when she believes that talking to the teen will solve everything, she doesn’t want to upset Brody further. At least she’s no longer crying. “Are you really not going to class today?”

Brody shakes her head, face turning gloomy again. “I… I just need some time.”

“Do you...” Violet clears her throat. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

For the first time that day, Brody smiles, even if it’s just a small fraction of her usual hundred-watt grin. “No, it’s okay. You have that math quiz today, don’t you?”

The blonde girl groans. “I was trying to forget about that.”

“Thank you, though,” says Brody, putting an arm through Violet’s and leaning her head against her shoulder for just a moment. “You always make things better.”

Violet can feel her cheeks heating up.

And that’s her cue to leave.

After promising to let Ms. Martin know that Brody would be absent today, Violet goes over to her side of the room to grab her belongings. Just like every morning, she slips into her sneakers and slings her backpack over her shoulder, but something feels off. It’s weird to be leaving without Brody. Pausing in the doorway, Violet takes one last look at her friend, who waves goodbye, before pulling the door closed behind her.

If she really wanted to, Violet could probably zip down to the cafeteria with just enough time to snag a banana or granola bar to scarf down before her first class, but there’s somewhere else she wants to go instead. Somewhere more important. She hurries across campus and heads straight to the main hall where the majority of the classes at Ericson’s take place. The classrooms on the ground floor and second floor belong to the lower and intermediate school. By now, Violet knows the entire layout of the first two floors like the back of her hand. She could tell you which drinking fountains have the coldest water, which floorboards to step over so you don’t trip and fall on your face, and even which bathroom stalls to avoid due to broken locks or toilets that don’t always flush. There’s one more level in the building, though, but Violet has never been up there before.

Until now, that is.

At the very top of the staircase is the third floor, where the high school classes are held. This is uncharted territory for Violet, but she finds herself making her way down the hallway full of strangers anyway. Amidst the teenagers and teachers who are all bigger and taller than she is, tiny Violet sticks out like a sore thumb. This draws a lot of unwanted attention, but she pushes on, doing her best to ignore the head turns, the stares and the whispers. There isn’t very much time left. Violet moves as fast as she can, popping her head into every classroom she passes as she looks for one teen in particular.

“You lost, kid?” Somebody calls out to her, but Violet quickly ducks out of sight without looking to see who it is. It’s not a voice she recognizes. Not the voice she’s listening out for.

The only thing Violet cares about right now is helping Brody, even if that means breaking-

No, not quite breaking.

Even if that means bending her promise a little.

Violet really needs to talk to Therissa. She just hopes she can find her before the bell rings.

[lavenderblossom74]

Things Like

SUMMARY: Sometimes, Dick forgets how much he has to be grateful for and how lucky he is to have Bruce. But sometimes, he also remembers.

Rolling down memory lane yay! This is an old one-shot of mine, hope you all enjoy!

--

After five years of living with the man, Dick sometimes forgets how truly lucky he is to have Bruce.

It isn't that there are times when he stops being appreciative, because Dick will always—always—remember the man who had been there for him when no one else had.

It's just that sometimes, Dick forgets the little things. The little things that so often become so normal that eventually they’re easy to take for granted.

--

Things like Bruce helping with a school project.

The scene: One of the many living rooms in the manor, the floor is littered with paper, popsicle sticks, pipe cleaners, puffy balls and of course, glitter.

Beside Dick, paint containers are spread out before him. Bruce in all his artistic vision holds a paintbrush (he’s the only person Dick has ever met who can make a paintbrush look intimidating)

“So I’m painting the words “Kinetic Motion” in blue, right?” Bruce asks.

12 year old Dick nods enthusiastically “Yes! Aaand…” There's a theatrical dramatic pause “I’LL SPRINKLE THE GLITTER!”

Bruce gives him an exasperated look before muttering something under his breath. Catching something about “glitter” and “death wish” Dick just grins as Bruce begins to paint.

“You have a very steady hand you know” Dick observes.

“Mhm” Bruce answers automatically, most of his attention focused on the poster board in front of him.

As he finishes up, Dick—as promised—happily sprinkles glitter with more joy than even a fascinated two year old would have.

Bruce is just glad Alfred put covered the entire wooden floor with layers upon layers of plastic.

After writing down the definition of Kinetic Energy in a sparkly green pen, Dick begins the fun of the party.

His assignment is to make a model that represents Kinetic Energy. So he decides it's a good excuse as any to make a roller coaster.

A roller coaster made out of an assortment of pipe cleaners, colorful popsicle sticks, fluffy puffy balls, and a whole lot of glue.

The rest of the night goes something like this:

“You just glued my fingers. YOU JUST GLUED MY FINGERS!! I’M GONNA DIE, I’M GONNA DIE. WHAT IF THIS GLUE HAS LIKE, WEIRD CHEMICAL PROPERTIES AND I GET A WEIRD BACTERIA AND OH MY GOD, MY WHELMED FINGERS! THEY WERE TOO YOUNG TO BECOME OVERWHELMED!! WHY DEAR FINGERS, —WHY??”

*Amused look from source of great panic* “You done?”

*Dick stares at panic source incredulously* “Am I done? AM I DONE! I WILL SHOW YOU DONE—”

Bruce cuts him off by calmly unsticking Dick’s fingers.

*gape* “You couldn't have done that before I went ballistic?!”

*Stare*

-

“Pipe cleaners hate me. This is a fact.” This is what Dick says as he stubbornly gives an innocent pipe cleaner the death glare.

“Really?” Bruce wryly asks.

“YES!” His charge exclaims. “I mean, is it my fault the stupid first hill has to be high so that the ball we send down can gain energy from it so it can continue the rest of the way? Is it my fault roller coasters are biased against poor 8th graders? IS IT MY FAULT KINETIC ENERGY EXISTS AND I HAVE TO DO A PROJECT FOR IT?!” By the end of his rant, Dick is standing up.

As Bruce sticks a puffy ball onto a pipe cleaner, he retorts, “Yes. You chose the model, didn't you?”

Dick opens his mouth to retort, then he closes it. “Whatever” he grumbles but sits back down and continues working in his roller coaster.

Bruce just smirks.

-

“Long was the haggard night. One blue eyed pre-teen (cough official teen cough) works hard to finish the project assigned by his torturer—teacher—that is due tomorrow. He is ready to drop dead from exhaustion and his stomach clenches in painful hunger but he valiantly continues his work. He will not back down, he will not give up, he—”

“—would not be here if he hadn’t decided to leave everything to the last minute.”

Dick glares at Bruce who shrugs innocently, “It’s true”

“Don’t intrude upon my enthralling narrations!” Dick whines.

Enthralling … ?

At Bruce’s look, Dick pouts. “Don't Judge!!” In a quieter voice he mumbles, “You’re just jealous I can use bigger words than you”

*Another look* I heard that

Dick pouts again. “Whatever”

-

After what feels like eons, the adrenaline starts to fade. Dick knows his previous excitement and absolute optimism are on their deathbed.

And it’s because this stupid roller-coaster-project-thing was so annoying! And frustrating. And mean. And a bully. And uncooperative. And generally insufferable.

He’s done all the calculations and the model should be working—the ball they are rolling should be able to continue the entire way depending only on the initial push… But it isn't!

Every time he tries to make it work with the pipe cleaners, is only another time he fails and becomes even more frustrated.

The solution is simple—it has to be—But Dick’s brain has become a slushy and is so mushy that he can't see the answer.

He’s ready to throw in the towel, crash on his bed, and forget about this dumb project.

But then his grade suffers.

And so does Robin.

Even after knowing Dick left school work to the last minute, Bruce hasn't said anything about grounding Robin but if Dick doesn't pull this project off and proves he can handle both his duties, Dick knows he will say something then.

Suddenly, Bruce nudges him. Dick looks up to an unreadable face.

“Go to bed,” Bruce tells him

Dick’s eyes widen in panic. Because he knows what's going to happen next, Bruce is going to say that in the morning, they're going to “talk” about how Dick needs to be more responsible and how he needs to prioritize. Then he’s benching Robin.

Dick opens his mouth to say that No, he can finish his project and sure maybe he was a little irresponsible but he’d done the actual research beforehand and honestly hadn't thought making the roller coaster model would've taken so long. It wasn't like he’d decided to be sleep deprived and frustrated on purpose!

Before he can anything in though, Bruce repeats himself. “Go to bed, chum”

Then he says, “I’m going out for a couple of hours; When I get back, I'll wake you so you can finish up and actually comprehend what you're doing.” Bruce stares at the roller coaster pointedly, “For now, just get some sleep.”

And so Dick sleeps. 3 hours later, Bruce—as promised—wakes him up and helps Dick finish up the roller coaster.

Dick had been right before—the solution had been indeed very simple.

Then, Dick heads to school and turns his project in.

Bruce doesn't mention anything about it afterwards nor does he give any reason to imply Robin is grounded.

Dick makes an effort to be more responsible with his school work from then on though.

It isn't until two months later that he finds out that the day Bruce helped him on his project was also the day he’d been awake for more than 24 hours already.

He also finds out that despite having two important board meetings that morning, Bruce had still kept his promise about waking him up and helping Dick finish the project.

---

Things like Bruce letting Dick rant about anything and everything.

Age: 10

Rant Topic: Spicy Foods

“It makes no sense! How come that food is so spicy, how come it makes your mouth feel like it's living fire, how come it makes your ears burn and feel hot n’ cold, how come it’s so hot, if it gonna be so good?! With the hint of lemon and the flavor it leaves in your mouth… Mmmm!” *Dick smiles to himself like a sap before snapping out of it* “... Exactly my point!! Why does spicy food enjoy torturing a kid like me?? I mean did I ever do anything against it? Who was the brilliant person who thought it would be an awesome idea to add hot spices to food anyway?!”

Bruce: “Do you need more water?”

Age: 11

Rant topic: The English Language

“In my humble opinion, English is a dumb language.” *as he rakes his fingers down his face* “I mean why are there so many rules?! Silent E, if it's beside a verb you say it's name, i before e except after c, ph makes a fffff sound… So complicated!! And half of them don’t follow their own rules half the time!! Toe-may-toe, Toe-ma-toe… Same thing!!”

Bruce: *shrug* “That’s why you learn other languages”

Age: 13

Rant Topic: Exams

“I’m done… Mark my words Bruce—are you marking them? I. Am. Done. DonedonedonedonedoneDONE!! My brain cells feel non existent right now… I am stressed beyond relief and I'm still nowhere near done with all these exams! It is impossible to retain all this information!! Who cares about random math dudes who found the formulas to life changing equations or the dates of every major event in history?! We aren't gonna need the info in life so why bother? Why does a test have to define you as a person anyway?”

Bruce: *in his most insightful voice* “It doesn't”

---

Things like sitting at the counter and simply eating along with Dick. An apple, a pear, a banana, a kiwi, baby carrots, a ripe tomato… no matter the fruit, the vegetable—just knowing that he wasn't alone… Sometimes that was enough.

Some of his funniest memories had actually happened at the counter.      

Some of his saddest memories had happened at the counter too.   

Some of the moments that didn't stand out, that weren't spectacular, that were just there—they'd happened at the counter too.

---

Things like playing a game of basketball with him.

Things like hiding junk food behind Alfred’s back (but at the same time not really since Dick suspected no one—not even the World's Greatest Detective—could hide anything from Alfred).

Things like taking Dick out when it snowed and helping him build a snow fort.

Things like quizzing Dick for his next Mathlete Competition.

Things like hearing about how Dick’s day went practically everyday and never complaining about it.

Things like everyday things.

Things that when Dick stands back and looks at his life—actually really looks at it—he realizes that he should not take for granted.

Things that make him understand how much luck he has in his life. Even after all the tragedy he has gone through, luck somehow found it’s way to stay.

Luck or Hope.

Knowing that there are still people in this world who care for him, knowing that a man he has learned to love and look up to cares for him so much that the care eventually feels normal…

Somehow, that feels like so much more than just luck.

---

When Dick silently enters Bruce’s study, the man looks up.

When Dick whispers, “Thank you,” Bruce blinks in confusion.

When Dick says, “Thank you for everything,” Bruce’s eyes slowly comprehend the meaning behind the words. And he smiles.

[feynites]

I got more Banana Bachelor AU done! ^-^ Tagging @lycheemilkart, Serahlin of course belongs to @scurvgirl

When Magister Danarius turns up dead the day before Vena’s date with Ana, he honestly doesn’t think much about it. 

It’s kind of surprising, in that weird way that always seems to happen when a person you saw alive quite recently is suddenly no longer breathing. But Danarius seemed like the kind of guy who a lot of people would wish death on, and the news feed all reports his cause of death as a heart attack. The cumulative result of too much excess and decadence in life, or a little too much questionable blood magic, maybe.

 Vena spares a moment to muse that a lot of people’s wishes probably came true, and then moves on. Danarius wasn’t even a client, just a business associate of some of Sylaise’s family. There’s a little gossip about it. Mostly people speculating on who will replace him in the Magisterium or inherit his fortune, since he had no heirs to speak of.

 Vena knows the legalities and the social elements well enough to make an educated guess, which is that one of the other houses will claim Danarius’ seat - probably House Carius, they’ve been up-and-coming for a while and their matriarch has good PR - and his wealth will go to his Helvadus cousins. Not because they have the best claim, but because they have the best lawyers.

 It’s not really a big deal, though. And most of the gossip around the water coolers is actually focused on the bachelor auction, and the results of everyone’s dates. Who tried to bid on who, and who’s already gone on their dates, and who hasn’t. Tasallir makes some apologies to Serahlin and Vena but they both just counter by thanking him, and waving off his concern. He and Serahling reschedule their intended outing. Vena’s not completely sure, because she tends to play that kind of stuff close to the chest. But when the subject of her smitten jeweler comes up, Serahlin’s cheeks seem to get a little pinker.

 Vena just hopes he’s nice. Her last boyfriend was a real piece of work.

 Thenvunin goes on his date and regales everyone about it like it was the plot of some kind of romance novel. But not in the ‘oh it was so magical’ kind of a way, more in the ‘ah we’re at the stage where the prospective couple hates one another but can’t shut up about it’ way. A lot of people wonder about the mystery woman who out-bid one of the boss’ brothers for the other. That makes Vena popular because, of course, she bid on him too, and he sat at their table for a significant portion of the evening.

 But he doesn’t really have a lot of answers. And most people seem more taken with making pointedly-not-pointed speculations about Falon’Din. Mainly, whether or not they’re going to have to deal with him as a client again soon, because the man is notorious for pitching fits whenever things don’t go his way.

 And that usually means property damage. Or assault.

 Vena just hopes that whoever ends up having to deal with him remembers to wear a knife-proof vest. He still gets twinges in his left shoulder sometimes.

 His own date seems to just inch closer, taking longer than he might have guessed it would. He finds his thoughts drifting towards Ana, ‘Dalish Ana’, and her freckles and red hair. He googles her, because of course he does. But he doesn’t get a lot of results. There’s an etsy shop that sells foraged crafts and bath products and stuff, but he’s not even sure if it’s the same person. There aren’t any photos of her. No instagram or twitter that he can find, either, but then it’s not like he has comprehensive information or anything.

 He tries her friend, Selene, but there’s even less stuff to be found there.

 In the days leading up their date, Vena considers texting her or calling her. Wondering about the protocols on that. Everything’s set up and they seem to have exchanged all the info they need. But, he’s never really been one for the ‘wait to call’ rule.

 He needs an opener, though.

 Two days after their first meeting, he just goes for it.

 What do you get when you drop a piano down a mine shaft? He texts.

 There’s a brief delay.

 A flat minor? she sends back, to his absolute delight.

 Yes!!! Excellent!

 A happy face follows.

 I have been trying to think of a better name for your in my contacts, he admits.

 Oh? she replies. Are you fishing for my last name?

 No, he assures her. I never use last names. I like nicknames.

 Some people call me Red, she tells him.

 Do you like it?

 She sends him a shrug. Hmm. Not a solid positive, then.

 Clearly you need something more fun and breezy, he decides. Ana-panda? Mana-fana? Ana-fana-bo-bana?

 He peppers his suggestions with a few thoughtful-face emojis. Ana sends him back a skeptical one, but it feels like it has good energy. Fun skeptical, somehow.

 Banana? she tosses in.

 Vena’s grin widens.

 Well if you insist!

 He means it as a joke, reflexively. But it’s… kind of cute. As they carry on exchanging quips and texts, it sticks in his head. By the time they manage to say goodbye, he’s successfully found a very cute-looking banana picture. It even has freckles. He changes Ana’s contact details in his phone from ‘Dalish Ana’ to ‘Ana-Banana’, and tosses on the image.

 Perfect.

 Vena looks up from his phone just in time to walk smack into his own office door.

 …Alright, maybe he shouldn’t text her while he’s walking. Thenvunin from Reception lets out a snort of surprised amusement. Through the glass window of his office, Tasallir gives Vena is very best, patented ‘how did this moron graduate from law school’ look. Vena clears his throat, and tries to play it off as he opens his door.

 “Are you alright, Vena?” Serahlin asks, as she passes through the hall.

 “Fine!” he assures her. “Just distracted. Who closed my door?”

 She blinks at him.

 “You did.”

 Vena fires off a finger gun at her.

 “Right,” he replies. “Yup. That was… I remember now. Great, thanks Serahlin. Are you still handling the Howe case?”

 “Oh, yes. My client is going to get full custody and one hell of a settlement from her husband. I hope Rendon Howe enjoys sleeping on park benches,” she says, and the deflection works pretty well. Vena had heard as much, and Serahlin always takes a special satisfaction in stringing up adulterers and draining them for every last penny. With another finger gun Vena backs into his office, dignity somewhat salvaged.

 “Brilliant, I’m glad to hear hit,” he says.

 His phone chimes again, and he lifts it up, grinning. But it’s just his work e-mail alert going off. With a sigh, he pockets his phone again, and gets his head back in the work game.

 …Banana, though.

 That’s so cute.

  ~

  When the date finally rolls around, Vena is entirely ready for it.

 He wears his favourite tasteful blue swim shorts, underneath a pair of his nicer cargo shorts. A light jacket, just in case the sea winds get cold, and a loose, faded t-shirt with ‘100% Boyfriend Material’ written on it in faded lettering. Tasallir sees him on his way out, and gives him an unimpressed once-over.

 “You are an idiot,” he says.

 Vena winks.

 “Don’t stay up worrying, honey,” he counters, with a pat to his roommate slash coworker slash arch enemy’s arm.

 “Take your rape whistle,” Tasallir instructs, sniffing disdainfully at that remark. He reaches up to straighten out his sleeve. Which isn’t even really wrinkled at all, but it probably is by Tasallir Standards.

 Vena snorts, and backs his way down the hall.

 “Taz, she’s like two feet tall and sweet as a button, I think I’ll be fine.”

 “That is the kind of stereotyping that ends with people being murdered on beaches,” Tasallir informs him. “She could have cohorts. Or a weapon. Make sure you keep emergency services on speed dial, it is first date protocol.”

 “This is worrying, by the way, this is exactly what I’m telling you not to do,” Vena points out, jogging backwards to the elevator.

 “Look where you are going, you idiot,” Tasallir counters.

 “Love you bunches!” Vena jokes, before blowing a kiss, and then finally turning around to hit the call button. The elevator doors open straight away, and he happily makes his way down to the lobby. Carefully balancing a bag full of beach supplies, and double-checking his phone and wallet in his pockets. He fishes his favourite pair of sunglasses out of the bag’s pocket, and slides them on as he nods to the doorman and makes his way out to the street and down towards the parking garage.

 He’d offered to pick up Ana, but she assured him she had a ride. Probably smart, Vena will concede - joking aside it really is their first date, and if she came with him then she’d have to go back with him, even if she didn’t want to.

 Of course, Vena has zero intention of making her not want to. He’s almost forgotten that this date is a result of a weird bachelor auction bidding type situation. They’ve texted one another a few times now. Mainly just corny jokes and puns, but he’s not complaining. Even so, it’s not like Ana knows a lot about him. What if he was a mass murderer or something? That would suck.

 So he gets his car alone, and turns up the radio. Listening to one of the local stations as he devotes the first thirty minutes of his commute to just getting out of the city traffic, before finally hitting less cluttered roads, and driving his way out of Arlathan.

 It always feels so good to do that.

 The beach isn’t exactly quiet, but it’s not being mobbed either. Vena finds a parking spot and then has to walk a fair bit to reach the meeting point. He runs a bit behind, luck of the commute, but when he gets to the little beach side grill he immediately spots his date waiting for him at the front.

 Ana’s wearing a red bikini top with a sunflower pin on it, and a loose green jacket that makes her eyes pop. There’s a dark lipstick on her mouth, and a leaf-shaped charm necklace held by soft cord around her neck. Her freckles are all on full display - well, as much as they could be without that nude beach situation they’d tossed around - and her hair nearly looks blonde in the bright sunlight.

 At least until she turns her head, and the red hits him when she moves. She beams when she sees him.

 “Hey, Bachelor Number Nine,” she quips, bouncing a bit on the balls of her feet.

 Vena grins and does a mock stroll down an invisible runway, turning at the end when he gets to her. He feels light and playful, even if his heart is beating decidedly faster. He loves this feeling, he thinks. The cusp of something good and new, maybe even amazing. But still tentative, too. It’s a lot like the feeling he gets when he drives out of the city.

 “Hey Ana-bo-bana,” he replies. The pockets of her jacket look full, he notes. Something like a leafy twig seems to be poking out of one of the bottom ones, and she’s got a flower in her hands that she’s fiddling with. As he draws level with her, she grins and reaches up to slip it over one of his ears.

 “This grill smells good, and the beach is pretty,” she tells him. “What’s first on the itinerary?”

 Vena moves the flower a little more securely behind his ear, and offers her his arm.

 “Lunch, if you like?” he suggests.

 Ana takes his elbow.

 “Oh, good. I was hoping you’d say that,” she agrees. “Work was absolutely killer this morning, and I’m famished.”

 She grins. Vena’s not entirely sure he’s caught the joke, but after a moment, he decides it’s not the end of the world.

 He grins back.

[askmicrowaveayem]

MAYEM: Just Like Me - Pt. 8

[Previous]

[Archive] [Cast]

Despite walking this same route often alone, it was nice to have someone with him that he trusted. It was nice to feel that familiar hum of magic and know he wasn’t alone swimming in a sea full of beings that could spin around and dust him in an instant. It was good to have help. He turned into a side street and headed for a small grocery store. There was produce sat outside in cardboard boxes and little wind chimes dangling around the entrance. It was quaint and homey. It wasn’t too busy or loud save for the occasional passing car. It was about as busy with humans as Gaster could comfortably manage. But that was okay. He had come a long way since being pulled out of his void. --

Gaster followed along, curious about where they were headed. There was definitely enough to keep him occupied looking around, everything looking so new and different.

It seemed like this was somewhere his twin had ended up going before. Maybe a lot? ...he wondered if any humans or monsters around recognized him as a regular, or something.

...he wanted to see his boys, and he wanted to go home, but at the same time--if he could, he would’ve been glad to spend more time with his twin and maybe help him on the surface.

They seemed to be all right as long as they felt they had each other’s backs.

--

As they approached the front of the store he looked at his double. “Still okay?” He asked while grabbing a basket. He then grabbed a few tomatoes from the bins outside, bagged them, and set them in the basket. He didn’t eat much but he knew what his boys liked. --

He nodded and followed along.

“Yeah, I think I’m fine, now. You?”

-- “I’ll be okay.” He said. It wasn’t great or fantastic, but… he would be okay. “I’ve been here a lot before. I don’t need the boys to escort me anymore, which is good. But it’s nice to have someone close.” Gaster lead his double inside, the aisles lined with all sorts of food that neither of them would probably find appealing. One could taste too much and the other nothing at all. But sometimes it was nice to look at. Surface food was different. “I wonder what a lot of this stuff tastes like.” He held up a bunch of grapes. “The boys have tried some of it for me, but describing it only goes so far.” --

“What are they?” He asked, looking at them closely. He was tempted to try one, but… well. In the store, that was probably not a good thing. He looked up at his double, squinting thoughtfully. “.....do you think we can build something that might augment our tastebuds somehow?”

--

“Grapes.” Gaster said, then put them in the basket. He would let his twin try them when they got home. At mention of augmenting their tastebuds he laughed. “Knowing us? Probably. If we tried hard enough. But… I’ll be honest, I haven’t even settled down to figure out what I’m made of.” “Kinda hesitant to find out.” --

Gaster nodded understandingly He was, well, pretty familiar with the feeling of terror and confusion about what exactly one was when they realized they were different. And the struggle to decide if it was better to just take what was in front of you or to go out seeking answers.

But that also meant he was sure his twin would become curious enough to try eventually. No rush.

He nodded again. “It makes sense. We don’t have to. Just throwing it out as an idea; it’s not exactly top priority, understandably. But it might be something to toss around.”

--

“Maybe I’ll start toying with it once I… well… you know.” He gestured a little. His main focus had always been Chara. Once that little beast was dealt with the world was his oyster. He lead his twin around the aisles, grabbing things he knew the boys would like. Hot dogs, ketchup, pasta, and popato chisps. “If you see anything interesting just grab it. We have plenty of money to spare.” --

Gaster nodded and looked around again. There wasn’t much he was interested in, especially with how his form was now, but he still paused, considering. Finally, he took an extra box of pasta and some hard candy.

“Interdimensional presents,” he explained. “Can you imagine my Papyrus’ face when I give him a box of space-pasta?”

--

Gaster chuckled at the thought, “Speaking of which, how was he doing before everything happened? Did he turn out like my Pap at all?” --

Gaster smiled, a real, wide, genuine smile.

“Yeah. He’s just… he wants to be a Royal Guard so he can protect people, once he started accepting that magic could be used for things other than violence. That’s all he wants to do, now. Use it to take care of others. He still has a lot of trouble talking with people, but it’s mostly that he’s trying too hard, I think, but he... I’m really proud of him. He used to always assume the worst of everything, you know?” He paused another moment, looking up at his twin. “...he started retraining himself to always give the benefit of the doubt, first. Someone says something mean? Maybe they’re having a bad day, or they’re scared, or they’re supposed to be saying mean things and trying to save face. He’s figured out how to not take things personally. It’s… he’s not oblivious at all. He’s just choosing to fight back against that sort of thinking. ...I’m really, really proud of him.”

--

Gaster’s smile only grew as his double spoke. “That’s good. I’m glad. I’m proud of him too.” Again the thoughts of how some timelines turned out bubbled up in his mind, but he roughly pushed them aside. He didn’t want to worry his double. They would get him home and everything would be okay. It had to be. They had paid for enough. They had earned it. He hoped getting back to their boys was another constant. Being a loving family together. --

He was grinning back when he caught the small flash of… something across his double’s face. “...what’re you thinking of, right now?”

--

Shit. Gaster looked at his double, very still. His smile faded instantly. Shit. He inhaled and continued walking as he spoke. Were this anyone else he would have said ‘nothing’, but they have both proven long ago they couldn’t hide things from one another. It was good and annoying at the same time. “I’ve seen how some timelines pan out. I’m just being paranoid.” He hoped that was enough. --

…

“...things happen to Papyrus?”

--

“Things happen to everyone.” Gaster said as he pulled a box of crackers off the shelf. “Remember what I said?” He asked, looking at him. “Closer to my timeline I saw many possibilities. Chara killed Papyrus. Chara killed Sans. The flower killed both of them. Sans slips and falls over a fucking ledge and cracks his head open. Just… infinite possibilities.” “I’m trying not to think about them. I didn’t want to say anything to worry you.” He looked away again and kept moving. Gaster really hadn’t wanted this to come up. --

“...all right. Sorry I brought it up,” he said, and moved along with him. “...so what’s the weirdest food on the surface?”

--

“It’s okay.” He said, but was very grateful for the change in subject. “Papyrus’ cooking.” Gaster laughed, “But seriously? A lot of their fruit is weird. Bananas are weird. Just by how they look. Have you ever seen a pineapple?” --

Gaster shook his head. “What the fuck is a pineapple?”

He was imagining an apple covered in… needles.

-- He turned and headed back towards the produce and went straight for a collection of pineapples. An arm thrust outwards as if to say ‘look at this weird fucking thing’. It was neither a pine nor an apple. It was… a spiney thing with a weird jagged top. “I mean… look at that.” --

“How,” Gaster asked, staring at it. His voice dropped lower. “Why.”

“...it looks like it’s going to grow arms and legs and reveal itself as a monster any minute. Are you sure it’s a fruit?”

He honestly didn’t care if any of the scattered humans around overheard that. They needed to know. They had to be aware of what this thing was.

-- “I don’t know.” Gaster picked one up. “But… yeah. Definitely a fruit. It scared me the first time I walked in here.” He laughed at himself. “The boys had to convince me this wasn’t a monster or something.” He set it down and then picked up a can of pineapple chunks that sat next to the stall. “You cut it up and eat it.” The can was held towards his twin. “Should we get it? Are we brave enough?” --

“How dare you question my bravery,” he said very seriously, eyeing the can like it was going to be painful. “Let’s do it. You’d better film whatever faces I make, though.”

-- “Oh I will.” Gaster grinned and put it into the basket before turning and heading back the way they had came. “Any other goodies you wanna get for your boys?” --

“I’m not sure. I already feel sort of weird getting them anything at all. Like. ‘Hey! I’ve been gone for years! Sorry, I was just i an alternate dimension for a few weeks. Here, I brought you souvenirs’?”

He mimed along with his words, trying to convey just how ridiculous it all felt.

--

Gaster laughed, “No yeah that’s pretty weird.” He lead his double to the checkout, the cashier barely giving either of them a strange look at all before letting out a chipper; “Hello! Is that everything?” before beginning to ring them out. “Yep.” Gaster said, pulling his wallet from his chest. This didn’t effect the cashier either. She must have dealt with Gaster enough to know him. --

Gaster was weirdly very happy just to watch his double interacting with the cashier? She wasn’t phased and his double wasn’t nervous around her, and that was just such a nice, refreshing thing to see that he was almost tempted to congratulate them both, just to make it uncomfortable.

He didn’t do that, it would be mean. So he stayed back, watching and enjoying seeing his double seem relaxed around a relative stranger for once.

-- There wasn’t much smalltalk, but that was okay. The cashier rung him up, bagged his things, and Gaster paid. “Here’s your change. Have a good day.” The cashier smiled at him and Gaster nodded back. “Thanks.” He didn’t give her quite something that could be called a smile, but… it was a comfortable sort of look. He wasn’t nervous to talk to her, however brief. After taking the bags he lead his counterpart out of the store. --

“Heading back to your place, or more on the way?” Gaster asked, falling into step beside his twin once they were outside.

-- “I’ll leave that up to you.” Gaster said, looking at his double. “The only other place I’m okay with going into is the park.” He pointed ahead and then veered his finger off towards the mountain to indicate direction. “It’s quiet. Mostly just pathways and trees.” “Taste of the surface that isn’t asphalt.” --

Gaster nodded. “...it sounds nice, if you’re up for it. I saw a bit of trees and shit while helping Papyrus get you both down the mountain, but I wasn’t really paying that much attention to them.

--

Gaster nodded and veered off the pathway they would take were they heading back home. The streets grew quieter and quieter, even more so than the one they lived on. Stores broke away for houses, and then houses broke away for trees. They passed a sign that said ‘Ebott Park’. It was all dirt pathways carved out along the base of the mountain and short distance away from the townhouses most of the monsters lived in now. The beginning of it were benches, picnic tables, and playground equipment. There were a few pavilions here and there, but Gaster didn’t stop at any of them. He lead his twin towards the smaller back paths that lead deeper into the woods. It was calm. There were no cars or loud noises. The only things that could be heard were distant children playing, the birds, and buzzing insects. --

Even though there were no loud noises, that didn’t mean it was really quiet. Not with the birds, and the insects, and the most distant sounds of the park and city. THere were lots of sounds, they were just all… soft.

He kept beside his double, grinning a bit, looking around.

He switched to signing, not wanting to be any louder than the things around them. My Sans would like this place.

--

Gaster joined with the signing, ‘Yeah? Does he like nature?’ That was a little surprising. His Sans didn’t hate it, but he wasn’t super interested. He liked space. --

Gaster shook his head, Not nature specifically, no. But he always liked exploring. The minute he got the hand of signing, he asked more questions than I knew what to do with, and then he could move on his own, and there was no stopping him.

He grinned, thinking about his eldest. This place looks like it has a lot of places he could spend time looking around.

--

‘I see. I guess having limited mobility will do that.’ Gaster thought about whether or not he would bring them here someday. Maybe he would if they didn’t manage to break the barrier themselves. Maybe. He tried not to think too much. He didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Get his double home first. They continued along the pathway, the trees casting them both in shadow and flecking their black forms with sunlight whenever the leaves parted enough. Gaster couldn’t feel it, but he could see it, and that was nice. That made him think. ‘Can you feel the sun?’ He asked. --

...I don’t know, he said at length.

That wasn’t a very satisfactory answer. But it was what he had.

He supposed he could. He could feel particles hitting him and the UV radiation and knew photons hit him on one side and were not hitting him on the other, but it was hard to pull that all apart from all the other things he was also experiencing.

That didn’t mean this wasn’t nice.

-- Gaster nodded and accepted his answer, even if it wasn’t really an answer at all. It implied that his double could feel something, which is good. Maybe too much just like his sense of taste? A bit overwhelming to describe? That was fine. He fell into a comfortable silence as they walked. --

He let the silence continue, unbothered by it this time, and just tried to take in all their surroundings as they continued down the path.

It didn’t seem like this area was used much, at least not at this time of day. He could definitely tell why his counterpart liked it.

Eventually they did run out of trail.

-- “Back home?” Gaster asked once they had looped around and ended up at the entrance of the park again. “Time to try pineapple, wait for the boys to get home, and then watch the stars.” He smiled. --

He smiled back. “Sounds like a good day.”

He followed him home.

--

It had been a long time since he had such a relaxing, non-rushed day like this. They happened, of course, he didn’t want his boys to constantly be ‘on the road’ hunting the anomaly and ditching their friends and a slightly more normal life. But things had been really hectic the past week or so and it was nice to not be worried about dying. He lead his double back home, unlocking the door and walking to the kitchen. The first thing out of the bag was the can of pineapple chunks, then the rest was put away. --

While his double put everything away, Gaster got to work finding a can opener and getting the can of chunks open. Anything else you wanna see me try to eat?

-- Gaster was way ahead of him. He set down the grapes, a bag of chisps, and a cookie. Then he pulled out his tablet, sat across from him, and started recording. He grinned over at him. --

He got the sudden feeling this was going to go on the… it wasn’t the undernet anymore, was it?

He still got the feeling that was going to probably happen.

Save me if I start dying, he signed, and picked up a piece of pineapple.

He ate it and tried to chew.

He really tried.

He ended up doubling over and twisting a bit before finally giving up and pulling it out. “Are these acid?!”

-- Gaster couldn’t stop laughing. He couldn’t respond. It was all he could do to keep the tablet upright and recording. Black goo appeared in the corners of his eyes and he gripped his chest, unable to stop himself from nearly falling off the chair in laughter. --

“Shut up!!” He said, also starting to laugh at his double’s difficulty staying on the chair. He took another piece of pineapple and chucked it at his twin.

-- He ducked, the pineapple still managing to hit his shoulder before falling on the floor. Gaster reached down and picked it up, then tried to sign through his laughter. He couldn’t manage talking. ‘Does it really fucking taste like acid?’ --

He hesitated, but just for a moment. “W-well not like I’ve actually tasted acid! But yes!!!”

-- “Oh man.” Gaster finally said, laughing a bit. He popped the piece he had picked up into his mouth, but like everything else couldn’t taste it. He swallowed it anyway. After calming down a little he gestured to the grapes. “Try those next?” --

Gaster huffed and tried to gather himself again to look somewhat dignified, but failed a bit. Still, he nodded and leaned over to pick a grape, watching it much more warily after his experience with the pineapple.

...it squished a bit. He was tempted to just squish it instead of eating it.

He ate it. He made a face, crossing his eyes a bit, but swallowed it with a lot less trouble than he expected. “It’s doing the sugar thing, and it’s really fucking squishy. Like. I don’t know, I’m thinking of goo? What d’you think’d happen if we microwaved some of these things?”

--

“Hell yeah. I loved microwaving random things when I found a microwave for the first time.” Gaster said, sounding excited. “But first, tasting.” He reached over, taking a grape for himself and squishing it around before popping it into his mouth just because. Chisps and cookies were next. --

Cookies next. Chisps for last.

He had an idea of what to expect when he went for the cookies, at least. The most he ate, the more he was starting to anticipate the reactions, even if his actual responses to those reactions were still a thing in themselves. And it was always different to have the memories rather than the experience all over again.

The cookie was sweet. Far too sweet. And he might have blocked most of it out as he ate, blinking, before staring blank faced at his counterpart and slowly shaking his head.

--

Gaster blinked back, “Explosions?” --

“Explosions and dirt,” Gaster said. “They need better quality flour.”

--

He chuckled, “Gross.” The last was the chisps. --

He picked up the chisps, shaking his head and signing, dedicated to Sans, before trying one.

They were very pointy. And a little bit painful. But that was pretty much expected at this point.

“Yeah, Sans can have them,” he said, handing the bag over to his double, trying to unscrunch his face. “It’s…. The salt is sparks? I think?”

If he’d known the word for ‘poprocks’ he would have used it.

--

“Neat.” Gaster grinned and took one of the chisps to eat it. It didn’t crunch, merely popping into his mouth and… going somewhere. He never seemed to chew. He stopped recording and set his tablet down. “Do you think you’ll ever need food again?” --

He paused and considered that. “...I don’t know. I didn’t eat anything at all between you finding me and the soul extraction, so… I’m assuming I don’t. But I still got a burst of energy from that breakfast? Maybe my baseline of energy altered, somehow?”

He glanced at his twin again. “...do you need food at all, or does it affect you?”

--

“Nope. It doesn’t do much of anything for me. Usually all I need is rest. I still eat though. Papyrus likes it when I eat his cooking.” He smiled, “And coffee is just… familiar.” --

“That’s definitely an up-side to not having tastebuds,” he said. “...it makes sense.”

--

“Yeah, I’m glad I don’t need to. Might be depressing.” He gave a dry chuckle before standing up and grabbing a bowl. A few pineapple chunks were dumped inside. “We’ll have to get the boys to try these too.” --

Gaster nodded. “I want to know what it tastes like to normal monsters. Especially those hell chunks.”

--

Gaster started to get the giggles again as he threw the bowl of chunks into the microwave and punched in a number.

“That was so good.” --

“Woah, woah, wait,” he said, before picking up the tablet again and starting a new recording. “Okay, go.”

--

Gaster was still giggling as he shut the door of the microwave and watched the pineapple start to rotate inside. “I’m going to rewatch that video forever.” --

Oh, fuck, his double’s giggles were infectious. “You fucking loser,” he said, shaking his head. “You’d better get me a copy somehow.”

He kept the tablet trained on the microwave.

--

“Maybe I can copy it onto something you have when we’re back home. Or put it on a flash drive.” Gaster said, then continued to watch the pineapple chunks. “... Think anything will happen with these?” --

Gaster leaned forward, squinting at the fruit. “They’re definitely getting hotter. Serves the bastards right.”

--

… Gaster started to giggle again, eventually clearing his throat and taking a breath to stop himself. “Ah. Haven’t laughed that hard in awhile.” He continued to watch, but nothing looked particularly interesting. “Should we move onto something else?” --

Gaster nodded. “Cookies and chisps won’t be that interesting. Grapes?”

--

“Grapes.” Gaster nodded and opened the microwave, pulling out the pineapple and setting it aside before reaching for a few grapes. “Should we cut them into pieces or put them in whole?” --

“Will it make much of a difference?” Gaster asked. “Maybe just cut them in half and they won’t try to roll out of the center or anything that way.”

--

“Alright.” Gaster grabbed a knife and cut a few grapes with medical precision before setting them in the microwave and punching in a number. --

The grapes were all very close to each other, most of them just a hair’s width apart from touching.

Gaster wasn’t really expecting anything to happen, assuming that, like the pineapple, they’d probably just heat up and he could insult them a bit.

And then, a few seconds into microwaving, something flashed.

“Woah--woah! I didn’t imagine that, right?”

It kept pulsing and flashing.

--

“Woah, holy shit.” Gaster blinked, leaning closer rather than flinching back. “What the hell was that? What the hell is that?” Now he was curious. --

“Um, whatever it is,” Gaster said, unfocusing his eyes and looking more at the idea of things than what was there and--haha, wow, that looked an awful lot like an extremely hot gas or high voltage current? “It’s destroying your microwave.”

The microwave began sparking uncontrollably.

--

“Wh-” Gaster’s eyes went wide and he quickly stopped the microwave before yanking out the plug and looking panicked. He had blown up a lot of microwaves. He did not want his sons scolding him for doing it to one they actually used. --

It was Gaster’s turn to start laughing at his twin. He set the tablet down and covered his mouth, snorting at his double’s face and trying hard to stay upright.

He started applauding, still cackling.

--

Laughter was infectious. Gaster started to join in. “That was cool!” He said through his chuckles. “But… seriously if I broke this thing the kids are going to be pissed.” He kept laughing anyway. --

Gaster nodded, grinning and still laughing as he went up to the microwave and opened it carefully, taking the grapes out.

“If it doesn’t look broken, it wasn’t our fault, right?”

--

“Hell yeah. Okay.” Gaster started to walk around the room dumping out the pineapple chunks and putting everything away. “Make it look like nothing happened. We didn’t do shit.” There was a sound of the door opening and Papyrus’ voice was soon to follow. “WE’RE HOME!” Gaster abruptly grabbed the grapes with telekinesis and flung them into the trash.

--

Gaster turned off the tablet, quickly motioning for his double to go out and say ‘hi’ to the kids while he handled the rest of the kitchen.

I got it. Tell them I just tried to eat food and ended up needed to spit things out and that’s why we’re in the kitchen. They really had no business being in the kitchen.

--

Gaster nodded and strolled out. “Hey, how’s the lab going?” “SLOW, BUT… WE MADE PROGRESS. IT’S CLEANED UP NOW. WE CAN START REBUILDING EVERYTHING TOMORROW.” “why were you in the kitchen?” Sans was nothing if not observant in any timeline. “We went to the store. Kidster wanted to try some weird food. I showed him what a pineapple was.” “DID IT SCARE HIM?” Papyrus started to laugh a little. “Not as much as it scared me, but… yeah. Then he tried some and said it tasted like acid.” --

As if on cue, Gaster took that moment to come out of the kitchen, looking miserable and wobbling a bit more than he had a moment before.

Without giving a greeting or second glance to anyone, he made a beeline to the remaining pineapple chunks in the can, picked the can up, and brought it over to the boys.

“W̥̜̹ha͇̻̬͕̲̩̪t̠ ̭i̮̟̤̟s͕̯͙͚ ̰͇̻ṱ̬̠̮h̗is͓ͅ ̩h̹̮̟̦̯͓̬e̬̬̥̜̝̪̝l͚l̼̳.͖͎͇̲̩”

--

The distorted voice was a nice touch, Gaster thought. Sans and Papyrus looked at the can before the taller of the two took it and stared at the label. “I DON’T THINK I EVER TRIED PINEAPPLE BEFORE.” He said, looking down at his brother who shrugged. He reached a finger into the can and pulled out a piece before handing it down to Sans, who did the same. They both popped it into their mouth at roughly the same time. “IT… IT’S KIND OF WEIRD…” Papyrus narrowed his eye sockets. “yeah. not a big fan, but it’s edible.” Sans said, then popped another in his mouth to be sure. --

He paid the most attention to Papyrus’ response, definitely interested to see if he would elaborate.

He really wanted to know what the fuck was up with pineapples.

--

“IT’S… TINGLY?” Papyrus said after a moment of being watched, he wasn’t sure how else to describe it. “MAYBE A LITTLE FRUITY, BUT NOT MUCH.” Sans was reading the back label of the can now. “yeah. maybe it has a high acidity level? like… higher than most fruits or something?”

None of them knew too much about food in general, despite how much Papyrus liked to cook. --

“A̙͕̥̟̤͙͎l͖͈̠̮̖̼͖l ͔̯̣̖t̹̞̜̝͖h̟e̠͔͇̹̗s̖̭̰̫̖e͚ br̖̝͓̦a̮̤̭n̯̦̘c̩̥h͕͙̪e͉̥̟͇̖̼s͕͎̙̮̫ o̫̮̟̹̫̜f͖̞ ͙̪s̱̙͍c̞͇̩̼̯i͓͓̲̬̹͉e̗̥̠͎̻n̘̘̤ce͙̜͚̬̤͕̬ ̱a̼n͙̻̦̬͖̲d͇͔͖̝̪ͅ ͓͕n̜͙̝̩̦̩o̻̫͕̯̲n̩̺̹̗e͚̞̲̻̻͈ ͚̟̠̞o̭f̺͔̗͈̪ ̦̫̖us̞̼̺ ̼̻̦͓̦̭ͅk̮̱n̥̞o̭w̱ͅ ̰̣̤̻̖͇̣s̻͈̠̝̦̻h̬̟̬i̖̲̩͙t̼̹̝̹̫.̜͎͉̙,” Gaster said.

...he hoped they’d figure out the answer before he headed back to his universe, because otherwise, he was probably going to try to become a botanist next.

He looked up at Papyrus a moment later, though, ready to fully stop the situation or move it elsewhere. “W̟̺͖͎̗e̩̝͉̦ ̣͎͚̥g̥͉̳̻̲̪ͅo͇͕̘̬͎t͈͔͔̣̳͙͙ ̹̠̬͈̲̱y͚̣̳̜̼o͍͙̘̙̖u ͔̤̻ͅm̲̭͇͖͎ͅo͕̬̰͚̮̜re͍͉̱̭ p̻̲a̩̪͍st̝̬͓a̞̰̤,̱ ̩to̲͔̯̱o͙̟̬͔̬.”

--

Gaster laughed at that. “Hey, you were Mr. All Knowing Everything weren’t you?” He asked playfully, knowing that dumb information like that was probably the first thing to go. “OH GOODIE! THANK YOU!” Papyrus started to remove his shoes. “I SHOULD START DINNER. NEITHER OF YOU WILL EAT TONIGHT, I GUESS?” “Not me. One meal is good. Save the food for you two.” He took the can of pineapple from Sans to read the label as well. “We’re gonna drive up Ebott tonight to give Kidster a nice look at the stars.” --

“I’m ruined for food for a while,” he said, letting the distortion face and gesturing to the pineapple. But he grinned at the reminder of tonight’s mission.

“Are you two coming, or..?”

--

Papyrus was already starting towards the kitchen. “WE CAN IF YOU LIKE. OR I CAN JUST DRIVE YOU AND DAD UP THERE. WE DON’T MIND.” They had seen the stars plenty of times before and still loved to see them, but both sons had sort of reached a silent agreement to give the other some space. It was probably hard to see his boys that weren’t really his when he hadn’t been around them in so long. --

It was hard to see them. It was also horrible to not see them. Even if they weren’t his kids, they were… still sort of his kids. Different timeline kids. But still.

He might’ve started to understand what his double had initially felt upon meeting CS-1 all those years ago.

“It’s up to you,” he said. But. It would be nice to see the stars with his own kids, and--

...he couldn’t get sad right now. There were a lot more days of waiting to come.

-- Sans was still stood by the two Gasters and seemed to infer enough to start walking away while addressing Papyrus who was now in the kitchen. “Isn’t your favorite show on tonight, Pap?” “OH YOU’RE RIGHT! I GUESS I’LL JUST DRIVE YOU UP THEN.” Gaster looked at his twin, “You think you’re up for heading into the lab tomorrow? Even if you can’t help, I’m feeling well enough to get started.” --

Gaster nodded. “Sounds good. The sooner the better, right?”

He kept his tone light, but he really was eager to get home.