#and friends to cook holiday meals with and friends to go to the grocery store with and friends to fo arts and crafts with

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

ngl, I think it would solve a comical number of my problems to have a properly fleshed out social life

[chilope]

Ask meme for people in their 30s

What was the first piece of furniture you bought?

What proportion of your meals do you cook?

Foaming hand soap or normal hand soap?

Favorite chore?

Least favorite chore?

Most precious thing one of your pets has destroyed?

Any groceries you've been getting into lately?

What cleaning product do you swear by?

What's your emotional support craft?

Youtube, cable TV, or streaming?

What's something you saved up for and then regretted buying?

How many cups can you see from where you're sitting?

Which filter are you most likely to go "eh, it's probably fine" when you find out you need to change it?

How often do you take baths?

Do you go down each aisle when you grocery shop, or only the ones you know you need stuff from?

Where do you go when you need to get out of the house but it's raining?

What's a movie you saw recently that you liked?

Pro or anti tchotchkes?

What's your go-to tape?

What's in your freezer right now?

Last concert you attended?

Favorite grocery store?

Paper bags, plastic bags, or reusable bags?

Do you get your government mandated 8 hours every night?

Favorite old person activity?

Would you rather sit on the porch drinking sweet tea or sit by the lake drinking beers?

Do you prefer Boardgame Night, Build-Your-Own-Pizza Night, or Movie Night with your friends?

Be honest, do you like all of the pictures of their babies that your friends send you?

Go-to holiday card format?

How many pairs of scissors do you own?

Do you still own your first car?

How do you take your morning coffee/tea?

What's something you collect?

What's your commute like?

Aisle at the grocery store you never bother walking down?

Do you keep a daily journal or agenda?

Do you still listen to the same music you listened to in high school?

What's the last filter you changed?

What little treat do you always get when you run errands?

Grocery list or no grocery list?

What's the oldest thing you own?

What's an unjustifiably expensive appliance that you really want?

Favorite book you've read recently?

Honest feelings on Settlers of Catan?

What's something you wish you had more time for?

What kind of stuff do you keep on the door of your refrigerator?

Lamps or overhead lighting?

If you could build your home from scratch, what outrageous feature would you want to build into it?

Do you bring a bag with you everywhere you go?

Pro or anti throw pillows?

How many blankets do you keep in your living room?

Did your relationship with your parents get better when you stopped living with them?

What's worse, the DMV or the Social Security Office?

Do you decorate your house for holidays? Which ones?

Favorite high-effort meal that you make?

Favorite low-effort meal that you make?

Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck?

What kind of bag do you use for your bag full of bags?

If you died and your ghost was stuck in the outfit you're wearing right now for the rest of time, would you be happy with it?

Do you have an opinion on your local weather reporter?

Do you have a favorite brunch spot?

Where are you on the minimalism-maximalism kinsey scale?

Opinion on Bath and Body Works?

Last time you visited a farmer's market?

Anything you're procrastinating on right now?

Do you get your taxes in as soon as possible, at the last minute, or late?

Do you keep any stuffed animals on your bed?

Are your garbage bags scented or unscented?

What are you looking forward to next week?

[rainylana]

Eddie’s the type of guy…

a/n: only one nsfw imagine! enjoy!

• eddie’s the type of guy to make a HUGE deal when he’s sick. he does nothing but complain and gripe.

• eddie’s the type of guy to somehow always accidentally set something on fire.

• eddie’s the type of guy that fake fucks his friends when they bend over to get something.

• eddie’s the type of guy to absolutely HATE being scared, but will watch horror movies and go into haunted houses because he loves the thrill. halloween is his favorite holiday.

• eddie’s the type of guy to leave a handful of change as a tip.

• eddie’s the type of guy that will stand in the candle aisle at the grocery store and pick out his favorite smells. it’s a mix between clean laundry or maple bourbon.

• eddie’s the type of guy that pisses with the door open.

• eddie’s the type of guy that’s not good in serious situations, especially when his friends need advice or help. he just makes jokes the whole time.

• eddie’s the type of guy who can only cook one meal, that being spaghetti, and thinks he’s a master chef.

• eddie’s the type of guy to wave at you when you look back at him in doggy style. he’s got a goofy ass smile on his face.

[vivalas-vega]

will you marry me? // dagger squad x reader

howdy y'all !!! this was a random idea I had well over a year ago that I never actually finished and just found when clearing out my wips and thought it would be a fun little thing to post, so please enjoy the dagger squad and what engagement ring I think they'd pick !!! I didn’t even intend for it to be a recurring thing that the proposals don’t go to plan or are silly but I guess it’s just on brand for them lmao

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw

this man is all about the classics - I mean, look at his bronco... he wanted to get you something simple with a bit of a modern twist. he's also a very sentimental man. he'd play it casual all week leading up to date night but surprise you by taking you to where you had your first date, whether that's a restaurant or a bar or the beach, and after the most perfect evening he'd propose with his mom's ring. because he's bradley and incredibly thoughtful, he'd also want you to have a ring that's only yours and I think he'd surprise you with that one randomly -- maybe after celebrating the engagement in bed that night, or the next morning over breakfast. you end up wearing Carole’s ring on your right hand (sometimes putting it around a necklace of hers Bradley also gifted you when you want to keep it extra safe) and your new ring on your left.

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

Jake is all flash, but that doesn't mean he lacks substance. he scours your pinterest board for weeks and asks all your closest friends for their input, but at the end of the day he trusts himself to get it right because he knows you like the back of his hand. you deserve only the best, and he wants you to park your pretty butt on the beach when he's flying by and to be able to catch a glare from the rock he put on your finger. he'd either propose in the ice cream aisle at the grocery store (which surprises him as much as you) after watching you hem and haw over which flavor to get and deciding to get all three - or, he'd go all out and plan the perfect vacation to a destination that's been on your bucket list and research the most romantic spot in the whole country and really there's no in between.

Robert 'Bob' Floyd

our sweet man of few, but impactful, words. his ring choice and proposal is no different. he wants to get you something beautiful and unique, but neither one of you are known for being frivolous. he picks something modest that shows how well he knows you and how much he loves you. something about him screams christmas proposal - either at his family's snowy farm early in the morning before anyone has a chance to sweep you up in the festivities or in your shared home before heading to Mav and Penny's holiday dinner. either way, its just the two of you wrapped in your own bubble and you tease that Bob should be writing the proposals for hallmark movies because what he says is so perfect. you'd open a suspiciously wrapped gift you think is the worlds lightest pair of shoes but to your shock you find a ring, and Bob always regrets not setting up a camera to capture the priceless look on your face.

Natasha 'Phoenix' Trace

Natasha never thought she was one for marrying until she met you, and she'd definitely get you something beautiful and intricate without sacrificing delicacy. she'd plan the perfect evening in and cook your favorite meal, but absolutely ruin your favorite cookies and while she's flustered and panicking over a sheet of what looks like coal you're just laughing and gazing at her with this dumbstruck look that translates to you're such an idiot and I'm so in love with you and when she catches it she can't help herself and it just flies out, really she nearly yells and you're just standing watching her fumble to get the ring out her pocket not realizing you'd already said yes before you even saw it.

Javy 'Coyote' Machado

Much like Jake, he wants to get you something flashy but he was drawn to this one in particular because the band reminded him of airplane wings and he liked the idea of you not only having a token of his love on your hand every day he's on deployment, but one that has a little piece of his second love too. I think he'd definitely plan a big elaborate proposal but Jake's got a big mouth and didn't know you were at the bar and asks if he popped the question, only to see horror on Javy's face and you standing right behind him so he was really forced into it but of course you said yes because it was chaotic and imperfect and everything you could ever want.

Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia

Mickey would definitely want to get you something a little funky - neither one of you are known for being super traditional, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want you to have the perfect ring. true to his nature as soon as it's in his possession he's a little too excited to wait to plan something out and while you're all snuggled up watching star wars for the hundreth time he just blurts out that wants to marry you and when you look at him in shock he thinks he's ruined it and offended you by not doing it properly but once you get your wits about you all you can say is 'of course I'll marry you, you big idiot'

Reuben 'Payback' Fitch

I think Reuben leans more towards the classics as well, but with a little something extra. your relationship has always been sweet and fun and lighthearted, and your proposal is exactly the same. he takes you to the putt putt course you had your first date at and proposes in front of the windmill, and you can't keep it together long enough to say yes because he dropped the ring in the hole and even when he retrieves it your 'yes' is hard to decipher around all your laughing.

[itspbandjellytime]

And All The Girls Dream That They'd be Your Partner (1/?)

Plot: What happens when Yelena Belova and Kate Bishop accidentally bumped into each other on the way to their separate jobs at the end of November?

Ships: Yelena Belova/Kate Bishop

Words: 1.7k words

Notes: Hi everyone I am sorry for not posting on both Tumblr and Wattpad, I have been so burnt out for the past few weeks and my motivation has hit an all time low. So as a treat, here's a Bishova fic. I hope you guys enjoy this fanfic <3

New York City, Somewhere during the last week of November.

Yelena wakes up to the sound of her alarm going off for the second or third time in a row, she has lost count. She sits up straight and groans in annoyance as she stretches her limbs to the point that you can hear her joints pop, Yelena grabs her phone and once her vision clears she notices that it’s already a quarter to ten. She’s late, Yelena is late for work.

“Cука!” Yelena exclaimed as she realises that she’s late for work, Yelena works for Bon Appetite as a Chef and Editor. Yelena loves cooking and it’s her love language, whenever someone tells her that they’re gonna come over for lunch or dinner. Yelena would rush to the grocery store to buy the things she needs so she can make either a meal or some pastries while her friends are over. 

Yelena quickly grabbed her stuff and ran out of her apartment, seconds later she rushes back inside cause she forgot something, her set of kitchen knives. “Damn it, my knives!” She exclaimed as she grabbed her set of kitchen knives that she uses and ran back outside of her apartment.

As she left the building, she started brisk walking, muttering things in Russian looking around as the pace of her walking quickens and quickens as if she’s like Sonic the hedgehog.

Enter Kate Bishop, a personal trainer at a gym in New York. She is also late for work, but she’s riding a bike on her way to the gym. Her heart starts pumping like crazy as she quickly pedals her bike.

“HEY!”

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!!”

“The Mayor of New York should ban you from riding bikes!” 

Those were the comments she was getting from every New Yorker she got today, and all Kate did was look behind them and yell “Sorry!” then go on. While biking she was distracted by a piece of gum that stuck to the wheel of her bike and tried to take it off, when all of a sudden she looks up and collides with Yelena. Kate and her bike fall on top of Yelena, they both groan in pain. 

“Oh my God, I am so sorry!” Kate apologises as she gets up from her bike “Watch where you’re going, Jesus.” Yelena barks back, brushing  the dirt off her shoulders and stretching. 

“Excuse me, you watch where you’re going. You were literally running like a damn cheetah.” Kate answers back, Yelena lets out an offended gasp at Kate’s response. “I am sorry, I wasn’t the one who is riding her bike like I am in the Tour de France or something. Watch your tone!” Yelena grumbles, grabbing her bag from Kate and brisk walking away from her cause she doesn’t want to be late for whatever she has going on at work. Kate just stood there and watched Yelena walk away from her sight which made her zone out, she then realises she has to go to work as well “Shit.” Kate mumbled to herself not being time sensitive, she got on her bike and started to bike to the gym she works in.

Meanwhile at the Bon Appetit headquarters, Yelena makes her way to the meeting room dodging people in her way. Yelena opens the door and sees that the meeting has started “Sorry, I was late. New York was very… Let’s say… crowded.” Yelena says, sitting next to Helen. Quentin Quire, who is the CEO of Bon Appetit just side eyes Yelena’s excuse for being late “Yeah… Just don’t do that again, okay Belova? I don’t want us to be rotting in a meeting room that’s colder than Antarctica waiting for people like you, Moving on! It’s the last week of November which means next week is December, and you know what holiday falls on december? Christmas! I know there are people in this room who don’t celebrate Christmas, but still… Christmas.” Quentin says to the group, he turns around and starts to write something on the whiteboard. 

The sound of the whiteboard marker making contact with the whiteboard lowkey starts to bother and annoy Yelena, not to mention the freshly refilled ink is stenching up the room “Eugh.” Yelena quietly gags. “OKAY! I need plans, ideas for videos, the website, anything fire when ready!” Quentin says, snapping his fingers to grab people’s attention. “Belova, you.” Quentin points at Yelena who is jotting down ideas in her notebook, Yelena looks up and looks around the room and points at herself. 

“Me?” She asks, Yelena clears her throat and looks down at the notes “How about we uh… Make a highlight of different dishes and pastries of each holiday tradition on the website? And for the youtube channel, we do videos related to those different dishes and pastries?” Yelena suggested, tapping her pen on the blank page of the notebook she has. Yelena’s suggestion made the room quiet, the silence has never been this loud. Quentin just looks at her and nods in agreement “Okay, does anyone have thoughts on Yelena’s suggestion?” Quentin asks the people in the room, no one is saying a word at this point. 

“No one? Okay, if no one has any ideas left we’re sticking to Yelena’s idea. You are also one of the head chefs so try making some dishes and give it to the head writer and such, now will you excuse me I need to buy tickets for Dazzler’s Eons Tour, you guys should listen to her new album The Suffering Bards Ministry.” Quentin says with a shit eating grin, calling an end to this meeting.

After the meeting, Yelena along with Helen, Bucky, and his boyfriend Sam decided to go out for coffee at a coffee shop near the building. “Quick question, why were you late earlier?” Bucky asks Yelena, grabbing a bite of his Croissant. Yelena rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her coffee. “I overslept through my alarm and then Some girl who thinks she’s Lance Armstrong during Tour de France ran me over with her bike.” Yelena says furrowing her brows, Bucky and Sam look at each other and back at Yelena “Yikes, good thing you didn’t sustain any injuries.” Sam says.

“Yeah my butt just hurts, she fell on top of me.” Yelena mentions.

“Can I just say something?” Helen says, grabbing the attention of Yelena, Bucky, and Sam. “What?” Bucky asks, tilting his head.

“I liked it better when Scott was the CEO of this company.” Helen mentions taking a sip of her coffee, the three agreed to what Helen said “Totally, I am sick and tired of Quentin’s sorry ass being so righteous.” Sam comments, “I get that he’s trying to be a cool and hip CEO for the younger generations but he is failing at that aspect.” Bucky mentions looking around his surroundings “What about you, Lena?”

Yelena nods in agreement “No, I totally agree with everything you’re saying guys. Scott was a better boss and CEO, I’d rather have a cringey guy run the company than some pink mohawk hair dude with a superiority complex.” Yelena says, her phone lights up and it’s an Email from Quentin which made her groan in annoyance “Are you joking me right now? He wants the recipes sent to him within the week!” Yelena complains as she stands up “Now will you excuse me, I have to buy the ingredients I need for the dishes and stuff.” Yelena says, putting her phone back in her bag and leaving the others.

Hours have passed, Kate finally heads home to her apartment where Lucky has been waiting for her “Hey buddy!” Kate crouches down to pet Lucky and scratches his head “I know I missed you too!” Kate giggles and stands up as she walks around her apartment. Kate slumps on the couch letting out a sigh as she looks at her calendar realising it’s the last week of november “Can you believe it? It’s the last week of november and then next week it’s december then christmas is right around the corner.” Kate says to herself as she frowns, Kate is celebrating her first christmas after breaking up with some guy and she doesn’t have plans on visiting her parents this christmas as well. Kate could celebrate Christmas with The Bartons but Clint told Kate beforehand that they’re celebrating the holidays in Florida. 

Kate looks down and sees Lucky infront of her carrying his bowl, which made her smile seeing the dog hold it is cute in her eyes “Looks like we’re spending Christmas together, huh buddy?” Kate says as she stands up from the couch and grabs dog food from the counter for Lucky to have. Kate checks the cabinet and notices she has ran out of food, she only has one pack of ramen left. “Looks like I need to go to the grocery again.” Kate mutters to herself as she cooks the last pack of ramen, once that’s done she heads to the living room and spends her time watching the news all bundled up with Lucky.

Yelena on the other hand, is in her apartment busy with making recipes for Bon Appetit, her kitchen is a mess and so far she has done one out of the ten dishes and pastries she jotted down. “Damn it.” Yelena sighs, wiping the sweat off her forehead as she looks at her flour covered surface, her kitchen knives are all over the place, and the pots and pans piling up the sink from yesterday as well. “I am calling this a day, I will just message Quentin that I made one dish that I haven't tasted yet…” Yelena says to herself, grabbing a clean spoon from the drawer, she tasted the dish she made tonight which is a quiche and shuddered “...That's… Eugh… Doesn't taste good.” Yelena says, throwing the food down the trash.

Yelena starts to clean her workspace up, wash the dishes and place them in the right places. Yelena started to freshen up and took a shower as well, after that she sent the Email to Quentin and headed to bed for another day at work.

[becasbelt]

the beca + cooking character study that ATTACKED my brain that nobody asked for

* * *

Beca Mitchell hated cooking.

At least, that’s what she would like to be put on the official record.

Not all children of divorce are forced to grow up fast. Beca knows this, in a very tangible way. She had friends growing up whose parents were also divorced, and life continued much in the same way for them as it did before their parents separated. Sometimes they’d even joke that life was better now since they got double the gifts on holidays, double the parties for their birthday.

Beca always let them have their moment, didn’t feel the need to shut down what optimism they could find in whatever turbulent custody schedule their parents’ lawyers had worked out. Didn’t feel like shoving her own thoughts about her divorced parents in their faces.

By the time she was 12 years old, Beca could make a few pretty decent casseroles. They weren’t all that complex, mostly just cheese, noodles, and different sauces mixed together in a glass pan. But after about 6 months of living off of PB&Js, Lunchables, and Spaghettios, waiting for her mom to snap out of whatever work-induced daze she’d been in since her dad walked out on them, Beca decided that they needed actual food.

So, she’d rolled up her sleeves and designated herself the man of the household.

Grocery shopping took a while for her to figure out. Beca would walk to the nearest Walmart and stare wide-eyed at all the different aisles, foods, and brands available. Overwhelmed and out of her league.

At first she’d just grab whatever she vaguely recognized and buy it, avoiding eye contact with the cashier and handing over her mom’s credit card before hightailing it out of the store as fast as she could. But eventually she found she actually liked grocery shopping. She’d slip her headphones over her ears and peruse the aisles, wondering what different vegetables and seasonings would taste like in a stir fry or pasta.

By 14, Beca had a pretty solid routine. Saturdays were shopping and laundry days. She’d make a list of all the stuff they needed, ask her mom if she had any meal suggestions (which she didn’t), walk the two miles to Walmart, then haul all the bags she could carry back.

It got easier when she was 16 and could drive. Faster, for one, and she could actually bring home more than four bags at a time.

Every day after school she’d come home, make dinner, wait around until 7:00 to see if her mom would be home to eat with her, and when she inevitably didn’t show, put the food away and go work on her her music until she couldn’t keep her eyes open.

If her mom ever noticed Beca’s efforts in keeping them both fed, she never let on.

Beca kept up that routine until she was 18, until the decision to go to college was made for her by a father who was suddenly interested in being a part of her life again.

The day before leaving for Barden, Beca put together a week’s worth of freezer meals - which, for one person who often forgot to eat, would last more like a month, really. The next morning a taxi picked her up and took her to the airport.

Her mom was already at work by the time she left.

When Beca stepped foot inside her dorm room for the first time, the first thing she noticed was the strangely hostile energy coming off in waves from her roommate. The second thing she noticed was that there was no kitchen. She would be getting all her meals from the cafeteria on the main floor.

The first meal Beca ate from the cafeteria was chicken parmesan. It was bland at best, probably frozen chicken that could be prepared and served en masse.

Beca didn’t lift a finger to make it.

It was perfect.

When Beca moved into the Bella house a year later, with all the rest of the Bellas piling in behind her, her heart sunk at the sight of the large, fancy kitchen just off the living room. She’d spent the last year living off of cafeteria food, energy drinks, and chips, and the thought of meal prepping and grocery shopping again was enough to make her sick.

That sickness lasted all of two seconds before Chloe loudly started to explain to everyone how their kitchen and cooking duties worked. How they would all rotate through who went shopping for food, but for the most part they’d fend for themselves unless someone felt the urge to cook for everyone.

They were adults, after all. They were old enough to look after themselves.

That was enough for Beca to breathe again.

Beca sort of stuck to how things were the year before, eating out often for meals, but mostly just snacking a lot. It was hell on her digestive system, sure, but she had more important things to worry about. Like school and her music and the Bellas.

The rest of the Bellas liked to tease her about it. They would joke that she probably couldn’t even boil water and that’s why she didn’t cook very much. Amy liked to say she was forever trapped in a 12 year old boy’s body; her stomach a bottomless pit that only craved Cheetos and Red Bull.

Beca didn’t mind the teasing, really. She’d just laugh it off and shove more chips in her mouth.

When the other girls cooked for everyone, Beca would thank them politely and enjoy her food, feeling no pressure to return the favor. The most common group cook was Chloe, who always served her Bellas with a smile. Which was awesome, really, except-

Chloe Beale, for all her charm and beauty, was not a great cook.

Her food was fine, for the most part. No worse than the cafeteria food Beca lived off of for a year. Chloe just wasn’t... particularly gifted in the kitchen. Most of the time her noodles were ever so slightly undercooked, her cookies a little overdone, and the girl didn’t know how to use any seasonings besides salt to save her life.

And yet Chloe loved to cook. Not out of necessity or obligation, just out of a genuine enjoyment for hearing things sizzle in a pan, or watching bread rise in the oven. She’d turn on some music and waltz around the kitchen like she was Rachel Ray, not even realizing her sauce was thickening to a worrying degree.

It was, Beca had to admit, one of her favorite sights in the world.

Sometimes Beca would just sit at the counter and watch Chloe prance around, joking and laughing with her, and sometimes she would lend a... secretive hand. If Chloe was distracted with a picture of a dog on her phone, Beca would stir the meat cooking on the stove. When Chloe would get caught up talking with Stacie about a guy in her class, Beca would add a pinch of garlic powder onto the veggies.

No one ever noticed Beca doing it, and the look on Chloe’s face when she discovered how good her food had turned out always made Beca want to do it again.

It wasn’t until they’d all graduated and went their separate ways that Chloe figured out Beca could cook.

The NYC apartment that Chloe, Beca, and Amy called home was about the size of Beca’s bedroom back in her mom’s house. The shower was in the kitchen, the kitchen was in the living room, and the living room doubled as Chloe and Beca’s bedroom.

Their refrigerator oscillated between too cold and too warm, their oven worked seemingly only when the moon was in certain phases, and their microwave took twice as long to heat food up as it should. Most of their food cooked unevenly or had the inexplicable taste of cigarette smoke to it, and if they had anything on the stovetop for more than two minutes the fire alarm would go off.  

It was something close to hell, if Beca was being honest, but Chloe thought their tiny studio apartment was just about the most charming place on earth, which made Beca hate it just a little less.

“You would not believe the day I’ve had.”

Beca smirks from her place by the stove. “I’m sure I won’t,” she drawls, prodding at the chicken cooking in its pan. “Tell me all about it.”

Chloe launches into the chaos that was her day at the animal shelter, and the longer the story goes on, the more Beca starts to understand why she’s home so late. Normally Chloe would get home before Beca and start on dinner, finishing up around when Beca got home so that they could eat together. When Beca had gotten home today, expecting the same, she was instead greeted by an empty apartment and a text from Chloe simply telling her she’d be home late.

Beca had considered going out and getting McDonald’s for all of two seconds before shrugging and starting on dinner herself.

As Chloe finishes up her story, Beca plates food for both of them and settles at the table. Chloe digs in right away, still talking a mile a minute, and pauses after one bite with wide eyes.

“Beca, this is really good,” she says, mouth full of food.

Beca spears a piece of chicken. “It’s just chicken and rice,” she says with a shrug. “Not too complicated.”

“No, but this is, like, really good,” Chloe repeats emphatically. “Like, the chicken isn’t dry and the rice isn’t crunchy and-” she smacks Beca on the arm and Beca yelps. “You’re telling me I’ve lived with you for five years and I never knew you could cook? I thought you were incompetent!”

Beca stifles a laugh. “I guess you don’t know me as well as you thought you did,” she says with a grin.

Chloe laughs delightedly. “Yeah, I’ll say,” she agrees, leaning back in her chair to appraise Beca in a new light. Beca ducks her head at the attention and pushes her food around her plate.

After dinner when Beca is washing dishes, Chloe slides her arms around Beca’s middle from behind and buries her face in Beca’s neck. This is also part of their routine, at the end of each day when Chloe is feeling a little sleepy and affectionate, but today has the added bonus of Chloe murmuring her thanks for dinner into Beca’s skin, warmth and gratitude oozing from the words.

Beca closes her eyes and remembers countless nights waiting around for someone who didn’t care enough to make it home in time for meals, let alone thank Beca for preparing them. She sinks back into Chloe’s embrace and allows herself a moment to enjoy the affection.

She tells Chloe “anytime,” and means it.

And maybe starts to hate cooking a little less.

[choccyhearts]

eddie munson can't cook...

this is a popular headcanon and while i do agree,,,,

as a delusional loser, i'm going to say:

eddie munson can't cook and has never been able to cook until he found his mother's recipe book

while decluttering the trailer for spring cleaning, wayne finds an old box filled with random documents, knick knacks and something left for eddie from his mother

wayne smiles sadly as he holds the old book. it's worn on the corners and the spine is creaky and frail. a few of the pages are weak from water droplets and rips

he calls eddie over and hands him the book

the air leaves eddie's body as he looks at the forgotten thing. small flashes of memories flow through his mind -- thanksgivings, sunday mornings, his 6th birthday. just a handful of the times he saw his mother drag her finger along the pages and occasionally scribble and scratch with her chewed on pen

he blinks slowly as his eyes scan each page, his mother's handwriting sharp and curly but somehow he can read it just fine

when he lies in bed that night he reads the book over and over and over;

potato casserole ...

deviled eggs ...

choclate chip brownies ...

eddie's favorite birthday cake ...

all of those times his mother asked him to close his eyes or leave the room so her secret ingredients wouldn't be revealed echo in his ears. all those " needs extra something"s printed on these pages forever

he decides to not let his mother's cooking die with her

over the course of a month, he saves all of his money up, waiting for the right day to hit the grocery store and stock up

when he gets back from the store, he drops all the bags on the counter. he flicks on the tv to some horror movie and cracks open a beer -- it's not his mother's glass of cheap red wine and soap operas but close enough

he stays in the kitchen all day, sweating from the heat of the stove and oven and from his anxiety shooting through the roof. the most he's ever done before is scrambled eggs and even then, wayne's had to step in before

but he reads his mother's words carefully, slowly. he lets her guide his hands as he stirs and whisks and chops

it's nightfall when he's done. despite snacking on the ingredients and a bag of chips, he's still hungry, excited to chow down

wayne comes in surprised at what his boy's done. eddie sheepishly asks wayne if he wants to try everything. wayne chuckles and sits down at the table

as they go through each dish, eddie's heart twists and thumps. if you could eat a memory, a vision, he was doing just that

while he's proud of himself, he can't help but feel a little disappointed and unsatisfied. everything was a little off. small bits were burnt or a little under cooked, a little too much salt here, too many onions there

wayne tells him to go easy on himself, there's still more time to keep cooking

so eddie keeps cooking.

he starts incorporating it into his daily life. he "buys" other books and cuts recipes out of magazines; if he can do this recipe than he'll have no issue doing this other one

but of course, the best part of cooking is sharing

so he makes snacks for hellfire. bakes his friends' favorite dessert on their birthdays. invites them over some nights just to try whatever new creation he's found or thought up

holidays may not be fruitful with presents but a delicious hot meal is always guaranteed now. when he eats at restaurants or other people's homes he's able to dissect what's in the food and appreciate the time and energy it takes to get made

soon, his mother's recipe book is stuffed with sticky notes of comments or thoughts eddie has; "half the butter for wayne's cholesterol", "exclude the hazelnuts for gareth", "add lemon zest", "sprinkle parmesan on top - fresh"

eddie munson can't cook and has never been able to cook, until he found his mother's recipe book. now, he's the scary, evil metalhead dungeon master who knows how to properly whip meringue and cook a holiday dinner

[ashton-ryder]

👥 Charlie

Send ‘👥‘ for 4 hcs about our muses relationship or about your muse @pxtitxrosx

Charlie and Ashton would often go on grocery store runs, an idea early on to help her overcome her fears bit by bit, sometimes with Jeremiah or JP as well, but Ash promised to always open the invitation to her when he was about to do his. Simply taking their time, strolling through the aisles, letting her dream up of what she could ever want to stock their home with, even though they were both very frugal and thrifty buyers. Usually their grocery list is "whatever's on offer". But if there was ever something too expensive having Charlie put things back on the shelf, Ash would often circle back to grab it into his own basket anyways, exchanging something he didn't really need out. It was really nice, to bond with Charlie this way, and her brothers if they had time to join in on the mini adventure out.

Introducing his mother to the Roses, with them pretty much being his first new friends moving here, his mother immediately took a liking to the three of them, empathetic and honestly, pissed off at the fact of what their mother put them through. She made the effort to always ask about them when she gets on video calls with Ashton, insisting on greeting them and saying hi when she could to the point they were having more conversations than Ash was involved in, especially with Charlie. They shared contacts and Ash left them to their own devices to discuss everything under the sun; recipes, kitchen hacks, life, boys, love lives (both of Charlie's and Ash's, she had to know the hot goss and she knows her own son would not be telling her). Over the years the Ryders and Roses had spent many holidays together, often times Amelia visiting in New York and cooks a whole dinner for them, on rarer times in Minnesota, knowing how busy the brothers were and getting time off would be more complicated. But she just wanted to return the love that the siblings have given to Ash all this time, knowing that they deserve it more than anyone else she knew.

Charlie thinks Ash's style is... cute, boring. There isn't even really a style to it, just shirts, sweaters, jeans, pants, a button up and a tie and suit, Ash packed light when he moved and it was still pretty much everything he had. Charlie refuses to accept that and a few years back began looking at clothes for Ashton, thrifting things from the thrift store, clothes her brother outgrew, sewing and tailoring things despite Ash's insistence that she didn't need to. But she gave him new styles to try out at least. Ashton keeps everything she gave him, (even the sparkly hand sewn yarn cardigan sweater when his mom gave Charlie so much yarn one year) and absolutely wears them as part of his roster, though in bits and pieces. The one time he tried on a full style from Charlie, it garnered a bit too much attention at the campus, his students making fun that he got a date or something dressing so nicely, and random people started hitting on him, too traumatizing that he immediately aborted that and instead wore her recommendations in bits and pieces here and there.

Early on when Ashton was more oblivious of the extent of how far Sada's reach was, he once opened up to Ria, telling her the grievances he's had the moment Sada realized he lived here, and even it took him some time to figure out why the disdain. He should've known better and Ria only had good intentions, asking Sada about it only for it to backfire into his fault for lying to her. One of the nights after, he came back home to his telescope busted and broken into pieces. As punishment. It honestly tore him apart, he sat there alone picking up the glass pieces with his bare hands and cleaning up the mess until Charlie came by to visit and sees him there, no questions asked, coming inside to help him. Ashton spent the next few months scrimping, saving and skipping meals for a new one, but it warmed his heart coming into the diner one day, seeing a small jar, in hopes to help him ease the load.

[frances-baby-houseman]

lol I love it how we're all like, no I won't make you ask these, I will just overshare on my own 😌

Ask meme for people in their 30s 40s

What was the first piece of furniture you bought? A little ikea coffee table with curved legs that I used as a tv stand until it literally collapsed.

What proportion of your meals do you cook? I cook dinner 5ish nights a week, and I make most of the breakfasts and lunches when we're at home. I'm the only cook in the house (my husband does do basic meal stuff like eggs and mac and cheese) so the other nights tend to be takeout.

Foaming hand soap or normal hand soap? foaming or liquid, just not bar.

Favorite chore? folding laundry

Least favorite chore? every other part of laundry (but honestly I hate all chores, they're chores!)

Most precious thing one of your pets has destroyed? no pets!

Any groceries you've been getting into lately? popsicles

What cleaning product do you swear by? folex carpet cleaner

What's your emotional support craft? crochet

Youtube, cable TV, or streaming? my PREFERENCE is cable from the year like 2002, but my reality is cable and every single streaming service.

What's something you saved up for and then regretted buying? honestly I cannot think of anything?

How many cups can you see from where you're sitting? owala water bottle, can of strawberry culture pop, empty mug from my friend's bookstore

Which filter are you most likely to go "eh, it's probably fine" when you find out you need to change it? I don't filter things, I barely chagne the car oil

How often do you take baths? omg never bc I barely fit in our vintage tub but if I could I'd do it weekly

Do you go down each aisle when you grocery shop, or only the ones you know you need stuff from? I exclusively shop at trader joe's, which only has 3 aisles, so yes, but when I am forced to go to a real grocery store, absolutely not.

Where do you go when you need to get out of the house but it's raining? Target or the movies or the gym. gtl if you will.

What's a movie you saw recently that you liked? Hit Man!

Pro or anti tchotchkes? pro! I love little things that show people who you are.

What's your go-to tape? just regular scotch but I also like pink painters tape in the right situation.

What's in your freezer right now? ICE, bc I am southern, and also many popsicles and asian items from trader joe's

Last concert you attended? James Taylor, it was wonderful

Favorite grocery store? Trader Joe's but ideally Publix, where I would go down every aisle, bc they are still reasonable.

Paper bags, plastic bags, or reusable bags? reusable but I sometimes get paper (I have to buy them for $.10) bc I use them for our compost.

Do you get your government mandated 8 hours every night? lollllll

Favorite old person activity? saying "who is that, you know that guy in the thing with the girl who was in that show with julia louis dreyfus"

Would you rather sit on the porch drinking sweet tea or sit by the lake drinking beers? lake with sweet tea

Do you prefer Boardgame Night, Build-Your-Own-Pizza Night, or Movie Night with your friends? movie

Be honest, do you like all of the pictures of their babies that your friends send you? oh yes, who doesn't love a baby

Go-to holiday card format? no holiday cards! we're jews!

How many pairs of scissors do you own? like 3 normal pairs and 2 pairs of kitchen shears

Do you still own your first car? Nope.

How do you take your morning coffee/tea? coffee with whole milk

What's something you collect? I don't really collect anything but I do wish that I did. I just like a lot of junk!

What's your commute like? about 35 min on the expressway including school drop off, but hopefully taking the train next year.

Aisle at the grocery store you never bother walking down? again I only shop at trader joe's, which has 3 aisles and I have them all memorized. Ask me where something is.

Do you keep a daily journal or agenda? daily journal with just a few lines

Do you still listen to the same music you listened to in high school? all the time

What's the last filter you changed? HVAC filter like 2 months ago

What little treat do you always get when you run errands? cute socks at target or a dessert treat

Grocery list or no grocery list? list

What's an unjustifiably expensive appliance that you really want? pebble ice maker

Favorite book you've read recently? Greta & Valdin

Honest feelings on Settlers of Catan? ??

What's something you wish you had more time for? spontaneity

What kind of stuff do you keep on the door of your refrigerator? school stuff and pictures of me as a baby for some reason

Lamps or overhead lighting? lamps

If you could build your home from scratch, what outrageous feature would you want to build into it? a private living room just for myself

Do you bring a bag with you everywhere you go? no, I load up my giant coat pockets in the winter

Pro or anti throw pillows? pro but not super strong feelings here. like, they are good for design and comfort but don't go crazy.

How many blankets do you keep in your living room? 3 in the living room, 4 in the den

Did your relationship with your parents get better when you stopped living with them? lolllll

What's worse, the DMV or the Social Security Office? bureaucracy is bureaucracy

Do you decorate your house for holidays? Which ones? not really, a little for halloween but again, jews.

Favorite high-effort meal that you make? oh god I haven't cooked something really good in ages, but I guess brisket and potato kugel

Favorite low-effort meal that you make? chicken sausage pasta

Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck? dessert or pasta salad

What kind of bag do you use for your bag full of bags? the most structured of the bags

If you died and your ghost was stuck in the outfit you're wearing right now for the rest of time, would you be happy with it? mostly, though these shoes rub a little.

Do you have an opinion on your local weather reporter? Tom Skilling 5 eva

Do you have a favorite brunch spot? I once did! I don't brunch anymore but I do love the french place in my town.

Where are you on the minimalism-maximalism kinsey scale? far on the maximalism.

Opinion on Bath and Body Works? nope.

Last time you visited a farmer's market? saturday. we go most weeks in the summer!

Anything you're procrastinating on right now? oh god just about everything. I'm on question 64 of this stupid survey!

Do you get your taxes in as soon as possible, at the last minute, or late? I used to be early but now my husband has to do them and it's a Whole Thing

Do you keep any stuffed animals on your bed? yes

Are your garbage bags scented or unscented?oh god unscented, I would throw away scented ones

What are you looking forward to next week? getting a new tv! (ours died and the replacement won't be here for a few days... kill me)

[tooboredtothinkofaname]

A week schedule that includes: - having a full time job - keeping the flat clean - doing a weekly shop - doing laundry - exercising - cooking everyday - looking after a pet - having a hobby - having an active social life - going on holiday - saving money each month

Monday:

Morning: Work (Full-time job)

Lunch Break: Exercise (30 minutes of yoga or a brisk walk)

Afternoon: Work

Evening: Laundry (start a load), Cook a simple dinner

Night: Spend time with your pet (play, walk, or cuddle)

Tuesday:

Morning: Work

Lunch Break: Weekly Shop (Online shopping or a quick grocery store visit)

Afternoon: Work

Evening: Finish Laundry, Cook dinner

Night: Enjoy your hobby or socialize with friends (online if necessary)

Wednesday:

Morning: Work

Lunch Break: Exercise (30 minutes of home workout or a jog)

Afternoon: Work

Evening: Clean the flat (focus on one area each week)

Night: Spend time with your pet

Thursday:

Morning: Work

Lunch Break: Prepare a meal plan for the week

Afternoon: Work

Evening: Cook dinner

Night: Relax, read, or work on your hobby

Friday:

Morning: Work

Lunch Break: Quick cleaning tasks (e.g., dusting, vacuuming)

Afternoon: Work

Evening: Socialize with friends or family

Night: Set aside some time for your pet

Saturday:

Morning: House Cleaning (more in-depth cleaning and tidying)

Afternoon: Free time or hobby

Evening: Cook a special dinner for yourself or invite friends over

Night: Movie night or unwind with a book

Sunday:

Morning: Free time or hobby

Afternoon: Enjoy your day off or go on holiday (if planned)

Evening: Plan and organize for the upcoming week

Night: Relax and prepare for work

Note:

Try to combine activities when possible, such as exercise during lunch breaks or socializing with friends while cooking dinner.

Schedule social activities and hobbies on specific days, but be flexible to adjust based on invitations or unexpected events.

If you're going on holiday, plan ahead and use your weekends to prepare and pack.

Allocate a portion of your income for savings at the beginning of each month to ensure you're consistently saving.

[dragoon811]

I am so so tired

What is a rest? What is a good night's sleep? My oldest has a cold and is clingy. My youngest has gone from a kiddo with a good sleep routine and a nighttime cuddle to having the biggest tantrums EVER. I spent THREE hours last night getting her to bed.

I don't know how I stayed calm. I don't.

I say tantrum I mean shrieking "NO! YOU STUPID!" and kicking and hitting and running off and sobbing like she's being murdered and hiding under beds, in closets, etc. Like... please understand. She is a very sweet child. Frilly flannel nightgown with minnie mouse on it. Little wispy hair. Just a full-on nightmare.

And then I had to get the older to sleep. Because it has to be mommy. And she took another HOUR to go to sleep! T__T.

Like...I work full time. I do the grocery shopping. The meal-planning. Wrangling daycare and school. I do most of the cooking. I still have 2 loads of laundry to fold. By time I get the kids to bed? It's too late to vacuum so I pick stuff up by hand and put it in the garbage. I wish I had hardwood - at least I could mop at night. You look crazy, sweeping cheese off of carpet.

I come home and the List wasn't done. Put away laundry? I video'd everything - what it was, where it was. Closets and drawers are labeled. And there is still. laundry. not. put. away. OK. I'll just do it. Litterbox? Floor wasn't swept. Grab the broom and dustpan. Not enough litter put into the box. Do that, too.

Dishes? Hah! A paltry amount. A mountain awaiting wash. And the few that did get washed? Not properly clean.

Fill the diaper bag, make sure there's spare clothes. Wash out the lunch box. Brush hair. Eczema lotion. Style hair. Convince toddler to pick an outfit from the options presented. Meal-prep. School lunches- ensure they're allergy-friendly! School - events, check with teachers, return library books. Holidays! Gotta do valentines. Make sure snow pants are clean and dry. And coats. Don't forget to wash them once a week!

Change sheets. Clean couch cushion covers. Bath time! Let me clean your hair, clean your ears. Trim cats' claws. Play games to learn letters/words/taking turns. Color. Draw. Do Lego and playdoh to strengthen hand muscles.

Playdates/activities. Grocery shopping. Gas in the car. Bills. Clothes for children who seem determined to destroy or outgrow everything. Wear your bra til it falls apart because they're expensive.

Try to reach out to your friends at least once a week so you can TRY to maintain those relationships. It's usually a 5-minute phone call on your drive home because that is the only time you have to yourself.

Be constantly sick. Cry over the price of medicine. Cry over the cost of groceries. Try to find deals. This may mean driving all over town and four different stores.

And all of this dragging two kids and a husband you're taking care of but who would rather play video games for 10 hours and has memory problems. Wonder how much is the illness and how much is incompetence.

Get everything done. Sit...no energy for a book. No energy for a movie or show. No energy to knit or crochet. No energy to write.

Does...does it ever end?

[laidee-flegman]

30 journal prompts for a foodie journal

What's your all-time favourite comfort food, and why does it hold such a special place in your heart?

Describe a memorable meal you've shared with friends or family. What made it so memorable?

If you could only eat one cuisine for the rest of your life, what would it be and why?

Write about a food you disliked as a child but love now. What changed your mind?

Have you ever tried cooking a dish from a different culture? Describe your experience and whether it turned out well.

What's your go-to midnight snack? Do you have any quirky rituals or habits associated with late-night munching?

Create a fictional dinner party guest list, including three historical figures, three celebrities, and three fictional characters. What would you serve, and what conversations do you imagine taking place?

Write about a food-related adventure you've had, whether it's trying an exotic fruit or participating in a food challenge.

Do you have any food-related traditions in your family? If so, describe them and their significance to you.

Describe the perfect meal for a cosy night in. What dishes would you prepare, and who would you share it with?

Write a letter to your favourite restaurant, expressing your appreciation for their food and service. Bonus points for including a Yelp-style review!

Reflect on a time when you tried a new ingredient or cooking technique. Did it turn out as expected, or was it a culinary disaster?

Write about a memorable meal you've had while traveling. How did the food reflect the culture of the place you were visiting?

If you could have dinner with any historical figure, who would it be and why? What would you talk about over the meal?

Describe the most extravagant meal you've ever had. What made it so special, and would you do it again?

Write about a food-related childhood memory that brings a smile to your face.

Do you have any dietary restrictions or food allergies? How do they impact your relationship with food, and how do you navigate them?

If you could master any culinary skill overnight, what would it be and why?

Write a short story where food plays a central role, whether it's a quest for the perfect burger or a culinary competition.

Reflect on your favourite holiday food traditions. What makes them special, and how do they bring your family together?

Create a "bucket list" of foods you want to try before you die. Get creative and include both exotic delicacies and homemade comfort foods.

Write about a food-related challenge you've faced, whether it's learning to cook for a large group or sticking to a budget at the grocery store.

Describe the ideal breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a day when you have no responsibilities or obligations. Let your imagination run wild!

Reflect on your relationship with food and how it has evolved over time. Are there any significant milestones or turning points?

Write about a food-related pet peeve or irrational dislike. What is it about that particular food or eating habit that bothers you?

If you could invent a new food or dish, what would it be and what would you name it?

Describe the most memorable food-related conversation you've ever had. What was the topic, and who were you talking to?

Reflect on a time when food brought you comfort during a difficult period in your life. How did it help you cope, and what did you learn from the experience?

Write about a food-related dream or fantasy you've had, whether it's owning your own restaurant or being a contestant on a cooking show.

Reflect on the role food plays in your cultural identity. How does your heritage influence your culinary preferences and traditions?

[ereborne]

Hello, happy holidays! For the End of the year ask meme if you'll like to answer any of the following: 8 (game of the year), 25 (a character you created), 14 (fav book), or 18 (a memorable meal)

Happy holidays! I hope they've treated you well <3

8: I don't play many games myself (only Stardew Valley, Minecraft, and silly seek-and-find puzzle games) and my laptop was too tuckered for games for most of the year, but even if I'd been farming nonstop I think the game of the year would still be Final Fantasy VII Remake. Pretty sure it'll be the game of every year until it's all out, and then maybe a couple years more for good measure. I am having such an incredible time following the game as it comes out and @kaylithographica plays through it, and I can't wait to see how Square Enix keeps going with the meta and story changes.

25: Some of the more complex edits I've been trying to work on this week actually revolve around a particular OC, so we'll talk about her. Her name is Mercy, and she was not supposed to be important (folks who have lived with me may be familiar with this refrain). She was supposed to be a filler character! She's an archetype! Her name is Mercy and she has none! Grr rar tragic backstory vengeance quest knife collection! But nooo now she's got layers. She's got depth. We're emotionally invested in her character arc. Damn it. Anyway she befriends her local main characters to use them as pawns in her revenge plot, spends a lot of time with them waiting for them to vouch for her to her target, gives up her first chance at revenge because she has to go save them instead (in a scene so terribly close to the classic 'stand at crossroad, look longingly at selfish goal down the left, turn back fully on goal to run to friends down the right path' that I may rewrite it to avoid cliche shame), and then eventually gives up her scheming entirely because it would be too much of a betrayal of her very best friends the main characters. She was supposed to die in the first rescue, and then the whole story locked up and I had to go back through trying to find the writer's block instigation point, and I realized I've made too optimistic a world to kill her off without friends or redemption. She's (big sigh) thematically significant now. At least she's also very cool.

14: I'm going with my favorite book that came out this year, to help narrow things down: "The Innocent Sleep", by Seanan McGuire. Seanan McGuire is one of my favorite authors and this is my favorite of her ongoing serieses, and usually we get one a year (usually just in time to be my birthday present to myself! a joyous coincidence) but this year we got two. "Sleep No More" and "The Innocent Sleep", paired stories, one from Toby's point of view and one from Tybalt's. The current state of their world means that these two POVs of the same happenings are wildly different, and it's fascinating (a little heart-wrenching sometimes) to see. Also, Tybalt and his friends dimension-door into Costco in the dead of night and steal all their catfood. It's amazing.

18: The vegeble man had a special on collard greens one time, and I bought a 'bundle' thinking it was your standard grocery-store greens bundle, a generous handful at most. It was more like an armful. Apparently the special was because they'd been sold a literal truckload of greens (perfectly good but disqualified as 'organic' by some neighbor shenanigans) and needed to offload them quickly because the fridge wasn't ready for such a bumper crop. I cooked them in batches with andouille sausage and bacon and just a touch of this amazing miso ghost-pepper hot sauce Duncan has, and we ate them for our next four meals (with grits, with cornbread and grilled tomatoes, with fried eggs and beer bread, and then the last of them mixed into red beans and rice). I really miss not just Southern food but access to Southern ingredients (the 'andouille' sausage I get here is pitiful, and bacon is no substitute for a proper salt-ham, and neither is beer bread always a good alternative to a buttermilk biscuit or quickbread) and it was so nice to have a proper mess of greens again.

[learnhowtosway]

Ask meme for people in their 30s

What was the first piece of furniture you bought? Likely our sectional.

What proportion of your meals do you cook? A third of the time on a good week.

Foaming hand soap or normal hand soap? Normal.

Favorite chore? Vacuuming. Crumbs and hair on the floor? Not on my watch.

Least favorite chore? Cleaning the bathroom.

Most precious thing one of your pets has destroyed. Sadly, I'm not currently a pet owner.

Any groceries you've been getting into lately? Umm.. gold kiwi is so much better than green.

What cleaning product do you swear by? We have a massive tub of Pink Solution.

What's your emotional support craft? Wish I could say I have one at the moment, but I do want to diy clay magnets and charm necklaces.

Youtube, cable TV, or streaming? Streaming and youtube because it's imperative for me to imagine what life could look like in another city.

What's something you saved up for and then regretted buying?Nothing comes to mind.

How many cups can you see from where you're sitting? Three.

Which filter are you most likely to go "eh, it's probably fine" when you find out you need to change it? Dryer vent filter.

How often do you take baths?Now that it's summer, way more often because I sweat quite a bit. Hate it.

Do you go down each aisle when you grocery shop, or only the ones you know you need stuff from? The ones I need stuff from, but if it's a smaller, gourmet grocery store then I can do a full walk around.

Where do you go when you need to get out of the house but it's raining? Staying in when it's raining is elite, but likely the library across the street or a cafe.

What's a movie you saw recently that you liked? My last five star on Letterboxd was Perfect Days.

Pro or anti tchotchkes? Pro.

What's your go-to tape? Scotch tape brand.

What's in your freezer right now? Just emptied our freeze, so an ice cube tray and ice packs.

Last concert you attended?Noah Kahan.

Favorite grocery store? Farm Boy and Summerhill Market.

Paper bags, plastic bags, or reusable bags? Reusable bags. I have multiple Baggu bags and recently discovered Shupatto bags.

Do you get your government mandated 8 hours every night? Hahahahahah, No.

Favorite old person activity? Browsing real estate listings and developments and their floor plans. NYT games.

Would you rather sit on the porch drinking sweet tea or sit by the lake drinking beers? I've never had sweet tea; as in, american sweet tea because apparently it's not what non-americans think it is. So as a Great Lakes resident, I'll say by the lake drinking beers.

Do you prefer Board game Night, Build-Your-Own-Pizza Night, or Movie Night with your friends? Board game night. Have you guys played Top of Mind? I think it's so fun.

Be honest, do you like all of the pictures of their babies that your friends send you? Yes, if they're my close friends.

Go-to holiday card format. Physical cards from a local artist or small business on Etsy whenever possible.

How many pairs of scissors do you own? One kitchen, one from a toolbox. I would like to own herb scissors as well.

Do you still own your first car?I'm a virgin who doesn't drive/own a car.

How do you take your morning coffee/tea? Numi brand genmaicha. Whatever beans Don has on rotation for pour over, with a bit of milk and brown sugar.

What's something you collect? Physical media: books, cds, dvds, magazines, vinyl, etc. If I could afford it, I would love to own vintage pieces of things that interest me.

What's your commute like?However fast the TTC or GO Transit decides to move.

Aisle at the grocery store you never bother walking down? The pet/household section.

Do you keep a daily journal or agenda? Tumblr is my journal; although, I fall off of it sometimes and have to catch up. I haven't used an agenda for the past two years, but I always use my google calendar.

Do you still listen to the same music you listened to in high school? To this day! TO THIS DAY!

What's the last filter you changed? Condo maintenance changed our furnace filter recently.

What little treat do you always get when you run errands? Some sort of beverage: matcha, coffee, boba.

Grocery list or no grocery list?Grocery list.

What's the oldest thing you own? A gold ring from my childhood.

What's an unjustifiably expensive appliance that you really want? Zojirushi rice cooker, La Marzocco linea micra/mini or Anza espresso machine.

Favorite book you've read recently? Nothing recently, but I intend to read Prophet Song by Paul Lynch next, which seems right up my alley.

Honest feelings on Settlers of Catan? Never played it.

What's something you wish you had more time for? Time with my friends. Nothing prepares you for the distances that occur from getting older.

What kind of stuff do you keep on the door of your refrigerator? Hamilton tickets, Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss and La Grande Odalisque postcards from the Louvre, a couple of polaroids, Alo menu, a calavera magnet from my bff's bachelorette trip in Mexico, Buvette business card from our last NYC visit, and a few city magnets.

Lamps or overhead lighting?Lamps. There's this affordable and super cute one from Ikea.

If you could build your home from scratch, what outrageous feature would you want to build into it? A library, dining nook, heated bathroom floor and towel rack, an infrared sauna, solar panels/energy efficiency, multiple fireplaces, skylights. I could go on.

Do you bring a bag with you everywhere you go? Certified bag lady.

Pro or anti throw pillows? Pro.

How many blankets do you keep in your living room? Two.

Did your relationship with your parents get better when you stopped living with them? Yes and no, and that's way too much to unpack here.

What's worse, the DMV or the Social Security Office? I'm Canadian, so I'm not familiar with the horrors of these places.

Do you decorate your house for holidays? Which ones?Christmas, but I also like seasonal decor, especially in the fall.

Favorite high-effort meal that you make? I avoid high-effort meals, so most are at similar levels. Maybe tomato soup and grilled cheese simply for having to keep an eye on the sandwiches.

Favorite low-effort meal that you make? Indomie instant noodles.

Do you tend to bring an appetizer, entree, dessert, or drinks to a potluck? Dessert.

What kind of bag do you use for your bag full of bags? A tote bag.

If you died and your ghost was stuck in the outfit you're wearing right now for the rest of time, would you be happy with it? Snoopy pjs? Sure!

Do you have an opinion on your local weather reporter? Haven't had cable tv in several years. Pretty sure he's retired now, but I remember he also did gardening segments, so he was cool.

Do you have a favorite brunch spot? Most frequently visited are Mary Be Kitchen for the weekender breakfast and Gold Standard for the best breakfast sandwich.

Where are you on the minimalism-maximalism kinsey scale? Technically 0, but acceptably 3.

Opinion on Bath and Body Works? It's a rite of passage.

Last time you visited a farmer's market? Last month.

Anything you're procrastinating on right now? Renewing my passport.

Do you get your taxes in as soon as possible, at the last minute, or late? As soon as possible.

Do you keep any stuffed animals on your bed? A Pochacco stuffed toy. A couple of Palm Pals on the headboard ledge: a moon for me and a BLT sandwich for Don.

Are your garbage bags scented or unscented? Whichever is on sale when we run out.

What are you looking forward to next week? I put myself on a waitlist for a free yoga class at a local studio. Us thirty year olds love free shit.

[breadvidence]

DAMMIT I.V

On AO3

SUMMARY: Two suicidal old men with moral scrupulosity in a three-legged potato sack race towards domesticity. Dallas 2014/Brick crossover, all adaptation decisions arbitrary.

Note: Happy holidays, readers! The Santa reference is coincidental. At risk of admitting the work doesn't stand on its own by apostrophizing too much in the note, I will continue to have Valjean miss the waving rainbow flag of Javert's homosexuality until it ceases to amuse me, despite the fact that this is cockblocking us all. There is so much filth-nasty porn written for this piece that keeps getting pushed off to later chapters b/c of my whirlwind romance w/ this dumb trope. Warnings, warnings, uh: suicidal ideation, homophobia, transphobia, ableism (psychiatric), this Javert's idiosyncratic and scrupulous Catholicism, a date with no kisses, Amis deprived of their bloody revolution.

⁂

He calls the day after, from the grocery store. The late nineties pop over the sound system makes him think of drives from the SNF to restaurants they’re unlikely to visit again. “You been shopping yet?” He asks, unable to keep the accusation from his voice: did you plan to? “I’m by the eggs right now, and I could grab you a loaf of bread that isn’t stale and shitty.” 

“I’m sorry my hospitality was lacking,” Valjean replies.

He snorts, tapping his fingers against the scooter’s handle. He is past ready to be off the crutches and able to carry a basket. Soon. “Sure, take it that way. To think, I’ve fed you so many nice meals, too. And I’ll have you know I was saving that bottle of merlot from last Friday for an occasion. Come on, yes or no?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Without rancor, Javert asks, “What’re you distracted so by right now that you misdirected poorly? Lie outright next time, you’re better at it. I’m bringing you some.”

A woman looking at expiration dates on cartons of egg whites side-eyes him.

“You don’t have to come all the way to Southlake.” The concession is surprising, if pleasing. “I can pick them up from your place. Tomorrow all right? I’d planned to go to the gym this afternoon.” 

“You work out?” He flounders between the cognitive dissonance of Jean Valjean in a gym and the mental image of Jean Valjean in gym wear. Sweatpants? Bad enough. Dare he consider compression shorts? 

“How else would I be…” He hesitates, as if unsure how to phrase unnaturally strong without boasting. “It’s been a habit since I was a young man.” 

Yes, it showed then, too. There’s strain in his voice as he says, “Tomorrow. Right.” 

“Are you all right?” Valjean asks, audibly puzzled. 

This man makes him lose himself. When has his lustfulness ever shown in his voice? “As ever. What else do you need?”

He fails to win further concessions, and he doesn’t have enough information to shop for Valjean without direct instruction. His response to Javert’s cooking has been blandly complimentary towards all dishes (he tries not to be sore, on this point; while most of what he’s offered has been his usual, by the time he fed Valjean paella he was sick of it, two failed and one successful attempts at the thing later, and doubtful by the end he’d even remembered correctly an offhand comment from fifteen years ago about the dish). Nothing he has ordered at a restaurant would be intuitive to get him the ingredients for or purchase pre-made. The empty refrigerator and cupboards he glimpsed troubles him three times over: that Valjean tried to hide them, half-opening doors and standing just-so to block his line of sight; that they have made him aware, as he was not before, of the difference between Valjean’s body condition now and when he cut him free of his ropes at the riot; self-centered, that in his focus on his own pathetic suffering he did not perceive an acute problem, seeing the temper of the man in front of him as being no different from Madeleine’s melancholy. It was badly done of him as a professional observer and—as a friend.

In fact the whole damn apartment troubles him: he angled the answer out of Valjean that Cosette hadn’t cohabited with him in near four years, but the second bedroom remained in exactly the condition she left it, and there was a first year chemistry book on the side table in the study, a couple woman’s toiletries in the bathroom, her knicknacks decorating it throughout. Javert can acknowledge his own cleanliness is a bit above average, but he thinks he’s in his right to find it concerning that most of the cups and utensils were shoved into the dishwasher, that the trashcan was overstuffed, the counter in sore need of a wipe-down. The dustiness of low-touch surfaces cannot be acknowledged without secondhand embarrassment.

He buys Valjean a rotisserie chicken.

Though he has not been truly poor since he was a child, he has the habits of it, and trash bags are fifty cents cheaper at Fiesta Mart, which is only five minutes out of his way. There’s a good sale on shrimp besides, if he doesn’t mind shelling them. He’s savvy enough with the crutches that even somewhere not offering scooters he can manage a couple items.

An unfortunate aspect of this moral awakening is that the skill and instinct of his former profession remains. The sort of petty crime witnessed in the everyday hasn’t been his business for decades, but he was not above making it his business, before. Now he observes a shoplifter enter the mercado and proceed down the aisles; he follows, the crutches making him first notable, then dismissable. He angles his body towards a display of Suero Oral, head tilted so that the woman remains in his peripheries. She checks for cameras, believes his mime of looking between his phone and the content list on a bottle, and shifts a container of baby formula into her oversized bag. It is smoothly done; he didn’t recognize her because of first-timer nerves. There is a good chance, he knows, that she is not a mother, but intends to re-sell. 

With a last blank look at the Suero Oral, he makes his way to the meat counter.

Valjean spoke of his profound guilt over a theft. Somehow not the fucking kidnapping or assault, but—fine; a theft. Therefore he doesn’t see as morally excusable all stealing. Therefore he might not look on Javert’s deliberate blindness to this as morally correct. Except to make a hue and cry and et cetera is one step towards making this woman a prisoner, and that, that! That is a greater crime, isn’t it, than anything she can do with a quick hand and a purse? This conclusion, Javert admits, is entirely personal, and nothing to do with Valjean. Nothing to do with her, either. He is a God damned egoist.

He cannot make another prisoner.

Valjean visibly detests when Javert looks to him for ethical instruction, and as such would doubtless be pleased to see him making his own decisions. That he would then be displeased that his theoretical approval of this soothed Javert’s spirits is—is it comedic? It might be funny. Fuck. God help him. It would’ve been so much easier to be a bloated corpse caught beneath a pier. He put serious thought into that, again, before he decided instead to drive to Southlake, insofar as any part of his exhausted and hysterical thought processes could be called decision making.

Underneath his turmoil and rigidity there is a simple animal, a beast that wants not to die, and not to contemplate its place in the social order, a panting hairy thing that diverts his mind: as he waits in line for the butcher, a memory rises as if in repudiation of the river, the smell of Jean Valjean’s pillow, unfamiliar detergent charged by the awareness of who had used it. 

He’s doing fine.

After a stop at home to put away the groceries, there’s therapy, which perhaps would’ve been better timed three days prior; he never considered that the explicit invitation to reach out at need is serious, and from his experience with the medical world, it isn’t. It’s an afternoon appointment, which means he’ll be called back at least forty-five minutes later than scheduled; he shows up punctually, parks in the adjacent lot in case his vehicle is recognized, and proceeds to have a staring match in the waiting area with another patient who he suspects is too stoned to actually register him. 

When he is called back, he wastes the first thirty minutes, knowingly. The therapist is aware she doesn’t have his willingness today, and tries to engage him.

Javert sits with his elbows on his knees, mouth pressed against his laced fingers, though the position makes his back ache. There is satisfaction in the fact that Miss Methuselah looks wrong-footed by his long silence. She has handed him a riddle: an honest answer to the comment you haven’t spoken about your friend this session requires he do a number of things he does not want to, among them uttering the word faggot in the presence of someone who reminds him of the woman he called abuela as a little child. He does not observe many social niceties, but the threat of the chancla casts a long shadow. Would homosexual be less offensive? He faintly remembers sensitivity training indicating this term is also out-of-date and suspect. He is certainly not calling himself gay, which has always carried an implication of rainbows and limp wrists that he finds distasteful, though if he’s going to be such a little fucking girl about being in bed with another man, it might be accurate after all.

He fell asleep alone, unconscious before Valjean joined him, and he woke alone, the sheets under his hand still warm with another’s body heat. There’s no memory to go with the certainty he—did what? All his contexts are crude, and Valjean is pure, and he put his hands on that man. Also, the correct term might be cuddled, to his horror. When he has slept with people he’s fucked, holding them always seemed an extension of lust. Possessiveness, in that brief span of time they passed through his hands. This—this he wants to put in a cave with a stone rolled across the entrance in hopes it will rise again.

“I thought he made a pass at me,” he says, because it is easier, “and at a hell of an inopportune moment, too. I clarified, asked if he meant what he said in a queer way.” Ah, shit, that’s a slur, too. “He didn’t. It’s fine.” Had it been a pass the answer would have been sure, as it has been to nearly every pass, but he thinks wryly that he was a little too wrung-out to have made a good showing of it. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to add, “It wasn’t a confrontation—not violent. I’m not like that about gay guys. Not that he is one, of course.” 

She makes a note. Fuck, but he hates when therapists do that.

He can distract her. “I am not currently a threat to myself,” he is careful to preface, because an in-patient stay wouldn’t be the solution to his boredom, “but I spent some time on the Margaret McDermott the other night.” Sleep and that singular incident of intimacy might have seen him through the crisis, but he probably ought to admit the faultlines are present, and vulnerable to quakes. 

⁂

You know those programs where they lend clothes to junkies for interviews and such

Jean Valjean contemplates this text in perplexity. Yes. 

Ok which one is nice.

Any of them, he replies, then taps the icon to call. “Hello, Javert.”

“Hey,” he replies, then, “I’m not getting all the lost muscle mass back. Seems a waste to have these slacks that my ass won’t fill. So.”

So, indeed. Jean Valjean has distinct memories from Montreuil of being offended by this man’s opinions towards those afflicted with addiction. “I have some business at a church, this Sunday, which has a sister congregation that runs a program of that sort. I could take them.” He hesitates; if Javert has returned to Mass since their conversation at the SNF, he’s not mentioned it, and he was so oddly taken aback by Jean Valjean’s leaving the Catholic faith that the topic has seemed best to avoid entirely. He sets aside his caution to offer, “You’re welcome to join me, if you don’t mind attending a Protestant service.” 

“I seem to recall the Catechism of St. Pius says even to burn a Bible if it comes from the hands of a Protestant.” His tone is solemn—it’s a joke. “But I’m sure my soul can’t be harmed worse by a few heretics. What’s the dress code? Is it one of those blue jean services?” 

“Some Baptists do better Sunday best than Catholics,” Jean Valjean says, answering the playfulness.  

He snorts. “Is it a Baptist church? My foster mom will smile on high.” 

Jean Valjean allows that it isn’t, answers the question at hand, and stifles his curiosity, a novel sensation that he is uncertain what to do with. Why should he want to know more about Javert’s attachment issues? 

The night after he shared a bed with Javert he looked at his neatened sheets and pillows, remembered oppressive on his back the heat of another body, and—wanted. This shocked him, and he went to his knees over it; he whose prayers to God were usually formulaic, careful, never presumptuous, looked sidelong at his Father and asked of him, Is it sin? He could not find its name if it was one, and only because it occurred between the sheets did lust even arise as a possibility. On his horizon is the loss of his life, his joy, his soul—and here comes into his home, from the bud of suffering, a little blossom of comfort. It recalls to mind the winter of ’11, when in the bitterest night and with the power out he broke from his long cold repentance and joined Cosette in the main house by the woodfire. He has never been more than human, though he has sometimes been less than one, and  he allows that—though this is misdirected—a little want of contact is not abnormal: a chaste bed-partner is a lure never set in his path before, and one he therefore did not know came with this feeling, and which now seems singular and greater than it is; no matter; the opportunity will not come again. 

It helps that Javert behaves in an unusually sensible manner and does not allude to their night together. If he is less sensible on the topic of groceries, with a yappy persistence of concern that does not test Jean Valjean’s patience—he will swear it does not—one cannot get too overwrought about a chicken. Well, he is perhaps a little wrought about it. Only, he realizes with it that the meals and company have been more than an excuse to gain access—it is obvious that Javert wants something from him, but it is increasingly clear he also wants things for him. Yes, the mutuality is normal for friendship. Yes, he admits that he has not been suffering. Yes, it troubles him. 

But is a very cold night, and perhaps he can be forgiven for sitting awhile by the fire.

Sunday, he drives to Javert’s to carpool to the church and brunch after, where he anticipates they will scuffle over the bill. He looks forward to winning; his attempts to help pay for dinner ingredients have thus far been rebuffed with prejudice, and a thoughtless question about Javert’s finances more broadly led to the closest thing to a fight they’ve had since their discussion of Cosette. He plans to drop his card off with the staff on a faked bathroom trip—see Javert fight that. 

On his arrival, he finds the man leaned against the front of the apartment building, a cigarette in one hand and a cane in the other. A shopping bag sits a few paces away, out of range from any stray ash. He nods a greeting, his posture loose, his expression mellow. It is a strange contrast, to see him in slacks and a button-up, his jacket over his free arm, with nothing unpleasant in his eyes, not the suspicion of Montreuil or the madness of more recent times. “You’re early. Mind if I finish this?”

“Of course not. I didn’t know you smoked.” He stays upwind, pushing aside memories of being a younger man with the flavor of nicotine in his mouth.

“Only when satisfied, so no, I don’t imagine I’ve ever lit up around you.” When he wraps his lips around the cigarette, the wrinkles that chain from them are shallow; he must not have been satisfied often. He breathes out smoke, taps the cane against his foot.

He obviously wants a comment on it. “Glad to be off the crutches?” This earns raised eyebrows, the obviously unspoken. “How long will you need to use the cane, then?”

This occasions a wince, the cigarette dropping away from his mouth before he raises it again to take a drag with an air of determination. “Well,” he says, “this, I’m keeping.” He sharply searches Jean Valjean’s expression, eases—the lack of pity, perhaps. “Both legs are cleared for full weight-bearing, now, but the nerve damage—the impact on balance, mainly…” He shrugs. “Be a waste after all this to fall and break something else. I’m assured it’s not the worst outcome.” 

Yes, he doesn’t say, you could be dead. He offers a smile, feels it is inadequate, and presses the man’s arm. He withdraws sooner than he might’ve, rubbing his palm against his own thigh.

Javert stubs out the cigarette and tucks the butt into the pack, turning away to pick up the bag. He does not bend with ease, and he moves with a care that speaks to the loss of the extra stability granted by the crutches. It would have been a neutral fact, had he needed them indefinitely, to Jean Valjean’s mind; but he can imagine the sense of progress for Javert, and is glad of it for him. He shuffles in the bag, holds out—a book. “Here. Belated, I know, but I didn’t know what to get you until after I  investigated your apartment.”

He had snooped, at first, then when caught defended himself with a snide, You shamelessly went through mine while I was in the hospital. “Thank you,” he says, at a loss, and peruses the back—Last Chance to See, by Adams. 

“Nature, travel, sadness—hits a couple repeating themes on your bookshelf.” He’s pretending indifference, badly. 

“Yes, I appreciate it. It looks good.” He could simply accept it and move on. “But I don’t see why you would get me a present.”

For a man whose confidence molders in the dirt when confronted with the least moral question, he’s certainly bold where the topic of Jean Valjean’s wellness is concerned, and the quelling look he levels now is the same as during the attempted rejection of the rotisserie chicken. “Don’t be cute. You have until January to worry about reciprocating.” 

Jean Valjean assays a bland smile as understanding comes. He has not celebrated his birthday in August since ’79, his second year at Memorial, when Jeanne sent him a dollar and he bought he knows not what from the commissary. In Montreuil he chose a date in late December, so that any attempted fuss would be lost in Christmas, and Ultime Fauchelevent was born in February. It occurs to him that he never wants Javert to learn the birth year of his cover—it wasn’t intentional, of course, that the younger Fauchelevent was born a decade after him, but that won’t change the mockery he expects it will catch him. This acknowledgment of Jean Valjean’s birthdate makes him feels caught, forced to be himself.

Javert has come to know him too well. Eyes narrowing, he asks, “What’s that expression?”

“It’s nothing. Thank you, again. We should get going. Would you like me to drive?” Any lingering smell of cigarette smoke will be gone long before Cosette might be in the SUV. 

Javert looks oddly caught-out. “I assumed you would.” 

With a questioning glance, Jean Valjean leads them back to the vehicle; he cranks the passenger seat further back and tucks the book into the glove box before taking his place in the driver’s seat. As Javert settles beside him, he glances into the bag, sees he’s purchased a new package of hemming tape as part of the donation. Difficult to determine whether that ought to be called thoughtful or merely thorough. Willing to be direct for the sake of leading them off their former topic, as he backs from the parking space he observes, “I didn’t know you had developed an interest in charitable programs.”

“You know I haven’t.” He turns the shaft of the cane between his palms. It looks delicate, in his big hands. “I don’t want you to get nervous while you’re operating a vehicle, so let’s not look too closely at my motivation. I would have to reference your previous good works and acknowledge your impact—yes, see, look, you’re white-knuckled already.” There’s the sound of his fingers running through his beard. “Listen, about your birthday. I’m sorry that I know so much about you when you’ve never offered to share anything personal, but I’m not going to pretend I haven’t read your file a few dozen times.”

“That didn’t even occur to me,” he says, honest, then ventures to extend himself a little more, adding, “I feel I should apologize for my—ah, poorer—memory of the time we’ve known each other.” 

“I’m certain that it benefits me, however else I may feel about it.” His tone is wry; this one’s no joke. But he’s trying, today—he says, lighter, “It’s definitely better for my pride that you don’t remember the mullet I had at eighteen.”

“Oh, no,” Jean Valjean replies, who always assumed they’d crossed paths nearer the middle of his sentence.

“Mm. Memorial had too loose of personal grooming regs in the eighties. I wasn’t the only one.”

It had still been strange to him, that early, watching the fashions change through the little bits of personal choice that the guards’ uniforms allowed, and by the glimpses of other prisoners’ visitors. There had been television and magazines, of course, but those things were not real. He thinks it is desperation to escape the mire of prison memories that makes him say, “I can imagine you were awkward. Tall boys always are.” 

“Terrible,” Javert agrees. “All feet, elbows, and jawline, with the patchiest sideburns known to creation.”

He thinks, You should ask Cosette about the mustache I attempted, but—no. If it strikes him as unexpectedly sweet, this mental image of the two people who know him so differently finding common humor, it is not more than the fear like fingers clawed around his lungs at the thought of what Javert might find more worthwhile to say to Cosette than comparing notes on his facial hair choices. He imagines, horribly, the name Fantine being spoken to her daughter for the first time in a decade, and beside it the word whore. A coldness has come down on him that doesn’t match this late summer day that looks fit to kiss a hundred degrees, nor the friendliness of the man beside him.

The coldness must not show; Javert’s tone remains casual as he says, “I suppose you must have had some luck in life. You can turn that compassionate mockery on us men who broke mirrors as teens because you were as cute at sixteen as handsome at thirty, is that it?”

They are at a stoplight; Jean Valjean turns a confused look on him. “I wasn’t handsome.” He was a brute; even at the time, he’d been unable to look himself in the eyes, afraid of the hideous precipices within the shadows there.

With the air of a man whose mouth has run away from him, Javert says, “I don’t know, even now you have a sort of ethnic ‘Santa, Baby’ air.”

“Does that song even imply that Santa is good-looking?” he replies, only more bewildered. 

“It—she does want to marry him, but I suppose that could be for the money.” He pauses. “Still works, then.”

Because he believes in returning kindness for all slights, and this is less a slight anyway more than it is odd, he declines to continue the conversation and comments instead on the church and its congregation. He turns the interaction over in his mind even as he talks about roof repair last summer and warns about Margaret Holf’s prying. Where Javert’s self-control slips it is dramatic, not an idle comment. As they pull into the parking lot, which is yet half-empty—they’re neither of them given to late arrival—he considers asking, Are you stoned? But perhaps the terminology is different, when the drugs are prescribed. In any case, he knows the answer, having struck on the question, and needn’t embarrass Javert by addressing the matter directly. It is not his place to doubt what is between the man, his doctor, and his soul. If he who is so critical of vices has developed one, well, here’s a lifetime of hypocrisy; and what’s Jean Valjean’s place in the matter? No place at all, but to hold compassion for it. Besides, there’s the matter of medical necessity, which he cannot speak to. 

He thinks of an old man, a veteran he knew through one of his charitable efforts, who chased benzos with whiskey and stopped his lungs by the combination, and he wants to reach over the center console and seize Javert’s hand.

Who peers critically through the windshield at the church grounds and says, “I’m used to you skulking in slums. It doesn’t look like these people need your alms.”

Jean Valjean looks at the wide green lawn, the stately oak and pruned crepe myrtle, the freestanding belltower, the church’s gleaming glass bow-front. He does not explain it is easier to move larger sums of money through an organization that already has its own. “Those who they serve do.” 

“If you say so.” He adds, in a mutter, “Still don’t see the point of being outside the salvation of the Church if you’re not going to do something dramatically different. Snake-handling. Speaking in tongues. Faked miracles. If sinning, you might as well sin thoroughly.” 

“If you want to stay in the car after all, I can leave the windows cracked,” Jean Valjean replies.

“I already promised to call them separated brethren instead of material heretics. Don’t expect more.” 

It’s more than he would have expected two months ago, and not something he asked for, though he got the promise all the same. Javert might even progress to other Christians, he thinks—which would be as forward-thinking as the contemporary Papal standpoint, rather than the fifty-year vintage that is heretic. He catches himself casting a look at the other man, as they exit the car and proceed towards the church doors, which he must admit is—fond.

They are not the earliest to enter the nave, but nearly so. Javert genuflects towards the altar in what seems to be pure reflex and does not question him as he chooses a pew at the back. There’s a comedic level of suspicion and grudging respect in his expression as he takes in the stained glass windows, the organ with its embossed angels, the gold and gaud on evidence in the decoration of the apse. 

Jean Valjean does not expect him to bend down close enough that his breath whispers over the shell of his ear. Javert murmurs, “I called my priest about this. Took him a minute to place my name and voice, then he asked if I’d been away on a trip. Got pretty distracted by my answer. I said, Respectfully, if you’re going to preach, father, can the topic be on attending the service of another faith?”

Jean Valjean straightens his shirt, thinks, how unutterably rude to interrupt the prayerful thoughts of others with chatting, then asks under his breath, “Well, did you get your answers?”

“I’m to refrain from being misled, but he seems to think any degree of God will benefit me.”

Their faces will be too close, if he turns to see the expression which accompanies that matter-of-fact statement. He settles back against the pew, and by the time he glances to the side, Javert has straightened, attention drawn by new arrivals. 

He was uncertain whether Javert would participate in the service in any manner, but he stands for the procession, and—startling—joins on the second line of the hymn, Where there is hate, may we sow love—the low baritone is not a surprise, but the pleasantness is. Where there is hurt, may we forgive. Though without the passion that elevates the music of faith—where there is strife, may we make one—the control and tunefulness speak to training layered over a little natural talent. Where all is doubt, may we sow faith. It occurs to Jean Valjean—where all is gloom, may we sow hope—who has never been able to bring himself to raise his voice above the softest register—where all is night, may we sow joy—that in Montreuil he would have sung many hymns with this man. Where all is tears, may we sow joy.

His attention strays from the procession, and he finds Javert’s face is angled slightly towards him, so that he meets stark blue eyes over the line, Jesus, our Lord, may we not seek to be consoled, but to console. 

He jerks his attention back to the apse, is not sure he gets the following lines right—hearts, love. He stutters over them, picks up again in our giving we receive, and in forgiving are forgiven. The last verse is easiest, Dying, we live, and are reborn through death’s dark night to endless day; Lord, make us servants of your peace, to wake at last in heaven’s light.

It is a pleasant service. As evocation of freedom ever does, the Psalm touches a bruise on his heart, yearning where there should be belief as he and dozens of others speak the words, “We have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowler; the snare is broken, and we have escaped.” He hopes the good Lord is patient with him, who even in His omnipotence surely must puzzle on how to break the snare without breaking the man when the fowler is himself. If the sermon contains no profound insight on Matthew 16:13-20, well, the laughter the priest gets for her tame joke speaks to their fondness of her, and she is perhaps more inspired on other passages of the Word. 

Either through direct instruction of his priest or by his own conclusions Javert finds it appropriate to follow the motion of ritual, but remains silent, save for the Psalm; for all his snideness beforehand, he maintains throughout an expression of attentive blankness which is not uncommon to the the habitually faithful in the house of God. Inevitably the congregation uses the Peace as a reason to investigate the newcomer, which he weathers with little social grace, but Jean Valjean can imagine him acting quite the same were it Catholics nosing about him. He reaches for his wallet on reflex then looks pinched as he passes the collection basket on without contributing. 

After, the priest approaches Jean Valjean with eagerness, which he observes sadly; their partnership is not one that has feet of its own, that he can let it walk without his oversight, and he intends to make a final donation and withdraw. He glances at Javert, who kicks one long leg out into the aisle and waves him away, picking up a hymnal to peruse. In the privacy of her office, the priest, as predicted, is little soothed by a single check and a bag of pants, in the balance of what is ongoing support has looked like. He politely does not notice her lack of grace and she gathers herself enough to invite him to visit any time, donor or no. How odd, he thinks, to flee to Javert. 

As soon as the SUV door is closed, Javert says, “It was such a boilerplate reading of the Gospel that you could almost miss the irony of a woman sermonizing on verses related to apostolic succession.”

“Jesus did not exclude women from his ministry,” Jean Valjean replies.

Javert goes still, halfway to buckling in. “Is that the sort of thing that made you leave the Church?”

In fact that did figure in Cosette’s change in faith, a change which Jean Valjean followed. They have not spoken of why she, as an adult, no longer attends a service every Sunday, which is deeper into irreligion than he will venture, or indeed addressed how often she does attend church when not accompanying him. If ever. “In a way. If I may hazard a guess, were you in choir as a boy?”

“Yeah, it was free childcare,” he says, offhand, then breaks into a terrible smile. “I cook, I clean, I sing a little song. Given that plus the opiates and benzos, I could be a fifties housewife.”

Jean Valjean surprises himself with his own choked laugh. Some if it’s mirroring—it would be rude not to. And he thinks he ought not; there’s an undercurrent of cruelty to the joke, anxiety about the pills, the harsh edge of misogyny. But, ah, hell. If Javert wants to evoke the image of himself in an apron and pearls, far be it from Jean Valjean to deny him a fair response. To tease the joke further rather than from real ignorance, he thinks to ask, Do they make pumps your size?, contemplates the risk that Javert will say something terrible about crossdressers, then—he remembers, sudden and vivid, that Javert was part of the arrest of Jodie Hinkle in Montreuil, for pandering, and as a ranking officer may have been involved in her being jailed with men. At the time Jean Valjean had not understood—he’s still not sure he does—but it left an impression, regardless. Goddamnit, he thinks, then, Forgive me, Lord. 

Javert jostles his shoulder with his elbow and asks with mock sympathy, “Did you scare yourself by chuckling?” 

“It was a laugh,” Jean Valjean says, with dignity, and turns his attention to wrangling the traffic of a church parking lot after service has let out.

They fall into a comfortable back-and-forth about Don Pardo’s passing, with an aside on Sinéad O’Connor SNL protest, which Javert watched live and took exception to, though he concedes Jean Valjean’s point that the Church had since ’01 been making an effort to answer her accusations without ever satisfying either its detractors or supporters. 

They are most of the way to the restaurant when Javert cocks his head towards the speaker—Jean Valjean suspects one of his ears is better than the other—and squints over the earnest young thing requesting “Born This Way” because I never thought before about capital H-I-M being ok with me kissing boys, and now I’m trying to start a GSA at school, but some of the teachers say it’s against the law. The grunt of distaste is predictable, but even as he accelerates into the intersection he finds himself cutting his eyes back to the other man in surprise as Javert says, “They’re probably misciting the Health and Safety Code.”

“Ah?” Jean Valjean inquires. 

“Yeah, per law the school curriculum has to emphasize that homosexuality is not an acceptable lifestyle, but the students can say whatever the hell they want about it. I remember when those statutes came into play in the nineties. Some queers kicked up a fuss about it even then, but AIDS was a bigger topic than teen suicide statistics.” He gives an odd, weary sigh. “It’s been so much dead wood since ’03, but hell, we’ve still got section twenty-one six on the books, so we’re clearly not rushing to comply with federal law.”

Javert’s familiarity with the legal code never struck him as actually encyclopedic. He puzzles over this and ventures, to clarify the point, “It sounds as if you agree with the conclusion of Lawrence v. Texas?”

“Well, if you’re asking, yes,” he replies, though not without a pause beforehand. 

“Only I expected—but I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“That—I’d be homophobic?” 

This really ought not prompt such confusion. “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly.”

“You’re not wrong,” he mutters, still more strained than the topic seems to warrant. “I see that it’s hypocritical of me.” 

Jean Valjean chances a glance. “Well, you are a conservative. And Catholic.”

He looks bemused, with what could almost be called a blush on his cheeks. “The latter has no place in government.”

“Of course. Church and state.” That makes more sense.

He mutters, “Yes. Besides which, the current sodomy ban is younger than I am. No reason to pretend it’s some hallowed moral tradition of the state that the feds are violating.” 

This has become confusing again, and the tone with which Javert says sodomy holds derision that jangles warnings in Jean Valjean’s mind. He tries for a dryer topic than gay sex, venturing, “I imagine keeping track of changes in law must have presented a headache.” 

“Eh, sure,  shit changes every legislative session, but the code of law is meant to be a living system,” he says, with a flap of his hand. “You get used to it.” 

Jean Valjean tries to fit this sensible statement into his view of the man. He darts another glance and meets a frank stare; blushes, himself. He’s shown too much.

Javert’s voice is dry enough to be brittle as he says, “This isn’t some kind of radical jurisprudence on my part. I believe—believed—in the human element, not the book. You would break yourself within ten years of enforcing it thinking the word of the law is immutable.” 

“You weren’t very impressed when I cited it at you,” Jean Valjean recalls, speaking as much for surprise that he’s remembered the detail as ought else; he regrets it immediately.

The noise Javert makes is ambivalent, but it is at least not the degree of anger that mention of Fantine’s arrest aroused before. “No.” The snort that follows is a shock—it’s amused. “Added another layer of confusion to the situation, though.” There is a silence, then he says, “You’ve passed the restaurant.” 

Jean Valjean is not above cussing about this. He loops the block, and ventures, “They make a very good lobster omelet, I hear.” 

“That sounds over-indulgent,” Javert replies. “You should order it.” 

They argue about the lobster omelet instead of their shared history to the parking lot, out of the car, into the restaurant, and to the table. Javert is forced to admit he does favor seafood, because Jean Valjean does not flinch from pressing on his compulsive honesty. Jean Valjean is conversely cornered into admitting the eggs cochon is intriguing, at risk of undercutting his argument that ordering simply at a place known for it nicer items is its own kind of waste. He suggests mimosas to see if Javert will combine benzos with alcohol and is comforted to be soundly rejected. The waitress looks resigned. If he fails at his play to pay the bill he will feel guilty about pushing Javert to order a more expensive item, but he has faith in his tactics. 

In light of the fact that he has won in the matter of brunch, he allows Javert the satisfaction of prompting him to speak his opinion frankly. Over coffee, they have come sideways at the topic of the men who will be wearing the donated pants. Javert has been predictably unkind. Jean Valjean says, quiet, “I have found spending time among the unfortunate—as one of the unfortunate—makes such judgment difficult.” 

“It was an observation, not a judgment,” he says, uncommonly scrappy, then cocks an eyebrow. “Besides, I’ve been around plenty. Current company included.”

Jean Valjean ignores this. “As an authority.” 

“I was born to an incarcerated mother.” He’s matter-of-fact, though his hand tenses on his coffee cup. “Four years inside didn’t make her any smarter about the company she kept. I’ve been around it, Fauchelevent.”

Jean Valjean contemplates the age and depth of the failures of empathy before him. “I see.” 

“From your tone, not what I thought I was showing,” he replies. “How did I not win that point?”

Jean Valjean looks inquiring, as if he doesn’t understand.

Javert huffs, displeased, then gives him an odd look from the corner of his eye. “My mother was a psychic. A professional scam artist, I mean.”

“Is that illegal?” Jean Valjean asks, curious, but unsure of the purpose of the statement.

“Ah, no, the meth was. Not the point. Just—not something I think about often, but I suppose it was… interesting. She worked out of the living room, so I’d listen to her play her marks. There was one woman came in about this missing cat, right? Well, my mom went through the whole rigmarole, cards, lights, shaking table, voices from beyond. And she says: a boy will give him back to you down by Sunflower Creek tomorrow in the late afternoon. Well, the mark leaves, and mom goes, too. Came back with a cat from the humane society. Next day, she set me up down by the creek with that thing—it was a fuckin’ task, let me tell you, keeping hold of that animal. Hour passes, two hours, where’s the mark? I spent the whole time in a fit, too, knowing even when I told her she was being tricked she might ignore me—people who came to mama were like that, didn’t want to see they were wrong to believe in her. Well, where was she? Turns out her own cat had come home the previous evening.” He looks expectant. 

He can’t tell if this is meant to be a comedic story or an illustration of maternal villainy. “Ah. What happened to the cat from the humane society?” 

“We kept him. He was a pretty good mouser.” He props his chin on his fist and levels him with a thoughtful look, lowered eyelids and the creases around his mouth less deep than usual. “The usual thing, I believe, would be to reciprocate with a personal story of your own.” 

Jean Valjean allows this is true, but—he wants, he realizes, to put something between them that’s light, not in the sense of empty, but happy. He has innumerable such stories from Cosette’s childhood, of course, but—he reaches back, he brightens. “My sister did most of raising me,” he says, because he doesn’t know if that is the sort of thing that goes into police files. “She was a tough woman, but not a hard one. One of my earlier memories is of her yelling at me in Creole, but she kept breaking down into laughter. I’d gotten into something absurd—trying to climb a tree, made a mess with glue. Maybe she ought to have been firmer; later she always complained about me letting her children run wild, whenever she wasn’t there to keep an eye on the lot of us.” Venturing to gently tease, he adds, “I’m sure you’d have been scandalized. The kids would go down to the corner store and tell the cashier: our uncle will pay for the candy after he gets home from work. Well, I didn’t know anything about it the first time, but after I always came in with a few extra quarters to settle up their debts.”

Javert listens attentively, and the corners of his mouth even crook up. “Cute. Even I give kids a pass—up to the age of twelve or so.”

Given who’s speaking, it’s not entirely a joke, but it’s self-mockery at least. He graces this with a smile of his own.

Then Javert, all abrupt, asks, “Are you estranged from your daughter?”

It’s such an absurd concept that Jean Valjean doesn’t, at first, comprehend. “No.” 

Javert leans back, blinks at him, startled. “All right, fine. It’s just that you don’t talk about her.” 

Not, he thinks, with you. The arrival of their food saves him the need to construct a reply that is both kind and believable. The realization is quite belated—after, in fact, he has successfully carried off paying the bill, and is being bitched at for it—that he realizes there is significance in Javert’s saying, simply, your daughter. 

⁂

He would think there were only ten fucking people in the entire city of Dallas, from how often he finds himself faced with the ones he’d most like to avoid. Unless Enjolras’ murder case comes to trial or the state investigation into the shot protestor results in charges against the officers involved, there’s no real reason why the men who made a fool of him, these little street politicians, ought to be in this courthouse at the same time as himself. Javert isn’t even here in connection to the riot—there was a paperwork issue with one of the cases that had been outstanding at the time of his suicide attempt, and a week of email exchanges made it clear handling it in person would be more convenient than trying to make Adobe let him make a custom signature. 

Yet here he is, looking down into Combeferre’s eyes, the man having crossed the front hall to detain him. In a reversal of what seemed their relative intelligence at the riot, the drunk fairy—Grantaire—has balked to follow.

“Your lawyer would advise you not talk to me,” he says, dryly. 

“She would, if I were still retaining her. Seeing as my case is settled, I’m no longer her problem. But I imagine your lawyer has notified you of that fact.” 

Yes; in fact, the man had called in high dudgeon about what he called slaps on the wrist—the plea deals offered to the protestors had been influenced heavily, to his assessment, by the politics surrounding the two dead men, and the desire of the police and the court to move as quickly and quietly as possible past the question of state violence. They already have a martyr, he’d said, put a few of them in prison, and you’ve given them too much ammunition. Javert still does not know his own mind on the matter, other than relief that settlement out of court means he’s quit of the bastards. Or should be. 

His glower has been inadequate to dissuade Combeferre, who says, “I won’t go so far as to thank you, when I don’t know your motivation, but I appreciate the impact of your being an uncooperative witness.” 

“Uncooperative?” Javert repeats, offended. 

“I believe that’s the most applicable term, yes,” he says, with a raised eyebrow. “But that’s not why I approached you.” He takes a deep breath, says, “The stranger—the old man.” 

Javert remains silent, hoping a glare will be adequate to free him from this conversation. 

“You seemed to know him—you didn’t protest going with him,” Combeferre says, not dissuaded at all, voice low—it’s bad op-sec; anyone would know he was talking about something he wanted to keep out of other ears, and if he wanted to discuss a topic not appropriate for public, he ought to have taken it somewhere that wasn’t. Though, in his defense, Javert would hardly have gone along with a private meeting, as he must’ve known. “He said what we wanted to hear—he’d already de-escalated the situation once—I don’t mean to excuse us, only to explain the reasoning. I would like to offer my apology.” 

Javert stares at him blankly, which he hopes is taken as a hostile refusal to engage, rather than the wheels coming off the God damned wagon for the third or fourth time in fewer months. Yes, it’s all very awful, the confirmation that his perception of his life being at risk was incorrect, but what vexes him most are the implications about Valjean’s concealment of himself. He has to know it isn’t a sustainable deception, hiding himself from these friends of his daughter’s boyfriend. The fact that Marius must be playing along is a secondary and less interesting puzzle—it could be knuckling-under to the man he hopes will be his future daddy-in-law, or a doltish conclusion to a numbskull thought process beyond Javert’s reckoning. Thinking too much about that kid troubles him, and he avoids doing so. Distracted and sounding it, he says, “I seem to remember it was Enjolras’ decision.” 

“Which any one of us might have contradicted,” Combeferre replies. “He didn’t do anything we don’t share in.” 

Their lawyers must hate them. With that kind of talk, they’ll get their asses handed the accessory to murder charges they’ve avoided so far. The degree of solemnity over pawning him off on the first-comer worries at the back of his mind. “Okay, man. Move it along.” 

“One question,” Combeferre persists, still quiet. “Do you know him?”

“Don’t you think he would be on the list of defendants if I did?” Javert replies, gone tense. 

“Yes, I would think that, and he’s not.” He cocks his head. A group of people disgorge from a nearby room and he falls silent, glancing their way; disagreeably, this conversation has taken a turn that can’t be disengaged from. Combeferre recognizes that. “Courfeyrac thinks he knew him, but didn’t see him until after the power got cut—nothing clear. That hair, mostly. Marius disagrees. Says he’s talked to the suspect, if you will.”

“If you—” He throttles down the words, the reflex to say, If you think there’s been a crime committed quit playing cops and take it to the professionals. Absolutely he does not want to encourage that. While on principle he neither approves of nor comprehends this particular choice of Valjean’s, he’s also helpless to do other than follow the man’s lead. He asks instead, not needing to manufacture distaste for the idea, “Shouldn’t you be content to leave a man alone who was hiding his face at a riot?”

Grantaire loses his patience with waiting, then, and comes to loop his arm over Combeferre’s shoulders. Javert’s knowledge of the man’s presence at the riot is indirect: Grantaire was already dead-ass drunk and unconscious in a corner by the time the group of them got pushed back into the Corinthe, and Javert was gone before Grantaire woke up and tried to get himself implicated in criminal behavior by holding another guy’s hand, or whatever the hell. This does not mean they do not know each other; as marginal and sexual as his involvement in the local queer scene may be, there’s only so many bars to pick up other guys at. They’ve never fucked, but they’ve talked, which is why they hadn’t fucked, because even Javert has some standards, and the words eh, you’re blond under the gray did not inspire, and hey, I’ve got weed at my place had been too much of a headache for an off-duty Saturday. This won’t be the first time he’s been outed, of course—if you want to stay entirely in the closet you can’t open the door every time the opportunity to suck a cock knocks—but those have always been minor problems, out of town, outside his usual social circle, squashed by professional geniality—he’s been careful. There’s never been even a rumor in the precinct about him, though it had been difficult, walking that line between implying there were women without ever lying outright about their existence. He guesses he doesn’t give a shit, now; it wasn’t being fucked by men that hurt his career and reputation, was it?

Grantaire squints hazily at him—is he drunk right now?—visibly places him, blinks—appears expectant, as if he thinks Javert will acknowledge their connection—remains silent, himself, when none is offered. Well, he’ll tell the tale later, then. He asks, “Have you put signatures to the treaty yet? I didn’t see any hands shake. Maybe the location isn’t fine enough. We need a Vienna or a Versailles. Or—ah, have we solved the mystery of our snowy-haired Houdini?” His eyes are bruised, his beard uneven and unkempt, he’s a man with troubles. 

Javert wrinkles his nose. “Aren’t you a laugh.” 

“A man can have his jokes. I hear you had your own sallies at the riot.” 

Fair. Regardless, talking more about Valjean with these men only seems like a way to get mired. He shifts, ready to leave. “Well, that’s enough of all this.”

“One more moment. Let me be direct.” Combeferre adjusts his glasses, the earpiece having been bumped by Grantaire’s careless hand. “Mr. Javert,” he says, “if you’re being threatened into silence—”

“Or blackmailed,” Grantaire says.

It’s really more of a hostage situation, and he’s a thorough-going Kristin Enmark. “You think I’d talk to you about it?” he asks, baffled. Belated, and meaning it as an answer to the main question, he adds, “No. I’m not.”

He’s been unconvincing, Combeferre’s glance says. “I would like to give you my number.”

Javert raises his eyebrows and makes no move to his phone.

His wry expression indicates this is expected. He gives the number verbally instead, slowly, three times. “You can also find me on Facebook. I’ll accept your friend request.”

Javert scoffs, deeply irritated to know he will be putting that number in his phone once these boys aren’t here to see him do it. The need to preserve potentially useful information is deeply dug-in; hell, he probably still has numbers for contacts from the nineties. 

“If you do need—”

“At some point this becomes embarrassing for both of us,” Javert cuts him off, flatly. 

Combeferre accepts this with a shrug, dislodging Grantaire. “All right, then. Thank you for your time.”

With grimacing jollity, Grantaire says, “See you in court.” 

“If it goes to trial,” he mutters, but it’s to the young men’s backs. His route is different—he can manage the courthouse steps, but the ramp is easier, and it’s out a side door. It consumes him, the question of what Valjean thinks he’s doing; why would he perceive these kids as a threat? If anything, they have him to thank—Marius certainly does, and the group seem close-knit, like that would be enough to purchase their silence, their perjury-by-omission. Besides which the insistence that Valjean is a threat to him is a puzzle, when it’s obvious that he hasn’t been stabbed to death despite his own efforts to the contrary. 

Javert calls Valjean from the car. “Can I come over?”

There’s hesitation on the line.

It stings. “Fine, you come over to mine. I’m out, I’ll be back home in twenty. I need to talk to you in person.”

“Javert—”

“Whatever you’re worried about, it’s not that. And I’m not having a breakdown. But I’m not talking about this over the phone.” 

“Javert.”

He waits, tapping impatiently at the wheel. “If that’s not no, I’m hanging up so I can drive.”

“It’s a no,” Valjean says, shocking him. “Cosette is coming over shortly. I can’t see you, right now.”

Ah. In a way, this is a success, that he’s spoken her name; though Javert cannot grasp them in full, he senses the wounds around the girl, and knows he’s at partial fault for Valjean’s chariness on the topic. He settles back in the seat, makes himself breathe through the anxious energy, the intensity of a question without an answer, the fear for Valjean, for all he’s unclear on the specifics of the threat. He finally mutters, “Well, that was a little presumptuous of me.”

Valjean makes an ambiguous noise.

“You were going to come by tomorrow anyway,” he says after another moment. “It can wait.” 

“If you’re sure—”

“Yeah, yeah.” No? Yes. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I realize I get…” He gestures, a flap of the hand, realizes this is stupid. Valjean does not come to his rescue, and he flounders. “Don’t worry about it. If it’s not been a catastrophe yet another twenty-four hours won’t hurt.” Though it feels no less strange to grant the relationship legitimacy than it did before, he adds, “Have a nice time with your kid.”“Oh.” Surprise? Difficult to tell without seeing him. But the tone is unmistakeably—not gentle, which is his usual, but something kin to it, which makes Javert’s breath stutter to hear—as Valjean says, “Thank you, Javert.”

[hrithisha]

DON'T WORRY SO MUCH ABOUT LOVE.

DON'T WORRY SO MUCH ABOUT WHO'S GOING TO LOVE YOU, OR HOW THEY'RE GOING TO LOVE YOU, OR WHEN YOU'RE GOING TO FIND LOVE.

LOVE IS THE MOST INFINITE AND EFFORTLESS PRESENCE IN THIS WORLD. IT'S FOUND IN THE TINY CREVICES OF HUMAN NATURE- IN THE WAY FLOWERS BLOOM AND IN THE WAY BIRDS ALWAYS HAVE ENOUGH FOOD TO EAT. IT'S FOUND IN HOSPITAL ROOMS, GROCERY STORES, IN HOME COOKED MEALS, AND IN THE SMILES OF PASSING STRANGERS. LOVE IS IN THE MUSIC YOU LISTEN TO, AND IN THE JOKES YOU MAKE, AND IT'S IN THE WAY YOU ALWAYS RETURN HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. LOVE IS 'ARE YOU OKAY,' AND 'GET HOME SAFE,' AND 'DID YOU HAVE ENOUGH FOOD TO EAT.' LOVE IS THE WAY YOUR HEART BEATS EVERY DAY AND HOW YOUR BODY WAKES UP EVERY MORNING AND HOW YOUR SOUL CONTINUES TO EXIST SO FREELY.

FRIEND, YOU DON'T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT LOVE. IT IS ALL AROUND YOU, EVERY DAY, IN EVERY MOMENT. IT CAN REACH YOU AT YOUR BEST AND IT WILL MEET YOU AT YOUR WORST. THERE IS NO FORCE IN THIS WORLD STRONGER THAN LOVE.

THERE IS NO REASON TO BELIEVE THAT LOVE CANNOT FIND YOU.