#have i ever watched doogie howser m.d? no of course not

[welcometogrouchland]

I know Damian's only volunteering at the hospital and not an actual doctor because he is 14 but seeing him in the hospital scrubs this issue and knowing he could perform open heart surgery if he wanted just made me think "Doogie Howser M.D but with Damian". And I've been cherishing that thought ever since

[zoebechtle-blog]

Unlikely Epilogue

September, 2017

“Zo?” I was bent over the sink, spitting toothpaste out of my mouth. Niall was standing behind me staring, as he adjusted his towel over his hips. He’d just gotten out of the shower, and droplets of water riveted down his chest. I met his eyes in the mirror and quirked an eyebrow.

“Yesh?” I still had the toothbrush in my mouth.

“Anything you want to tell me?” The look on his face was semi-unreadable. His forehead was crinkled in deep thought, and he was looking at me like I had sprung another head. I wasn’t unaccustomed to this look (I got it often) but usually there was some warning or I could deduct something nuts that I had done. But I’d been getting ready for the day humming along to the James Bay playing in the bedroom of his L.A. house. I wasn’t wearing anything crazy, just a pair of shorts and a plain tank top with my hair pulled up into a messy bun. I cupped my hands to take a sip of water to rinse my mouth and spit, turning to look at him, furrowing my brow.

“Nooooo. What’s going on?”

“Are you sure? Nothing?” Now he had a little grin on his face and walked confidently up to me. What the hell? I put my hand on my hip and stared at him.

“You’re freaking me out, boo.” I put my hand up to stop him, resting it in his thick patch of chest hair.

“C’mere.” He stood in front of me and turned me back around to face the mirror, leaning in with his hands on my hip bones. Was he just being fresh? Because if so, good morning Zoe. I mean, we’d already had sex once since waking up, but after almost three months apart, I wasn’t going to turn down anything I could get from my beautiful blonde piece of ass, I mean, loving boyfriend. He dragged his nose up my neck, tickling me a little, the water from his head dripping down.

“Nothing? Not even this?” And he licked a spot right behind my left ear, caressing it. My eyes grew wide, and he mirrored my shocked expression. “Mmmm?”

“Holy shit!” I dropped my hairbrush and put my hands over my mouth. “I FORGOT! Jesus Christ!”

“How in the shit did you forget you got a tattoo?”

The tattoo was supposed to be a surprise. Okay, it was a moment of weakness when I wasn’t thinking. Three weeks after Niall’s break from his tour (which coincided with my birthday nicely) promoting his platinum solo album I was bored. I missed him like crazy. I didn’t not trust him, but it was just enough to make me panic a bit. I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t going to be that crazy girlfriend. This was his life and I’d gotten as used to extended absences as I much as I could. It was a fluke that I had gotten to spend as much uninterrupted time with him as I had. The rational part of my brain knew all this. But Crazy Zoe came out to play. A lot. To keep her at bay, I overscheduled my days. I took on heading up a grant application at work and filled in for other people so they could take vacations. Anytime anyone suggested plans, I jumped at them. I accompanied Carly and Jess to plays and movies, went shopping with Paul, and third wheeled with Hannah and Willie (and had gone with Willie last week to pick out her engagement ring, but shhhhhhhhh). I’d actually willingly gone to hot yoga on four occasions, for fuck’s sake. When Aaron asked if I wanted to spend a marathon Saturday afternoon with him while the next section of his tattoo sleeve was completed, I went along.

I’d spent time in tattoo shops over the years, holding the hands of friends as they had various body parts inked. My own small tribute to my Grandma Bechtle was a small quilt square on my ribcage, under the band of my bra (it hurt. So bad.) and Aaron had rubbed my hands and at one particularly bad juncture, even letting me bite his arm to stifle my pain - he was such a good friend (he also had a bit of a pain kink). So off we went. About two hours into the adventure, as my incessant chit chat was obviously annoying the artist (“Z, can you tone it down a bit?” Aaron had hissed) I wandered off to look at various designs. I watched a girl get a tiny piece behind her ear. It took less than five minutes and wasn’t noticeable in the slightest. I scratched my nail along the spot, and it was bearable. Poking at it reminded me how sensitive I was behind my ears, and made me miss Niall for a few minutes. No one else had ever quite mastered the spot the way he had. He jokingly always called it my Achilles Ear and had proclaimed it his fifth favorite place to kiss me (I’ll leave you to figure out the other four). In a moment of what I can only described as blind devotion and being so hard up for dick that it wasn’t funny, I decided to mark myself. With the most Niall thing in the world. An Irish flag.

The fates aligned with this decision by one of the artists, a skinny, bored-looking middle aged hipster, having a cancellation. We worked out the details quickly, and less than fifteen minutes later, I slid back into the room with Aaron. He noticed the bandage immediately and shrieked, “What did you do?!” and proceeded to cast harsh judgement. Within two hours, reality kicked in and I freaked out.

“Oh my God, Aaron!”

“Yep.”

“I tattooed a fucking Irish flag on MY HEAD!”

“Yep.”

“In a sexy spot in honor of a guy.” My mother was somewhere shaking her head.

“Yep.”

We started each other with wide eyes. Sometimes my impulsive nature knew no bounds. I opted not to tell Niall about the tattoo. I didn’t even tell Hannah because I didn’t trust her not to spill to Willie. Luckily I had my dad’s ears, which bent back more than was normal. It made a slightly strange profile, but I was grateful that it allowed my humiliation not to be completely public. And to fair, it was WAS tiny, smaller than the tip of my pinky finger. The only person who’d noticed it before Niall was a six year old at work who pointed to my “sticker” every session. (I usually started the day with my hair down, but by 11 am it was out of my face in some manner.) I’d moved on and found something else to obsess over, and honestly kind of forgotten about it. Until a month later, twelve hours into a week long visit for Niall’s 24th birthday.

“Um, uh…” I stammered, trying to buy myself time. How did I forget I had gotten a tattoo? “Well, the area has been greatly under used recently…,” I started, turning around to face his smirking face. I put my hands against the counter and leaned back a bit, widening the distance between us. That didn’t work for him, so he edged closer, reaching to touch my ear. I swatted at his hand.

“Off!”

“No way! I want to see it!”

I shrugged my shoulder up to block him. “Don’t!”

“Why not?” He’d gotten me trapped against the vanity as I unconvincingly tried to fight him off.

“Because it’s stupid. Niall, don’t!”

“Well, it’s on the Achilles Ear, and it’s an Irish flag, so I’m assumin’ it has something to do with me,” by this time I’d given up my protest and let him nudge his nose in there, nuzzling me. “And nothin’ concernin’ me and you is stupid. C’mere.” Grabbing my hand, he dragged me over to the window and stood facing my side, pushing the shell of my ear forward so he could get a good look.

“It’s trashy! Stop!” My embarrassment was complete.

“It’s fuckin’ hot. Jesus, Z,” his voice was scratchy and low as he ran his finger over the spot, “ya did this for me?”

“No, for my other Irish boyfriend. Of course I did it for you. I was horny, bored, and I missed you! It was an unholy trio!” I pushed him back a bit. I hated showing my weakness for someone, even for him. Especially for him. It did not jive with my independent woman vibe. I wanted him to be the one tripping over his feet for me. And he did. Often. I was that good.

“Goddamn it,” he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to him, dropping his towel in the process, and pulling on my ear again. “I want to fuckin’ lick and suck that all day. I can’t believe ya did that.” Before I could protest, his mouth was behind my ear, doing exactly what he promised. Within five minutes I was sprawled out on the bathroom floor with his head between my legs lapping like it was his last meal. Fifteen minutes after that, I was bent over the vanity, the two of us watching ourselves in the mirror as he took me from behind. He was total porn star mode and I loved every second of it. Maybe my next tattoo would be his name on my ass. After that reaction, I’d consider it.

That night we were locked in the house with carry-out, just enjoying time together and recovering from the day long fuckfest. I’d managed to make him snort Stella laughing at a story from work, and I’d then choked on a noodle at his reaction. His actual birthday was in two days, and tomorrow various friends from all over the world would be descending for a traditional weekend of debauchery. He’d been showing me blue print plans from his builder (Gary...we were all on a first name basis, and he’d brought me pastries last time I’d been to visit) to add a room off the kitchen. A new office. It looked nice, French doors and a window seat with built-in bookcases.

“But you have an office upstairs already, bugaboo,” I reminded him, kissing his cheek as I slid on the floor in front of his knees to take a better look. I was pretty sure that Niall just really liked Gary and enjoyed keeping him around. At this rate the house might become a Hollywood Hills version of The Winchester House. “And if you’re not sure, there are two other bedrooms, dude. We can move stuff around.”

“Jesus. You really are thick, aren’t ya?” He stared at me over the plans, rolling his eyes. “Notice where it says something about staining the wood teal? I swear, you complain about me bein’ oblivious to shit. The room is for you, Zo. It’s your office. I thought you might like a space of your own when we’re here. Especially when there are guests - I was pretty sure you were going to stab Deo last time.” This is true. He wouldn’t quit humming the theme to Doogie Howser, M.D.

Oh. Okay. I bit my lip, unsure of what to say. So I went with smart ass. “You know, your future wife will make you sell this house if there’s a room you built for your old girlfriend here. You’ll have to move to the Valley or something.”

“How about I make my ‘old’ girlfriend my wife, then? I get to keep the house and my girl. Two birds, one stone.”

“Yeah? You think?” My heart rate had jumped up about 400 beats a minute and I was barely holding it together. My face was burning hot.

“I know, Zoe Jane. Wanna marry me?” He whispered with a smile, but his eyes were nervous. His foot was jiggling so hard the whole sofa was bouncing.

“Quit fucking with me, Horan. That’s not nice.” Neither of us were blinking. Only our stubborn asses would be having a staredown over a marriage proposal. He put his hand out to grab mine and pull me up from my spot on the huge pillow on the floor.

“C’mere.” He pulled me upstairs to his (our? My mind was spinning.) bedroom and sat me on the bed, holding a finger up for me to wait a second as he disappeared into the closet. A minute later he returned, holding an orange box. Holy shitsnacks. This was Hermes. Better than a diamond. A handbag.

“I didn’t plan on doing this tonight,” he reached around to scratch the back of his neck with his right hand. “Not actually sure when I was going to. No time seemed right, and you deserve right. But we kinda go about things differently, yeah? And that just came out before, when you were busting my balls. Which is really the perfect thing, ya know? That’s how we roll.”

“Niall, you’re babbling,” I held my hands out for the box. Gimme.

“Calm your tits, Bechtle. I have a thing I want to say. Been thinking it over for months. Ya told me that first morning that you didn’t need me or anyone. That I was an accessory. A Birkin bag,” he handed me the box and I stared at him. “A ‘really fucking awesome, coveted purse that is frankly out of your budget, but still a bag.’” I know ya need don’t need this, or me, but I hope you’ll keep us both around. I hear these things never go out of style and will last ya the rest of your life.”

“But I can get other bags to carry, too, right?” I was crying.

“NOT what I was tryin’ to say.” We both started laughing, a nervousness to the room. Hopeful tension, maybe? My hands shook as I untied the bow and carefully lifted the lid on the beautiful chocolate colored leather.

“Ni, I...oh my god.” I was petting it with one hand and trying to touch his cheek with the other. I was officially mentally overstimulated.

“You should look inside,” he whispered. I fumbled with the openings, dropping the bag. Twice.

“Jesus, Zo,” he ran his hand through his hair and fell to his knees to pick it up. I pulled out a matching wallet and passport holder. Grand total this all had to cost more than my tuition my first two years of college.

“I can’t believe...It’s too...Niall!”

He took the wallet out of my hands and pulled out a small velvet box. Oh my god. OH MY FUCKING GOD. And he was still on the floor in front of me. On one knee. This was happening. This was really happening. He was building me a room. He bought me a bag. And now there was a ring. Fuck this noise. I slid off the bed and tackled him, kissing his mouth.

“Z, I love you more that I ever thought possi-”

“Yes, you ninny.”

“Yeah?” There was that cancer curing smile that I noticed the night we met. “Thank god. I had a fear you were going to beat me with the bag.”

“Still might. That is a ridiculous amount of money, you idiot. I can’t believe you remembered that purse analogy.”

“Thought about it every day since.”

“I was so proud of myself. That’s high level thinking.” I’d managed to his shirt off and was working on his pants. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

“Are ya even going to look at the ring? It’s a- Jesus, God.”

“Maybe later. Got things to do right now. I love you, Niall.”

Three days later I woke up with a screaming headache and bright desert sunlight shining right in my eyes. Ugh, we didn’t shut the blinds and the Vegas sunlight was blinding. And hot. I never did get the fascination with this place. A desert of drunk people and loud music. Unfortunately the boys loved it. And I’d dragged Niall to Oslo for six days for my birthday against his will (he wasn’t a fan of cold) so I had no place to put up a fuss. I didn’t remember actually starting drinking yesterday - it was a day long heavy buzz from bloody Marys on. Ooof, I’d gotten too much sun at the pool. My whole back was tender and hot. The beautiful man (my fiance-whoa) cuddling up to it wasn’t helping matters.

“Ow. Hot. Niall, you’re hot.” I whined. In response he tilted his hips up into my bottom.

“You’re hot, too, babe.” That sleepy, thick accent.

“Oh shut up, not like THAT. My back.” He scooted back to look.

“Shit, Zo, you’re fried.”

“Ughhhhh.” I flopped back dramatically, only to yelp for real and roll over to my stomach. “Ouchy. Will you grab the ibuprofen from my makeup bag? I’ll love you forever and ever.” To accentuate my point, I pouted my bottom lip at him.

“Fine. I’m gonna take a piss, though.”

“Wash your damn hands!” He stuck his tongue out at me as he walked by, and shook his bum once he knew I could see it. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and started flipping through messages and social media posts.

“Horan Gettin’ Hitched!”

“No More ‘Horan’ Around” (okay, that’s hilarious)

“‘This Town’ For Niall and Fiancee!”

Shit. There were pictures of us from yesterday and last night. Invasive, but sweet. With our friends, but always touching one another, even in some small way. Me tucking my head into his neck waiting for a car. Him rubbing sunscreen on my back (spoiler: it was ineffective) at the pool. Hannah and I cuddling in a corner at the club and Niall behind us in a conversation with his hand resting on my bare shoulder. I hadn’t worn the beautiful emerald ring he’d bought me this weekend-no official announcement had been made and we agreed to wait until after his birthday (and me safely ensconced back in the London under Bas’s watchful eye) to do so. So where the fuck were these headlines coming from? It wasn’t the first time we’d seen such rumors, but now that there was substinance to them, my radar was pinging. I clicked on the link.

“During his annual birthday extravaganza - this year in Vegas - former One Direction hottie and solo sensation Niall Horan was heard telling friends that he has proposed to longtime girlfriend, Zoe Bechtle. Sources report the singer referring to the regular-girl brunette as “the wife.” American-born Bechtle and Horan have kept their relationship mainly out of the public eye but rumors have her moving into his London home recently. Don’t forget the pre-nup, Niall!”

And the comments. Holy shit. The usual brain explosions, people wishing us well, others wishing me death, commenting on my ass (let it go, people, I’m big fucking boned), and people claiming to have seen us at the drive-thru wedding chapel. Christ.

“Niiiiii?”

“Be there in a sec, babe, beer shits!” Seriously, we were way too damned comfortable with one another. I maneuvered myself out of the bed, hissing at the pain and into the bathroom.

“I said I’d be right there.” Luckily he was pulling his boxers up at this point.

“Um, did you tell someone we were engaged last night? And refer to me as “the wife?” I put my phone in his face as he washed his hands so he could see the article. He motioned with his nose so I would scroll down as he dried.

“Well, shit. Cat’s out of the bag, I suppose.”

“Ya think? All the big blogs have it. I’m surprised your phone isn’t going apeshit.” He was not nearly as upset by this news as I’d thought he’d be.

“Fuck, it died last night.” He started fussing with the cords on the nightstand, plugging it in.

“I bought you that ginormous case with the char-”

“It looks bulky in my pocket!”

“Good Lord, you’re a dainty princess.” I gave his chest a little shove. “What should we do? Do you want me to call Kim?” He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at me for a minute. I could actually see the wheels turning in his head. “Boo? Hey!” I snapped my fingers in front of his face.

He looked at me intently. “Wanna just do it?”

“What? Call Kim?” I raised my eyebrow as I swallowed the ibuprofen and reached a t-shirt to cover up my naked chest.

“No. Get married. Now. Here.”

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” He stood up and walked over to me, carefully avoiding my crispy back side as he wrapped his arms around me. “You were already having a panic attack the other night about whether we have a wedding in London, Ireland, or in America. And who my best man should be. If Harry should be one of your bridesmaids. Security. If wearing white was out of the question since you’ve ‘given more rides than a bus’. The more time you have to think about something…”

“The more I freak,” I finished for him. I never really had been a fan of the pageantry of weddings. The parties were fun but too much drama. “Are you being 100% for real?”

“Zo, I would have married you on the bedroom floor the other night.”

“An officiant might have minded presiding over a ceremony where I ended up reverse cowgirl.”

His smirk light up his face. “That’s my dream fuckin’ wedding. Baby, you’ve had me since that second quiz night. I don’t care where we do this, and the sooner the better. I wanna be official. I bet I can make a few calls and we can get someone up here,” He teased, running his lips kissing my ear. “Marry me? Today?”

I sighed, my decision made three seconds after he suggested it. “I only do this if you get Elvis.”

“Deal.”