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lovelylogans · 5 years

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love light gleams

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part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, teenage emancipation, emotional abuse, mentions of being disowned, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, classism, mentions of past underage drinking, crying, religious content (church, going to confession), remus cameo, mentions of choking/killing someone, something similar to the canon “have you thought about killing your brother?” monologue, please let me know if i’ve missed anything!

pairings: gen

words: 57,686

for the second time in as many days, patton wakes up on his own, not because of logan crying.

it’s weirdly disorienting.

patton sits up, rubbing his eyes. even without his glasses, he can see that the bedroom door’s ajar, and the soft murmur of talking.

“—interesting take, interesting take. you ever thought about telling your dad all this?”

a rush of baby noises before virgil even finishes his sentence, and patton smiles, reaching for his glasses.

after ensuring he’s rolled up virgil’s hilariously massive sweatpants, to make sure he won’t trip, he shuffles to the door, poking out his head, enough to see virgil cradling logan with one arm and putting dough in a pan with another.

logan made another few sounds that might have been passable syllables.

“yeah, i figured,” virgil says. “seriously, though, i get your critiques of capitalism, trust me, i follow you, but i think the capitalism’s part of the fun of it. i mean, granted, you aren’t really old enough to appreciate presents yet, it’s part of the whole object permanence thing, you’ll love it, it’s a kick.”

more babbling.

“huh, impressive,” virgil comments. “i’m surprised by the well-researched views you’ve got on this whole thing. you might wanna write a thesis on that part about material exchange and consumption having adverse effects on the moral character of society, i think you’re really onto somethin’ there.”

“how much of me not understanding what you’re saying is because i need caffeine?” patton says, lifting his glasses up so he can rub at his eyes with his fist. “please say all of it.”

“sure, all of it,” virgil says. “plus, i’m pretty sure the baby’s outsmarting me.”

“yeah, he has a habit of doing that, being nearly two months old and all,” patton says. “logan okay? was he crying?”

“nah, just, y’know,” virgil says. “woke up and heard him getting a little chatty, so i figured i’d keep the little guy company while i was prepping the cinnamon rolls, so he wouldn’t cry and wake you up. that okay?”

“yeah, that’s fine,” patton says. “i should take him before he drools on the dough, though.”

“probably a good idea,” virgil says, and he hands over logan. patton quickly scoops him up in his arms as logan makes a noise of protest.

“aw, s’okay,” patton murmurs, shifting him, and logan settles. “can’t believe that you let me wake up on my own again.”

“christmas miracle?” virgil suggests, and patton blinks.

“what?” virgil says.

“it’s christmas,” patton realizes. “oh, my gosh, it’s christmas.”

“yeah?”

“it’s christmas morning,” patton realizes, looking down at logan’s face. “oh, my goodness, logan! it’s your first christmas!”

logan considers this, before he offers a few choice noises, and patton laughs, feeling giddy.

“christmas, logan! christmas! oh, you’re gonna love christmas, there’s the presents and the food and spending time with—” patton falters, before he forces himself to plow on, “ everyone! it’s christmas !”

logan’s apparently worn out verbally, so patton just goes for a kiss on the cheek and shifts his stance, giving virgil his best, winning grin.

“you know what would be a great present to kick off christmas morning?”

“your caffeine dependency is horrible,” virgil informs him.

“c’mon, please?” patton pleads, and tilts logan toward virgil for optimal visibility. “look at that faaaace.”

“one day, showing off logan’s little baby face isn’t going to work for getting things,” virgil says.

“which is why i’m maximizing it now,” patton says. “look at this face, that relies on me to care for him, and—”

“shameful,” virgil teases.

“have i said please yet?” patton says. “‘cause i could definitely say it again.”

virgil wars with himself, before he slumps, sighing. “ fine. i’ll put this in the oven and get a pot started.”

patton cheers, before he settles at the kitchen table.

“you aren’t having all of it,” virgil says.

“uh-huh, sure, ‘course,” patton says happily. “what time’s everyone coming over?”

“pretty soon, actually, i was gonna come in and wake you if you didn’t, y’know, wake up,” virgil says. “my parents are gonna be here first, i think.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before logan starts fussing much more audibly and patton’s distracted enough to get back on his feet and walk, bouncing logan in hopes of calming him; it’s the most fail-safe option, he’s discovered, to keep walking and moving with logan. for whatever reason, logan doesn’t really like being still. he guesses if he couldn’t really move himself around he probably wouldn’t like being stuck in the same place staring at the same things either, so he can’t really blame him.

patton paces around the kitchen, murmuring soothingly to logan and patting his back. the coffee machine is running and the scent of cocoa and coffee is starting to permeate the air; virgil is making sure all the cinnamon rolls are in place before he sticks them in the oven; the sun is shining weakly through the window, and it’s christmas.

patton almost can’t believe it. christmas. on one hand, it was christmas already, but on the other—it was finally christmas. this year had been the longest of his life. he has a feeling seventeen’s going to be a lot less chaotic than sixteen.

but then, he is walking a crying baby around someone who had been a stranger’s kitchen, and emancipation papers to file, and a job at the inn, and a town full of some of the kindest and weirdest people he’s ever met. and if the past year has taught him anything, it’s that all of his life plans are pitched out the window, so maybe he shouldn’t really theorize.

instead, he focuses on logan. who seems to be quieting down with the circles patton is walking around the kitchen, patting logan lightly on the back all the time and bouncing slightly every couple steps. so instead he focuses on the sensory things; the smells of coffee and chocolate and cinnamon, the light of the sun, virgil poking around his fridge and checking timers and, at long last, pouring him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee.

he holds out the mug for patton to snatch on his way by, and he says a cheery “thank you!” and downs the biggest mouthful he can manage as quickly as he can, murmuring soothing words to logan the whole way.

not long after that, patton can distantly hear the jangling bell of the diner, and virgil glances toward the door, taking a few steps automatically, before he glances at patton.

“um. d’you wanna—?”

“i’m not really dressed,” patton says awkwardly, sticking out his leg to show off how virgil’s sweatpants are already unrolling. “besides, i gotta, y’know. baby. plus i’ll keep an eye on the food.”

virgil gives him a wary glance.

patton grins a little sheepishly, before he promises, “i’ll give a shout if any timers go off or things start smoking, how about that?”

virgil accepts that with a nod, before continuing to plod his way out of his apartment, down the stairs, to, presumably, see his parents, and patton then rushes over to the coffee pot and pours himself the biggest refill he can get away with.

what? he’s sleep-deprived! he has a newborn! it’s christmas!

he gulps quite a bit down, too, before logan starts fussing—”don’t tattle on me to virgil!” patton whispers to him—and patton has to resume walking in circles.

he only takes a couple more turns around the kitchen by the time he hears footsteps on the stairs, and greets mr. and mrs. danes with a sunny smile—he hopes it says please forget the breakdown i had last night, i’m fine now.

“merry christmas!” he says instead.

“merry christmas, patton!” meredith says, equally bright and cheerful, mark echoing her. “i brought your sweater.”

“oh, thank you!” he says, and steps forward to take it automatically, before remembering he’s supporting a baby over his shoulder with one arm and using the other hand to hold caffeine. “um—”

“i can take him,” virgil volunteers. “you should go get dressed.”

“oh!” patton says, “uh, sure.”

and, holding his breath, hoping that logan won’t cry, he sets the mug on the table and slowly initiates the passing of the baby, and—

nope, logan immediately starts wailing louder. patton automatically reaches to take him back.

“i can keep walking with him,” virgil volunteers, “you can go get dressed.”

he isn’t really sure how to phrase walking away from my baby while he is crying for me is violating every instinct i have, but logan’s tiny arms seem to reach for him and that pretty much immediately seals the deal, so patton goes ahead and takes him back. logan quiets, just a bit, sniffling in patton’s ear, and patton grimaces apologetically at virgil.

“sorry, i just—”

“he’s a baby,” virgil says with a slightly awkward shrug. “he wants his dad, it’s fine. we can try again when he’s calmed down a bit.”

patton nods, and meredith smiles at him, just a bit, before setting his sweater on the kitchen table.

“right here, when you want it,” she says, before she turns to virgil. “how are things going?”

“ingredients are mostly downstairs,” virgil says. “i’m making the cinnamon rolls now, though.”

“i can smell them,” mark says, punctuating his statement with a big sniff. “anything we can do to help?”

“i’ll just,” patton says, “um,” and steps back into the living room, far away from the kitchen and anything he could possibly do to ruin the food.

and also to have more room to walk with logan. that too.

it takes that batch of cinnamon rolls coming out of the oven and another batch going in and being nearly done for logan to quiet completely, and patton slowly inches his way back into the kitchen.

“ready?” virgil asks, turning.

“yeah, thank you,” patton says gratefully, and initiates the passing process again, and this time, logan takes it much better, settling in virgil’s arms with something like a coo.

“hey there,” virgil murmurs, grinning at the baby. “there we go, i know, i need some time to calm down too, sometimes,” and then he redirects his stare at patton, the smile still clinging to the corners of his mouth. “go ahead, take all the time you need. there are clean towels under the sink if you wanna shower or anything.”

patton hesitates. that does sound really tempting. there’s a clawfoot bathtub that had been dumped in the poolhouse, and that’s what he usually uses to bathe, even though the temperature can barely get past lukewarm no matter how high he turns the “warm” faucet. he usually just takes the quickest bath he can manage, usually finishing it off before the bathtub can even fill halfway. maria’s offered him the use of one of the showers in the inn, the same way she’s been offering him a room, but he just kind of feels weird about bathing at work. a hot shower sounds like heaven.

“you’ll shout if he needs me?”

“i’ll shout if he needs you,” virgil promises.

patton grins, before he reaches for his abandoned mug and chugs down the rest of his cold hot cocoa/coffee, saying “thanks!” before he snatches the sweater off the table and heads straight for virgil’s room, practically giddy.

funny how much things he’d taken for granted back at his parents’ are such a huge deal to him now; sleeping in a bed, taking a shower, an afternoon watching tv or taking a nap, having money to burn with no worries about budgeting. he’d never had to think about those things as luxuries before.

weird. strange.

patton would think more about it if he wasn’t excitedly turning the water in virgil’s shower as hot as it’ll go.

it nearly burns his fingers, so he, reluctantly, turns the heat down just enough so that it would be on the side of scalding that he could actually stand, and he gets in the shower with a smile on his face that’s probably a bit too enthusiastic for something as basic as a hot shower.

patton uses the washcloth he’d taken from virgil’s stash of clean towels and scrubs himself until he’s pink, a combination of the heat and the non-scented body wash that virgil has in his shower; he rubs shampoo into his hair, scratching and digging his fingers into his scalp; at one point, he just stands with his eyes closed in the shower, savoring the water pressure and the heat and the clean scent of the steam and the way his muscles relax and loosen.

he eventually shuts off the shower, reminded of his son and the cinnamon rolls and caffeine and general christmas cheer that are probably waiting for him, and steps out of the shower to get dressed. he towels his curls dry and combs his fingers through them (he should know by now that they’re basically uncontrollable.) he brushes his teeth with the spare toothbrush he’d used the night before, getting all minty-mouthed and fresh. he even uses a bit of the lotion virgil has, rubbing it on his hands and the dry spots on his elbows and ankles.

he gets dressed. he polishes his glasses on his t-shirt before he pushes them onto his nose, getting rid of the last of the steam that clings to them, and wipes clear a little path in the mirror, too, taking away the last of the fuzziness that was obscuring him before.

he stares at himself in the mirror; bags under his eyes decreased a little bit, hair a bit of a mess but when wasn’t it, really, sweater big enough that it obscures his chest but doesn’t drown him in the fabric. worn-in, comfortable jeans.

he feels brand-new.

⁂

virgil squints at the coffee pot. it’s lower. he knows it’s lower. and yet—

“what do you mean?” patton says, blinking at him all fake-innocent, holding logan in one arm and using the other to hold his third cinnamon roll in one hand.

“you snuck a refill.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” patton says, widening his eyes to make them seem doe-like and innocent.

“you’re going to get an ulcer one day,” virgil decides, pouring a mug for his mom, which she accepts with a poorly-hidden smile at this exchange.

“if you say so,” patton demurs, and looks down at logan. “don’t you think virgil is being silly, lo? isn’t he so silly?”

“—and you won’t be able to say anything as i stand over your hospital bed and say i told you so.”

“if you say so,” patton repeats, except this time is distinctly more sing-songy, and virgil narrows his eyes at him even as patton pops the rest of the cinnamon roll into his mouth.

“hark!” mark quips, from where he’s stationed at the kitchen window. “our children approach.”

“that’s our cue!” meredith says cheerfully, standing up. “gotta make sure none of you take a peek to see if santa’s come yet.”

“mom,” virgil begins, trying not to sigh, because seriously, it’s been at least a decade and a half since any of them have believed in santa.

but patton’s making a dramatically excited face at logan, saying, “santa, logan! yay santa! can you say santa?” despite the fact that virgil knows that patton knows that logan probably won’t be talking for another year, give or take.

and so virgil’s parents depart, to guard the presents and make sure that “santa” has brought things from the north pole, despite the fact that the only one of them who could probably be young enough to believe in santa is still working on important things like object permanence, and rolling onto his stomach on his own, and, like, laughing.

patton looks up at him, smiling. “do you think you’re gonna get what you want for christmas?”

“i barely have any idea what i wanted for christmas,” virgil says honestly. “books, probably. cooking stuff. maybe some stuff for my apartment, since it’s pretty, y’know.”

“bachelor pad-y,” patton suggests, and virgil snorts.

“stuff-inherited-from-family-mostly, yeah,” he admits. it’s probably obvious with the mismatched furniture, the old couch and bed and coffee table. “thrift store, too.”

patton nods, absorbing this, before he says, “oh, shoot!”

“what?” virgil asks, but patton’s brow is already creased in concern, worrying his lip.

“i forgot to ask your mom to get your christmas present from my room!”

you got me a present? virgil nearly asks, barely noticing the jangling of the bell downstairs and the beginnings of conversation between his parents and his siblings, before he realizes they’d probably be repeating the conversation they had on his birthday, before he catches on and says, “oh, hey, patton, it’s okay, you can give it to me later.”

“i just— shoot,” patton repeats, frowning harder. “i mean, it-it’s not much, but—”

“it’s great,” virgil says. “i’m sure it is, but, really. you can get it to me later, i’m not gonna be mad or anything.”

“you’ve been so nice to me and i just forgot,” patton says.

“it happens,” virgil says. “i mean—think about it this way. you’ve already given me a gift within the past week, and you’re gonna give me another one… whenever you come by the diner next. you’re good, you’re covered.”

patton hesitates.

“we can blame logan, if you want,” virgil offers, mostly joking, and leans so he can stare logan in the face. “i can’t believe you haven’t gotten a job yet just to get me presents, you two-month-old baby.”

patton laughs, probably just to be nice, before he stares even more sheepishly at virgil. “i—still. sorry.”

“it’s okay,” virgil says. “accidents happen.”

“virgil!” he hears freddie shout. “bring me the cinnamon rolls, i want a billion of them!”

virgil rolls his eyes, before he gets to his feet. “duty calls.”

“i’m not far behind her,” patton says, leaning to snatch another cinnamon roll before virgil picks up the plate and gestures.

“shall we?”

patton goes to grab logan’s diaper bag, before he falls into step behind him and they both plod down the stairs.

freddie nets virgil in a hug, which, virgil notes, and seemingly patton does too with a poorly-stifled snort, is a blatant excuse to snatch the entire pan of cinnamon rolls away from virgil, immediately shoving one into her mouth whole.

“winifred jane danes!” mark scolds, even in the midst of a laugh himself. “stop that, you’ll choke!”

freddie says something—probably some kind of quip or comeback—but it’s stifled by the food, and virgil takes the opportunity to snatch the cinnamon rolls back, dropping them on a table, about to start lecturing her, before—

“oh, let’s not,” meredith says merrily. “go on, kids, go on, dig in, grab some rolls! the faster you eat, the faster we can open presents!”

“i can’t believe you’re undermining my parenting like this,” mark says, jokingly pious, over the sound of the four other danes siblings (and patton, doubling back for even more) and virgil shuffles out of the way—the benefit of being the sibling who makes the meals means he gets first pick—which means he’s perfectly situated to watch everyone else get their fill.

it also means he’s perfectly situated to watch patton turn, maybe to talk to him or his parents, before he falters at the sight of the christmas tree, the color wheel of presents.

including the two new slivers of bags and boxes, wrapped prettily in sky blue and indigo.

patton stares for a few seconds. his brow furrows, confused. and then, almost like he doesn’t mean to, he reaches his hand to touch the sky blue material of his sweater, bunching it in his hand, even as his brow furrows more and more.

virgil, sensing another crying session in making, feels his stomach plummet and quickly takes a few steps closer; his mom mirrors him, crowding in on his other side.

“i,” patton says. his voice quavers, and he takes in a shaky, gulping breath. “did you…?”

“it’s christmas,” virgil says gruffly. “you didn’t really think we wouldn’t get you anything for christmas, would you?”

“but i,” patton says, and his face crumples as he looks to virgil’s mom. “but i didn’t get you anything.”

his mother looks startled at this, just for a moment, before she puts a hand on his shoulder.

“you’ve given us your presence,” she says, voice quiet, so that virgil’s breakfasting siblings won’t overhear. “and time with a relatively newborn baby.”

patton makes an alarmingly creaky noise, which means that logan makes an alarmingly creaky noise, sensing that something’s wrong, and virgil panics, just a bit, because hearing logan scream and knowing he can’t do anything about it is possibly one of the worst feelings in the world.

“you’re sixteen,” virgil says roughly. “you’re sixteen. okay? you’ve had a rough year. you’re a good kid. you deserve christmas presents without any strings attached.”

patton inhales deeply and presses his fingers under his eyes, like the pressure will be enough to stop the tears.

“but i—i couldn’t even remember to bring your present—”

“and that’s okay,” virgil says firmly. “you’ll bring it next time you come to the diner, that’s fine.”

“—i didn’t even get you anything,” patton says to his mom, watery. “and you’ve been so kind to me, i—”

“that’s okay,” meredith says. “hey, that’s okay. your presence is enough, just like i said.”

“but—”

“it is enough,” meredith says quietly. “look. giving presents makes you feel good, right?”

patton nods, curly hair still damp around the edges flopping into his eyes.

“ so,” meredith says. “you’re letting us get that feeling. that’s a nice present, wouldn’t you say?”

patton hesitates, clearly warring with himself, but then—

“and you’ll let us hold the baby, as long as he doesn’t cry? we’re all vaccinated and i want my children to practice for—”

“ no grandkid talk,” virgil grumbles, which makes patton sniffle and smile.

“well…. okay,” he says, before he says, “i’m going to send you something for your birthday, though.”

“well, i’ll have to do that too!” meredith says cheerfully. “when’s yours?”

“january 15.”

“no way,” meredith says.

“what?”

“mine’s january 16!”

and, almost as suddenly as it started, patton’s closeness to tears has abated as he and meredith discuss the various merits and drawbacks of a january birthday, patton’s well-trained ability to small talk and his genuine, enthusiastic interest in getting to know people shining through, distracting him, and virgil breathes a soft sigh of relief.

no more crying on christmas. patton shouldn’t have to feel like crying on christmas. it’s christmas.

so virgil turns, and moves to get another cinnamon roll, before—

“what was all that?”

virgil scowls at silas, almost out of habit, before he takes his chosen cinnamon roll off the tray.

maybe it was the cinnamon roll that silas’ hand was closest to, and maybe silas scowls right back, but hey, virgil made it, he gets first dibs.

“patton was a bit emotional about christmas presents when he didn’t get anyone but me anything,” virgil says curtly.

silas hums.

“silas, i swear—”

“hey, if you don’t get snappy with me, i won’t be snappy with you,” silas says, putting up his free hand. “christmas is the time of truces and all that.”

virgil stares at him for a few more seconds, evaluating the validity of this, before he allows a jerky nod and turns away from him.

just in time to see patton unearth logan from his chest carrier, and to see his mother coo down at his sleepy face.

“give him a couple seconds, he just needs to wake up a little so he doesn’t panic when we pass him over,” patton murmurs, and his mother laughs, staring down at the baby with soft eyes.

god. his mom really wants grandbabies.

virgil thinks, as he stares at patton and his mom, smiling together down at logan, that patton and his son are probably a pretty good interim patch for that particular desire.

thank god, he thinks. it’s not like he’s about to have a kid anytime soon.

“okay, who’s santa this year?”

“it was us last year, i think,” essie says, patting annabelle’s knee. “so that means…?”

“i gave up my turn,” silas says, because silas can kind of be a grinch, “so—”

“me!” freddie sings, launching herself from the booth. “okay, light blue patton, dark blue for the baby?”

“that’s the one,” mark says cheerfully, who is now taking his turn holding the baby, and he looks absolutely delighted that logan was comfortable enough to fall back asleep in his arms.

“and everyone else’s is normal,” freddie says, before gathering an armful of purple boxes and bags and cheerfully dumping them at virgil’s feet.

“thanks, fred,” he says dryly. “sure hope there wasn’t anything breakable in there.”

freddie ignores him. virgil has the feeling that she’d be flipping him off behind her back if their mother wasn’t sitting right next to him.

“so, um,” patton says uncertainly, from where he’s hovering right next to virgil’s dad in case of Random Baby Meltdown Time, “how do you guys usually do this?”

“pass them out in order, tear them open in chaos,” annabelle informs him.

“there is no order,” essie says at the same time, and patton nods, absorbing this.

“right,” he says, “okay,” and accepts a load of indigo presents with a thank you to freddie and a glance at logan, just to check that he’s still okay; virgil’s dad transfers logan to his carrier, so he doesn’t get jostled during the whole gift-opening session.

freddie continues passing out presents as quickly (and carelessly) as she can—gold for mom, silver for dad, green for wyatt, red for essie, pink for annabelle, black for silas, yellow for freddie, purple for virgil—and as soon as the last present is placed in the pile by patton’s feet, freddie immediately tears into her nearest present with a vicious, vociferous glee.

and the rest of them are off.

with five kids (and, now, five kids, a fiancée, and a friend with a baby) it had always taken way too long to go in order, one-by-one, and so it became the norm that as soon as whoever was santa that year opened their first present, the rest of them had free reign to open their presents as quickly or as slowly as they would like.

it would probably shock no one that most danes’ favored quickly.

soon, the diner was overrun with the sound of ripping wrapping paper and crumpling tissue paper and exclamations of “thanks!” whenever they saw what they got, and who they got it from, and leaning around people to offer hugs or more specific comments.

virgil looks up in the midst of ripping some shiny purple wrapping paper off a box, to see patton, frozen, with his hands on the first box he’d gingerly picked up, staring at the chaos.

for a second, virgil thinks he might be overwhelmed; they can be noisy when they’re all jammed in together like this, with an occasion as exciting as christmas presents, and patton hasn’t exactly had an easy past couple of days. or an easy past year, for that matter.

but patton’s eyes dart over to look at virgil’s parents: his mom, in the middle of squeezing freddie into a hug and then giving her a soft, joking punch for the gag gift that freddie must have gotten at some kind of godawful tourist trap, virgil isn’t even really sure what it is but whatever it’s supposed to be probably shouldn’t be sequined and glow-in-the-dark; his dad, pulling free a cookbook from the bag he’d been hurling tissue paper from just seconds earlier.

and then patton beams, and tears the wrapping paper off the nearest sky-blue box with a satisfying rrrrrrrriiiiip!!!

virgil grins down at his own box, and resumes opening his own gifts, that warm, sentimental feeling blooming in his chest that he only really gets around christmas.

⁂

later, patton remembers logan’s first christmas mostly in snapshots; golden, precious memories that he’ll cling to for years, the kind of memories he knows will be cherished even before he’s finished living through them.

he eats his weight in cinnamon rolls, and then doubles it in ginger snaps.

he helps virgil and silas and wyatt cart up virgil’s new furniture; virgil’s particularly protective of the framed nightmare before christmas cross-stitch, moving it over seven times (silas counts) before he carts it off to his room to decide where it’ll go later, when all of them are out of the room (“it’s not like any of you are interior designers,” virgil grumbles after this, probably annoyed by their constant recommendations, but really, moving it seven times?!)

he remembers the danes’ immediately clearing the easiest path for him to step into virgil’s room as soon as logan starts crying, and they all seem eager to lend a helping hand if he needs one; especially virgil and his parents, but the other siblings too. which patton appreciates, he really does! it’s just that he doesn’t think logan’s quite ready to learn how to do a baby cartwheel yet, like freddie’s offering.

virgil’s mother gets a new camera that morning from virgil’s father, and spends the rest of the day breaking it in; a lot of those are of logan (“baby’s first christmas!” she says, “you’ll want these for later!” which patton certainly is not contesting) but everyone gets their photo taken a lot, too. patton’s already gotten a promise from mrs. danes that she’ll send him a copy of virgil, so heavily dusted with flour that it makes him look like a ghost, after freddie got it in her head to storm into the kitchen and start a food fight when the culinarily-inclined danes siblings were tucked away for far too long, shouting about family time!

he teaches essie how to finger-knit a braided row that might become a blanket, later, sitting side-by-side on the couch, as freddie and annabelle both try to teach logan how to roll over on virgil’s new, fluffy, gray rug, as logan sits in his carrier and gnaws, slobbering, on his new jupiter teething toy. he’s about two months away from all that, but hey, if they’re dedicated to teaching him, maybe logan’s a quick learner.

virgil teaches him how to know when to flip a pancake, and sure, sometimes his pancakes are very pale, and sure, sometimes they’re very dark, but hey, at least patton knows how to keep an eye out for the popping air bubbles at the edge of the batter now!

meredith sits with him on the couch, a hand on his shoulder, watching fondly as all of her children bicker over the latest results of their card game and patton’s sitting with a snoozing logan in his arms, and says, “it’ll all go by a lot faster than you could ever guess, you know. cherish it.”

but mostly, patton remembers a lot of laughing, and the fighting being mostly joking in nature and never very serious, and no stilted small talk or muffled gossip or terrible catered food or itchy tulle dresses or ill-fitting suits or the desperate urge to steal a bottle of merlot and sneak out onto the balcony with christopher. he remembers the warmth of his sweater, and the look on each of the danes’ faces when logan seems to consent to being passed around with minimal complaining (except for screaming when silas holds him, but he’s easily enough calmed when patton picks him back up.)

and patton remembers this too.

they’re all sitting in the living room, waiting for the last of their christmas breakfast-for-dinner to cook, and he and the danes’ are all gathered in the living room; patton’s just finished a session of tummy-time with logan, so logan’s cuddled in his arm, eyes hazily lidded, like he’s about to drop off for another nap, but not quite sleeping yet.

the danes’ are all talking about family stories in the past, and patton is hopelessly trying to map out their extensive family tree in his head; virgil’s mom is the youngest of four girls, and virgil’s dad is the youngest of nine, so patton has absolutely no chance of keeping uncle marco or great-aunt maud straight in his head, he really doesn’t, unless someone wants to hand him a visual aid or something.

currently, the conversation’s centering around a great-aunt winnie; freddie’s namesake, apparently.

“—never got an ounce of common sense in all her life, but god, the woman was funny,” meredith finishes.

“aw, it passes down to winifreds through the generations,” silas says, and freddie reaches over to smack the back of his head, grinning despite herself.

“shut up, silas.”

“yeah, shut up, silas,” virgil echoes, grinning. “it’s not freddie’s fault that our parents cursed her with that name, it’s not like they have a very good track record with naming.”

“virgil!” meredith gasps, jokingly offended, which would probably be more effective if all five danes siblings hadn’t sounded off in noisy agreement. patton directs his smile down at logan, lest meredith try to net him to her side, because, well. the names they’d given all their children were nice names, of course, it was just… they were certainly all choices.

“he’s right, mom,” essie agrees, smiling up at her mom apologetically. “i mean, he has the most cause to complain, so—”

except virgil hisses at her, and patton looks over at them curiously.

“you do?”

“he doesn’t know?” silas says gleefully.

“i mean, well—” virgil says, fumbling.

“—’cause, i mean, virgil thomas isn’t so bad,” patton says, glancing out at the rest of them. “that’s the pattern, right, an, um… unusual name first and a real normal one in the middle? uh, like winifred jane, right?”

“okay, see, what i said was,” virgil says, clearly scrambling. “i like that yours and logan’s middle names are thomas, i wish mine was too, that’s why it was my confirmation name, so—”

“your middle name isn’t thomas?”

“absolutely not,” freddie says, absolutely mirthful. “it’s, like, one billion times worse.”

“— but,” virgil says, “thomas is my confirmation name, which is what i told you, and also what i prefer, because what they gave me—”

“they’re noble names!” mark says, which would probably be more convincing if he wasn’t fighting his own smile.

“ names?” patton repeats. “you’ve got two middle names?”

virgil grumbles into his glass, something like look at what you’ve all done, and patton looks at him quizzically.

virgil lets out a long, slow sigh. “you have to promise not to laugh, and that you won’t tell anyone.”

“i won’t,” patton vows loyally.

“my name,” virgil says, sighs again, and continues, “is virgil tringad luigi danes.”

patton blinks. and then he presses his lips together for a moment, but he can’t help the way the corners of his lips twitch up.

“you said you wouldn’t laugh,” virgil says, offended.

“it’s a hilarious name,” freddie says.

essie, pitying, pats virgil on the shoulder. “it is a pretty funny name, virge.”

“luigi,” patton manages to say, when he’s pretty sure he won’t burst into giggles just from opening his mouth. “like. like from—”

“ don’t,” virgil groans.

“like from mario?!” he says, and presses a hand over his mouth before he really starts laughing at virgil.

this very obvious ploy doesn’t work, because virgil turns his disgruntled gaze back to him, before—

“like luigi, my grandfather,” mark corrects, before he smiles, too. “and, yes, also like mario.”

“you hate me,” virgil grumbles to mark and meredith. “i mean, seriously. tringad?”

“it means fair town!” meredith protests. “you couldn’t exactly be virgil sideshire luigi, could you?”

“you hate me.”

“oh, bunny, of course we do,” meredith says. “that’s why we fed, clothed, and housed you for eighteen years, before eventually passing the family business down to you. i mean, clearly, it sounds like your father and i loathe you.”

“oh, yeah,” virgil continues to mutter, “there’s wyatt james and esther marie and silas matthew and winifred jane, and then i, virgil tringad luigi—”

and that’s what tips patton over the edge, the laughter bursting out of him before he can even try to stop it. virgil’s betrayed face almost makes it funnier; it’s the kind of laughter patton couldn’t stop even if he’d been trying (and he had been trying!) but once it explodes forth, it feels so good and so right that he wouldn’t even try to stop, and it’s the best kind of laughter, belly-aching and breathless and making his cheeks hurt, he hasn’t laughed like this since god knows when and that makes it all the better, all the more that he wants to laugh, and then—

and then, the most beautiful sound that patton’s ever heard.

logan’s laughing. a beautiful, bubbly, precious little baby laugh, eyes crinkling up, smiling up at patton, laughing with him, and it shocks patton into laughing right along with him, sure that his smile is splitting his face, because his baby is laughing.

“he’s laughing,” patton says in disbelief, and lets out a breathless exhalation, looking up at the rest of the danes’. “logan’s laughing!”

“logan’s laughing!” virgil cheers, any betrayal over patton laughing at his name forgotten, and meredith says, “his first laugh?” as mark says “congratulations!” and patton looks down at logan in his arms, reaching a hand to tickle a little bit at logan’s belly, so blinded by his smile and maybe happy tears that he can only see logan’s smiling, perfect face.

“laugh for your papa, honey!” patton urges, gently tickling his belly. “go on, baby, laugh!”

and logan does, and it’s so beautiful, so precious, and patton is euphoric, letting out a laugh with him that might be a sob, disbelieving and overjoyed as the rest of the danes’ provide a delighted cacophony in the background that logan seems to turn to to listen, before looking up at patton and laughing again. his son’s first laugh, happening in his arms, surrounded by people who support him, and one of his best friends, and—

and it’s the best christmas present he’s ever gotten.

⁂

logan’s tuckered out from his first laugh and his second laugh and the third and fourth and on and on until patton lost count, because each and every danes made their very best attempt to make him laugh, with none as successful as virgil, and patton treasures every single one, because his baby. laughing.

the first outward expression of joy, other than laughing. a huge step toward his own expression as a person.

it’s perfect. logan’s perfect.

patton rubs at his aching cheeks, still smiling, as he slowly steps back from logan napping away in his carrier.

logan sleeps on, and so eventually patton turns his back on him, approaching the diner’s kitchen.

“anything i can help with?” he asks, even though it doesn’t seem necessary; the danes’ are all a well-oiled machine, all seemingly used to their jobs preparing their massive breakfast-for-dinner.

meredith glances out at the kitchen; virgil flipping pancakes, jostling elbows with silas frying bacon at the same stove; essie checking biscuits set out to cool; freddie and annabelle laughing as they cut fresh fruit; wyatt scrambling eggs; mark flipping waffles out of the iron with professional efficiency.

“how about,” meredith says, clearly struggling to come up with a job that didn’t really require cooking that hadn’t already been taken.

“i could set the table?” patton offers, and she smiles at him in relief, clapping him on the shoulder.

“yes! set the table. um, plates are there, silverware should be—”

“over in the basket,” virgil says, “we moved ‘em,” and meredith nods.

“ma’am, yes ma’am,” patton says, and goes over to gather an armful of plates, a handful of already-napkin-wrapped silverware.

his parents would probably be aghast that he was eating off plastic plates, with durable forks, for christmas dinner. patton pushes the thought of his mind, like he has been for the nearly two months he’s been gone, but strangely, it hurts less.

like a bruise that’s starting to heal.

patton can only hope that pattern continues, but he decides to focus on setting down plates and silverware, instead.

he ends up filling pitchers with juice and hot cocoa/coffee and regular coffee and water, too, before the danes’ all come to finish their own jobs and cart out platters and platters of food; hashbrowns, eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, fruit, pancakes and waffles—it’s a veritable feast, and patton’s mouth is watering just looking at it.

virgil pushes a mug in his hands, and patton’s about to thank him until the smell hits his nose.

“this is decaf,” he says, holding it back out for him.

“ how,” virgil says disbelievingly. “i poured it when you weren’t looking!”

patton grins at him. he could tell him it’s the smell—decaf always smells different than fully caffeinated—but he’s having too much fun showing off that he knows it’s decaf before it even touches his lips to consider that, yet.

“i know all,” patton says, making his tone aloof and mystical, so that virgil snorts at him.

“okay, well, you should still drink it.”

“it’s christmas!” patton says, aghast.

“it’s dinnertime,” virgil says.

“i’m not seeing your point,” patton says, and virgil sighs.

“look,” he says. “just… drink the decaf, as a christmas present to me. just the reassurance that i’m trying to keep you from tossing and turning all night.”

patton hesitates, staring at him, before he sighs.

“i’m not going to like it,” patton grumbles.

“i’d never expect you to,” virgil says, a laugh in his voice.

all the rest of the danes’ have started filtering in from the kitchen, carting the last of the plates; virgil sees them, and ducks into the kitchen to help. patton deliberates going, too, except annabelle starts chatting with him about logan, his favorite topic of conversation, so he’s a bit distracted.

the scent of fresh-baked pastry and apples and cinnamon brings him to a pause, staring at the plate that a familiar pale hand sets down in front of him.

they’re not apple tarts. the ones at his parents’ party are twisted to resemble little roses with perfectly spiced, perfectly baked, perfectly cubed apples in the center, overlaid with an elaborate, perfect lattice. perfect, perfect, perfect; just like everything else is supposed to be, at a sanders party.

these are more like mini apple pies. unassuming and simple—a crust rolled over the top with an x cut into the center, the edges clearly pressed down against with a fork. not at all uniform, or particularly picturesque. not perfect.

patton finds himself getting choked up anyway.

“i couldn’t, um,” virgil says, and coughs. “i couldn’t find a recipe for apple tarts, this is the closest i could get, but i hope—”

“i love them,” patton says, cutting him off, and if his voice a bit more watery than usual virgil doesn’t comment on it. “i-i love them. i just— thank you.”

it still doesn’t feel like enough, thank you, he means, it doesn’t feel like enough to tell virgil for everything he’s done for patton, for logan. it’s so thoughtful, and such a sweet gesture, to bring the part of christmas that patton’s been audible about missing that virgil could conceivably bring to patton. and he did.

he gave patton presents, and comfort, and the opportunity to get to know his family, and the closest thing he could get to apple tarts. apple tarts, patton’s favorite christmas tradition. right here. in addition to a welcoming, kind family, and presents, and providing the impetus for his son’s first laugh—

it’s not enough. it feels like it might never be enough.

virgil settles in beside him, the rest of the family all sitting down, still laughing and chatting, reaching for platters and starting to pass them up and down the table.

“what are friends for, right?” he says quietly.

patton tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, and tries to smile at virgil. virgil smiles back at him, soft, and understanding, and patton thinks that maybe he doesn’t really have to say anything at all.

he plucks one of the apple pies. it’s still hot enough that it feels like it’s burning the tips of his fingers as he drops it on his plate. he cuts it, and the scent of apple and cinnamon comes through even clearer. he lifts a heaping forkful to his mouth, blowing out a breath in a futile attempt to cool it, before he eats it, savoring the flavors dancing on his tongue.

it tastes like christmas.

⁂

virgil’s stretched out on the rug, lying on the ground with a hand on his stomach. everyone else has claimed most of the furniture, similarly food-stunned and lazy.

“so i guess people don’t want to make dessert or anything, then?” his mother teases the whole room, only to be met by a chorus of groans that virgil only ever really hears on thanksgiving, or christmas, or the random weekends where they’d all decided to try out a variety of new recipes for the diner and gorged themselves on it and all of its subsequent, experimental variations.

everyone is sleepy, and quiet, and content. virgil’s content.

essie and annabelle slumped against each other, legs tangled together as their feet are propped up on the same (new) ottoman; silas is on the other cushion of the loveseat next to them, close to nodding off; wyatt and freddie are sitting together on the couch with their parents, deep in a game of go fish; patton’s flopped out on his belly, not far from virgil, along with logan, who’s having some tummy time. some classic christmas music is playing in the background.

it’s been a good christmas, a great christmas, even; he’s gotten presents to help make the apartment look a little less barren and a little more homey, patton and logan had a good day, he got to spend a lot of time with his siblings and his parents and his future sister-in-law. and, considering that his dad’s nodding off on the couch right now, it means that christmas is winding down.

there’s always this strange feeling that virgil gets, right before he goes to sleep on a holiday, or after a really good day. sometimes, he feels like he’s so hyperaware of everything that could go wrong, that when days turned out as close to perfect as they could—like today—it felt bittersweet, that such a good day had come to such a satisfying closing, but at the same time, thinking about how quickly things were changing, everything that could happen, and he’s almost a little afraid, every birthday or christmas or thanksgiving or family weekend, that it’ll be the last one like this, the last one where he and silas won’t fight, the last one where they’ll all be together like this, the last time it’ll go well.

he knows how unlikely he is that that feeling is right, but, well. anxiety. it tries to convince him that it’s right all the time. and it is, in a way; logan’s never going to be this little again, for a holiday like this. essie and annabelle will get married, and grow out of their honeymoon phase. freddie might be whisked off to paris or cairo or london or tokyo with her intention on running away to the circus. wyatt might drown himself in work and not escape from the operating room. silas might get bitterer, and bitterer, and his parents’ constant reassurances that they’d grow out of whatever rivalry they’ve got going would be wrong.

his parents are getting older, too. there are more gray hairs at his father’s temples than there were when they moved away. and that’s going to keep happening, and soon, it won’t just be gray hairs.

virgil shakes himself, and rolls over, enough to come face-to-face with logan. logan’s enough to jolt him out of that particular line of thought; it’s hard to think about aging and all the scary things that comes with that when he’s staring a baby dead in the face.

“oh, hey,” he says. “‘sup, buddy, you kinda zoomed on over here, or did i just roll real far?”

“you rolled real far,” patton says, amused. “logan’s not due to start crawling until about may or june.”

virgil makes a noise of understanding, before he says, “yeah, probably too much to expect to get two major milestones on one day, huh?”

logan babbles at him in agreement, and virgil smiles, offering him a finger to grasp and slobber on.

“yeah, it would,” he murmurs to him. “one’s just fine, though. good job on that. laughing’s awesome, you’ll love it.”

“yeah, he will,” patton says, beaming at logan, lightly rubbing his back before propping his chin on his hand. he had a look on his face; he wasn’t smiling as widely as he had been, when he was talking to logan, and, weirdly, it strikes virgil that he might not be the only one with a case of holiday melancholy.

of course he wasn’t, virgil scolds himself a moment later. jesus, if anyone was afforded a case of holiday moodiness, it was patton, who had just gone through his first christmas without his parents, knowing full well that he was going to take steps to face a lot more than just christmases without them.

virgil’s so entrenched in this line of thought that it’s almost jolting when his mother says, “well, it’s probably time to head back to the inn.”

“oh!” patton says, surprised, and virgil carefully takes his finger back from logan, who seems to pout at him, but doesn’t start crying, which is really the best he can hope for. he manages to push himself onto his feet.

the goodbye hugs pass by in a rush; it’s not their last goodbye hugs—they’re all coming to the diner tomorrow for a goodbye breakfast—so they’re quick, everyone eager to drop into bed and sleep off their food comas.

“patton, do you want to walk back with us?” his mother asks. “since we’re all walking the same direction.”

“oh, no, that’s okay,” patton says. “i thought i might, um. help virgil pick up a little.”

virgil looks at him a little strangely; they’d washed all the dishes, and really, the only picking up that needed to be done was putting pillows back on their proper couches, and throwing away the last of the plastic cups people had been sipping wine and beer out of. nothing really intensive, and, honestly, nothing that couldn’t wait until morning.

“plus, um, i figured i’d make sure logan’s all good before the walk back,” patton says, adjusting logan a little so that virgil’s mom could coo at him—it’s a grade-a diversion tactic, virgil has to admit, just showing off the baby.

fine, it’s worked on him before, he isn’t heartless, it’s a baby, and more than that, it’s logan.

“all right, well,” she says, floundering.

“it won’t take very long,” patton says, “i just don’t want you to wait very long, or anything.”

“oh, that’s not a problem,” she says briskly. “i can just make sure—here, i’ll pick up in here, you two take the kitchen, we’ll be done. before you know it.”

“okay,” patton says.

they go into the kitchen. it really is just throwing away crumpled napkins and dumping discarded drinks into the sink before sorting it into trash and recycling, but patton seems strangely fidgety, changing the way he’s holding logan about five times.

“you okay?” virgil asks, once that they’ve cleared up everything.

patton clears his throat, adjusting his grip.

“i just,” patton says, and takes a deep breath. “i think i want to call my parents.”

virgil stops in his tracks. “oh,” he says, and he’s sure he sounds a little strangled.

“not, like,” patton says, and lets out the breath. “not the house, i don’t think i could handle—um, i think i might leave a message on my dad’s machine at work. no chance of anyone answering, but… but i can still say merry christmas, and tell them about meeting up after the new year.”

“meet up?” virgil repeats, striving to keep his voice neutral.

“i should at least,” he says, and swallows. “i think i should at least tell them about the emancipation thing to their face. right? i’d want someone to tell me about that, so i just—i don’t want to blindside them, that’s all. i think i’ve done enough of that.”

“you didn’t,” virgil starts, before he stops, and says, “are you sure about this?”

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i’m sure.”

“okay,” virgil says. “do you want—i mean. should i go in the other room, or—?”

“no,” patton says, then, “i just—i want you there. we could step onto the balcony maybe?”

virgil nods.

“it’s just,” patton says. “i—i dunno. it feels… wrong, i guess. to not at least try to talk to them. it’s christmas.”

virgil lets out a sigh. because, well. he may hate emily and richard sanders, but if it’ll make this kid feel better about the christmas he’s had…

well, who is he to stop his friend from feeling better?

#my post #text #the sideshire files #my fic #my fanfic #sanders sides #love light gleams

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