#i know the common thought is flannel but. i think he deserves a leather jacket as a treat

[chiprewington]

hi. chip revvington casual-wear

[ontoheartache]

the purest expression of grief (ao3)

It has been an awfully long time since Nicolò has been called to join his family.

Typically, Andy makes it a point to not contact him. She, out of all of them, knows best the depths of grief, of his grief. He can recall few occasions in which Andy has called upon him in the last hundred years, and only four that resulted in his presence being deemed necessary. Neither instance ended well. 

Despite first impressions - several decades worth of them, in fact - Nicolò and Sebastien have not managed to find common ground in the past 172 years of their strained acquaintance. All those decades that came first remain lost to the wasteland of memories that Nicolò tries not to think about. 

As Nicolò approaches the run down church of their safe house in Goussainville, France, he pushes the reality of what awaits him away. It does not bear thinking about in the house of a God he no longer sees fit to serve. His thoughts, his grief, deserve a more suitable setting. A place that Nicolò will never know again, no matter how far he may travel, how long he may roam this Earth.

He can never go home again.

He closes his eyes when he reaches the door, takes a breath - slow and deep. When they were last here - 

He pushes the door open and steps inside. Sebastien is drinking in front of the TV. Nicolò's mouth curls in distaste.

“Nicky,” Andy says. She’s sitting at the table with a young woman Nicolò has only ever seen in dreams. She gazes at him with wide, curious eyes. The moment that he makes eye contact with her, he can hardly keep himself in place. Every part of him aches.

Brown eyes. How cruel of fate to bring a pair back into his life.

"Nicolò," he corrects, pushing his shoulders back until he’s stood straight. He shifts his weight, tests the give of the floors, pretends he isn’t doing so to keep from running right back out the door. “I have not changed my mind, Andromache.”

She shakes her head, but offers no argument. He knows it is a kindness afforded to him by the circumstances.

Andy. Sounds civilized, boss. It suits you. Andy of Scythia. She’d like it.

I am still not convinced.

Time asks us all to do impossible things, Nicolò. I hope you never know the pain of a name Yusuf would not recognize. 

He will not. Time asks many things of him, but he stopped listening to the will of the universe long ago.

"Nicolò, then,” Andy says. To her credit, she only glares at him for a moment. She even keeps the sarcasm to a minimum. “This is Nile Freeman.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Nile,” he says. He does not look her in the eyes, but he offers her a smile. It is more than he expected to be able to give. 

Sebastien snorts from his armchair. Nicolò valiantly pretends not to notice.

"Nicolò," Nile mumbles under her breath. Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Huh.”

Andy shoots her a strange look. He pretends not to notice that, either. 

Instead, he pulls out a beat up flip phone from his back pocket and tosses it to Andy. She catches it and sets it down on the table. Her expression turns serious.

Time to go to work, then.

“Found the number you needed, plus some emails. Thought you’d like it confirmed that you’re walking into a trap.” He pulls out a chair and settles into it stiffly. He has his suspicions about this predicament, but he knows that his theories would not be looked upon kindly given his history with the subject at the center of them.

Nevertheless, he is quite certain that Sebastien is a traitor. Nowadays, one might call that “on brand.”

But he digresses.

Andy swears, colorful and in a language that Nicolò has never quite been able to get the hang of. She snatches the phone from the table and shoves it into her jacket pocket. She’s wearing more layers than normal. A tank top is par for the course, as is her jeans and chunky black boots, but the added layers of a flannel and leather jacket are out of place. The tired look in her eyes concerns him. He has seen Andromache in many states, but she seems almost fragile right now.

He does not like to think of her that way. 

“Will that be all?” he asks. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he can forget that life continues on. The sooner he leaves, the more likely it is that he will actually be able to walk away.

Andy sighs. The exhaustion is clear in the slump of her shoulders. Her eyes dart in Sebastien’s direction, then come back to rest on Nicolò again. He knows before she even asks.

“Stay? Just for one night?” She lowers her gaze to the tabletop, down to where her fingers are tapping along the wood. “I would like it if you would stay.”

Some three hundred years ago now, Andromache gazed up at him from her place in the dirt. Her hands were covered in blood, mud caked in her hair. She had asked then, too. 

Stay? I would like it if you would stay.

You could not drag me away, boss.

Nicolò?

He had smiled. It had been among the saddest moments of his life, then.

My heart speaks for us both, Andromache. We are here. We will not leave you.

It had seemed such a simple truth then.

“I will not leave you,” he vows. I cannot leave you. For 172 years, have I tried, and God will not take me. He has abandoned me. I am sorry for abandoning you.

I am sorry that my vows mean little, that my desires and my devotion do not match. I desire to be one with my heart. I devote my continued life to the cause of you never being left behind. It is a fine line, and God insists that I walk it. I am sorry that I cannot stay. I am sorry that I must make these empty promises anyway. My mind is with you, even when my body is not.

Those are pretty words. I know you have said them to yourself many times before. I know they are always spoken in her tongue.

Andy meets his gaze. He hopes that she can hear everything that he cannot bring himself to say.

“Okay,” she says, then she stands and walks past him. She stops just briefly to squeeze his shoulder. He hears the thank you in a language that belongs to no one, not anymore.

He turns towards the kitchen with purpose as she leaves. Paints a half smile on his lips that he hopes doesn’t resemble a grimace. 

“I will prepare you food, Nile. I am sure Andromache has not been the best of hosts, no?” He speaks as he surveys the kitchen. The options are lacking.

“You don’t have to do that, Nicolò. I think I’m just going to lay down and get some rest. Haven’t had much of that in a few days now.” Nile smiles, warm and kind. Her eyes crinkle just slightly. For a moment, Nicolò forgets himself.

“As you wish,” he murmurs. Nile smiles a little brighter as she heads off towards the bedroom. When he turns, Sebastien is staring at him, stricken. The TV has been muted. 

Nicolò does not meet his eyes. He resolves to sit at the table in silence as he awaits Andy’s return. 

The volume returns after five minutes. 

-

Nile wakes with Nicolò's name spilling from her lips. She’d have screamed it, if she wasn’t too busy gasping for air. 

She’d dreamed of Quynh the night before. Andy had told her the story in an even tone, nearly detached. She explained that Quynh had been drowning for over 500 years. For a while, Booker had dreamed of her every night. After around a hundred years, the dreams became few and far between. Andy had been hoping that the lack of dreams lately meant that perhaps Quynh had been granted mercy. She admitted that she felt sick at the realization that Nile’s dream had made her feel relieved. Quynh lived. She drowned and drowned and drowned, but still she woke from death. Her time had not yet run out. 

Andy explained that not everyone experienced that kind of relief, even if it sickened her to feel it. She would not elaborate further. Simply said All things die, Nile and had left it at that. 

There had been no mention of a man buried alive, forced to suffocate over and over as he babbled one name like a prayer. Nicolò. 

There had been a word after, more than a few times. It wasn’t in a language she knew. She barely recalled it, lost as she became in his infinite struggle for oxygen. 

Nicolò, perdonami. 

He’d rasped it just before he’d suffocated, the last few times that he’d died in her dream. There was no light where he was, only a cold darkness. She knew his coffin was metal from the desperate way he had punched and kicked at it. He only ever stopped as he began to run out of time, out of spare breath. That’s when he’d begin to speak, begin to pray. It could be called nothing else, not when the desperation and mania faded into nothing short of divine devotion as he called out Nicolò's name. As he pleaded Nicolò, perdonami. 

Quynh felt like something insane. This man felt as though he had been split in half.

When Nicolò said his name, she had known it was familiar. She recognizes now that she had heard it in her dreams before. Between her first dreams of the others, somewhere in the middle of Quynh screaming and drowning, she’d heard this man’s voice. She’d heard him saying Nicolo’s name. Before she knew any of their names, before she even knew the people in her dreams were real, she knew Nicolò's name. 

Why had none of them mentioned the man buried beneath the Earth?

Should she?

She falls back asleep before she can find an answer. 

Nicolò, perdonami. The man chokes on nothing. He suffocates, then lives again.

-

When Andy returns, she has blood on her mouth. 

Sebastien sighs and turns his attention back to the TV only a moment after she’s walked through the door. Nicolò holds out a washcloth. He is smiling, if only barely.

“Problem solved, Andromache?” he asks. She spits blood into the sink, then takes the washcloth from him as she settles at the table with him. His smile slightly grows when she kicks her feet up onto the table and leans back in her chair. “I will take that as a yes.”

“Maybe not solved,” she relents, “but certainly no longer an immediate issue.”

“Oh?”

“Copley could prove useful,” she says. “Ex-CIA. Knows who and what we are. Could get a lot done in the digital age with someone like that erasing every footprint we leave in the sand, hm?” Andy leans further back in her chair, until it’s close to tipping over. She grins at him, and he can’t help but laugh. 

He had forgotten what it felt like to be with his sister. To laugh with someone he loves. To laugh at all. 

The last time he laughed, it was while he was crying. He had stood in front of the sea and wept, hot sand burning his hands as he dug uselessly at the ground. There was a beach near their home in Malta. He often went there and sat at the shoreline. He would sit for hours, talking to the sea, to Quynh. Sometimes he would speak to - 

The last time he laughed, it was while he was crying. 

“I miss your smile,” Andy says. The words feel like a dagger to the chest.

“I do, too,” he responds. 

They fall into silence, and do not speak for some time.

-

Nile walks out of the bedroom that morning and does not feel that she’s slept at all.

“You know, Andy, it’s been nearly 200 years,” Booker is saying. He and Andy are sitting at the table on opposite sides. There’s whiskey in the glass he’s holding. Andy is glaring, but Booker keeps talking. “He shouldn’t keep leaving. We’ve all lost someone.”

“Book, we’ve had this conversation -”

“No, we haven’t!” Booker shouts. He slams his glass down on the table. A shadow darkens the front entrance at the sound, but Booker doesn’t seem to notice. “We talk about jobs, and the world, and how fucking sad we are, but we never talk about this. We don’t talk about Quynh and how she’s drowning in the ocean. How I see her in my dreams. We don’t talk about Yusuf at all!” 

The house descends into silence for only a moment. Booker’s breath is heavy. Andy is ghostly pale. 

Then Nicolò shoots Booker in the head. 

“Nicky,” Andy whispers. “Nicky, I’m sorry -”

“My name is Nicolò,” he says, cold and despondent. There is nothing behind his eyes. “If his tongue would not grow back, I would cut it from his mouth for daring to speak Yusuf’s name.”

“Who is Yusuf?” Nile asks, hesitant. Nicolò's head snaps in her direction. At the sight of her, the ice in his veins seems to thaw. There’s guilt shining in his eyes, in the downturn of his mouth. Andy does not lift her gaze from Booker’s prone form.

Nicolò moves to sit at the head of the table. He steps over Booker’s body, seemingly uncaring of the bloody footprints he leaves on the floor because of it. He sits, drops his head to the table, then looks back up at her. He is the picture of sorrow.  Nile leans against a wall, doesn’t think she could sit still if she tried. Her stomach is rolling, and she hasn’t even had her suspicions confirmed yet.

Andy looks over at Nicolò, a question in her eyes. When he nods, she pinches the bridge of her nose, then nods to herself. "Nicolò is over 900 years old,” she begins, “and up until 172 years ago, he had never faced immortality alone.”

“When I died for the first time, outside the walls of Jerusalem,  I died with Yusuf. We rose together, and died together many more times after the first. The love of my life was of the people I had been taught to hate.” Nicolò laughs, but there is no joy in it. To Nile, it sounds like he dies as the words pour from his mouth. “We killed each other, again and again, until suddenly we stopped. After a time, we fell in love. Perhaps we were in love for centuries before our deaths, in other lives, because loving him came as if it had always been there. As if my soul and his had been searching for each other our whole lives.”

Booker is backed against a wall, alive once more. Nile can’t bring herself to look at him.

“Yusuf is my heart, and I did not think it possible to survive without a heart, but mine has been gone for nearing 200 hundred years, and still I am cursed to walk this Earth.” Nicolò shakes his head and scoffs. “I once fought a war in the name of God, and then I devoted every second to Him to honor the gift He had given me in the form of eternal life with Yusuf. We came into immortality together, Nile. We lived as one soul in two bodies. Surely, God must have intended for us to leave this life together, as well? Certainly, no God could look at us and see fit that one should live without the other. But.” He cuts himself off. Andy reaches for his hand on the table, turns it over and laces their fingers together. 

“But Yusuf died in 1848,” Andy continues. She squeezes Nicolò's hand, and he attempts a smile. It looks more like a grimace. “It was a complicated year. We were in France, a revolution was brewing again. We were only gathering information.”

“I killed him,” Booker says suddenly. Nicolò's knuckles grow white from the pressure he applies to Andy’s hand. “There is no real excuse for it. I was drunk and miserable. My family had just died, and I wasn’t paying attention. He came around the corner and I just - I reacted. I swung my sword before I ever realized it was him.”

“He died choking on his own blood,” Nicolò snarls, anger bleeding into grief. “I waited. I waited for hours, and he did not wake. I impaled myself on Yusuf’s sword, yet I woke in moments. I lost myself after that. Andromache tells me that I set fire to the city.”

Nile sees the flames reflected in Booker’s eyes. Sees the devastation in the tension of Andy’s shoulders. She knows that it is an understatement. 

“I cleared our way out of France afterwards. Booker had to kill Nicolò to drag him out.” 

Booker looks down, wrings his hands together in his lap. “I left him there, and Nicky has not forgiven me for it.” 

Nile stands there in silence, head tilted towards the floor,  and she turns the entire story over in her mind. She has come to a conclusion, and she isn’t sure how to tell them, how to tell Nicolò. 

The man in her dreams is Yusuf. She knows this. Yusuf lives - and dies and lives and dies and lives and - and she doesn’t know how to even begin telling them about his suffering. Nicolò has lived all this time drowning in his grief, believing that his God had abandoned him and Yusuf, believing the universe had seen fit to separate them. The only thing that separates them is the Earth, and Nicolò doesn’t know.

How do you tell someone that their other half is suffocating in an iron prison? How do you tell them that their sister drowns in the sea, and their soulmate suffocates beneath the ground?

"Nicolò, perdonami,” she murmurs. “That’s what the man in my dreams says every moment that he doesn’t spend suffocating. Nicolò, perdonami. Nicolò, cuore mio. Nicolò, perdonami.”

She looks up and meets Nicolò's eyes. He isn’t breathing at all. “He says your name like a prayer. Like it’s the only word he knows for the divine. He prays, but he only ever prays for you.” She closes her eyes, then whispers, “He dies choking on your name. Within minutes, he gasps back to life and begins again.”

When she opens her eyes, they are all staring at her in horror. Andy looks like she might be sick. Booker has stood from the floor and is holding onto his abandoned chair like it is the only thing anchoring him to the Earth. Nicolò still has not taken a breath.

“You -” Andy begins. She stops, breathes in deep, then asks, “You said, before, that Quynh felt like something insane. That you could feel her. Does - How does Yusuf feel?”

“Split in half,” she says, automatic. Nicolò lets out a sound that is more wounded animal than human. “He feels despair, but also as if he is more faith than man. When he isn’t repeating Nicolò's name, he is clawing and kicking at his metal prison. He feels hope.”

Nicolò scrambles out of his chair. He barely makes it to the kitchen sink before he throws up.

-

Yusuf lives.

His heart lives, and Nicolò has spent 172 years mourning him when he could’ve been by his side.

Nicolò, perdonami.

Forgive Yusuf? When Nicolò has left him to suffer for so long alone?

Yusuf, perdonami he thinks. Yusuf, forgive me.

He can almost hear Yusuf’s voice in his ear whispering As you wish, tesoro.

Nicolò throws up again. 

-

The fact that they are already in France, a little under an hour outside of Paris, would seem like fate to Nile if she wasn’t so terribly sad.

“Take me to him, Sebastien,” Nicolò had demanded. “Take me to where you abandoned him, or I will dedicate my life to the end of yours. I have nothing but time, Sebastien, and a particular motivation.”

They had taken off out the door to the place where Yusuf had last been, somewhere in the depths of Paris, leaving Andy and Nile to research.

They do not find him that night, nor do they find him that week. However, Nile discovers a lead the next week. 

“Andy!” she shouts. When Andy comes up behind her, she says, “Right here. It says that French authorities discovered a body that ‘reanimated, and would not succumb to injury.’ The report calls the person a ‘demon of ungodly origin’ and says they ‘locked the creature in an iron coffin, bound by chains, and promptly buried him 6 feet below the ground.’ That has to be him!”

She turns to meet Andy’s eyes. When she was in the army, she knew that she would look into the eyes of killers, but none of them had anything on Andy at that moment. Nile was certain that Andy could turn the Earth to ash with a fury that profound.

It isn’t Andy’s voice that cuts through the tension.

“Where did they bury him?” Nicolò's tone is icy. 

“It doesn’t say exactly. It only references that they buried him near holy ground. So, a church?”

Nicolò nods. His body language shifts, becoming softer and kinder. “Thank you, Nile. Your presence in my life is a gift, and it is one that I cherish. Yusuf will love you, of that I am certain.”

He turns abruptly and leaves before she can respond. When she looks to Andy, the woman is holding a shovel and her labrys. “Let's go grave robbing, kid.”

-

"Nicolò, I’m sorry.”

Sebastien keeps repeating himself. It is a show of great mercy that he has not killed him since Nile gave him the greatest gift he has ever known.

“I do not forgive you, Sebastien. I will not forgive you when you next apologize, either.”

Forgiving Sebastien will not mean anything until Yusuf is back in his arms. Until such a time, the betrayals Sebastien has committed against him remain. Nicolò cannot forgive anyone who causes Yusuf lasting harm. He struggles to forgive those that cause him even an ounce of momentary discomfort, much less a torment that has lasted nearly two centuries. 

He will forgive him, in time. Yusuf will ask that of him, and there is nothing that Yusuf will ever ask him for that he shall not receive.

He will not be telling Sebastien that, though.

They continue searching the grounds near the latest church. They find nothing of note.

Sebastien apologizes four times before they move on to the next.

-

Two days later, Nicolò and Booker meet Nile and Andy at the same church. It is their last option near Paris. They find a symbol carved into stone laid at the base of a small hill. A tree covers it in shade. They nearly miss it. 

At once, Nicolò begins to dig. Nile stands back as Andy and Booker join him. They dig until they hit something, and it rings out with a metallic clang.

At the sound, Nicolò drops to his knees from his place within the gaping ground. He starts clawing at the dirt with his hands. Andy and Booker dig faster, clearing the way until all they can see is a metal box, rusted chains wrapped tight around it. It takes a second, but then a banging noise starts up from inside it. 

Nile knows that sound.

Nicolò picks up his shovel from where he’d flung it aside and hits the chains until the shovel snaps in half. When it does, he yanks another from Booker’s hands and begins again. 

Finally, Andy leaves the dirt and retrieves her labrys. It takes three hits before the chains snap. They haven’t even completely fallen away before Nicolò is tugging at the iron coffin lid. Together, he and Booker lift the lid and toss it.

There is silence, and then Nicolò is wailing.

“Yusuf! Destati, Yusuf! Destati!”

For a moment, the only sound is the heart wrenching sobs Nicolò cannot contain. 

Then Yusuf begins to cough.

“Yusuf, sono qui. Sono qui, cuore mio. Ora sei al sicuro.” Nicolò drags Yusuf out of the coffin, until they’re both kneeling in a clear patch of dirt. Without a word, Andy and Booker help pull them to solid ground. Yusuf practically collapses into Nicolò, and they wind up kneeling and leaning on each other again.

"Nicolò," Yusuf croaks. His voice is soft, even while hoarse. "Nicolò."

Nicolò gazes at him as if he’s the most beautiful thing that he has ever known.

Nile suspects that for Nicolò, that is likely true. 

To Nile, however, Yusuf does not make for a pretty sight in his current state. His mess of curls is matted, and the fabric barely clinging to him is crusted with blood, both incredibly old and fairly new. His hands are damp with blood from how he’s pounded at the coffin lid. His shoes have worn from kicking. As he rests on his knees, they appear to tremble. His face is tucked into Nicolò's neck.

He is the picture of endless torment, but he lives, and he is now free.

She must make a sound, because Yusuf tilts his head up just enough to meet her eyes. Something clicks into place between them. 

It occurs to her, then, that while she was dreaming of Yusuf, he was dreaming of her. For the first time in 172 years, Yusuf got to see the world beyond the darkness. He got to see his family.

He got to see Nicolò, alive.

She smiles at him. Yusuf’s brown eyes seem to glow in the sun as he smiles back.

-

“Rest, my love,” Nicolò chides. He pushes gently at Yusuf’s chest until the man settles back into bed. They are all back at the safe house, piled into the bedroom together. When they had first gotten back, Nicolò had pulled Yusuf into the bathroom and cleaned him up. Now, he is dressed in the softest clothes that Nicolò could find, and quite disgruntled by his family-ordered bed rest. 

“As you wish, tesoro,” Yusuf sighs, voice only slightly tinged with annoyance. “Though, I do maintain that I have been at rest for quite some time.”

“You’ve been dying, Joe,” Andy deadpans. Yusuf scrunches his nose.

“Joe?” he asks, before his entire face lights up. “Oh, oh! I see. You’ve finally chosen a more modern name for me.” He positively beams, awash in delight. “It has only been near 200 years since I asked.”

“Yes, well. You’ve been otherwise engaged.” Andy smiles and flicks him on the forehead. “Now if we could only get Nicolò to agree to his.”

“You do not approve of your name, hayati?” 

Nicolò tenses. For so long now, he has avoided Andy’s attempts to drag him forward. He preferred to stay in the past, with Yusuf and the times in which he was happy.

But.

Yusuf is here now, in the present. Andy has gifted him a new name, an identity separate from who they used to be, and Yusuf has welcomed it with open arms.

Maybe it is time that Nicolò comes home.

“I do,” he says, and a smile grows on his face. Before he can try and control it, he’s grinning. “My name is Nicky.”

“Nicky,” Joe teases. He reaches out and intertwines their fingers. “I love it, tesoro, just as I love you.”

Nicky laughs, then leans over and kisses the teasing smile off of his face.

“As I love you, my heart.”

He is home.

-

“I’m sorry, Yusuf.”

If Joe had not spent the majority of the last two hundred years dying underneath the ground, he would probably punch Sebastien in the face. 

He still might, if he doesn’t stop apologizing in this decade.

“I forgive you, Sebastien. Need I repeat it twice more, perhaps en francais?”

Sebastien frowns and presses pause on the game they’re watching. 

Might? Joe meant that he was absolutely going to punch Sebastien in the face.

“It can’t be that simple. Nicky has been killing me every time he sees me for over 170 years now, and he wasn’t even the one buried alive.”

Perhaps Joe will be punching him many times.

“My heart has lived these years alone. He has thought himself abandoned by all that he believed in, left behind and cursed to immortality alone and full of grief. While I am aware of your struggle, Sebastien, and while I certainly know you feel a deep and lasting pain, I also know that you could never grasp the depths of grief that my Nicolò has experienced. His pain is a betrayal of all he lived for, and we have lived very long lives, Nicolò and I. Give him time, grant him your patience, and I assure you that Nicolò will come around.” Joe smiles, wide and truthful, and he sees the beginnings of a smile curving at Sebastien’s lips in response. 

“I’ve missed you,” Sebastien says quietly. “I knew you for such a short time in comparison to the others, but I missed you anyway.”

“I missed you as well, Booker,” Joe replies. “And I forgive you. Turn the game back on.”

The game unpauses. 

“Thank you, Joe,” Booker says. Joe only waves his hand in dismissal.

From the kitchen, Nicky smiles to himself and thinks As you wish, tesoro.

[hulahoopingholt]

Rebecca Bunch’s Boyfriend is a Hot Piece of Ass

Inspired by a conversation with @msjessicaday about this incredible t-shirt. Also on AO3.

Maybe it was the way the moonlight was streaming in through the windows, or the distant music playing from a car parked outside. Maybe it was because she was still feeling flushed after they had literally raced up the stairs to the door, or the thrill of her extremely predictable victory, or the memory of the intoxicating kiss she claimed as her prize.

Whatever the reason was, but it had all built up to this moment, this one, brilliant moment of absolute clarity, when she couldn't hold back her feelings any longer.

Rebecca Bunch's boyfriend was a hot piece of ass.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Hmm?"

Greg raised an eyebrow at her. "I believe I just heard you say your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass. Which, I believe, raises two follow up questions."

Rebecca's heart began to flutter in her chest. They'd only been on four dates -- at least, this time around. Five, if you counted that ice cream they got after her first open mic night. They hadn't actually sat down to discuss what they were to each other. It didn't seem necessary. They were just Rebecca and Greg, Bunch and Serrano, back to their old witty banter but now with the heat dialed up to Sahara levels.

And this time it also felt...

Like she didn't have to think about what they were.

Which was all well and good, except for moments like this, where she accidentally blurts out something she only meant to say in her head, and it has the potential to turn this really wonderful evening into one that's awkward and uncomfortable and...

"First, I'm the boyfriend, yes?"

Rebecca exhaled, then smiled. She and Dr. Akopian had talked about this. She and Greg weren't the same people they were three years ago. They'd proven that time and time again. There was no need to assume any discussion of softer, more tender emotions toward each other would end in disaster.

She had feelings for Greg, and he had them for her. They were on the same path. Everything else was just figuring out the details.

"Well, it was either going to be you or that waiter who brought us the free chocolate cake tonight, but all things considered, I still felt you brought more to the table. Metaphorically speaking." She paused. "Literally, too, when it's lasagna night."

Greg nodded. He was clearly trying to keep his face solemn, but given how he was practically glowing, it wasn't particularly effective. "Well, you can see why I had questions. He was a hot piece of ass, and he came bearing your favorite dessert."

"I figured we can work on replicating the recipe," Rebecca said. "Who needs him?"

"Fair point, and I do like a challenge," Greg said.

He was joking, but from his tone of voice, Rebecca could tell he was already contemplating the sugar to flour ratio and what type of cocoa powder to use. She loved when he got like this, when he lit up thinking of all the different ingredients he could experiment with to bring to Serrano's. He had really found his passion in life, and he was so good at it. She felt lucky to be able to watch him at work and to witness those moments when inspiration struck. In some ways, it felt more intimate than sex.

"You had a second question?"

Greg shook his head slightly, and Rebecca could practically see him mentally filing away the details for the undoubtedly far superior chocolate cake somewhere off in his brain. "Right. Tell me more."

"About..."

Greg reached out for Rebecca's hands, swinging them from side to side. "How your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass."

"Technically not a question," Rebecca pointed out.

Greg sighed dramatically. "Can you please share more with me about how your boyfriend is a hot piece of ass?"

"Are you fishing for compliments, Mr. Serrano?"

"Yes," Greg said immediately. "I am. It's the first time I've ever been referred to as a hot piece of ass and I want all the details committed to memory for when I am old and gray with wrinkly balls that sag down to my ankles."

"First time that you know of," Rebecca said with a smile.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

"Mmhmm." She bit her lip and then looked up to meet his gaze. "Paula always thought you were the sexiest thing since Richard Gere in Pretty Woman."

Greg laughed. "Fine, fine, don't tell me. Just see if I'm going to share my chocolate cake with you."

"And if I tell you, then do I get an extra slice?"

Greg kissed the tip of her nose. "I may even let you lick the spoon."

"Promise?" She didn't need the promise, of course. She'd happily tell Greg all the million and one things about him that made him so attractive to her, if they only had the time. It was just that she was so comfortable standing here like this, fingers intertwined, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, swaying ever so slightly. It was the same kind of feeling as when her alarm first went off in the morning, and her limbs were liquid and her movements languid as she was one with the blankets, soaking up their comfort and warmth as no thoughts entered her head more complex than "fuck, this feels good."

Point is, it was just really difficult to speak at the moment, and Greg deserved all kinds of amazing words, and she just needed one... more... minute.

"Rebecca?"

Rebecca blinked. “Right, sorry. Well, first, there’s obviously your face.”

“My face. Interesting.”

Rebecca nodded, then pulled back ever so slightly, both so she had a better view of said face and so she could hopefully focus a little better when she was no longer so intimately acquainted with how his breath smelled of espresso and chocolate. “Classic good looks but without looking like a generic polo shirt model. Handsome, yet approachable. Kind eyes. Fluffy eyebrows.” She smiled, and rubbed her thumb across the length of one of those delightful eyebrows, raising all the little hairs and then flattening them back down. “A very good face.”

“Promising,” Greg murmured. “Was hoping for something a bit more seductive, but…”

“And really great hair,” Rebecca continued. “And when that that one stray curl falls just so…”

“I thought we were aiming for more seductive.”

“It is seductive,” Rebecca said as she twirled her finger through said curl which, coincidentally enough, happened to fall just so at that exact moment. “It’s my favorite curl.”

“Your favorite curl.”

“My favorite curl,” Rebecca repeated. “Because it also reminds me of how lush and thick the rest of your hair is, and how much I love to grab it when you’re, shall we say, tickling my hedgehog.”

Greg’s cheeks flushed pink, and Rebecca briefly considered circling back to the very good face thing and how exquisite it looked when he was embarrassed, which was rare, or turned on, which was far more common, but decided to keep that little detail in her back pocket for when she needed it.

“And your arms,” Rebecca said. “Never really thought of myself as an arms girl, but have to say, your kickboxing classes have definitely turned me into one.”

“Well, I’m glad that $174 a month membership has paid off,” Greg said.

“Mmhmm,” Rebecca said. “And then I’d have to say… your style.”

“My style?”

“You’ve become quite the sharp dresser,” Rebecca said. She tugged at the front of his leather jacket. “This jacket, the sport coats...you’ve definitely stepped up your style game.”

“A decent suit makes me a hot piece of ass?”

“Of course it does. Especially when it’s tailored to properly highlight your hot ass.” With a wink, Rebecca gave his butt a firm squeeze, and then leaned in for a long, searing kiss.

“Wow,” Greg said when they finally parted. “If I had known all I needed to improve my love life was to buy a new wardrobe, I would have done it years ago.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Rebecca. “I loved your old flannel shirts too. They looked warm and cozy and comfortable. These just have a little extra zsuzh. ”

“I’d like to zsuzh your kangaroo,” Greg murmured, nuzzling Rebecca’s neck.

“I love it when you zsuzh me,” Rebecca said. She slid Greg’s jacket off his shoulders, then made quick work of undoing the buttons of his shirt while he started tugging at the sash of her dress.

Then, suddenly, it all stopped.

“Oh, my god.”

Greg paused from his efforts to pull the dress over her head and frowned. “What?”

“Your shirt.”

“My --” Greg looked down. “Oh, crap, I’m sorry, I ran out of time to do laundry and didn’t have any clean undershirts, I didn’t think --”

“No, you don’t understand,” Rebecca said. “This is my all-time favorite shirt.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “It is? Also, you have a favorite shirt?”

“I do,” Rebecca said, “and it’s this one.”

This one, was, of course, a black t-shirt with a rather large blue metallic-ish shark riding a bicycle on the front. His teeth were bared and his eyes were a little dazed, as if he, too, was wondering exactly why he was riding a bicycle but had resigned himself to his fate as it was easier to just keep going than to ask such silly existential questions such as what need does a shark have for a bicycle and how exactly is he moving those pedals.

“I hardly ever wore this shirt,” Greg said. “I’m surprised you even saw it.”

“I did, only once, and it made an impact,” Rebecca said. “Because it was just such a weird shirt and I never saw you in anything like it. And I always wanted to ask you about it. Did you get it because the metallic sheen to it made it stand out, or because it was a reference to a band, or because it was feminist or anti-feminist…”

“I think I just got it because it made me smile,” Greg said slowly.

Rebecca was vaguely aware that her hands were flying in every which direction and she should probably be a little less excited about finding out the rather mundane answer to a question that’s been circling her mind for years, but she didn’t care. This was big. HUGE. “See, but that’s perfect!”

“I feel like I’m missing something to this story.”

“You are, so I’m going to tell you,” Rebecca said. “You see, when you moved to Atlanta, I mostly tried not to think of you, but when I did, most of the time I pictured you wearing one of those flannel shirts, because that is what you wore 80% of the time, which never really made sense to me because we’re in California, dude, flannel generally seems kind of overkill. But the other times I pictured you, you were wearing this t-shirt. And I think it was because I always wanted to ask you about it, but I never got the chance. So in my head, this t-shirt symbolized all the conversations we never got to have, all the moments we never shared, all the things I’d never know about you...and now I do.” She smiled. “It made you smile. It’s perfect.”

Greg smiled, and his eyes were so soft, and his hands were so gentle when he reached up to cup Rebecca’s cheek that she nearly melted right then and there. “You’re a truly exceptional woman, Rebecca Bunch. You know that, right?”

She reached up to cover his hand with her own. “Well, I do now.”

He kissed her, and it was sweet and gentle and perfect and Rebecca was so glad, so glad that this was where she was right at this moment.

“So, do you want it?”

“Want what?”

“The shirt,” Greg said. “I think you should have it.”

“Really?” Rebecca asked in a voice that was probably an immensely high-pitched squeal, judging by Greg’s barely perceptible wince. “I can have it?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “After all, isn’t that something boyfriends do? Give their girlfriends their clothing to remember them by?”

“Oh my god, I would love that, thank you” Rebecca said. “Can I name him? Can I name the shark?”

“Sure,” said Greg. “Maybe something like Rage, or Bluebeard, or --”

“Stewart,” Rebecca said. “His name is definitely Stewart.”

“Stewart’s perfect,” Greg said.

“So, can I try it on?” Rebecca asked, pulling off her dress.

“Oh, so we’re… we’re really doing this now? Okay, sure,” Greg said, and pulled off his shirt with one hand in a way that would have really turned Rebecca on if she weren’t so distracted by this amazing shark shirt that was now hers. “Here.”

The evening had taken a distinctly G-rated turn of events, which Rebecca did somewhat regret, as Greg and his rather capacious member were not to be missed, but there would still be time for them later. After she tried on this super cool t-shirt she had thought about for years, and now she’d get to hold onto because her boyfriend, Greg Serrano, gave it to her.

A huge grin on her face, she pulled it over her head, and then immediately ran into a problem.

Well, two problems.

“Goddamn boobs,” Rebecca muttered.

“Hey!” Greg said. “Those boobs are beautiful and magnificent and I will not have you insulting them like that.”

“Of course I’m not insulting them,” Rebecca said. She was sweating a bit, still trying to tug the shirt down over her chest, but could see it was a rapidly losing battle. “Ordinarily they look pretty fly in shirts. But I guess the old trope of sharing your boyfriend’s clothing doesn’t really work when you’ve got a pair of triple-D jugs.” She sighed and looked down at poor Stewart, who appeared mildly deformed, all stretched out on his sad little bicycle. “Ah well, it was a nice try.”

“Honestly, I think it works,” Greg said. “Aren’t crop tops in now?”

Laughing, Rebecca swatted his arm, and then, with a little more effort than she’d like to admit, pulled the top back off and tossed it aside. “A little less sass, a little more zsuzh.”

“Challenge accepted,” Greg said, and with a single kiss, banished all thoughts of sharks and t-shirts from her mind.

“I got you something.”

Rebecca looked up from her notebook where she’d been idly writing down song lyric ideas over a cappuccino at Serrano’s. It was one of her favorite places to go for inspiration. Between all the people watching all the customers and wondering what their stories were as they conversed over copious amounts of carbs, and the generally warm and fuzzy feeling she got whenever she saw Greg walk by, the atmosphere was just ripe for her creative juices.

Plus Greg would always slip her biscotti when he could tell she was getting restless. Perks of having a boyfriend who owned the best Italian restaurant in town. Not that she was biased. Even Chris agreed.

“You did? That’s so sweet.”

“Well, I didn’t really get it,” Greg said. He handed her a gift bag and sat in the chair next to her. “I made it. Well, I had Sophia make it. You know Sophia, really tall, works here on weekends?”

“Of course I know Sophia,” Rebecca said as she pulled the tissue paper out of the bag. “She always makes sure I get the bread without the butt.”

“Right, well, I asked her to make it. I just thought --”

“Oh, my god. Greg.”

Greg bit his lower lip. “Do you like it?”

It was the shark on a bicycle t-shirt. Except it was no longer a t-shirt. Now Stewart was proudly riding his bicycle on a somewhat oversized and ridiculously fluffy pillow.

“It’s perfect,” Rebecca said. “I love it.”

“I just thought old Stewart had done his time making me smile, so now it was time to pass him onto you,” Greg said, his lips curving upward. “And since he couldn't fulfill his duties as a t-shirt, then maybe he’d do better as a pillow that you could hug and… think of me? And… smile?"

Rebecca squeezed Greg’s hand. “You big old softie,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss. “Thank you. I will. Always.”

Greg smiled and, after one more quick kiss, stood up. “Well, I should get back to work. Happy writing.”

Rebecca watched him head back to the kitchen, tucking the pillow beneath her chin and squeezing it tight. How lucky was she to be here, in West Covina, writing music while sitting in her boyfriend’s restaurant, living her dream while being able to watch him live his?

It was pretty damn inspiring, is what it was.

With a renewed sense of productivity, she plopped the pillow in the chair across from her and turned to a fresh page in her notebook.

“Well, Stewart, time to get back to work,” she said.

Stewart looked back at her, still somewhat dazed, still riding his ridiculous bicycle.

Rebecca smiled, and pulled out her pen.

[redemptivexheroics]

Muse Interview Meme;

PICK ONE OF YOUR MUSES. FILL  IN THE QUESTIONS/STATEMENTS AS IF YOU ARE BEING INTERVIEWED FOR AN ARTICLE AND YOU WERE YOUR MUSE. TAG TEN PEOPLE TO DO THIS MEME. (Repost not reblog)

Tagged By: No One

Tagging: @alittlenotordinary @anditsxsorrows @naturaluthor @araethi @inkdreamt @runningwithbeastsx @darkestbeforedxwn @argentsarrowwrites @abrokenwitch

1. WHAT IS YOUR NAME? “Cameron Davonte Reignhart”

2. WHAT IS YOUR REAL NAME? “What do you mean, what is my real name? That is my real name, mate”

3. DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU WERE CALLED THAT? "Well I was named after my great grandfather, and my middle name, Davonte was the name of mother’s best friend who died when he was sixteen”

4. ARE YOU SINGLE OR TAKEN? "As of now, I’m currently single...not sure if the plans of a relationship is in the near future as I’m not ready for a commitment just yet” 

5. HAVE ANY ABILITIES OR POWERS? "Well I am a vampire mate, you know the common abilities, enhanced strength, speed, hearing, healing, I can compel others, none of that Twilight rubbish” 

6. STOP BEING A MARY SUE/GARY STU. "I have no idea what that is but it sounds insulting” 

7. WHAT’S YOUR EYE COLOR? “Green, black when I feed or I’m angry” 

8. HOW ABOUT YOUR HAIR COLOR?

“My hair is red, its gotten a little darker than it use to be when I was younger” 

9. HAVE YOU ANY FAMILY MEMBERS?

"Currently I have my nephew who I haven’t seen in a bloody long time and my sister who is actually alive after faking her death. I think I have a great niece, cousin or something, not sure about how she’s family to me”

10. OH? WHAT ABOUT PETS? “No pets currently though when I was younger I did have a pet fox, don’t ask. Foxes fascinated me”

11. THAT’S COOL I GUESS, NOW TELL ME ABOUT SOMETHING YOU DON’T LIKE. "I really hate that bloody Twilight series...I mean come on, we don’t sparkle like diamonds in the sun we burst into flames. Whoever that Stephanie Meyers woman is she needs to do some actual research next time she decides to write books dealing with vampires”

12. DO YOU HAVE ANY HOBBIES/ACTIVITIES YOU LIKE DOING? "I love to paint and play the piano, that only hobbies I currently have”

13. EVER HURT ANYONE BEFORE? “Of course, I may be a vampire but I’m also a hunter. I’ve hurt plenty of people, most of them who actually deserved”

14. EVER….KILLED ANYONE BEFORE?"

“Yes, more than one but it was either them or loads of innocent people”

15. WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL ARE YOU?

"I don’t know how to answer that question, sorry mate”

16. NAME YOUR WORST HABITS. “I can’t really say I have any worse habits”

17. DO YOU LOOK UP TO ANYONE AT ALL? "Well...I did look up to my mother, I know people would expect me to look up to my father but honestly even though I learned everything I know from him he honestly scared the bloody mess out of me, let me tell you mate Alexander Reignhart is not a man you wanted to cross before and after he became a vampire. But my mother, she was a real gem. She was as loving as she was fierce” 

18. GAY, STRAIGHT, OR BISEXUAL? “Straight as a board as this today’s generation would say” 

19. DO YOU GO TO SCHOOL? “School, mate I graduated from school almost two hundred years ago, so no”

20. DO YOU EVER WANT TO MARRY AND HAVE KIDS ONE DAY? “Get married...yeah maybe one day I will settle down but as for kids. I’m a vampire, and though I have seen proof in my sister that vampires can procreate, there’s a fifty fifty chance that the mother would survive childbirth of a half human and half vampire...but I would love a kid not exactly getting my hopes up about that one”

21. DO YOU HAVE ANY FANBOYS/FANGIRLS?"

“What’s a bloody fangirl?”

22. WHAT ARE YOU MOST AFRAID OF?

"If there is one thing I value more than anything, its family, I would be nothing without them. I was a wreck when I lost my parents, and though I have discovered that my sister and nephew are still alive I will fight to protect them” 

23. WHAT DO YOU USUALLY WEAR? “Well back in the 1800′s and early 1900′s I wore a lot of suits. Now that I’m in the 21st century I’ve grown accustomed to jeans, flannels, sweaters, and leather jackets”

24. DO YOU LOVE SOMEONE? "Love? As in romantically, not at the moment, no”

25. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WET YOURSELF? "I don’t understand the question”

26. WHAT CLASS ARE YOU? (HIGH CLASS, MIDDLE CLASS, LOW CLASS) "Well if I had to say, I’m part of the upper class” 

27. HOW MANY FRIENDS DO YOU HAVE? 

“Mate, all my friends have been dead for a very long time, there’s no need to even answer that question”

28. WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS ON PIE?

“I’m more of a cake person, but I won’t say no to pie”

29. FAVOURITE DRINK?

“Whisky”

30. WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE PLACE?

“London, no place like home”

"31. ARE YOU INTERESTED IN SOMEONE?

“At this moment, no one, I’ve been back for two months, haven’t really gotten the time to get attached to anyone”

32. WHAT’S YOUR BRA CUP SIZE AND/OR HOW BIG IS YOUR WILLY?

"I refuse to answer this question”

33. WOULD YOU RATHER SWIM IN THE LAKE OR THE OCEAN?

"A lake, an ocean is a bit...much”

34. WHAT’S YOUR TYPE?

"Don’t really have a type...but if I had to guess, strong, independent women always get my attention”

35. ANY FETISHES?

“No.”

36. SEME OR UKE? TOP OR BOTTOM? DOMINANT OR SUBMISSIVE? “I’m sorry but my sex life is none of your business.”

37. Camping or Indoors?

“I prefer the indoors, nice fire, a glass of whisky and a good book”

38. ARE YOU WANTING THE QUIZ TO END?

"Yes, there are other things I could be doing instead entertaining someone’s curiosity”