#if it's not obvious that first paragraph is dripping with so much sarcasm that if it was a physical post-it it would disintegrate
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holiday gatherings are always an ~interesting~ way to get new perspectives. like yes, please go on about how the 'young people' are refusing to take on responsibility and hardwork and all they do is stand around waiting for the government handouts that you're tired of paying taxes for - yes, this seems totally reasonable coming from people who are retired, don't talk regularly with anyone younger then 40, and spend every waking day watching The Daily News. thank you for that totally necessary perspective on my generation who've grown up in an ENTIRELY different economy and climate then you did, very helpful.
another fun holiday thing you can do is try to talk down a boomer's conservative anti-homeless (as in the people experiencing it, not the structure itself obvs) talking points by trying to say you Don't Quite Think every homeless person is a irresponsible druggie trying to swindle you, by saying that helping via giving food is still a good practice. 'last time I was in timmies an unhoused man asked if I could just get him a coffee and something to eat, didn't even ask for money, so I got him a cup and timbits because, you know, he's hungry and if you're worried about it that's at least a a safe way -" "but was he really hungry?! how do you know??" ??????¿¿¿¿¿¿¿¿????? WHY. FOR WHAT OTHER PURPOSE WOULD HE ASK????????? FOR FUN?????? FOR YUKS?????? TO WATCH ME PAY $7 FOR SHITTY COFFEE AND DOUGHNUTS HE CAN'T EVEN RETURN JUST TO LAUGH MANICALLY AND NOT EAT THEM????????? WHO THE HELL DOES THAT????????????????? if you think a disheveled man who was wincing in pain the whole time reduces himself to politely begging for just a bit of food is one of those Evil Homeless Trying To Swindle You, you wouldn't last a fucking minute in a big city.
lastly, you can nearly tear your hair out wondering WHY THE FUCK IT MATTERS if people are using the government supports to help with addiction issues or parenting - and then watch them dig their heels in even harder when you propose the Radical Belief that the government should be a structure that helps us and gives aid to people, because otherwise straight up What Is The Point. 'pEoPle NEed tO tAkE rEsPoNSibiLIty & dO ThE hArDWorK!!!!!!' alright then FINE I guess tim over here will just live a miserable fucking life of working three jobs; doing a 9-5 retail shift, spending his weekends as an uber driver, and then taking nightshifts at a factory only to fucking die of a stress-induced heart-attack at 45 with less money in his account then you have now. but I guess he learned a great lesson of being a Productive Slave of the Capitalist Market!!!
in the end, all this does is remind me of the sentiment that even if I was being swindled for a couple of nickles, or even if someone took the 'easy way' out instead, I know that that's on them - and regardless, I still want to be the person who offers a helping hand up instead of being the one to kick them back down.
#if it's not obvious that first paragraph is dripping with so much sarcasm that if it was a physical post-it it would disintegrate#anyways love holiday gatherings#politics#canadian politics#conservatism is a joke truly#leftism#leftblr#I hope this doesn't come across as boastful I'm just trying to give a larger picture#of how truly wack it was that upon saying I gave some food to someone who was hungry it was IMMEDIATELY assumed that that person was lying#it still boggles me#I actually did have a nice holiday this is just what happens when I visit a certain sector of my family#funnily enough my dad who I've been (not so) subtly influenced by my mom was a real conservative hardass especially over money#is actually the only one with enough nuance and understanding of both the subject and that the whole thing is more layered then others thin#so he actually said the least except for when it came to the economy#it is just so wild to me the idea that the gov shouldn't be 'giving handouts' and doing all these extra things for the populace#when LITERALLY THAT'S 90'S OF THE GOVERNMENTS JOB#FOR WHAT OTHER REASON DO WE HAVE THE GOV?????JUST FOR FUN??????????????#LIKE I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU#ALSO just because I couldn't come up with an immediate response and stuttered when you wanted 'proof'#for one of your conservative double-speech takes#doesn't mean YOU'RE RIGHT and that you can go 'eXacTLY!!!'#I HAVE THE MUSH MOUTH AND I JUST NEEDED AN EXTRA SECOND TO FIND MY REPLY FUCK YOU VERY MUCH
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call me cupid
w/c: 3.5k
warnings: very mild angst and a few swears
summary: despite your hatred for valentine’s day, peter attempts to make you a card
a/n: happy valentine’s day my loves!! i hope y’all get to spend some time with your people today and eat lots of chocolate <3 love you & enjoy mwah
-
it’s no secret that peter is terrible with words. he gets so flustered he can’t talk or forgets what he wants to say altogether. school presentations are torture. ordering food out is impossible. he’s accepted it at this point, that speaking just isn’t for him.
the one place it doesn’t come across is on paper. peter is ridiculously smart, and he knows all the right words to string together, which is why writing you a valentine should be no trouble at all. should be no trouble at all.
to tell the truth, he’s been sitting at his kitchen table with a blank sheet of paper in front of him for what feels like hours. nothing is coming to him. he’s not sure why this is so hard. you’re his girlfriend, he loves you, he’s said it so many times in every way he could think to. what’s different about it now?
everyone puts way too much pressure on giving the perfect gift when they should really just be enjoying each other’s company on a holiday about love. or, in your words, a meaningless holiday that was created by capitalists as another excuse to take people’s money.
alright, you aren’t too fond of valentine’s day.
it makes anyone who’s single feel like shit and anyone who’s in a relationship lose their shit.
only mj agreed when you shared your criticisms. ned and betty gave you looks like you were insane, and flash muttered something about you being undateable. peter had laughed and swung an arm around your shoulders, but he didn’t fully agree.
although valentine’s day has its flaws, peter likes to see it as twenty four hours of extra appreciation for the people in his life. you can buy chocolate for your friends and family. it doesn’t have to be a significant other, really. him and ned would do it before he had you and ned had betty.
peter wants to remind you how loved you are even if you’re not into the festivities like he is, that bringing him to writing your card. it’s a simple and clinically underrated way of expressing his gratitude. he’d write you love letters every day if he didn’t suck at them.
may comes out of her room to see peter in the same place he’s been since he got home from school. she looks at him through her glasses, smiling as she comes into the room. he’s tapping his pencil on the table, eraser down, searching his mind for anything to write.
“still nothing?” may asks him, making her way over to the cabinets. peter puts down the pencil and sighs. his shoulders slump. “nope. i haven’t gotten past the intro.” “intro, huh?” she teases her newphew and grabs a jar of sauce. “y/n isn’t your teacher, kiddo. you’re not writing her an essay.” she looks at peter over her shoulder. a sheepish smile creeps onto his face.
“you know what i mean.” he reads over the only words on his paper at the moment. dear y/n. he’s starting to feel like spongebob the one time he wrote a paper. “what are you making?” peter asks may so he can temporarily take the focus off his unwritten valentine. “pasta,” may shakes the box in her hand. “and meatballs.”
“should i dial 911 now or wait until we’re in flames?” peter jokes about her awful cooking skills. may shoos him off and puts the box of pasta on the counter. “worry about your own kitchen nightmare.” she nods at the sheet of paper tormenting him. frowning, he glances back at her. “i’m the worst, may. i really don’t know what to write.”
may struggles to open the jar of sauce as she replies. “i thought you said- jesus.” it pops off. “y/n doesn’t like valentine’s day.” she slides over a pot from the stove and dumps the sauce in. peter stares up at the ceiling. “she doesn’t.” that’s probably why he’s having such a hard time. “why are you writing her a card, then?” may questions, turning on a burner.
“because, i dunno, it’s nice? it’ll make her happy? she might not care, but i do.” he mumbles the last part. he’s a bit of a hopeless romantic, so he hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea you had of not getting each other presents. you’re treating it like a regular day. some takeout and cuddles is all you’re doing.
peter would rather buy you things until his pockets are empty. not that there’s much in them, anyway. the point is that you deserve proper spoiling instead of corny words in his shitty handwriting.
“peter, honey. it might be better to stick with what y/n wants,” may suggests while stirring the sauce in the pot. she’s well aware that a few paragraphs from peter won’t change your mind. your opinions belong to you, and there’s nothing he can do about it, though he does have good intentions.
ignoring what may just said, peter makes a request. “what if you help me write it?” she faces the stove again. he can picture her playful smile when she quirks back, “she’s not my girlfriend.” “no, but you’re a girl... a woman,” he corrects himself, earning a scoff from may. “you’d probably know what sounds good.”
“you know y/n better than me, peter. do it on your own,” she exhales and turns back around with the wooden spoon in her hand. “it’ll be more... heartfelt.” peter hates that may is right because he’s completely stuck. his heart is being stupid today. “okay. i’ll try.” he gives her a slow nod. “why don’t you take a break? come stir the sauce. i’ll start the pasta.”
peter gets up from the table and grabs the spoon from may. she pinches his cheek on her way to the sink, getting a tight lipped smile from him.
this is not good.
-
the next day at school, peter asks around the lunch table for advice while you’re on line getting food. he feels guilty about it because may told him not to. he’s never going to get your valentine done if he doesn’t, though. it isn’t the worst thing in the world to bring on some co-writers.
“ok, what do you have so far?” betty asks, fully invested in the situation. she’s hoping this will switch up your views on valentine’s day. peter pulls out the same piece of paper from last night and says verbatim what’s on it. “dear y/n.” he looks up at ned and betty, the corners of his mouth twitching down. ned motions with his hand for peter to go on.
“that’s it,” peter confesses and folds the paper back up in shame. “dude, you told us it was a work in progress,” ned winces, betty taking his hand that’s resting on her shoulder. “where’s the progress?” betty patronizes him. they’re making him feel worse than he already did. what great co-writers he’s collaborating with.
peter throws a hand up, an eye roll included. “yeah, it’s terrible. can you help me or not?” mj narrows her own eyes at peter from the other end of his bench. she’s not interested in participating when the conversation is about forcing you to celebrate a holiday you don’t like.
“ooh!” betty squeals and squeezes ned’s hand. “you should make a list.” ned grins, leaning his head on hers. “genius, babe.” “a list of what?” peter furrows his eyebrows as he looks between the two of them. “what you love about y/n,” she explains, ned adding on, “stuff you do together, or you appreciate.”
“put whatever you come up with into sentences and voilà,” betty says in her best french accent. “oui oui,” ned agrees, both of them giggling. that doesn’t sound half bad. peter could manage a list about you. “thank you so much, guys. you literally just saved valentine’s day,” he confidently tucks his paper into his pocket. “it’s what we do,” ned tells him coolly.
“you never asked what i think,” mj cuts in, staring down her friends, who reluctantly meet her gaze. she pushes her bag of goldfish aside and raises an eyebrow. “mj, we know how you feel about valentine’s day.” peter presses his lips together. “y/n feels the same way,” mj reminds him dryly.
it’s true, but he doesn’t want to hear that right now. he’s having a breakthrough.
like clockwork, you appear at the table. you slip into the spot next to peter and put down your lunch tray. “what’d i miss?” you comment on the obvious tension, eyeing betty for an explanation. mj gives it to you. “valentine’s day discourse,” she tells you knowingly. peter shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to.
he technically has.
“yuck,” you murmur, winding your arms around peter’s neck. “yuck, yuck, yuck.” he finds your words ironic because you then kiss his cheek, and peck his lips when he turns his head. peter puts a hand on your side and lets his eyes go up and down your face. a smile spreads across it, which he returns without thinking about. mj huffs in disapproval. she’s seen enough pda.
-
peter makes his list later that night. he decided he isn’t being inauthentic because he’s coming up with everything himself. he breezes right through it, jotting down what he loves most about you across the paper. it’s a mess. scribbled out misspellings and shreds of eraser, single words and whole phrases covering both sides. he’s proud of his actual progress.
he’ll write the official letter tomorrow since you’re coming over tonight. he at least has his material. the next, thankfully final, step is to reword it.
you’re ranting to peter about some drama with one of your teachers. he listens intently as always, chuckling when you crack jokes and grinning the entire time, feeling so lucky to have the most passionate, say whatever is on her mind girlfriend ever. seriously, it’s inspiring to watch.
“no, like, i never know what’s going on in that class,” you snort, peter snaking his arms around your middle from behind. “because you don’t pay attention,” he hums with his face nuzzled into the back of your neck. “because it doesn’t make any sense!” you defend yourself. his lips brush against your bare skin, drawing a giggle out of you.
“back to what i was saying,” your voice drips with sarcasm. the two of you naturally gravitate to his room, you walking in first. “she called on me, and i- what’s this?” you escape peter’s arms and head over to his desk. crap, he was working on your valentine and forgot to put it away. it caught your attention because it’s surrounded by crumpled papers and glitter.
peter was... experimenting... with designs for the front of the card. he’s learned that he isn’t too artistic either.
“wait, don’t read that,“ peter tries, but you’ve already got the list in your hands. he anxiously sucks his lower lip into his mouth and comes to stand next to you.
you first see the ‘dear y/n,’ then focus in on a few other words. my person forever, which makes you coo at the paper. insane (in the best way), which makes you gasp dramatically. i know you don’t like valentine’s day, but...
you drop the card back on the desk and let out a breath, shutting your eyes as irritation creeps in. it wouldn’t be fair for you to be mad at peter because it’s a sweet gesture, it really is. just, not for you personally. you’re on opposite sides of the valentine’s spectrum. you despise it, he sort of loves it. you’d hoped to meet somewhere in the middle.
“i thought we said no gifts,” you keep your voice level and spin around to look at peter. his face is painted with guilt. “it’s a card,” he murmurs, then meets your eyes with his brows knitted together. “i can’t even give you a card?” “i mean...” you shrug and shake your head. “look, peter. we had an agreement. i’m not doing valentine’s day.”
his disappointment comes out in the form of hanging his head. “yeah, you’re right. sorry.”
may tried to tell him this would happen, mj tried to tell him, and now you’re telling him. he should’ve expected it. he isn’t sure why he’s being so mopey about it because he was fully aware of your hatred for anything with the word valentine in it. it still hurts. peter just wishes you’d let him have the one day to love you and only you, give you some special attention.
“it’s nothing against you, babe,” you reassure him, noticing the shift in his mood. you put a hand on his shoulder. “i really just don’t like valentine’s day. it feels so... fake to me.” peter musters up a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. it drops when you loop your arms around his torso.
“if i celebrated, you’d be the first person i’d wanna spend it with.” you punctuate your words with a kiss to his cheek. he rests his chin on your head, you nuzzling your own cheek into his sweater. he’s feeling a bit better now. it’s not about him, that’s what he needs to remind himself. “thanks, baby,” peter speaks lowly into the air. you hum as if to say no problem.
scratch literally everything he’s done.
-
peter rolls over in his bed, rubbing at his eyes as his alarm goes off. it’s today. happy valentine’s day to... himself. he doesn’t think you’d want to hear it.
he’s not as broken up about everything as the other day. you have your reasons for not celebrating, and peter accepts them. hey, he still gets to spend the whole day with you. you’re technically having an unspoken valentine’s date.
he gets up from his bed with a yawn and starts to dig through his drawers for an outfit. you should be over soon.
before you head over to peter’s, you decide to make a quick stop at cvs for a few things. you ended up feeling pretty terrible about snapping on him essentially for loving you. it was over a harmless valentine, something to make you feel good and be an outlet for the hundreds of romantic bones in his body. basically, you were bitter about having a thoughtful boyfriend.
you want to make it up to him by giving him gifts instead. you’ll never be down with the whole exploitive and capitalistic side of valentine’s day, but there’s a deeper meaning to it than what you give it credit for. you see that now. peter was able to show his love for you through a homemade mess of a card, and you felt it. the price tags don’t matter. the meaning does.
dressed in his nicest sweater with his hair all styled, peter answers your knocking at his door. a grin instantly paints his face as he takes you in. you’re bundled up in a coat and holding a bag by your side. “hey,” he greets you and lets you past him. you shut the door behind him, returning the smile and winding an arm around his neck for a hug. his drapes around your back.
“hey. happy valentine’s day.” “happy valentine’s-“ peter realizes what he’s about to say and what you just said, then stops himself. “what?” he breaks the hug, squinting at your odd behavior. you’re the last person he’d expected to hear that from. “it’s valentine’s day. so, happy valentine’s day,” you tell him like it’s nothing.
he stays quiet while you shrug off your coat and throw it over one of the kitchen chairs. you bring your bag along with you, peter following you in. he’s suspicious. intrigued, and suspicious. it’s been less than a day since he last say you. you had a change of heart that fast? you aren’t the biggest valentine’s day anti he knows anymore?
“where’s may?” you wonder aloud, taking both of peter’s hands in your now free ones. he eyes the shopping bag you put down while you lace your fingers together. “with happy. they’re getting brunch.” he’s never particularly psyched to talk about their relationship. it’s always been in a joking way, though. now, he sounds genuinely upset to go over may’s whereabouts.
“they’re so cute,” you comment, tugging on peter’s hands so he looks at you. “you good?” “great,” peter half lies and nods, then presses a reassuring kiss to your cheek. he’s not bad. puzzled is the word. what you say next only adds to it.
“good. i have a few things for you,” you beam at him and grab your shopping bag off the chair. that’s what that’s for? peter isn’t fully sure what you’re up to. it doesn’t stop a smile from stretching across his lips, though.
“what happened to no presents?” he tests you as you reach into the bag. “well, i feel bad about how i acted the other day.” you pull out a heart shaped box of chocolates. “the card was really sweet, and i was too caught off guard to appreciate it. i’m sorry, pete.” peter’s eyes twinkle at you, gazing as you give him a smile with a hint of shyness behind it. you’re leaving your comfort zone and entering his.
“i was wrong and cynical and just, yeah. happy valentine’s day,” you add on and shove the box into his hand. he finally grins, so wide and then lets out a breathy laugh. “thanks, y/n. i know it was probably hard to shop being surrounded by this stuff.” he holds up the box. he’s right. you’ll unfortunately be seeing pink and red for weeks. “it was, but i did it for you.” you happily open up your arms for him.
peter puts down the chocolates and pulls you into his arms, his cheek squished against the side of your head as he hugs you to his chest. “oh my god, i love you so much,” he mumbles out, you squeezing him in response. “i love you, pete.” you press a quick kiss to his neck and hold him at arm’s length so you can see him. “i have something else for you.”
“baby,” peter coos, a pout on his lips. “you don’t have to do all of this. i would’ve been fine without the chocolates, even.” “stop, you deserve it,” you shut down the part of him that’s way too nice and selfless. “you’re my real present,” he says lower and with a toothy smile. shaking your head, you reach behind you and into the bag.
he can’t believe you’ve switched stances on valentine’s day. you’re the present pusher, and he’s refusing them. peter thinks it’s some sort of miracle that you’re not only acknowledging the holiday, you’re also partaking in it. his hopeless romantic side tells him it’s actually love, and it is. that’s the cheesy, hallmark movie truth. you suffered through shopping at a heart themed cvs because you love him. simple.
you return with a pink envelope that you place into peter’s hand. his face softens as he closes his fingers around it. “y/n, you made me a card?” “kind of,” you laugh at his overstatement. it’s obviously pre-made. you’d used a pen to fill it out in the store, scribbled a few words and tucked it into the envelope.
“it really doesn’t compare to yours, though,” you simultaneously warn and compliment him. peter dismisses you with a lighthearted click of his tongue. “oh, shush. that was only a rough draft.” “which proves my point even more. open it.” you grip onto the bottom of his sweater and grin.
he keeps his eyes on you while ripping open the envelope, then looks down and chuckles at the gag of the card. it has r2d2 and r4d4 from star wars on the front. inside is already written, “r4 is red and r2 is blue. if i was the force then i’d be with you.” you giggle to yourself, watching him read what you wrote next. i love you more every day, especially on valentine’s. xo, y/n.
peter holds the card to his side and slings an arm around your waist. “they make star wars valentines?” he murmurs, another smile breaking out on his face, one that you of course return. you use his sweater to pull him closer. “apparently. perfect for you.” peter tosses the card down next to the chocolates, both arms now holding you.
“thank you so much, baby. you’re an angel,” he sighs and pecks your lips after. “call me cupid,” you answer.
you give him a longer kiss back, tilting your head up to deepen it. your hands find their place on his biceps, earning a hum from peter as he moves his lips against yours. you can feel his love in every little movement, how he hugs your waist like you’re made of glass, rests his forehead against yours. when your lips mutually detach, peter speaks first, voice slightly husky.
“happy valentine’s day, cupid.”
you breathe out, peter closing his eyes in content.
“happy valentine’s day, r2.”
#tom holland#tom holland fluff#tom holland imagine#tom holland x reader#tom holland x you#tom holland x y/n#tom holland smut#peter parker#peter parker imagine#peter parker fluff#peter parker x you#peter parker x y/n#peter parker fic#peter parker fanfiction#peter parker smut
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Idiot(s)
The electric shine of the earthy green and plain white hits him like a punch. Punch me in the face. He shakes the phantom voice off, and turns down the brightness of his screen. It is, after all, only a trick of his laptop, that blinding white - NO IT’S NOT! IT’S NOT OKAY! - that oh so familiar blinding cold white light in the laboratory in Baskerville -
No, I’m not there, John tells himself firmly, I’m here, in Baker Street. He looks up, and there, just where the lights still swimming just underneath his vision from his laptop and the soft glow stealing through the window from the dusk outside intermingle, sits Sherlock on the sofa, lanky knees right against his chest, eyes so rapidly scanning his computer on the coffee table that John wonders how he has not got a headache already. Well, at least he’s using his own laptop, for once. Purse his lips as he might, he still cannot quite stop the little smile that is forming, and even if he could, the softening of his eyes would just give it away at once. I’m here, and Sherlock is here, it’s all fine. That was why he chased away those phantom voices and images, because now is not two years ago, when - when. Now they are both here, living and breathing. Breathing the same air too, in fact.
Clearing his throat, John turns his gaze back on his blog, and finds his eyes immediately resting on ‘The Sign of Three’, bolded, underlined and in that earthy green theme-colour of his blog. The many little spears of exclamation marks keep jutting up, mocking him, as if they were thinking that if they succeeded in poking his eyes out, they could prove to him how blind he was. Well, that will not do as his latest post, because a post from when Sherlock had no one to play Cluedo with him is simply, wrong
That chapter is done. John clicks the little button saying “New Post”, also underlined and green, but John feels like this green could be a whiff from a pasture just after rain. Being poetic again are we, John?, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock teases, and John tells it half-heartedly to shut up. A big blank rectangle greets him after the page loads, the slender vertical line flashing innocently in the empty space for the title, a balm to sore eyes really. Still, balm or not, he stares at it blindly for a moment. Where can he start after all? It has been months, and every millisecond in it stretches whenever it pleases, tempo rubato, into aeons. Aeons packed with action and confusion and suspense, granted, but still.
The obvious thing first, then, John shrugs internally, his left forefinger pressing the Shift key while his right taps crisply on the B. Back to 221B appears in the title bar, bolded and bold, and just like that, these 10 letters and 2 spaces in between, with their next-to-nothing weight, tilts John’s ground by two-fifth of a degree - no, not back into a perfect horizontal line, because that would be boring wouldn’t it? Well, I’m never bored, he remembers himself said, to Mycroft, in this very living room. Good. That’s good, isn’t it? Oh, God, yes.
“What are you typing?” Sherlock’s voice rumbles across from the sofa.
“Blog.” John keeps tapping away, Yes, as some of you may have heard already, we’re both back to 221B Baker Street. Solving crimes - well Sherlock solving crimes, and me blogging about them, which is what I’m doing rig-
“About?” The detective smirks just the slightest, but John is not sure if he is just about to make fun of his writing, again, or if, like him, he is remembering a very similar conversation.
“You.” John decides to play along anyway. A few seconds pass in silence, during which John feels the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze on the side of his face. He does not look up, because he does not look up the moment Sherlock looks at him and whenever Sherlock looks at him. He simply does not. Well, at least he has to finish this paragraph first. -ht now. But on the first day I moved back, no sooner had I swung my bags onto my bed - still made up and all that, which was amazing, and no doubt the credits must go to Mrs. Hudson - the bell rang. So we were thrown right back into the chase. Well, I couldn’t have asked for a better “welcome h-
“You mean us.” At this, John does look up sharply. So much for at least finishing this paragraph. But Sherlock has already glued his eyes back into whatever research he is in the middle of, as if he hadn’t just said something truly remarkable. Because it is, remarkable.
“Yes, if you say so.” John is careful to keep his tone light, offering an out for Sherlock to drop the conversation if he so wants. “I know so. And so do you, so stop being obtuse on purpose.”
Ha, trust Sherlock to flatter and insult with the same line. “Okay, us then.” And the air eases, because they have never needed many words to be on the same page.
“So glad that we have finally come to an understanding,” the detective must have intended it to come out dripping with sarcasm, but the signal must have been rerouted during transmission. That has been happening more often lately, John duly notes. He supposes that he should take this as progress, instead of the unattainable hope that Sherlock will leave their poor fridge alone. Truth be told, though, John would not have their fridge any other way. “Now, if you would not miss your blog too much for a couple of hours - dinner?”
The blogger jumps out of his reverie, “oh, starving. Where?” Sherlock snaps his computer shut and rises, already looking to his Belstaff, “Angelo’s?” John nods, getting up from his armchair while the other man is putting on his scarf. And soon, two silhouettes, one tall, taking advantage of a good coat and a short friend, and one short, the said short friend, are seen walking down Baker Street.
Angelo, as always, is pleased to see his two favourite patrons, and quickly ushers them to their usual table by the window, “now, just give me a second to get the candle. More romantic,” he winks at John as they settle.
Having taken his coat off and hung it on his chair, John turns back to face Sherlock, who is studying him. “What?”
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, “you’ve stopped correcting him.”
“Well, what’s the point,” John shrugs, “he keeps bringing them anyway. Might as well save my breath.”
Sherlock looks at him more closely, like he is now the case he must solve, “in fact, you stopped correcting everyone quite some time ago. To be precise, just before Henry Knight’s case, or “The Hounds of Baskerville”, as you call it.“
Surprised, John mirrors him in arching his eyebrows as well, "so, you’ve noticed?” Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, “of course.” Just at this moment, Angelo arrives with the candle, the flickering flame casts Sherlock’s face into sharp relief, and the warm yellow balances his silvery-ice eyes into almost transparency. John clears his throat, looking down at his napkin, echoes, “of course. You notice everything.”
The detective chuckles, and John could swear the table, even with the thick layer of fine linen cloth soaking up most of the sonic waves, trembles. “Not everything,” a teasing note underlying it, “as you so outrageously broadcast to the whole of London, what’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things. This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun.”
Their dishes, along with the red wine, arrive and break up the back-and-forth tennis match of teasing each other, like how a lighthouse breaks the tides. But the tides will just keep coming, of course. John takes a bite of his aubergine rolls, and says, a bit muffled, “are you ever going to let that go?”
Sherlock grins, “never.” And John shakes his head, amused, “I’m going to finish my post tonight, probably with, ‘I wrote once, that what was incredible was how Sherlock seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. But what’s truly confounding, is that he seems to be able to recite every word of my b-’ Seriously though, why on earth have you memorised my blog?” He huffs an incredulous laugh, but Sherlock just looks at him.
And Sherlock just keeps looking at him. John is instantly reminded of that time when he asked Sherlock to be his best man. This is getting a bit scary now, he said as he waited for Sherlock to come to terms with the fact that yes, he is apparently his best friend. How? How could he not know that? The part of his brain that has decided to go down that memory lane still asks. But now, it seems that the table has turned, and he is the one who is not seeing where the penny has dropped. “Do you really have to ask, John?” Sherlock is still looking at him, like he thinks he is the most adorable idiot who has ever lived on Earth. He knows you’re an idiot, but that’s okay, because you’re a lovely doctor, Mrs. Hudson's voice nudges him, distantly, and - oh. Oh. Somewhere, John feels like, somewhere, there should be a choir singing, and fireworks blossoming overhead at this moment of revelation, like how they always have in some soap operas on telly. The soap operas Sherlock so despises, and frankly, John is not particularly in favour of them either. So, there is none here. Instead, he takes another bite of his aubergine rolls, “well, I’m an idiot, as you so often say, so humour me.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, again, and steals his broccoli.
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