#not to mention the price which all my parents do is guilt trip me for costing too much money everything i do that costs money is being cut

[jackass-jones]

Literally feeling sooooo horrible and hopeless oh boy 🌝

[house-of-laminations]

hello!!! i just found your stuff and read through all of it its so good 😭😭😭 and you dont have to but im very curious to hear about your Thoughts™ about simeon and divinity bc it sounds so interesting. also bc in from the outside when simeon "‘It’s what you deserve,’ he thinks to himself, ‘the price for not Falling back when you had the chance.’ " i lost it like i havent stopped thinking about it since i saw it jshsjsksdjdhdh have a good day ❤

So. It's taken me since 29 December 2021 to answer this one, but in my defense!!! Every time I would make an attempt, new info would drop and I'd be forced to re-evaluate and rewrite the massive essay I'd always type in response. Nothing has really changed on that front, except for the fact I was asked twice now about this and that I simply Do Not Care anymore about canon (I never have really, I just pretended to if we're being honest here). I also haven't personally played any of the latest season, but I have been keeping up with the goss through people like the wonderful @demonfamilytherapist who sends me screenshots of spicy parts and posts like the ones second anon has linked.

But I don't want to keep being rude and ignoring these when I have A Lot To Say, so with that in mind... here are my Simeon Thoughts™ under the cut.

Simeon surprised me when I first started playing because I was kind of expecting the angels-are-enemies-of-demons trope. And while that was definitely there in the form of a young, idealistic Luke, Simeon served a different purpose: a connection to the past that remembers the brothers fondly. He often references the 'good old days' with Lucifer, and their 'Brothers no more' chat is filled with familial banter rather than guilt trips or what-could've-been's.

He's also mischievous (he has a propensity to play 'pranks' or hide things if he'll think it'll be interesting), prideful (just look at any of his directorial roles), and surprisingly, very flexible in his worldview and his thinking. Simeon is very willing to learn about the customs and practices of the devildom and the human world, and even make them his own.

But he's also a character of principle. He obviously didn't like the way the brothers were treated and talked about, even before their fall. After they fell, there was a point in which he too became demoted. I'm not sure if we know entirely why that is, but I'm willing to put money on the fact it was probably somehow related to the fallout (heh) of the war. Simeon rebels, in small and large ways, and it's not gone unnoticed. It's also not been enough to outright kick him out, either.

So why is it that when confronted with the choice to either break free from an oppressive environment (at the cost of losing your relationships and your way of life), or stay trapped within a system that doesn't necessarily support or understand you, does Simeon choose the latter?

It comes down to support, and the networks you build around yourself. In the case of the brothers who fell, they all had people they could rely on: each other, and perhaps even more importantly, Lucifer.

Mammon, Levi, Asmo, Beel, and Belphie all had people other than their father that they trusted implicitly, and held to a high regard. More than that, they had an authority figure they looked up to besides their ever-distant Father. Whether or not you see the relationship between Lucifer and his younger brothers as being slightly parental, there's no denying that he definitely had a hand in shaping the younger angels - as a role model, supportive presence, and a disciplinary figure.

Mammon's relationship with Lucifer is an excellent example of this. Here's a neurodivergent atypical angel who struggled with fitting in and doing what he's commanded to. He's punished quite harshly, if not outright ostracized by 'parental'/'authority' figures up until Lucifer comes along and takes a personal interest in him. More than once the game makes mention of the more 'parent/child' way Mammon and Lucifer viewed their relationship - to the point where there's a few jokes and references to Mammon outright calling Lucifer 'dad'. While Lucifer's relationship with the others may not have been as strong as what he has with Mammon, it's obvious that they each see him in a similar way.

When breaking relationships (romantic, familial, or platonic), especially in the context of abuse or mistreatment, it's easier to leave if you know you have something to fall back on. The brothers had Lucifer. Lucifer, well. He's a bit of a special case. His unique position and disposition allowed him an easier break. That, and he relies just as much on his brothers in return. The siblings (if we're including Lilith) forced him to be there, to commit to their emotional wellbeing. They became a responsibility - something for his pride to latch its claws into, as well as an emotional support of their own.

Simeon, however, was around the same age as Lucifer. The same rank, even. He's a bit more distant, like the other Seraph we've seen or heard of besides Lucifer. It could be because they're following the example of their father - a distant presence who seems to very rarely show any kind of emotional investment in the lives of others. Because of this, he never really formed the support networks he needed to allow for that leap of faith, the step towards a fall and to freedom when he realized he didn't quite fit in.

This is a lot of rambling, and it's all leading up to me saying that I think that Simeon was (and is) a very lonely creature who I don't think really wants to be an angel, but doesn't know if he can fully commit to being a demon either. Maybe down the line we'll see him well and truly fall, but I think it would take a lot of deprogramming and undoing millennia worth of conditioning to allow him to fully trust someone enough to allow him to make that leap.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader) pt. 2

Doctor Strange and y/n confide their tragic backstories in one another. Y/n struggles with her feelings for him.

Trigger warnings: abusive parenting, use of firearms, discussion of death and grief, mention of alcoholism

"On the outside, always looking in

Will I ever be more than I've always been?

Cause I'm tap, tap, tapping on the glass-"

You stopped yourself before you could indulgently belt out the titular lyric.

"Ew, why was I singing that?" You muttered to yourself. "I don't even like that song." 

You knew, subconsciously, that it was because you were trying to avoid what you really wanted to sing. For the first time ever, you had an audience. Someone was paying attention. 

"Love of my life, you've hurt me-"

"Oh, come on, butterfingers." He interrupted. "Love of my Life by Freddie Mercury. Give me something hard." 

"I wasn't aware it was classic rock trivia night." 

"Then why were you staring straight at me while singing?" He smirked. 

"Was I?" You cocked your head, expertly deflecting his implication. "I'm so spaced out I don't even know where I'm looking." 

"It's Freddie Mercury." He insisted.

"Uh, yes and no." You corrected, drawing on your encyclopedic knowledge of Queen from one particularly weird summer in high school. "While Freddie Mercury wrote the song, it was recorded on a Night at the Opera. Which was accredited to the whole band." 

"That's a nitpick," he shook his head. "I'm still right." 

You couldn't wear your heart on your sleeve anymore. You could only distract him with 70s glam rock trivia for so long before he started to notice a pattern. Although a sappy love song was in your heart, you sang the anthem of the depressed theater kid. 

You were staring straight at him, though. But who wouldn't? You studied his features only for artistic inspiration. His sharp jaw and high, high cheekbones were… inspiring. 

You couldn't lie to yourself. You fell and fell hard.

"Butterfingers!" Master Strange called out from the other side of the sanctum. "I need you!" 

You dropped your pencil and pushed yourself out from the chair. "Coming!" 

You followed the voice into his chambers. This was a new development, you thought. Out of respect for his privacy, you'd never dared to snoop around in his bedroom. But this was practically a written invitation. 

The room was spotless. Not a book or a scrap of paper out of place. Nor was there much to look at at all. A handful of picture frames, some magazines from when he was a surgeon, all featuring himself on the cover. 

"Butterfingers!" He called again, as if he knew you were about to snoop.

"I'm here!" You yelled back, eyes wandering around the room. "What do you need?" 

"I left my watch somewhere in the library!" He sounded disproportionately panicked for what was just a minor inconvenience. "I need you to go get it for me." 

"What does it look like?" You asked. 

"It's a $27,000 watch." He snapped impatiently. "It looks like one." 

"Jesus." You cursed.

"Don't give me that shit, [F/N]." He ordered, slamming his fist down against the sink. "Just do what you're goddamn told." 

"Alright, alright!" You put your hands up. "Fine, I'll get it." 

You hurried down the stairs and into the library. On the floor between his favorite chair and a stack of musty old books was a slim, silvery watch with a plain black band.

You picked it up and examined it. Apart from the price tag, was there really any reason for him to be so worried about it? He knew exactly where he left it. Did he have reason to believe it wouldn't be there when he returned? 

All you needed to do was flip it over to get your answer. You read the inscription on the back. 

Time will tell how much I love you -- Christine 

You should have known that his massive ego wouldn’t keep the women away forever. Hell, it certainly didn’t deter you. Much uglier douchebags have gotten far prettier girlfriends than they deserved.

You closed your fingers around the watch and sighed. The fantasy you created for yourself, of slowly, deliberately earning his love was shattered. Christine already beat you to it, it seemed. You tried to smother the part of you that resented this person for her exclusive right to Master Strange's affections. You didn't know her, but you loathed her. And you felt filthy for it.

With a heavy heart, you brought the stupid, criminally expensive little timepiece back to its rightful owner. 

"Here's your all-important watch, master." You mumbled, placing it on the bedside table. 

"I know I told you I would give you space to question things," He said, swiping it from the table and expertly affixing it around his wrist. "But I'd really appreciate it if you didn't question this." 

You tried to sound as non-passive-aggressive as you could. You attempted a more forgiving tone, but you couldn't hide your hurt. "It's fine. I don't care." 

"I didn't mean to get short with you, [F/N]." His voice softened. "I'm sorry. But this watch-" 

"It's fine." You cut him off, peering at the floor. 

"It was a gift." He finished anyway. 

You felt the lump in your throat rising. You knew what the watch represented and you wanted to smash it to pieces. Along with the sting of rejection, you felt the sting of tears in your eyes. "I know. I saw the engraving."

"She died two years ago." He lowered his head. 

Suddenly, all your ill will towards this woman turned into guilt. 

"I'm sorry to hear that." You said. "I can't imagine what it's like to lose someone who loved you so much." 

"She had agreed to come to a speaking engagement with me. As a second chance, and-" Pain wrapped his voice. He closed his hand tightly around the watch and held it close to his chest. "Have you ever been in love before, [F/N]?"

From the way your heart ached, and how easily the thought of never being with him made you cry, you knew the answer. You'd been avoiding speaking it into being thus far, but you couldn't lie to yourself anymore.

"Yes." You whispered. 

"You'll learn soon enough." He muttered. "It only brings more suffering." 

The tears finally breached and you tried to blink them away. You didn't know what emotion was causing them: guilt, shame, contempt, anger, sadness-- they were all present.

"Master Strange, I-" you stuttered, tripping over your breath. "I respect what you've gone through, I really do, but it's not fair to take it out on me." 

"You're right." He conceded. "I'm sorry. Please, go get some sleep.”

You nodded. “Right.” 

You slept as late as you could get away with the next morning. In apprentice terms, that only meant sleeping until eight thirty. Your dailies could wait an extra hour while you laid in bed, feeling like garbage. 

You stumbled down the spiral staircase in your pajamas. No bra, no makeup and no effort. You didn’t even run a brush through your hair. Why try, you thought. Why make an effort for the man who would never see you as anything but the help? 

When you saw the piano, though, you did a full 180.

In the living area was a French cherry baby grand piano that definitely was not there before. You certainly would have noticed it before. You placed your phone on the counter and approached the new addition. 

As if the memories were woven into the very muscles and ligaments of your fingers, you ran down a few octaves of C Major. The keys were smooth as porcelain and the sound that emanated from the instrument was next to heavenly. 

A bright orange post-it note was stuck to the music rack. 

“Love of my Life”, Queen, A Night at the Opera. 1975 

Was this a request, or an admission of wrong? Whatever the case, it made you smile. 

"You weren't being entirely honest with me, Butterfingers." He said, randomly materializing behind you. 

You turned around on the piano bench and looked up at him. "What was I not honest about?" 

"I'm so glad you asked." He sat down on the bench next to you, phone in hand. "Because when you said you used to play piano, you didn't specify you were actually a student prodigy." 

Sure enough, on his phone, he was scrolling through your Instagram. Dozens of videos of a much younger [F/N] playing hundreds of different songs, singing with too many vocal runs and doing so with the entire content of her soul behind the music. 

"Student prodigy is a bit strong." You turned your head to hide your blush. 

He scrolled up and found a picture of a young, zit-faced teenage [F/N] holding an acceptance letter. "Last I checked, Juilliard doesn't give full-ride scholarships to just anyone." 

You covered your face with your hands, smothering an embarrassed smile. "God, please. I'd rather you'd found my OnlyFans." 

He raised his eyebrows. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd still rather hear your explanation on this. Why did you give up on something you loved?"

You looked at him in surprise. "You really want to know?" 

"Well, I told you mine." He playfully nudged you in the side. 

You took a deep breath in. "Well, it was about two years ago, now-”

"Cheers to you, [F/N]!" Your best friend Holly raised her glass of champagne in your direction. "Juilliard ain't gonna know what hit ‘em."

"I'll drink to that." You said, bring your own flute up to your lips and taking a swig. You wretched in disgust as the vile liquid ran down your throat. "Or maybe I won't."

"You're gonna have to get used to it." Holly nudged you with her elbow. "I think most professional musicians are alcoholics."

You narrowed your eyes at her. "I don't think that's right."

"Is too." She smirked. "Conductors are mad strict. Abusive even. Drive musicians to drink all the time."

You laughed. "Is everything you know about the world of music from Whiplash?"

"And The Perfection." She added.

"Thank you, Holly." You said, attempting to take another sip of champagne, purely for dramatic effect. "Very cool."

You felt a pair of hands on your shoulders. "Hi, Holly. Enjoying the party?"

Holly took a step back. "Hey, Mrs. [L/N]. Yeah, it's great."

"I hope you don't mind," Your mom said, her fake nice voice eeking through her clenched teeth. "I need to borrow [F/N] for a few minutes."

Holly's face fell. "Sure. I'll catch up with you later, [F/N]."

Your mother tugged you off to the side. With a stressed huff, she began. "Jason is out in the fields with his ROTC friends."

"And what do you want me to do about that?" You asked, knowing her drunk self couldn't read your sarcastic tone.

"Could you go get him and bring him home?" She said, squeezing your upper arm.

"Are you kidding?" You spat.

"[F/N], he's drunk." She scolded. "Do you want him to get another strike on his record?"

"I don't care." You mumbled under your breath. "Have him call an uber. Hell, let him sleep it off in the field. Not my problem."

"You know what he's like when he's drunk." She rationalized. "He gets rowdy. It had better be you."

You tensed up. "No. Holly and I are going to the French Quarter. I don't have time to babysit Jason."

"Just pick him up on your way there?" She pleaded. "It won't take long."

You knew this wasn't going to stop. "Fine, but this is the last time."

You were both dressed far too well to be trekking through the swampy ass nowhere when you should have been fucking your way through the French Quarter. Luckily for your evening plans, all you needed to do was follow the sound of gunshots.

You slammed the car door shut and Holly followed suit. Finding him was the easy part. The hard part was hauling his drunk ass back home.

"Fun's over, shithead." You announced, heels sinking into the sod as you spoke. You didn't have much trouble projecting over the gunfire and getting their attention.

"Shit, [F/N]?" Jason sputtered, so drunk he could barely keep his head straight.

"Holy shit, I didn't even recognize you in that dress." One of his dumb fuck friends added. He jabbed Jason in the side. "Why didn't you tell me your sister's hot?"

"Buster, I-'' You clenched your teeth. "I don't care if you live or die, but my mom needs me to bring Jason home."

"If you get in the car now, we won't have to use the chloroform." Holly added.

Jason scratched the back of his head with the barrel of his gun, then pointed it at you. "You're gonna have to make me."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You exclaimed, hitting the deck. "What the fuck, Jason!?"

Jason and his dumbass friends laughed. "You should have seen the look on your face, [F/N]!"

"Put down the fucking gun-" You seethed. "And get in the fucking car."

He lowered the gun and looked like he was going to concede. Just when you thought he would cooperate, he stuck it up again. He keeled over in a fit of laughter when you and Holly panicked again.

"Look at them!" He shouted. "They're so fucking scared!"

You knew out in the middle of the swamp, nobody could hear you scream. So you used it to your advantage.

"Jason, you're going in the car, or under it." You raised your voice. "I will mow your drunk ass down like eight day old roadkill right here in this field and you will be LUCKY if anyone finds your bloated, shit-covered remains before the crocodiles get a whiff of you."

That seemed to get his attention.

"Sorry, boys." He pouted. "You heard her."

He had to 'get you' one final time, though. Only that time, the gun went off. Just centimeters from your ear. You clutched the side of your head, trying to drown out the deafening ringing with your screams.

You vaguely remembered Holly pistol-whipping Jason before loading you into the car to drive you to the hospital, leaving him desolate and drunk in the field.

"It was a one-in-a-million shot." The otolaryngologist tried not to sound impressed at what was clearly some kind of anomaly very few got to witness in a medical career. "When the bullet fired, the gunpowder traveled down your ear canal, burning the cells of your auditory nervous system and... singing your eardrum... clean off."

Your eyes widened. "Off?!"

The doctor lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Miss [L/N]. I'm afraid you'll never return to full hearing again."

You didn't want to kill the messenger. You knew she was only doing her job. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"If we could do a tympanoplasty, which, given the condition of the drum, is unlikely-" she began. "There would still be no way to fully repair the hair cells along the ear canal."

You took deep breaths to try and quell your simmering rage. "I'm leaving for Juilliard in three months."

"Hearing aid technology has improved significantly over the last decade." She said, a somewhat hopeful upturn in her voice.

That was when your mother decided to join in on the conversation. "Oh, we can't afford that."

You thought you were going to crush your teeth into bits from how tightly your jaw was clenched in fury. "Take it out of Jason's college fund, then."

"Oh, [F/N]." She said as if you had just told the funniest joke imaginable. "Please. That wouldn't be fair to Jason."

"You can afford to send that blithering idiot to the Citadel." You hissed. "You can afford to buy me a hearing aid so I can play piano."

"Beethoven was entirely deaf." Your mom pointed out. "And he became the greatest composer of all time. It's really just mind over matter, sweetie-"

"Sure, that makes perfect sense!" You plastered on a deranged smile, feeling driven to the brink of madness. "I can repair my destroyed eardrum with the power of positive thinking! Jason gets thirty-five thousand dollars a year to play soldier, but I have to just use my imagination."

She covered her face with her hands as if she was being attacked and went into kicked-puppy mode. "Don't be mad at Jason, [F/N]. He didn't mean to hurt you-"

"Fuck this." You said, releasing all your tension in those two words. "Fuck all of this. I'm tired of you defending that chauvinist asshole. The next time you see me will be when one of us is dead."

"Where are you going?!" She wailed.

You snatched your purse from the table and threw it over your shoulder. "I'm moving out."

“Disgraced at age nineteen?" Master Strange said, leaning back on the piano. "Let me guess, you turned to alcohol to cope?"

"You'd think, but actually no." You shook your head. The tone of the conversation had taken a sharp left turn from sadness to dry, apathetic amusement. "I probably would have if I could have afforded it."

"You missed out." He said. "Drinking a whole bottle of eighty year old scotch was definitely the highlight of my grieving period."

You'd never joined the clauses 'Master Strange' and 'drunk off his ass' in the same sentence before then. It was an odd mental picture for sure. One you needed to see to believe.

"I got desperate." You admitted. "Luckily, New Orleans had a lot to offer someone like me, so I didn't have to go far to find people claiming to have answers. But it was all essential oils, incense, binaural beats-"

"I'm sorry," he cut in. "What kind of dickhead suggests binaural beats to someone with only one functioning ear?"

You threw up your hands. "Right? Doesn't make sense. Anyway, I came across a woman named Mistress Fantina and she pointed me in the right direction. How to heal my body through control of my spirit."

He looked at you with that fascination of the human body characteristic of those in the medical field. "It worked, I assume?"

"I figured it out." You shrugged. "But I got so invested in the Mystic Arts that I forgot all about Juilliard. Became a full-time student. Ever since, I never once thought about returning to my old life."

"I suppose if I'd discovered this world because I had lost, say, my ability to perform surgery, it would be hard to leave it behind and return to the operating room." He thought out loud. Sighing, he closed his hand over his watch. "But no matter how medical science evolves, you can't reverse death."

You let the quiet linger for a moment.

[mystical-flute]

Hustling For the Good Life (SFWeek Day 3)

No Curse (Our World) AU or Season 3 AU

@mysteryandnonstopfun

AO3 || FFN

Emma’s stare was harsh and aimed in the direction of her parents and Regina. “We can’t.”

There was absolutely no time to argue. Pan’s curse was steadily drawing near, the sky already taking on a dark, ominous hue, swallowing up the buildings and people that had called Storybrooke home for twenty-eight years.

“Emma, you have to go. It’s the only way to keep Henry safe!” Snow protested.

Neal turned away from the small family, and looked at Belle. “Are you going to be okay, Belle?”

“Don’t worry about me. Your father would want you and Henry to be safe, Bae,” she said. “Besides, Snow has been kind enough to allow me to stay with them… if we’re able to get back to their castle.”

So much was unknown about what was going to happen. Neal was worried he might throw up.

He put on a brave smile that he knew neither of them bought.

“You guys need to hurry!” Ruby suddenly cried, glancing over her shoulder at the purple storm clouds racing toward them. “It’s almost here!”

Neal squeezed Belle’s hand and turned to Emma and Henry. “Let’s - let’s get to safety, then.”

He should have been happy that the life he and Emma deserved to have was within his grasp, but like everything with magic, the price was too damn steep, and it wouldn’t be worth it.

They might not remember Storybrooke, but he knew the pain in Snow, David, and Regina’s eyes would never leave.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way,” he said, passing Regina on his way to the bug.

“Just keep Henry safe. Please.”

“You know we will.”

Neal gave Hook one final glance, and a single nod of acknowledgement before he got in the passenger’s seat once Henry was safely in the back. He and Emma clasped their hands over the gear shift, the familiar rumbling of the bug almost making him smile as Emma began to drive.

None of them took their eyes off the mirrors as their loved ones -

“Em? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he asked, glancing at her. “Allergies acting up?”

Emma took her hand off his, using it to wipe her eyes before she pulled to the side of the road. “No - sorry. I just got a little overwhelmed at the thought of our apartment in Boston. We’ve lost everything, Neal. Our clothes, our furniture, our pictures - ”

“But not our lives,” he said, rubbing her back. “Emma, we’re lucky we weren’t home when the fire broke out. We can replace the stuff, but we can’t replace each other.”

Henry looked up from his game. “I’m not reenacting those baby pictures.”

Neal snort-laughed. “You don’t have to, bud. But just be aware that your mom and I might take a few extra pictures of you for the foreseeable future.”

Henry scowled, rolling his eyes, and immersed himself in Zelda again.

Emma chuckled. “New York then. Almost home.”

---

“It’s a boy!” the doctor announced, Henry’s cries cutting through the air.

“Healthy pair of lungs on him,” the nurse chuckled, rubbing him down. “Oh darling, it’s okay. Let’s get you to Mama, hmm?”

Emma and Neal, two terrified eighteen year olds, were in shock as the nurse laid him in Emma’s arms.

“H - hi baby…” Emma whispered as his cries slowly died down and he stared at them with wonder in his dark eyes. “I’m - I’m your mama… and that’s your daddy…”

The first year had been rough, of course. They lived in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment in Tallahassee, waitressing and whatever else they could find. They clawed and saved whatever they could, to give Henry more than what they’d had.

But more important than things, was love. Henry had two parents that loved him more than anything in the world, which is much more than Neal or Emma could say for themselves.

They were happy, most of all. Yeah the apartment was a squeeze, and there were on and off issues with bugs, but through it all, the three of them were happy.

They married when Henry was three - a small ceremony in Boston after they’d moved there for Emma’s job. He’d gotten a better job not long after that, as a photographer, and he was really, really good at it, like Emma was good at tracking down criminals.

And so the little family moved up in the world. From a one-bedroom apartment to a two bedroom, they could buy new toys and clothes for Henry instead of hoping they found something at a thrift store or garage sale. It finally felt like they were where they were meant to be.

Emma’s twenty-eighth birthday came and went, and Neal felt a twist of guilt in his gut when August’s voice echoed in his head.

The problem was, Neal hadn’t heard anything from August. No postcard, no email… nothing. No information as to where this supposed curse was?

So how was he supposed to get Emma to her supposed destiny if he didn’t know where he was going?

He had a job, a family. They couldn’t just drive across the country and hope they got lucky.

Then there had been the fire, the spring after Emma’s birthday. They’d been on a camping trip in Maine, Neal taking photos of the coast and Emma insisting Henry needed less time in front of the screen, when they’d gotten the call.

Everything in their apartment was gone, the building itself almost totally a loss.

He’d been transferred to New York.

So they’d started over, again.

New York had been good to them - incredibly so.

The magazine he’d gotten a job with had offered to pay for their rent for two months while they got new furniture and settled into the city.

Henry was thriving in school, making friends and joining the art club. It was everything Neal had ever hoped for.

And after they’d settled in, new furniture and wardrobes abound, they had received a call from one of Emma’s contacts with the NYPD. A two year old girl had been found in an abandoned apartment. No family that the cops or child services could find, and the girl didn’t say anything other than her name - Audrey.

So they’d taken her in, adoption paperwork being expedited given the strangeness of the situation.

All she had to her name was a pink baby blanket, not unlike the one Emma had.

It felt like fate, adopting Audrey the way it happened.

Or something else, but Neal pushed that thought aside as he situated her in her chair, watching as she carefully fed herself.

Emma slid into the seat next to her, a plate in her hand.

“Busy day today?” she asked.

“Nah, just editing the pictures from the Elton John concert last night. I can do it from here,” he said with a shrug, glancing over at a knock on the door. “I got it.”

When he pulled the door open, he’d wished he hadn’t.

“Baelfire.”

He felt the color drain from his face. “Hook. What the hell are you doing here?”

To his shock, Hook actually looked relieved to see him, like it hadn’t been 200 years since they saw each other. Like they had actually been friendly last he saw him. “I came to get you three, Baelfire. To take you home.”

“Home? You must be insane. I am home.”

“Emma’s parents need help, Baelfire. So does your father.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did August send you?”

Hook’s face radiated confusion. “Who’s August?”

That was a no, then, and that didn’t make Neal feel any better about Hook being here. He shouldn’t even know what he looked like - he’d been fourteen when they last saw each other! “Why should I believe you? After everything? And why would you give a damn about my father?”

“He saved my life.”

Neal laughed, then winced when he remembered Emma and Henry were only feet away. “Why would he save you ?”

Hook shrugged. “I was collaterally saved.”

“As always,” he spat.

“Dad?” Henry called. “You okay?”

“Just a second, Henry!” Neal turned back to Hook and narrowed his eyes. “Get lost. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

Hook sighed, holding out a piece of paper. “Fine. If you change your mind, I’m staying here.”

Neal frowned as he took it, watching Hook disappear back down the hall. How had Hook been able to get a hotel room?

This was weird, and despite his instincts telling him to stay away from anything related to the Enchanted Forest, Hook had mentioned Emma’s parents. If they were involved in this, maybe there was more to Emma being left on the side of the road.

So, with Henry at school, Emma at work, and Audrey at daycare, Neal did what his brain was yelling at him not to do, and wandered to the address Hook had given him. To his surprise, it wasn’t a hotel at all, but an apartment building. He was let in no problem, and stood in front of the door.

Why was this familiar?

He pushed the door open, and resisted the urge to toss his keys on a nearby table (why had he wanted to do that?). Instead, he picked up an envelope that caught his attention, dropping it in shock.

Why was his name on it?

He left the envelope on the floor, glancing again around the apartment, and his heart stopped.

The yellow dreamcatcher he and Emma had snatched was hanging from a window. Rushing to it, he lifted it into his hands, afraid it would break.

It should have burned in the fire. How was it here?

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Hook’s voice rumbled from the doorway.

Neal spun around. “Hook, what the hell is this?”

Hook didn’t answer, instead, he pulled a vial of blue liquid from his pocket and held it out. “Your memories of the past year have been erased, Bae.”

“Neal.” He made no move to take the vial.

Hook sighed. “Neal. Please. You have to trust me.”

“Why?”

“It’s like I said - Emma’s family is in danger. A witch is plotting something against her parents. I only just escaped in time before they were sent back to Storybrooke.”

Neal bit his lip and looked around the apartment again. That might explain why he never heard from August, but getting Emma to do anything regarding her parents would be worse than pulling teeth.

He took the vial and drained it, lurching back in pain when the memories began to flood in.

Oh no.

Neal’s eyes were wide with horror as they settled down, and looked up at Hook again. “Killian…”

Killian grinned. “There you are, lad.”

“How’s Belle?”

Killian had a hesitant look on his face. “She’s… as well as she can be. Your father is alive, Bae, but he’s missing, and with Emma’s parents in danger - ”

“The witch might have something to do with it.” She probably had something to do with it, really. “What about Emma and Henry’s memories?”

Hook pulled out two more vials, his face sad. “I’m sorry I had to wake you up, Bae.”

He sighed, remembering the devastation before they’d crossed the town line, Emma’s tearful, almost childish refusal to leave her parents, and the broken look Regina had tried to hide when Henry wasn’t looking. “Don’t be. This is… going to be for the best.”

What it meant for him and Emma, time would only tell.

The Bug was quiet as they raced through the night, back to Storybrooke. Hook, Henry, and Audrey were asleep in the back, but Neal was wide awake.

“Emma…” he said quietly. “About us - ”

Her head snapped over, visible confusion on her face. “What about us?”

“I mean… the marriage, the amount of love we have for each other - ”

“False memories or not, the love I have for you is real, Neal Cassidy,” she said. “I was going to meet you at Granny’s, give you that second chance before Pan’s curse. Although… I guess that was a second chance too.”

Neal smiled, relieved. “So you wanna stay married to me?”

Emma smiled back. “Neal Cassidy, I’ll marry you in any lifetime.”

[fandom-imagines-stories]

The Last Toll

Dean Winchester x Reader

Words: 3865

Part One; Part Two

Summary: Trying to protect the boys from having to witness your death, you leave the bunker to die alone. Dean and Sam desperately try to find you before time runs out. 

Notes: Here it is. The final part in this trilogy of twists and lots of angst. I am super proud of how this series turned out and I hope you guys enjoyed the ride. As always, let me know what you think! (But hey, keep an eye out in the future for possible continuations)

Warnings: Death, gore, sacrifice, lots of angst and tears

Special shout out to my amazing beta reader Sarah, @suckmysupernatural​ . I love her so much and honestly, she’s helped me so much in getting these imagines out for you and she has some absolutely killer writing of her own!

Want more Supernatural? Find it HERE

-

Monday 6:00 A.M.

You had exactly 18 hours left on Earth. 18 hours until a big invisible dog carries you in its mouth down to the eternal Big House. After arguing with Dean last night, it was finally hitting you. You were going to hell. An endless circle of torment that you had no escape from. Beside you, Dean turned over, still fast asleep. You smiled to yourself. You were going for him. 

Carefully lifting the blanket, you silently got out of the bed. You grabbed some clothes and stuffed them into your bag. It would be easier to change in the car. You couldn’t risk waking anyone up. 

You snuck out into the kitchen, quickly ducking behind the wall when you saw a trench coat laid over one of the chairs, it’s owner flipping through a book. Why can’t angels take naps? You tiptoed towards the entrance, making as little noise as possible. 

“You won’t get far.” Cas scolded, not even looking up from his cookbook. You sighed heavily. Busted.

“I can’t stay.” You stepped into the kitchen, putting your bag on the table. “I’ve put them through enough. I have to do this alone.”

“You know what Dean would say?” Cas inquired. You hated when he tried to guilt trip you. “He would say,” the angel lowered his voice to impersonate your boyfriend, “‘You’re one of us. And none of us goes down alone.’ Don’t you want to be with the people who love you? With the man you love so much you sold your soul?” It was odd to hear him speak so emotionally. You could feel tears welling, but you forced them back. If you cried one more time, you’d scream.

“I got to see him one last time. I got to see those eyes bright with life again. I got to kiss him again.” He looked ready to rebuttal so you stopped him. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, Cas. I can’t make Sam watch that again. And Dean…” You sighed, “The only thing that would come from them being there when the bitch comes is more trauma for them to carry around.” You put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to understand. “Let their last memory of me be a good one.” Cas was silent for a moment. 

“Alright.” You exhaled a breath of relief. You knew he would understand. Cas stood and grabbed his trench coat. “But I’m driving.” Your relief was replaced with frustration. 

“Cas, no-”

“Spare the Winchesters if that’s really what you want. There may not be a way out of this, but you will not go alone.” He was using his angel voice and there was no fighting him on this one. With a huff, you conceded. 

“Fine, but I am picking the music.”

-

9:34 A.M.

You’d kept your phone on silent, ignoring all of the calls you had anticipated. If you heard his voice, you would make Cas turn the car around. You did, however, try and read the avalanche of text messages you were receiving from both brothers. 

Don’t do this.

You don’t have to face this on your own.

Please baby, answer the phone.

One of Sam’s messages in particular sent a pang of guilt through your heart. 

Dean’s going nuts over here. We both are. Please just come home. If only to say goodbye.

“Regretting your decision?” Cas wondered gruffly. You shot him a look and turned on the radio. Cas changed the channel quickly as ‘Highway to Hell’ played, muttering that it was inappropriate given the circumstances. Instead, he found a  station playing Night Ranger’s ‘Sister Christian’. You felt that ache in your chest come back. 

“Now what?” Cas read your expression. 

“Nothing, it’s just this song.” You had to laugh at how sentimental you were being. “Dean played it all the time when we first became a couple. He liked to joke that he was the ‘Mr. Right’ I’d been so desperately looking for.” The memory made you smile and you imagined being in the impala with Dean singing from the driver’s side. 

“Motoring!” He would belt. “What’s your price for flight? You’ve got him in your sight. And driving through the night.” You would both sing the guitar part and laugh. 

“Y/N… Y/N.” Cas broke you out of the memory, seeing the sadness in your eyes. You hadn’t even realized that he had stopped the car. “I figured you would want some coffee.” You looked out the window and saw the gas station he had parked in front of. 

“You’re a saint, Cas,” You exclaimed, the grumbling in your stomach finally getting your attention. The angle looked very confused. 

“Y/N, I can’t be a saint. I’m an angel.”

“It’s just an expression.” You laughed, opening the car door. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Cas knew that if you were anything like your boyfriend, you’d pursue the aisle for some pre-packaged junk food for a while before checking out. Which gave him about ten minutes to return a very angry call. 

“Where are you? Is she with you? What the hell Cas?” Dean yelled into the receiver. Sam sat at the table, still trying to find you, but you must have turned the tracker on your phone off. 

“She’s okay, Dean.”

“Bring her back. Now.”

“I can’t. She’ll run if she thinks I’m taking her to you.” Cas explained, keeping an eye on you as you moved through the candies. “We’re stopped at a gas station in Topeka.”

“Where are you headed?” 

“She won’t say.” Cas sighed. “She just tells me what turns to make and what roads to follow. Although, she did mention something about ‘seeing the old place again’, whatever that means.” Cas watched you pay for your items and head for the exit. “I’ve got to go.”

“Cas, wait!” Dean said, but the line was already dead. “Damn it!” He tossed the phone across the table. Sam caught it before it could slide off. 

“He wouldn’t tell you?” 

“He doesn’t know!” The older Winchester exclaimed in frustration. “He said Y/N is just telling him as they go. The only clue she’s given him is ‘seeing the old place again.’” 

“Did he say where they were stopped at least?”

“Some gas station in Topeka, so they could be heading anywhere.” Dean paced back and forth. He should have known you would pull something like this. You thought you were protecting him by facing this alone. Hell, you’d been doing it since you were a kid. Dean stopped suddenly. 

“What is it?” Sam asked and his brother grabbed the keys to his car. 

“I know where she’s going.”

-

2:14 P.M.

You hadn’t seen the house in about twenty years. Then, it was a family home- bikes left on the lawn, your mother’s tulips overtaking the garden, your terrible chalk drawings covering the driveway. Now, the wood was rotting and a tall chain link fence surrounded the premises. 

“What are we doing here?” Cas wondered, turning off the truck as you hopped out. The bottle of anger liquid practically glowed in the afternoon sun. You took a swig.

“This, my friend, is where I grew up.” You surveyed the house and nodded. “And it’s where I want to die.” You tucked the bottle in your bag and climbed the fence, landing on the other side with a dramatic flare. Cas let out an exasperated sigh. 

“What happened here?” He asked, reading all of the ‘Condemned Building’, ‘Do Not Enter’ signs. He followed you over the fence, clumsily tumbling onto the other side. 

“When I was fifteen, my brother came home from college for the weekend. Only, it wasn’t my brother.” The old wounds didn’t hurt as much anymore, but being here again certainly made them sting a little. “It was a shifter. Now, my parents were hunters before they had us, so they figured out something was wrong…just not fast enough.” It all felt so far away now. “After he killed them, he came after me. Somehow, I got the upper hand and sent a silver kitchen knife through his heart. That’s how I started hunting.” Cas put a hand on your shoulder. 

“I’m sorry.” You just shrugged sadly. 

“It was a long time ago.” You were able to pick the lock on the front door, the smell of mold and dirt filling your nostrils. Home sweet home. 

Somehow, the kitchen table was still standing and the sliding glass door leading to the back porch was intact. Your father always used to joke that it was bulletproof. The last time you were in this room, you stabbed a creature that looked like your big brother. And that was shockingly the least complicated your life had been in twenty years.

“Make yourself at home Cas. I’ve got about,” You looked down at your watch, “nine hours and forty minutes until I become a chew toy and I’m going to spend it reminiscing and getting very, very drunk.” Cas gave you a look of disdain. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to be here.”

“You are handling your impending damnation remarkably well.” He sat down in a creaky chair as you started to empty out your bag. 

“I’m not going to spend my last few hours cowering in the corner, Cas.” You opened the small tin box that you had brought. “I can’t fight what’s going to happen to me. The most I can do is stay here, away from Sam and Dean, and wait.” You repeated it over and over in your head as if you could convince yourself. Every bone in your body wanted to fight. It’s just who you were. You survived. But now, you were staring down the gaping mouth of hell for the man who taught you to live. 

-

4:36 P.M.

You may have had a three hour head start to St. Louis, but Cas couldn’t drive like Dean could. Both brothers continued their attempts to call you but it was still to now avail. It didn’t matter. They knew where to find you.

The exact address of your childhood home was not hard to find. Your parent’s deaths were well publicized so Sam just followed the trail of articles. Sure enough, Cas’ truck was parked in front of the condemned building. 

“Why would she pick this place?” Sam asked, taking in the sad sight. 

“This is where it all started for her.” Dean answered somberly. “It’s where she wants it to end.”

Inside, a half empty bottle of Jack sat beside the pile of photographs you had been looking through. You told Cas dozens of stories, some through laughter, some tears, and some both. With music playing from your phone, you didn’t hear the new set of footprints until the Winchesters were standing in front of you. You jumped up from the table, the alcohol in your system making you dizzy.

“You told them!” You cast an accusing glare at the angel beside you.

“This isn’t what you want.” He replied in a quiet voice. You turned your panicked face back to the brothers. Sam’s expression held a sad understanding, but you couldn’t read Dean’s. He stepped towards you. 

“You have to leave.” You ordered, backing away as he got closer. “I don’t want you here for this. Get back in the impala and leave.” You backed into the corner and Dean towered over you. “Please, Dean.” His eyes searched yours and knew. He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head under his chin. 

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You didn’t fight him. You let him hold onto you as your body started to shake. It was another one of your selfish reasons for leaving. If he wasn’t here, if you couldn’t look at his face, you could pretend that you weren’t scared. Now he was here and all of that tough-girl bullcrap was gone.

“I’m right here baby.” He kissed your forehead, taking all of your stress and putting it on his shoulders. You would carry this together. 

“Why did you leave?” Sam asked gently. You turned, Dean keeping his arms around you from behind. 

“Because you shouldn’t have to see this, Sam. You watched it happen to your brother, I couldn’t make you watch it again. Neither of you should be put through this.” Dean lightly kissed your shoulder. 

“You can’t do this alone.” He whispered. 

“I had Cas.” You smirked. The three of you laughed, Cas even cracking a smile.

“Why don’t I go to a restaurant with quick service and get food?” Cas suggested.

“Fast food. It’s called fast food.” Dean snickered into your shoulder. You elbowed him. 

“That would be great.”

The sound of a clock chiming startled all of you, Dean instinctively pushing you behind him. Sam sighed. 

“It’s okay, It’s only five.” You were all so on edge that it felt later. The clock echoed still, connecting a memory in your mind.

“No way.” You broke away from Dean and found the living room. You must not have heard it earlier because of the music. Sure enough, the gigantic Grandfather clock was still ticking. “I can’t believe it still works.” You mused, running your fingers over the dust covered glass. “My dad loved this thing. He never let us play around it because he was scared that my brother and I would break it.” By some cruel irony, it lasted longer than he did. 

-

10:29 P.M.

With stomachs full of fries and mediocre burgers, you had climbed up onto the roof- which was surprisingly still sturdy- to look at the stars. Five hours passed in a blink and you were all getting anxious. Sam and Cas were inside, giving you and Dean time alone. 

“I want you to have this.” You began, talking over the music playing from your phone. You handed him the small tin that you kept all your pictures in. Dean raised a brow and you playfully rolled your eyes. “And no, there’s no playboy material in there so you can wipe that smirk off your face.” Dean chuckled and draped around your shoulders to pull you closer. 

He opened the box and spilled the contents into his lap. The first image made him laugh. It was of you and Sam, fast asleep on a motel sofa, your head on his shoulder and half of his body dangling over the arm of the couch. Someone- aka Dean- had drawn mustaches on your faces. 

“I forgot about this.” Dean put each photo back in the box as he looked at them. Some were from when you were a kid, but most were from your time with them. He paused at one in particular. It was of you hugging him from behind as he worked under the hood of the impala, both of you laughing at something he had said. You were at Bobby’s. Ellen had taken it.

“Damn,” Dean muttered, putting the picture on top of the others. You knew what he was thinking. He’d lost so many people. His parents, Bobby, Ellen and Jo, and countless others. Now he would have to add you to the list. 

“When it comes, I’ll need to borrow your gun.” You said suddenly. He gave you a strange look, taking a second to understand. “I figured it would be a better way to go than becoming dog food.” Dean winced. This was not a subject he wanted to address. A part of him still had hope. 

“Maybe there’s still a way.” 

“Dean,” You sighed, “there would need to be an act of God or the gates of hell closing.” You had a little less than an hour now. Dean’s eyes lit up and he shifted to face you. 

“That’s it. That’s how we can fight this.” 

“Dean, what are you talking about?”

“When Sam was completing the trails, he was able to kill a hellhound with an angel blade. We can kill it.” His voice had a new sense of determination.

“Dean, there would just be more.” You scoffed. He couldn’t be serious.

“So we kill them!” He said it as if it was simple. “It’ll at least buy us more time to undo the deal.”

“Dean…” You looked at him like he was crazy, but the new found hope on his face made it impossible to rebuke. 

“It’ll work.” He said, more to himself than to you. “It has to work.” You both fell silent, listening to the music. You almost laughed. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’. You sang along in your head.

“And it’s whispered that soon, if we call the tune then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forests will echo with laughter.” 

Surely, somebody up there was laughing. Whoever God was, he sure had a twisted sense of humor.

-

11:57 P.M. 

“We need to get inside.” Dean announced, grabbing the tin and putting it in his jacket pocket. “It’ll be easier to corner the bitch so we can kill it.” 

You both climbed down into the back yard. Sam and Cas were waiting, already filled in on the plan. Neither were overly confident, but if there was a chance, they were willing to try. 

“You ready?” Sam asked. You gulped and gave the three of them a solemn nod. Each man filed inside, weapons at the ready. As soon as Dean was in, you slid the glass door shut, jamming a metal bar in between the door and the wall. 

“Y/N!” Dean yelled, trying to force it open. “Y/N, what are you doing?” The door wouldn’t budge. “Let me out!”

You put your hand against the glass, palm splayed out where Dean’s fist pounded. You gave him a small, sad smile. 

“It’s okay.” You mouthed. His hand flattened against yours. “It’s going to be okay.” You exchanged a glance with Sam and he gave you a wordless promise. He would make sure his brother would get through this. You locked your eyes with Dean’s. You never got tired of those emerald irises. Knowing that you put the life back in those perfect green eyes would give you enough courage to face what came next. 

You closed your eyes, feeling a lone tear slide down your cheek. 

12:00 A.M.

This time, the clock’s chiming didn’t make you jump. The howl did. Both Sam and Dean were desperately trying to get the door open, but Cas knew that this was what you wanted. He turned away. 

“Damn it, Y/N! Open the door!” Dean shouted again, hitting the glass as hard as he could. You spoke just loud enough for them to hear you. 

“I love you.” You opened your eyes only to find the heartbreak in his. “I love all of you.” You cried out as a set of claws dug deeply into your calf, yanking you backwards onto the concrete. 

“No!” Dean screamed. He pulled so hard that the handle of the door snapped off. Sam was frozen now, neither brother able to tear their eyes away. 

You tried to hold back your screams, but it was useless. The hellhound flipped you onto your back, claws ripping through your shoulder like paper. Your shrieks were loud enough to fill the kitchen. 

“Baby, please.” Dean cried, his efforts in trying to break the glass merely giving him bruises. He was forced to watch the invisible beast create claw marks along your arms and chest. He felt every tear as if it were happening to him all over again. A pool of blood started to pour out beneath you.

Your most agonizing scream came when you felt the dog’s jaws clamp around your side. You looked up at the men above you. Dean’s face was stained with tears, as was his brother’s. They both looked so anguished, so shattered. So you remembered last night. You remembered their laughing faces and off-key singing. You remembered Sam’s comforting embrace and his knowing smile. You remembered the taste of Dean’s lips and the feeling of his body tangled with yours. You remembered their eyes in the sunset, sparkling and alive. And you smiled. Your boys.

“Y/N! No!” Dean screamed in horror as a chunk of your flesh was violently torn away. You stopped moving. “Y/N!” The last toll of the clock echoed throughout the entire house and the old Grandfather clock stopped ticking. 

Sam pushed his brother to the side and fired his gun at the glass until it shattered. Dean bolted through, not caring if he got cut. The hound was gone, leaving only carnage in its wake. He fell to his knees. 

“Y/N?” His voice was quiet now, hoarse from screaming. Your eyes stared blankly up at the stars, blood splattered across your face. He cradled your head in his hand. “Don’t do this to be, baby. Don’t do this to me.” He pulled you into his lap. “Come on sweetheart, don’t make me lose you too. Please.”

Sam’s chest tightened, watching his brother break down. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Dean cry this hard. Cas had vanished, so it was just the two of them now. After a moment, Sam let out a heavy sigh. 

“Why don’t you head out the car? I’ll clean up.” 

“No.” Dean growled, head jerking up to look at him. “I have to do this.” Dean straightened and he scooped your body up into his arms. Blood rushed down his clothes like rain, seeping through to his skin. It would stain him for the rest of his life. He pressed a kiss to your forehead one last time and gently closed your eyes. 

And she’s buying a stairway to Heaven. 

-

Tuesday 8:33 A.M.

The ride back to the bunker was silent. Even when they got back, Sam knew better than to say anything. Dean went to take a shower, shoving the small tin to the back of his drawer. Sam poured himself a drink. He looked out on an empty library and lifted his glass, as if he were toasting you. 

Dean turned the water to a scalding temperature, feeling it burn as it rinsed off the sticky crimson liquid that covered his chest and arms. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your smile going blank as the hellhound tore away your skin. And all he could hear was that stupid clock. Before he even realized it, his hand punched the tiled wall over and over again until it cracked, his knuckles splitting open and oozing blood. He didn’t even feel it. He didn’t feel anything. 

-

It was dark, but you could still see the blade hanging above you, glistening menacingly. Spiked restraints pierced your wrists, holding you down on the table. 

“Sam? Cas? Anybody!” You cried. There was no hiding the terror in your voice. The saw screeched to life and slowly lowered down towards you. “Help me! Somebody please!” You struggled, only making the spikes dig further into your skin. There was no escaping this. Your screams filled the darkness. “Dean!”

-

General Tag: @rae-gar-targaryen; @takemepedropascal; @childhood-imagination;  @mylovegoesto; @yellowbadgergirl; @itmejado

Supernatural: @desimarie12; @deandreamernp; @vicmc624​; @halesandy​ @livshaes​;  @d-whinchestergirl87​;  @mrspeacem1nusone​

The Deal Series: @writeroutoftime

[flowerfan2]

We’re getting close to the end, folks!  Chapter 17 of 20 is up.  This one features some cuddles/comfort, a trip to NYC, a sparkling holiday party, and a romantic dance.  Enjoy!

David x Patrick, A03, 5k this chapter.

Chapter 17

David is sitting outside on the lanai, drinking his coffee and ignoring Alexis’ texts.  He doesn’t know how to answer her question.  He’s not sure why she thinks that texting him about the same thing over and over will make any difference, when he clearly told her, three days ago, to stop bothering him about it.

The problem is that he’s running out of time to make a decision, although in a way that’s a decision in itself.  He knows that the adult thing to do is to talk to Patrick about it, but if a little more time goes by, he won’t have to.

It’s only a few days away from one of his family’s most honored traditions, their annual holiday party, which has now become the Rose Motel Group holiday party.  This year, it’s at a trendy club in New York City, and it promises to be even more spectacular than ever.  David is expected to attend, whether he’s working remotely in Florida or not.

Of course, his parents would understand if he didn’t come… but he’ll pay the price, he knows it.  His father will have that sad look of disappointment, and his mother will be hurt, but hide it under fancy words and an extra ridiculous outfit.  And he really can’t stand the thought of upsetting Alexis.

It’s not only guilt, either.  David misses his family.  For better or worse, they have continued to be close since their days in Schitt’s Creek, and it’s not all due to concern about David’s mental health.  David genuinely enjoys their company, most of the time, and he’s come to rely on them.  Especially Alexis.

David had managed to put the holiday party completely out of his mind until Alexis started texting him about it.  Apparently his father finally caught on to the fact that he hadn’t committed, and put her on the case.  It’s been easy not to think about it, or anything to do with his old, sad, non-Patrick life, here in sunny Florida where the Christmas decorations look wildly out of place on the palm trees.  Even Patrick’s thoughtful gift of a menorah hadn’t overcome David’s willful not-thinking-about the holidays, annual festivities included.

He’s so happy here, with Patrick and no one else, in their bubble of suburban domesticity.  They pretty much do whatever they want, no one stopping in to put demands on them, no one asking questions.  Sure, they spend some time working during the day, but they’re never more than a few feet apart, unless one of them leaves the house to run a quick errand.  It’s not very realistic, and it might well have backfired, but so far it hasn’t.

Frankly David finds it comforting that Patrick is here, safe from all the demons that have been troubling him.  Although now he has to rewrite that story a bit, seeing as Marcy’s heath scare happened here in Florida.  But at least Patrick is far away from the site of his employment melt-down and his ill-fated night on the town with his cousin, cocooned in this little bubble where David can keep a close eye on him.

He worries about Patrick.  Over the past few weeks the Patrick he used to know is making his appearance more and more, but he’s still not the same.  Almost worse than the quiet sadness he sees in his eyes when he thinks David isn’t looking is the tentative surprise he shows when something goes right.  

It’s ironic, David thinks, that now, more than three years after their break-up, Patrick is the more damaged one.  It’s not what he ever imagined, when he thought about their future.  In the hazy mist of his imagination, Patrick was always and forever steady, guiding David through the stormy waters of his turbulent life.  (David acknowledges that his imagination is prone to purple prose.)  But life didn’t turn out that way, and he can only thank the universe that fate and shitty weather in Milwaukee brought them together again.  

David finishes his coffee and goes into the house, toeing off his shoes just inside the door.  He makes a cup of deliciously scented jasmine tea for Patrick, and heads back into the bedroom.

Patrick is still in bed, curled up in a ball with the duvet almost covering his face.  He hadn’t wanted to get up when the alarm went off, muttering to David that he didn’t have to do any work until the afternoon, and burrowing back down into the blankets.

David puts the tea down on the nightstand and slides under the covers, spooning up against Patrick’s back.  He moves slowly, trying to gauge whether his presence is welcome or not.  He knows Patrick isn’t actually asleep – his eyes flickered open when David entered the room.  The fact that he’s still in bed despite this isn’t a tremendously good sign, but David knows all too well how sometimes just getting out of bed can seem overwhelming.

To an outsider, he thinks that Patrick probably seems fine.  He is taking care of himself, doing what needs to be done in the house, and even starting a new job.  He gives the impression to others that he is completely in control, friendly and capable – and David thinks that more and more, it’s not a façade.  But David sees these moments, too, when it’s all just too much.

He curls his hand around Patrick’s arm, gently.  “Hey,” he whispers.  “I brought you some tea, if you want it.”

No reaction.

“Or you can just nap for a while.”

Patrick stirs, inching back towards David.  

“Okay if I nap too?”  David asks.

Patrick takes David’s hand and pulls it to his own chest, tucking his arm around David’s.  David can feel Patrick’s heartbeat against his palm.  

“Mmm.”  David presses a kiss to the back of Patrick’s neck.  “Sweet dreams, baby.”  David closes his eyes and breathes in the familiar smell of Patrick’s skin.  There are a lot worse things to do than cuddle his boyfriend through a difficult morning.  David can handle this.  He’s starting to think there’s quite a lot he can handle, when it comes to Patrick.

He knows Patrick was up late last night, going down rabbit holes on the web.  At some point David had woken up and peered at the screen of Patrick’s laptop, so he knows he was reading about depression.  He hopes it helped.  The internet can be a scary place; he’d probably be better off talking to someone.  David would talk to him about it, if he let him, but ever since their first few conversations Patrick hasn’t wanted to discuss it.  

David has almost fallen asleep when Patrick turns over and squints his eyes open.  

“You don’t have to stay here with me,” he says, blinking at David.

The sentence seems to carry more weight than he intended, and David shakes his head and puts his arm around Patrick, pulling him close.  “I’m not going anywhere.”  David shifts on to his back, and Patrick tucks himself against David’s chest.

“You have work.”  It’s a half-hearted protest at best, mumbled against David’s sweater.

“I already told Rory to move my meetings to the afternoon.  I’m fine.”  David presses a kiss to Patrick’s head. “I’m exactly where I want to be.  It’s a perfect day for sleeping in.”

Patrick is quiet, while David rubs his back and shuffles closer until they are entwined just right, legs and knees and arms all pressed together.  

After a few minutes David feels Patrick’s breath slow, and his hold on David relaxes.  He’s about to drift off himself, when Patrick jerks himself awake again.

“You okay, honey?”

Patrick nods, his chin digging into David.  “Yeah.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.  It’s all right.”  David strokes Patrick’s shoulder and back, making lazy circles, hoping it will help.  

“Thank you,” Patrick whispers, his hand flat against David’s stomach.  It’s the last thing David hears before he falls asleep.

When David wakes up, Patrick is gone, but the shower is running so there’s not much of a question as to where he went.  David drags himself upright and checks his phone.  Rory has indeed moved his meetings, one to this afternoon, one to tomorrow, and one he had taken care of all by himself.  Maybe there won’t be coal in his Christmas stocking after all.

David is in the kitchen sniffing various take-out containers to figure out if he can stand eating any of them for lunch, when Patrick shows up.  He’s wide awake and smells delightfully like David’s favorite body wash, so naturally David has to kiss him before anything else.  When they separate, Patrick is smiling sweetly at him, and David feels his whole body light up.  If there’s something better than Patrick’s fond attention, he has yet to discover it.

Patrick insists on making lunch, and they pull together a salad with some bagged lettuce, leftover grilled chicken and an overlooked cucumber.

“We have got to get something better for dinner,” David says, as they lean against the kitchen island and eat their food.  

“There’s an Italian place in a new shopping center that I haven’t tried yet, but it looks good.”  Patrick sends David the link to the restaurant’s menu, and David is checking out their desserts (they have cannoli, which is a definite mark in their favor), when Patrick’s phone chirps several times in a row.

“David?”

“Hm?”

“Why does Alexis want my measurements?”

David freezes, his good mood draining out of him.  “What?”

“Alexis wants to know my-”

David yanks the phone out of his hand.  “Let me see.”  He scans the messages.  The party isn’t directly mentioned, but there’s no getting out of it now.  He’s going to kill Alexis for pulling this shit and going around him.  “I can explain.”

“Okay, go ahead.”  Patrick takes a bite of his salad, then looks up at David.  “What’s going on?”

Time to bite the bullet.  “This Saturday night is the RMG holiday party.”

“Okay…”

“And my parents want me to come.”

Patrick looks… disappointed.  “Oh.”

David realizes his mistake instantly.  “Us – they want <i>us</i> to come.  But – you don’t have to.  I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“Do you want me to?”

David stands up from his chair and paces, to the patio and back, wishing it wasn’t raining so he could go outside and pace there too.  

“David?  Is that a hard question?”  Patrick is standing now, too, and there’s a tinge of anger in his tone.

“I don’t want you to feel like you <i>have</i> to come,” David says, coming towards him and gripping his arms. “I don’t want to rock the boat.  We’re good here.  There’s no reason to risk it.”

“To risk what?”  Now Patrick just sounds confused.

“Anything.”  David tilts his head back.  “I know I sound crazy, that’s why I didn’t bring this up.”

Patrick pulls them towards the couch, and they sit down.  David leans his head in his hands.

“David. Tell me what’s really going on.”

He sighs.  “What if you don’t like it?”

“The party?”

David looks up and rolls his eyes at him.  “No, not the party.  What if you’re mad, about why I didn’t say anything?”

“I don’t mean to dismiss your concerns, David, but you might be overthinking things.  Why don’t you just spit it out?”

“Fine.”  David straightens his shoulders and looks at Patrick.  “I like being here with you. I like the <i>us</i> we have.  I don’t want anything to mess that up.”

“Agreed, one hundred percent,” Patrick says, winding his fingers through David’s.  “Go on.”

“I don’t want to go to New York without you, and have people… talk at me about it.  Put thoughts in my head, about how it might not work.  And I don’t want you to come and have the same thing happen.”

“So, you’re afraid that if we leave here, and see anyone else, they’ll be able to convince us that what we have isn’t going to last?”

“All right, all right, I know that’s silly.”  David squeezes his eyes shut.  “Also I don’t want you to get upset.”

There’s a pause, and when Patrick speaks, his voice is quiet, his slightly teasing tone gone.  “Upset about what?”

David shrugs, his eyes still closed. “Things that might… upset you.  Strangers.  The city.  A crowded club.”  He can feel Patrick go still next to him.  “I don’t know if that’s why we keep to ourselves down here.  But if that was any part of it, if this is your safe space, I don’t want you to feel you have to leave.  Not for something as dumb as a holiday party.”

Patrick breathes in and out, audibly, and David opens his eyes.  Patrick’s looking down at where their hands are entwined, studying them, his lips pressed tightly together.  David reaches over and cups Patrick’s head with his hand, bringing them closer.  “I hope that was okay to say,” David says softly.

Patrick nods.  “Yeah,” he says, “yeah.  That was okay to say.”  He looks at David, and his eyes are wet.  “You’re right.  This is my safe space, here, with you.”

David feels his chest clench, and he nods back.  “I’m glad.”

Patrick inhales deeply, and blinks away a tear.  “But I don’t think your family’s holiday party is necessarily a dumb reason to leave.”

“No?”

“No.  I think it might be good for us.  Especially since Alexis is apparently finding me a really nice suit.”

*****

It sounds easy – Patrick says sure, they should go to the party.  But there are a dozen decisions to make after that, and by the next night, David is really wishing he had found a way to just say no.

When to leave is easy enough – there’s no way he wants Patrick to have to take Friday off, not with a brand-new job, so they’ll fly into LaGuardia on Saturday morning.  But will they come back on Sunday – Christmas Eve?  Or spend that night with his family and come back on Christmas itself?  Spend yet another night to avoid traveling on Christmas?  And how is it fair to Patrick’s parents, to make this special trip to be with David’s family, and not see them?

Add to that figuring out where they’ll stay (one night on Alexis’ pull-out couch is barely tolerable, but more than that, forget it), what social events David will agree to while there, and who is going to pay for the whole charade, and it’s a giant mess.

“Ok, I’ve had enough,” David says, when their dinner of take-out sushi has been completely dominated by debating the pros and cons of the various options, each of them trying to anticipate what the other wants and as far as David can tell, defeating the point of the entire conversation.  “Let’s play rock, paper, scissors.”

“What?”

“I can’t stand it anymore.  Whoever wins, chooses.”

“That won’t solve it.”  

Patrick’s right, it still doesn’t mean whoever wins will actually pick something reasonable, and not just what they think the other person wants.

“But you might be on to something,” Patrick continues, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Please, tell me, and put an end to this so we can get on with our lives.”  And pack, David thinks.

“On the count of three, put out a finger for how many nights you want to stay in New York.  No more debate, no more thinking about it.”

“Each of us puts out a finger for how long <i>who</i> wants to stay?”

Patrick glares at him.  “Don’t make this harder than it is.  The conversation is over.  Ready?”

David nods.  Whatever happens, at least then they can move on.

“One, two-”

“Wait, do we put out a finger on three, or are you going to say one, two, three, go?”

Patrick smacks David on the arm.

“Ow!”

“I’m going to say one, two, three, go.” There’s a twinkle in Patrick’s eyes when they meet David’s.  “Ready?  One, two, three, go!”

Both of them put out one finger.

“Oh, thank god,” David says, sagging forward, his forehead against Patrick’s.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Can we please not talk about this anymore?”  David didn’t want to stay in New York any longer than necessary; he didn’t want to have any other days to worry about what his parents might want him to do versus what Patrick might want to do, he didn’t want to have to manage any of it any longer than he had to.  But he also didn’t want Patrick to feel like he was cutting David’s time with his family short, or that David was giving something up for him.  Because right now, all David really wants is whatever is best for Patrick, and what’s best for him and Patrick together.  And his gut is telling him that getting back to Florida on Sunday, and then spending Monday (even though it’s Christmas?  Because it’s Christmas?) together, alone, with no work and no family for a whole day, is what’s best for them both.

Patrick laughs.  “Sure.  And you know what’s great about our decision?”

“That it’s done?”

“Yes, and now we can just stay at Alexis’ place, since it will only be one night.”

“Thank god for small mercies.”

*****

They wake up at a painfully early hour Saturday morning and drag themselves to the airport, which is packed with Christmas travelers.  But everything goes smoothly, and by noon they’re in an Uber on their way to Alexis’ place.  When she opens the door she ignores David completely and envelops Patrick in a hug that goes on for so long, Patrick signals to David for help.  It’s unbearably sweet, and David is suddenly, overwhelmingly happy that they decided to come to New York.

Alexis gives Patrick a tour of her tiny apartment, and Patrick appropriately oohs and ahs over everything.  Alexis is especially proud of the little corner of her room that serves as an office, with its mood boards and tastefully decorated shelves.

“So this is where the magic happens,” Patrick says, and Alexis beams.

“Yes, Patrick!”  She sits down at her computer and pulls up a file to show him her latest spreadsheet achievement, when David sees a glossy looking envelope on her counter with Patrick’s name on it.

“What’s this?”  He picks it up, admiring the heavy paper, when he recognizes the ice blue logo.  “Alexis, why do you have-”

She plucks it out of his hand and does a little shimmy.  “It’s not for you, David.”  With a flourish, she hands it to Patrick.

Patrick exchanges a “what can you do” glance with David, and opens the envelope.  David crowds close, too excited to wait.

“It’s from your mom,” Patrick says.  

“It’s a lil’ couples massage,” Alexis says, practically bouncing on her toes.  “She specifically said to tell you that <i>there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself</i>.”  Alexis points with an impeccably polished nail to where it says that on the card, and David rolls his eyes, remembering the day Patrick reassured his mother that she wasn’t responsible for the dead guy in Room 4.  He <i>knew</i> she was being purposefully obtuse about the scone.

“Do we even have time for this massage thing?” Patrick asks.  “It’s for today.”

“Um, yes, we have time.  We absolutely have time.  This is one of the most exclusive spas in the city.”  David grabs Patrick’s coat off the couch; his own leather jacket is barely warm enough for New York in December, but at least it’s appropriate, unlike Patrick’s down monstrosity.  “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m coming with you,” Alexis says, linking her arm through Patrick’s.  “Maybe we can make it a trio.”

“Not unless you are ready to walk out this door in thirty seconds.”

“Ugh, David.”  

Luckily Alexis takes only fifteen minutes to get ready to go, and they’re on their way.  Despite the fact that David has never heard of a trio massage (and he shudders to think of how expensive that might be), he doesn’t dissuade her from coming along.  He’s got barely twenty-four hours to hang out with her, and he’s going to soak up every one of them.

In the end Alexis drops them at the spa to do some shopping of her own, while David and Patrick are pampered to within an inch of their lives.  During the initial consultation with the massage therapists, they are fed chocolate covered strawberries and cucumber water.  They agree on the massage oils, and the music, and then are led to a dim room which smells delightfully like eucalyptus and jasmine.  David tries to keep his eyes open so he can watch Patrick melting into jelly on the table next to him.  It’s without a doubt the best massage David has ever experienced.  He can practically feel the oxytocin swirling in the air between them.

Afterwards they are helped into fluffy white robes, and then collapse together onto a wide, padded lounger.  “That was really nice,” Patrick says.

“Nice?”  David asks.  “Just nice?”

Patrick snuggles into David’s shoulder.  “Mmm.  I can’t think of words right now.  Full review later.”

David noses at Patrick’s hair.  “Okay.”

“Love you,” Patrick says muzzily.

“Love you too.”

They dose together, boneless and content, until a soft chime wakes them.  Reluctantly they find their way to the changing rooms, and then out into reality.

Alexis is buzzing with excitement and wants to immediately go back to her place to get dressed, but David insists that they find something to eat first.  It’s still hours away from when dinner will be served tonight, and as lovely as the chocolate covered strawberries were, he needs some real food or things will get ugly.

Luckily, they spot one of his favorite places to get a quick snack (it’s a chain with pretentious communal tables, but David has spent many hours here and he loves it anyway), so they load up on quiche and avocado tartine and mochas before returning to Alexis’ apartment.

When they arrive it’s fashion show time.  Because Alexis loves dressing up, she had agreed ages ago to let David keep some clothes in her closet – just a few choice outfits for when they were in New York together and felt like going out.  But David can feel Patrick hovering next to him, all the afternoon’s relaxing threatening to disappear, so he suggests they look at his options first.

Alexis beams and starts chattering about what she got for Patrick, and David leans in close, a hand on the small of his back.  “You don’t have to wear any of that if you don’t want to,” he whispers, as Alexis pulls out a silver shirt with a shiny gleam.  “You can wear what you brought.  Or what you’ve got on right now.”  David gives Patrick’s jeans-clad ass a little slap, and Patrick snorts out a laugh.

“What?  You don’t like this one?”  Alexis asks.  “You’re right, it’s too flashy.  How about this?”  She reaches airily into the closet, and David can tell by the way she’s standing, like she’s posing for a photo, that she’s presenting her top choice.  It’s a dark navy blue suit (Tom Ford? How did she get a Tom Ford suit for Patrick?) with a deep, rich purple shirt.  She holds it up to Patrick, and he nods carefully, then looks over to David for approval.

David pets it, and looks inside for a label.  The suit isn’t a Tom Ford, although it looks damn good.  And now that he examines the jacket more closely, he can see it has its own distinctive style.  “Where did you get this, Alexis?  And who made it?”

Alexis preens.  “One of my friends has a connection with an up and coming designer,” she says.  “She’ll be at the party tonight.  I’ll introduce you.”

“And we don’t have to pay for this, right?”  David asks.  The cut is classically elegant, and he thinks it’s going to fit Patrick like a glove.

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’.  “She’s just happy to have someone wearing her clothes.”

“I’ll try it on,” Patrick says, and Alexis shows him to the bathroom.  When he comes back out, David can’t help but go to him, running his hands up and down his shoulders and arms.

“You like it?”  Patrick asks.  

“I like <i>you,</i>” David says, and presses a quick kiss to Patrick’s lips.  “And you look amazing in this suit.”  He unbuttons another button of the shirt, liking the way the open neck shows just a little bit of Patrick’s skin.

“It doesn’t need a tie?” Patrick asks.

“No, you’re perfect just like this.”

“Yay!”  Alexis cheers, coming over and booping Patrick on the nose.  “I knew this was going to work!”

David decides on his black and white Armani short jacket, with a sharp collared white shirt underneath and slim black ankle-length trousers.  He likes the contrast with Patrick’s rich colored but still traditionally styled suit.  Alexis twirls for them in her dress, a silky blush colored gown that makes her look like a 50’s movie star. They’re finally ready, and they pile into a waiting Uber and head uptown.

The back room of the club is already crowded, and David can’t help but feel a little swell of pride at how RMG has grown.  Stevie waves to them from where she’s standing across the room with Ruth, but David doesn’t have a chance to get over to her before his parents descend.  There are hugs all around, and when the wave of familial affection finally recedes, David can’t help but notice that Patrick looks a little overwhelmed.

He weaves his arm through Patrick’s and leads them away, finding an alcove where they can catch their breath.

“You okay?” he asks, a palm to Patrick’s chest.  He can feel his heart beating a mile a minute.  This is exactly what he was worried about, this is too much for Patrick, too many people.  “We can leave anytime, we made our appearance, I’ll call a car-”

“No, David, I’m fine,” Patrick says, taking David’s hand.  “Really.”

David searches his face.  “Are you sure?  Because you seem a little…”

“David,” Patrick says firmly.  “I’m fine.”  He slides his hands around David’s waist, under his jacket, and David can feel the warmth of his fingers pressing against him through the thin fabric of his shirt.  David slings his arms around Patrick and leans his head against his shoulders.  “Your parents are very enthusiastic, but it’s great to see them,” Patrick says.  “Everything’s okay.”

“You’re fine,” David repeats, willing himself to believe it.  Patrick really is.  Nothing’s wrong.  

“Could it be, maybe, you’re a little nervous too?”  Patrick says, his voice gentle.

David wants to deny it, but realizes instantly that Patrick is right.  He feels a little fizzy, a little unsteady.  “Maybe.”  Patrick isn’t the only one who has been enjoying their little Florida bubble.  

Patrick hugs him closer, and then steps back, inclining his head out towards the party.  “Come on.  Alexis said there’d be crab puffs.”

“Crab cakes,” David corrects.  

“Crab cakes, then.  And baked brie.”

“I still don’t see any coherency in the hors d’oeuvre selection,” David gripes, back on solid ground.

“But you’re going to eat all of them anyway.”

“I am definitely going to eat all of them anyway.”

They’re grazing by the cheese platters when David sees a few familiar faces coming towards him.  This is going to be fun, he thinks, a smile tugging at his cheek.

“David, hi!”  

“Vanessa, you look radiant.”  She does, her dark skin set off by a metallic pantsuit and glimmers of gold around her eyes.  

“Most beautiful woman in the room,” rumbles her companion, a huge man with a barrel chest who towers over both David and Patrick.

“Patrick, meet Vanessa, my favorite gallery employee from back in the day, and her husband Rory, my current favorite employee.”

Rory laughs, his deep voice probably setting off small earthquakes somewhere.  “I’m not your employee, Rose.”  He holds out his hand to Patrick.  “Nice to meet you.”

Patrick turns to David, and the reveal was definitely worth it.  “This is your assistant Rory?  The one you bother all day long about your schedule?  The one you sent to pick out your clothes?”

“Mmm-hmm.”  David <i>knows</i> Patrick thought “Rory” was some college kid, he just knows it.  Instead he’s a thirty-five year old sculptor who wanted a day job for a steady paycheck.

“What, you don’t think I can be trusted with David’s clothes?”  Rory asks.  “I admit, I was surprised, too.  But I guess he had a good reason to ask me to go through all of his drawers.”

“Drawers?  My knits aren’t in drawers, where did you-” David sees the look on Vanessa’s face, and abruptly changes course.  “You made Vanessa do it, didn’t you.”

Vanessa laughs, and tucks her arm through her husband’s.  “I’m sorry, David, but come on – you send Rory an emergency text telling him to Fed Ex you extremely specific selections from your warm weather clothing, and you think I’m not going to get involved?  I’ve known you for years and you never let me into your closet before. It was an experience I was not going to pass up.”

Patrick is giggling into his glass of seltzer, and David has had quite enough of this.  “Fine.  Tease me if you want.  But I think we can all agree it was a successful mission.”  He hooks his chin over Patrick’s shoulder, his arm snug around him.

“From the way you two look together, I’d say so,” Vanessa says.

“Here here.” Rory raises his glass, and they all follow suit.  “To David and Patrick.”

“Oh my god, enough with that,” David says, and buries his burning face in Patrick’s neck.

Rory and Vanessa excuse themselves, but David has hardly had a chance to visit the buffet again when Patrick tugs at his arm.

“What?” he says, looking up from a particularly delicious egg roll.

“Come dance with me,” Patrick says, his eyes wide and warm, and David drops his plate on a table and follows him.  

“What brought this on?” David asks, as he loops his arms over Patrick’s shoulders and starts to move in time to the music.

Patrick shrugs a little and pulls David closer.  “My parents always dance to this song,” he says into David’s ear.

David feels his chest expand, and he presses a kiss to Patrick’s cheek.  “It’s a nice song.”  

<i>Moon river, wider than a mile</i> <i>I'm crossing you in style some day</i>

<i>Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker</i> <i>Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way</i>

David listens for a moment to the bittersweet melody.  “Is it a love song?” he finally asks.  It’s not as if he’s ever given <i>Moon River</i> much thought before.  

Patrick slides his fingers up the back of David’s neck, into his hair.  “I think it’s love for the journey, rather than a destination.”

<i>Two drifters, off to see the world</i>

<i>There’s such a lot of world to see</i>

David glances around, and now his parents are dancing too, along with a handful of other couples.  He nuzzles against Patrick.  “Not to quote my sister or anything, but… I like this journey for us.”

Patrick turns his head and finds David’s lips, kissing him sweetly.  “Me too, David.  Me too.”

[pipmcmayhem]

Okay Y’know what? I want to make a story time post bc why not. I’m stressed and I want to share my struggles so I’m just gonna go for it.

DISCLAIMER: throughout this post I talk about receiving expensive gifts as a kid. I don’t want it to come off as bragging, and keep in mind there was always a catch resulting in countless traumas. I’m stating this stuff as fact, and I really don’t want to seem entitled but I know that it will come across that way to some. And I’m sorry it does in advance.

Also CW// emotional abuse, gaslighting

SO…

Throughout my life I’ve been gaslit/emotionally abused/scapegoated and just have always had a very fucked up family dynamic. I’m not going to go FULLY into detail on that because there’s just. WAY too much. And this post isn’t supposed to be my full life story; just why the whole deal with my sewing machine is especially freaking me out.

I literally just made a post about my sewing machine and mentioned this in the tags, but I want to share the full story.

In my fucked up life and household, I had one shining light. My Memom. She loved me, supported me, and was always there. If I’m being honest, I was frequently bought nice shit by both my parents and my Memom, but there was a major difference between the two.

My mom would try and buy me anything I wanted, even though she’s always struggled with money in general. We’re both bipolar 1. And she had a bad shopping addiction. A lot of weight fell on her to raise her mentally unstable kids and she would but us stuff to make up for our overall family dysfunction. The problem was that when we got in our heated arguments (you could probably call them fights, but they rarely got physical) she would use the things she bought me as leverage to guilt me into feeling like an ungrateful piece of shit. “After all the expensive things I buy you you have the NERVE to say you have it bad? You spoiled ungrateful bitch!” Etc.

(I’d like to note that she’s bettering herself and working on her recovery now and has made stellar progress, which is why I’m comfortable keeping her in my life. My dad was just distant, example being it was always him and “you people” referring to my mom and brother and I. He’s gotten a bit better too, but definitely has a form of undiagnosed narcissism)

My Memom loved me unconditionally though. She would remove me from that hellhole house to go have sleepovers with her, get me icecream and make nice food (her bean burritos were the best) and was always just… there for me. Always. And as for the expensive things she got me, it was always things that had to do with my creativity. She encouraged me with all of my artistic talents and skills. She’d take me to Jo-Ann fabrics all the time so I could raid the fleece remnants for plushies. I got my first sewing machine when I was 7 (which was a beginner $70 singer my mom got me out of spite towards an art teacher, but that’s another story)

The funny thing about my Memom is if it didn’t have to do with my talents, she wouldn’t even consider buying it. The newest Pokémon game for $40? No way. But, 17” 2007 MacBook Pro (in 2012)? Corel Painter 11? Basically new Wacom Cintiq 24HD from Craigslist? Sure!

That includes my sewing machine. In 2013, she got me the biggest baddest beast of a machine: The Brother VM6200D, otherwise known as the Dreamweaver XE. She financed this bitch for 8k. AND got me TruEmbroidery, which at the time was the only embroidery software for Mac, and was half the price of the machine itself.

…And was still paying it off when she died suddenly in 2015 of an aortic aneurism.

My parents covered the remaining financial payments, which had about 3k left.

So my machine isn’t just a machine to me: it’s a coping mechanism, it was a gift from my Memom, and it’s one of the very few nice gifts that I got just because someone loved me without having it used as leverage for guilt tripping. I love this machine. I cherish it. But he’s also 8 years old, and the AMAZING mechanic we got it from as well as the one that’s always serviced it has never had any major issues with repairs. I’ve always gotten it back in 3 days or less. So for him to have to take it back a 3rd time to try and repair the same issue, and have it in his possession for 16 days now, is definitely freaking me out. I’ve been told that it can be fixed, which it damn well should be able to be considering he’s a Brother and he’s only 8, but damn. Paranoia has not been easy on me, and having no access to arguably my greatest coping mechanism is even worse.

I know he can be fixed but holy shit… I’m just… upset. I’ll reblog with an update when I get him back. But for now, have a bit of context on my beloved Dreamweaver.

And also, here’s a picture of my Memom. I miss her every single day.

[apparitionism]

Decalogue 2

This is a belated continuation of my Bering-and-Wells tenth-anniversary piece: a listing of “commandments,” one issued by each year of their association. I did the first five years in part 1. The ensuing years are of course both easier (I get to make up what happened!) and harder (oh lord, I have to make up what happened...). So this second five years’ worth of commandments—this second pentalogue?—will probably be both worse and better than the first. As always, I’m in it for the talking, but also for the idea that Myka and Helena would get things right, and wrong, and right again. I testify regularly that it’s hard work to sustain a long-term relationship. You have to want to do that work, and it isn’t always pleasant. But I’m absolutely certain that B&W would power through. Anyway I meant to do the ensuing five years as a single part, but I decided instead to fake myself into thinking I’m accomplishing things if I do them one or two at a time. I’m taking wins where I can find them right now.

Decalogue 2

Year six: Thou shalt not damage.

This commandment, which Myka would have been overjoyed to be able to keep in its absolute form, worked out in practice to something more like “You’re going to do some damage. Fix it as best you can.”

Distinguishing between where it was and was not safe to step was one of Myka’s most confounding challenges. So many years ago, at the start, the literal gunpointings had made the hazards very clear, but now, instead, Myka encountered metaphorical landmines, buried in places stranger than she had expected: she knew to step around guns and guilt; she knew not to mention Christina, unless Helena was in a mood to think about her. But how was Myka supposed to have anticipated that on any given day, a particular word would be a sensitive plate?

She had been complaining, expressing general resentment on the topic of her parents and Tracy and the grandchild. She concluded with, “And that’s my family for you.”

“They are your family,” Helena said, a flat statement that Myka could not parse. Then she stopped talking to Myka. Entirely.

Myka tried to ask, tried to find out what was the matter; then she tried just talking to Helena, pretending nothing was wrong, hoping it was some sort of circuit-breaker problem and that acting normal would throw the switch; then she offered a general apology for everything she might ever have done wrong; but in the end she had to give up. Helena with an idea in her head—whatever the idea was—couldn’t be reasoned with.

They slept in the same bed. No words. No contact either, but that was because Myka avoided it. She could deal, for a while, with being verbally ignored, but she didn’t think she could handle even one instance of Helena coldly refusing to escalate touch into intimacy.

Claudia couldn’t save them this time. Not that she didn’t try: “Talk to Myka!” she bellowed at Helena, but no talking ensued. “I guess you gotta keep trying,” she told Myka with a shrug. “Send her flowers?”

Well, flowers never hurt anything, did they? So Myka had an arrangement of peonies delivered to the B&B, because Helena had once been very “these belong in an English garden” about peonies, softer than Myka would ever have expected her to be.

Helena read the card—and Myka had to admit that the “I love you” message wasn’t very creatively written, even in terms of penmanship, but she was running on desperate fumes at that point—then very pointedly placed it and the peonies into the kitchen trash can.

So Myka’s best version of tenderness was in the garbage... clearly tenderness was not sufficient to fix anything. It was necessary, she was fairly sure, but not sufficient.

After much additional analytical thought, she developed a hypothesis. “I think I get it. Your family’s gone,” she offered to Helena, who barely twitched in response. But she did twitch, so maybe Myka had got it right? She continued, “And I’m being insufficiently grateful that mine isn’t.”

No response other than a very loud absence of anything resembling a twitch.

Back to the analytical drawing board... at which Myka now drew nothing but a blank.

It took an entire week for Helena to budge at all, but: prompted perhaps by Myka rescuing one of the peonies from the trash and putting it in a vase on the nightstand on Helena’s side of the bed, or maybe by Pete endlessly complaining “I hate when Mom and Mom fight,” or alternatively by Steve handing her cup after cup of tea and noting (just as endlessly) that it was “to soothe your laryngitis,” or possibly by the phase of the moon or a conspicuous mote of dust or something else that even Helena herself probably couldn’t or wouldn’t ever articulate, she interrupted Myka’s weeklong insomniac ceiling-staring session at two in the morning by pushing at her shoulder, hard, and saying, “I thought you might be moved to describe me as your family. But I see I have not been promoted to that exalted level.”

Helena was vocally doing “stoic” and “offhand,” insofar as anyone could really pull off either of those after a week of administering the silent treatment. Which meant that she wasn’t pulling them off at all, which in turn meant that Myka could hear the wound: a fault line sending a bleak rumble through the substrate of that voice in the dark.

“Exalted,” Myka said, herself trying to pull off “no, I never really thought you’d refuse to speak to me for the rest of our lives.” She was also trying to hide her embarrassment at being so analytically obtuse, as well as her shame at having inflicted pain in the first place. “Do you want me to not get along with you, too? Complain about you all the time?”

“You do complain about me all the time,” Helena pointed out, and Myka had to concede, at least internally, that that was probably more than a little bit true. She had to concede, too, that she had not in any way put Helena in her mental dictionary to illustrate the word “family.” The pictures of an endlessly troubling group of people from whom she could not really escape, about whom she complained all the time, had seemed to be a permanently closed set. Any additions, she had thought, would be similes: Pete was like a brother (and thank god that was once again true), Claudia like a sister (though a different sort than the one Myka actually had).

She should have known that Helena’s role in her life was literal, not figurative. And she should have known that Helena, in all her literal intensity, would have expected words to be applied.

Family. She complained about Helena all the time; Helena was endlessly troubling; and Myka certainly could not escape from her, as five-years-unto-six had shown. But the difference was that she didn’t want to escape Helena... apparently she’d mistaken that for a disqualifying factor, family-wise.

“You have sequestered me from those who are so exalted,” Helena said then. “Ideationally, but physically as well.”

“In my defense,” Myka began, but she faltered. “I know it isn’t much of one. But you haven’t been here for very long. I mean... you were, but then you weren’t. Physically. Since you brought that up. And we’ve been together for real for less than a year.”

Silence again, but this time it was an audible challenge.

“So I guess I’m taking you to Colorado Springs pretty soon to show you off.”

Myka realized, while she was searching for reasonably priced plane tickets for the trip, that this was the first time she’d hurt Helena in a way in which she might have been similarly likely to hurt anyone. She’d been so busy working on not making Helena-centric mistakes, those to do with guns and guilt and grief, that she hadn’t thought much at all about this relationship in a broader sense. It was singular, yes (obviously yes), but it was also two people in love with each other, trying to live with each other. Buying “meet the parents” plane tickets forced her to confront how pedestrian they were, as people in love with each other. It was both a minor disappointment and an enormous relief.

Arriving at her childhood home with Helena in tow was even more surreal than she’d imagined... despite the fact that she’d imagined it out, scenario after scenario.

It was also even more awkward than she’d imagined. “Mom, Dad,” she began, as her parents and Helena did nothing but look at each other, wary, as if a hostage exchange were about to occur, “I told you about Helena.” No one said anything. Yes, awkward. She had indeed told them, but that been... what it had been. Myka still wasn’t sure how to think about what it had been.

She’d called them, determined to tell it all—well, not all—but before she’d finished clearing her throat in preparation for launching into her prepared remarks, she was subjected to the usual enthusiastic recounting of grandchild activities. That was fine, though, for she did take a little schadenfreudic satisfaction in how quickly grandchild-centric material had replaced Tracy-centric information in these bulletins.

“I have a little news,” she said as the child-related hosannas began at last to run out of steam.

She took a breath. “I’minaseriousrelationship.”

One more breath. “WithsomeonefromworkhernameisHelena.”

After a pause, but not much of one, her father said, “How do you want us to respond?”

Myka had braced herself for questions, certainly, but not that one. “By being happy for me?” she offered, and she wished she had sounded decisive.

“Then we’re happy for you,” her mother said, and when had her mother ever sounded that decisive?

Myka could easily imagine them at the kitchen table, both leaning toward the phone that her father would have propped against the lazy Susan, for he’d always seemed to believe that placing a phone flat on its back rendered it helpless, like a turtle. That picture was very clear, very familiar. But she could not envision how those two people, addressing that upright phone, would look if they were happy for her. “Just like that?” she asked, because her inability to see it suggested that she shouldn’t believe it.

“If that’s what you want,” said her father.

Had he come up with that on his own? Had her mother kicked him under the table? Who were these people? Myka groped for words to address this strange moment in which she wanted to believe what her parents were saying. All she could come up with was a slow, “It... is.”

You were promised endless wonder, she reminded herself, and you do seem to be in the bonus lately. She’d heard Pete say “in the bonus” about something sports-related, and even though she hadn’t bothered to find out what the phrase really meant, it felt solidly descriptive of the way the past couple of years had been resolving.

Speaking of wonder, though, she did wonder, in the moment, whether what she had really wanted was to have to argue passionately for her reasons and right to be with Helena... to have to make that case. She probably wouldn’t have done it, not out loud to her parents; they were her parents, so she would have just resented them, adolescently, for not respecting her choices.

But now there was nothing big to resent. Was this adulthood?

Ignore it, she told herself, and she managed, mostly, to do what she was told. Her parents acted like she’d told the same thing to them; they didn’t bring up someonefromworkhernameisHelena when they spoke with Myka. Myka didn’t either.

But now here they all were, face to face in the doorway of her childhood home, her parents and Helena and her own instantly re-teenaged self, refracted by the bizarre temporal displacements that had worked together to stand them here, scaled strangely, like dolls from different playsets.

A few very formal words, such as “how do you do” and “pleased to meet you,” ensued, and Myka had genuinely never been so happy to see her sister when Tracy finally showed up. She did so sans grandchild, which Myka had requested; she tried to tell herself she’d asked for that because inflicting a child on Helena would be cruel, but in all honesty, she selfishly wanted her parents to focus not on that child, for once, but on Helena—no matter how contradictory it was of her to have tried for so long to avoid directing their attention to Helena at all.

“Myka talked about you like you weren’t even real,” Tracy greeted Helena.

“For some time I was not,” Helena greeted back.

As if Helena’s response had been the epitome of etiquette, Tracy nodded and said, “I’m going to pretend out loud that I understand that.”

Helena said, as a stage whisper to Myka, “I like your sister. She functions.”

“That may be the nicest thing anybody’s ever said about me,” said Tracy.

Myka said, “Helena can be very nice when she feels like it.”

Tracy made a face that reminded Myka she wasn’t the only one who reteenaged around their parents. “You probably can too, Myka, but I’ve never seen you feel like it.”

“I, on the other hand, have seen her feel like it,” Helena informed Tracy. “So you may have hope.”

Tracy said, as a stage whisper to Myka, “I like your girlfriend. She functions too.”

And Myka didn’t in the end care if it was Tracy’s imprimatur that made the difference: the fog of overpropriety lifted, leaving Myka free to sit back and witness Helena returning her father’s interrogative serves with H.G. Wells–related volleys—more of them than Myka had imagined could be worked into conversation. “Oh, I think my friend Edward Prendick expressed it best,” Helena began one anecdote, and she ended another, “...which brought home to me that we all feel invisible now and again.”

“You made a game of it,” Myka accused her later that night, when they had escaped to their hotel room.

Helena smiled an indulgent smile at her across the snowy-white acre of king-sized hotel bed that separated them. “Of course I did. How many points would you say I accrued?”

“I stopped keeping score,” Myka said, and she wasn’t sure if she herself was being indulgent or just grumpy.

“Quitter...” Helena began, a drag of amused accusation. But then she paused, got on hands and knees, and initiated a trek to Myka’s side of the bed. She could have done it catlike, teasing, but this was a common human crawl. “No, that’s wrong,” Helena said as she moved. She was taking her time, but it really was a very large bed. “You’re no quitter,” she announced, answering Myka’s unvoiced “huh?” with, “You feared that initial interaction.”

“That’s unfortunately true.”

“But you did in the end ensure that it occurred.”

“Because you wanted me to.”

“And here we are,” Helena said, reaching her destination. She leaned to kiss Myka, a slow melt in which Myka felt gratitude, and also softness, the sort that was always a surprise (see: peonies). Just as there were unexpected sensitive plates, there were surprisingly graceful bays of yield and give. This kiss was one of them. Gratitude, grace; and Myka felt too the future: this kiss was happening here, now, but this kind of kiss could (should) happen tomorrow, next week, years from now. Here, somewhere else, anywhere.

This is why we came here, Myka thought. Because we kiss like this. Someone you kissed like this was who you were supposed to bring home to meet your parents—and again Myka felt the sad slight press of disappointment at, but also the knee-buckling relief of, being exactly like everyone else. “Here we are,” Myka agreed. “In a hotel room in Colorado Springs. I have never in my life spent the night in a hotel room in this town.”

“Interesting.” Helena gave her a look that included a little aggressive chin-jut. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Don’t Abigail me,” Myka warned.

The chin retracted, minimally. “All right, I’ll rephrase: And what do you intend to do about that?”

But Myka felt not quite ready for what she intended to do about that. “Look, you aren’t them,” she said.

“Correct.”

“So you see my category error.”

“I do.” Helena said it soft, and Myka chose to hear it as an apology for, or at least an expression of some regret about, that wordless week. “You see my...” Helena stopped. She sighed. “My emotional error.”

A straightforward statement from Helena about having got something wrong.... Myka really was in the “endless wonder” bonus. “I do see,” Myka said. “We’re both pretty bad at this.”

“Also correct. How do you feel about that?”

Myka rolled her eyes, but other than that she didn’t bother.

Helena pursed her lips, which sometimes signaled frustration, but this time she coupled it with playful eyebrow movement. “What do you intend to do about that?”

They were bad at this so much of the time, but here they were in Colorado Springs, being better at it... good at it, even. “Ignore it for now and get back to kissing somebody. Something else that I have never done in a hotel room in this town.”

“I would think not, given that—”

“Listen, don’t make me explain what other kids did on prom night.”

Helena smiled a beautifully familiar smile. Lascivious, but only to the degree that Myka liked. So: respectful. Her tone was further along on the lascivious scale (and Myka was fine with that) as she said, “I don’t know what ‘prom night’ is, but perhaps you should explain. In detail. If I understand your implication correctly.” The word “implication” was accompanied by a placing of her body atop Myka’s that she also knew Myka liked. “Correctly” was accompanied by an application of pressure, one that she further knew Myka loved.

And that was how Myka came to enjoy what she would forever after remember as her very own personal—personalized—prom night.

During which she may have accidentally caused some bruising... but no damage.

Per the commandment. Which was difficult, but not impossible, to keep.

TBC

My non-tag essay on this one is very simple, and it is basically a version of the next “commandment,” which I had already formulated, but which the past few weeks have really made clear to me: “Thou shalt take nothing for granted.” In fact my original first ideated line of that seventh-commandment bit was going to be “Because if you take any given thing for granted, it will explode in your face. Guaranteed.” I am here to tell you that is true. Prize each and every minute of the life you consider “normal,” if that normal feels good to you. My wife was in a serious accident very recently. She’s going to be okay eventually, with luck and hard work, but change to your everyday, which you may undervalue as I did mine, comes as a whip-crack.

[letsperaltiago]

a calm surrender to the rush of day

Jake’s had a few too many beers when he’s sent back home to Amy and his still relatively new son. It’s all good and cute, promise. Peak domestic Peraltiago. This oneshot is based on a prompt on this list.

#98: "I think we should have another"

Read on AO3 here

Amy was fast asleep in their bedroom when the sudden sound of the front door lock clicking and shifting followed by a half-hearted slam jolted her awake. For a very brief second, with her heart galloping in her chest as a result of the shock, Amy was utterly disoriented and the uneasy feeling was definitely not peculiar when you happened to live in a city that was ranked way too high on the Top 10 Most Dangerous Cities in America – a club she did not particularly enjoy being a part of. Although, as fast as it had encased her body to begin with, the shock quickly wore off the second she heard shifting and rumbling paired with a “shit” coming from what she figured out must’ve been the living room.

Jake, she realized, suddenly remembering why he wasn’t currently beside her in bed but rather out with some friends from the academy – or, at least, was.

In an attempt to put the final puzzle pieces in place she leaned over to grab her phone wondering how long he’d out and about for. The time revealed itself across her lock screen picture of Jake, fast asleep on their couch a few days after their son’s arrival with said son resting beneath his hands and on his chest. 3:11 AM – no wonder why she could barely keep her eyes open. There was a second of wondering if she should just turn over, go back to sleep and let Jake come join her whenever he was ready, but something else on the screen caught her eye before she could ultimately decide on doing so: 3 texts from Rosa with the last being from around 30 minutes prior.

Rosa Diaz – 12:39 PM Dude, Jake is horrible. He won’t shut up about you and the baby and for some reason the other guys from the academy seem to be eating it up. I hate it. What have you done to him?

Rosa Diaz – 1:56 AM Nvm. I take it back. He just paid a second round of beers to celebrate, and I quote, “His miracle baby”. Please get pregnant more. Means more free booze.

Rosa Diaz – 2:47 AM Def spoke too soon. He just threw up at my feet. We’re waiting outside the bar for his cab. I’m sending him home to you. Texts me when he gets there. Also: good luck lol. He’s stupid drunk.

Almost as if Jake had read the text as well, as to emphasize its point, Amy could hear him stumble into the bathroom across the hall to, what she chose to believe, grab his toothbrush but instead knocking over the glass holding it generating a loud commotion which tore throughout the entire apartment.

Amy’s head immediately as per instinct shot in the direction of her 3-month old’s crib, which stood against the wall on her side just a few feet away. Apart from the limited amount of Catholic traditions she’d grown up with living with her parents she wasn’t particularly religious, but right then and there she internally prayed that her son, who she’d spent an hour getting back to sleep just 3 hours ago, wasn’t woken up by her father’s drunken circus. She held her breath as a few, way too long seconds went by: no cry. Amy’s chest dropped in relief.

Moments like these were tiny victories that she as a brand new first-time mom held onto for dear life. In general, though she had nothing to compare to, her little boy wasn’t a particularly difficult baby but the past few days had been a bit rough on the little family: rough to the point where Amy had to push Jake out the door earlier that evening because he didn’t want to leave her behind with a fussy baby. But, more than ever before, Amy was confident, telling him it would be a waste for him to stay home and miss out on some fun; he should go out and she’d be fine. He’d ended up going. Although it was borderline against his will with half-worried eyes that Jake had crossed the threshold to exit their apartment, while repeating over and over again that she could and should call him if things turned out to be too much: he’d grab the first cab he saw back home.

Amy loved this considerate and worried side of Jake but it also turned out to be quiet unnecessary that night. Besides the hour from hell of fussiness at midnight, the evening alone with her son had gone by pretty smoothly – she’d actually made quite an enjoyable experience out of it. First of all, right after he’d had left, Amy ate the dinner Jake had prepared for her in advance on the couch with Flynn lying next to her in his little nest, talking and admiring his small sounds and smiles. God, she loved him so much and there was no TV-show or movie in the world that could beat the incredible sight of her son clumsily waving around his tiny legs and arms in his green pajama-onesie. Then, after bathing and changing him, she’d fed him to make sure he was completely ready for bed and by 8 PM she was silently smiling down at, admiring, her very own tiny sleeping human as he dozed off in his crib. Losing track of time was incredibly easy these days, both from the lack of sleep but also the huge amount of love for said little human, but after making sure (for the 32nd time) that Flynn was well asleep Amy had, trusty baby monitor in hand, retreated to the living room. There, with a tiny glass of white wine in hand, she’d managed to finish today’s The Times’ crossword puzzle - something Flynn had interrupted a couple of times that day – before she’d felt an inevitable wave of tiredness creep up on her. Once ready, having gone through her own routine plus checking up on the, to her pride and joy, still sleeping baby, Amy went to bed where she’d slept peacefully until her son had claimed her attention a few hours later. So even though Jake was her favorite person to hang out with, her evening had been great and, all in all, she wouldn’t mind doing it again  

Now here she was once again awake although this time it was not her baby causing the distraction from sleeping but rather her apparently very drunk husband stumbling around the bathroom. The fact that he hadn’t been loud enough to wake up their son had probably (for sure) helped, but also, Amy couldn’t be mad at Jake when she’d been the one to basically force him to go out and have fun. So, after giving up on falling back asleep figuring it’d be hopeless with Jake stumbling around the apartment, she instead took matters into her own hands and made her way to the bathroom. Here, to her amusement, the sight of her rather nicely dressed husband, unruly curls spilling onto his forehead, was barely able to stay awake and standing upright while brushing his teeth.

“Hey there,” she leaned her hip against the door frame before crossing her arms in front of her chest adding to it a teasing smile.

“Oh god!” from the way he almost choked on his tooth brush, Jake was obviously startled by her sudden appearance but quickly avoided choking with a sad attempt at smooth recovery by clumsily spitting the toothpaste into the sink getting it all over his lips in the process.  “I’m szo szo szorry,” the words tumbled from his mouth much like she imagined he’d tripped and fallen over various furniture and items on his way into the apartment just a few moments ago. “Dridn’t mean tro wake you.”

“Well…” she shrugged nonchalantly not really minding mostly because drunk Jake was a hilarious mess she’d missed during their pregnancy, but also partly because she knew he’d be paying the painful price in the morning. “You did.”

Immediately, as if he was a puppy whose tail had just accidentally been stepped on, Jake’s previously insouciant demeanor switched into a intoxicated version of his famous worried frown. Though the second she could tell panic was forming in his drunkenly fatigued eyes, she was quick to step in and avoid guilting him.

“But it’s okay,” her tired but nonetheless somehow always warm eyes worked their best to comfort him, hip nudging her off the doorframe and into a short journey to where her husband had shifted into a leaning position with his back against the sink, toothbrush desperately hanging from the left side of his mouth. His eyes, though dazed and barely able to stay open, followed her every move towards him closely but he was still startled when she’d come close enough for him to feel her breath on him and had sassily snagged the dangling toothbrush out of his mouth (careful to not hurt him in the process, of course).  

“As long as you don’t wake up your son,” she raised an eyebrow daringly only to be met by a shocked expression that told her he still wasn’t entirely over that bold toothbrush-move of hers, and was just barely managing to listen to what she was saying solely because of the mention of Flynn. He knew that the baby was an angel (duh, he was his and Amy’s creation) yet Jake was also very much in touch with reality which was that said son also hadn’t managed to sleep through the night yet (which according to his go-to parenting book Cry Hard was normal). Therefor even drunk Jake also knew that every second his son was asleep was to be handled as carefully as you would a bomb, and the mention of him possibly waking him up was enough to sober him up – or at the very least have him feel like it for a second.

“Luckily,” Amy proceeded, placing her hands on his chest before sliding them up to rest on his shoulders, “you didn’t.”

Paired with a heavy sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath in suspense, she instantly felt his shoulders drop in relief. Needless to say that Amy loved the way her husband cared greatly about his new father-role. Sometimes to the point where Jake, very unnecessarily, would push himself down an endless rabbit hole of doubt, where he, Amy had come to find out relatively early on, could only be calmed down by her ordering him to go lie down and so she could place tiny Flynn on his (incredible) father’s chest. Only then, with his son looking up at him with curious brown eyes or even just being fast asleep, Jake could feel his heart rate slow down significantly and the anxiety fade. His son was here on his chest, tiny heartbeat against his big one and they were both okay. It was love and that was all that mattered.

So yes, Jake’s father-role was very important to both him and her, but for tonight, Amy quickly decided, Jake was allowed to be just drunk-Jake. She had no problem taking full responsibility for Flynn-duty that night, and, even though neither of them kept scores or cared about the unspoken tally, she also knew Jake would make it up to her another night.

“So Flynni iz ztill azleep?” Jake whispered loudly not actually managing to control his voice as intended. His sluggish, wondering eyes reminded Amy of the look on her milk-drunk 3-month old’s face right after a feeding which made it even more obvious that Flynn Peralta was very much her father’s son and would grow up to be an exact copy.  

“Yes, Flynni,” she giggled emphasizing the nickname her husband had come up with, “is still very much asleep. But he won’t be for much longer if you don’t quiet down,” her hands slid up Jake’s neck to cradle his jaw, his tooth brush still in her hand.

“Zorry,” he smiled sheepishly actually managing to whisper this time. “You’re ze bestest mom in ze attire world, Amy Zantriago.”

“Hm,” she squinted her eyes jokingly, “maybe I should just put back that tooth brush because now you’re just talking crazy.”

“Nooo,” the whine that escaped her husband was childish as he simultaneously pulled her in for a clumsy, giggly kiss that’d cover her mouth in his toothpaste remains – unsurprisingly, drunk-Jake was not a very precise tooth brusher and had a toddler’s amount of basic skills. “Ze only crayzay here is me. Crayazay ‘bout my WIFE!” unable to control himself he half-yelled out the last word causing Amy to make a quick decision and shove the toothbrush back into his mouth. This, besides yet another surprised and confused expression greeting her, seemed to work and would hopefully keep him quiet till he made it to bed where he could pass out.

“Hush, Peralta,” and he immediately did. He knew his always very convincing wife only had good intentions (which making sure their son stayed asleep ultimately was) and whilst she picked up where he’d left of to finish brushing his teeth for him he, like the inner toddler the alcohol ignited in him, stayed put against the sink.

A few minutes later, still managing to stay somewhat silent (apart from constantly trying to whisper sweet nothings and stupidities into her ear meanwhile she struggled to brush his teeth and wash his face) Amy lead Jake to their bedroom which, for once, was for unsexy reasonz (with a z, yes). Immediately as soon as it was within what his drunk brain considered a safe distance, Jake’s body caved and dropped to the soft welcoming surface of their bed. Amy quickly figured that it was probably for the best and she should take advantage of Jake finally staying still, meaning she carefully started undressing him, and it had seemed that he was passed out right up until she popped the third button of his flannel and his eyes shot open along with a sneaky smirk.

“Amez, Iz tonight zhe night that we become PILFs?”

Amy frowned as she reached the last button and then pushed the flannel off of his torso. “PILFs?” She wordlessly prompted him to sit up as to allow her to remove the flannel entirely only to be followed by his undershirt being lifted off via his head – something she’d done a million times before but most cases being for other reasons.

“Parentz I’d Like To Frick,” he smiled in appreciation at his own genius invention before stealing a kiss when Amy happened to be close enough to reach by simply leaning in a bit. It did earn him a small giggle like he wished but then also a light shove back.

“Stop that and help me instead, would you?” She was far from mad at him which he could tell from the way she couldn’t keep an entirely straight face but on the other side of things Amy clearly wasn’t having the easiest time undressing her full grown husband either. Suddenly the task that was changing Flynn 7 times a day was put into a quite interesting perspective: a perspective she didn’t necessarily need.

And so, feeling that his wife was doing all the hard work, he helped. It might’ve taken him 5 minutes to pop open and zip down his jeans, but he succeeded and it was with way too much pride that he kicked his jeans off in a madman-ninja manner which resulted in them flying across the room to touchdown by the door. Normally Amy would demand he put them in the laundry bin but for once she couldn’t care less. The pants being off itself was a great victory.

“Nicely done, babe,” she joked trying to ignore the fact that 3 simple tasks had taken them almost 40 minutes by now, prompting her to playfully throw his night shirt in way so it landed on his head. “Now put that on and you’re good to pass out for the night.”

She walked back over to her side of the bed, throwing in a glance at Flynn in his crib to make sure he was still well and asleep, before crawling back under the covers and pushing the part on Jake’s side aside to invite him in.

It was a matter of seconds before he dropped into place but instead of passing out immediately as Amy had expected him to, her husband shuffled across the bed’s invisible center line wordlessly asking for snuggles that Amy, of course, couldn’t decline. She loved that Jake went out and had some fun by himself, although, at the end of the day, nothing would ever beat having him home with her – even if it meant dealing with an all at once incapable and horny man child.

So, by all means, she lifted her arm to welcome him to make himself at home under it, felt his head moving to on top of her chest, before she put it back down in a soft grip around his shoulders. His free arm would then soon enough wrap around her middle earning him a soft peck to the forehead.

“I love you, Amz,” he mumbled tiredly into her shirt.

“I love you too, Jake,” she smiled leaning her cheek against where she’d just planted the kiss.

“And I love our baby. Zo much. I mizzed him all ze night,” he mumbled on the verge of falling asleep.

And while she always did expect it these days, right then and there when she very honestly in the moment least did expect it, a loud cry as if scripted, tore through the darkness of their bedroom. A small sigh escaped her body although she was couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the situation.

“… Sounds like he missed you too, babe.”

“Oh no,” Jake whined basically imitating Flynn to a point where it was scary as Amy scooted out from his snuggle and the newfound warmth of their bed. “I woke him up. I’m zo zo sorry.”

In the meantime Amy had made her way to the crib.

“You didn’t wake him up, honey,” she made sure to reassure Jake of the fact before picking up the tiny crying figure before promptly looking at the time on her night stand, where her suspicion was immediately proved to be right. “It’s 4 AM: he’s just hungry.”

Not many things in this world were sure or certain, but if there was one thing that was then it was definitely Amy’s knowledge when it came to her son’s schedule. Yes, Jake got up with Flynn just as frequently as she did, but contrary to her, Jake didn’t take note of the time and just did what his son demanded without interest in cracking the code to their baby’s life-pattern: as long as he got to care for him and make him happy again, the logistics were somewhat irrelevant to Jake.

“You sure?” he complained nervously questioning his wife as she sat back down in bed with Flynn cradled to her chest.

“Yes, completely.”

With her always being right and all, Jake settled for accepting his wife’s statement quieting down to take in the sight of their son fumbling to find where his mother had lifted up her shirt in order to feed him. Seconds later, like the peace that followed after a huge sky-cracking thunderstorm, silence settled upon the family of three letting the two adult of said family know that Flynn had once again worked out how to still his hunger. Apart from the very faint sounds of suckling, the occasional little pop followed by a wail when he’d lose his mouthful and complain until Amy managed to help him back on track, idyllic silence of the night wrapped up the apartment as if Jake had never interrupted it just an hour prior.

It was in moments like these where Jake became untouchable, completely disregarding any physical or mental state he might be in, and simply gave in to soaking in the faultless felicity parenthood provided him with. He’d never been anything but happy with Amy but this life he’d been living for 3 months now was even better and beyond any imaginable expectations he’d had. Flynn, though being the one who was completely dependent on his father’s care, had given Jake life a renewed meaning he hadn’t known or felt close to before. A meaning he’d originally been so afraid of even considering before he met Amy but had come to realize he wanted with her and only her.

He wanted 4 AM cries. He wanted the sight of Amy, depending on what her energy level was, either dozing off to or actively admiring their son latching onto her swelled chest as he suckled on it. He wanted the rush of pride every time Flynn made a new sound even if it was simply bringing into existence a new pitch when he squealed or whimpered. Jake wanted all and everything, big and small, as long as it was with them.

So of course, as soon as Flynn was placed stomach down on Amy’s chest after being done eating and burped, earning himself a sweet praise when he succeeded, Jake was back to snuggling into his wife’s side. There was no minding sharing her chest with the tiny human as it provided Jake with the perfect combination of cuddling with his wife and the incredible sight of their stupefying son slipping back into a peaceful state of sleepy satisfaction.

“He’s sro prerfect, Amy.”

“I know, babe,” with a hand safely cradling and stroking the back of Flynn’s decently hairy head she mumbled her reply obviously in the early stages of dozing off herself. The other hand, this arm having returned to its spot around Jake, was resting against her husband’s back stroking it in a synchronized motion.  

“Like, he’z like getting ze one exact toy you wanted ze mostest in your Happy Meal as a child.”  

She would laugh out loud at his comparison, finding it incredibly endearing, but she was by then too exhausted and only managed to form a tired smile – also the laughing would cause her chest and then automatically Flynn to quiver which she was not about to dare.

“He really is,” she mumbled.

“I think we shrould have anozer.”

It was easy to tell that the comment was partly genuine and sweet but also partly… intoxicated. Though Amy didn’t doubt the fact that Jake wouldn’t mind more children, she also didn’t doubt the fact that he definitely wouldn’t remember this conversation when he woke up some hours later with a hammering headache and zombie-like state of mind.

“I think I have enough on my hands with you two.”

Yes, she did see them having at least two kids but one newborn was definitely more than enough at the moment, plus  they had plenty of time to consider further additions to the family once Flynn would be older and Jake not completely wasted. Although it was nice to hear some truth about his inner thoughts spill from her drunk husband, there was no doubt in her mind that there was no need to hurry. They would get there eventually and for now they were already so very happy.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the feeling of Jake’s lips planting a soft, half-sloppy kiss to, first, their son’s head, then, then her neck. Then small movements beneath her hand on Flynn was next, quickly peaking her curiosity and winning over her exhaustion then forcing herself to open her eyes. Immediately feeling glad she did so because she was met by the most heartwarming sight of Jake carefully caressing Flynn’s tiny feet.

“We’re gunna make zo many perfect bebiez, Amy Trivago. Zo many. Like zis one.”

“I’m sure of it, babe,” she gave into one last tired chuckle hoping agreeing would give him the peace he needed to fall asleep. And besides the fact his fingers continuously toyed with the tiny feet, Jake seemed fast asleep a few moments later leaving Amy to soak in the moment, fighting to stay awake just a few more minutes to enjoy how incredibly lucky she was.

There was indeed nothing better than feeling her two favorite boys’ heartbeats against her skin as she herself dove into a deep sleep.

[mustangshelby04]

Boston Boy - Chapter 13

Kate and Chris followed the realtor around the two-story penthouse apartment.  They were on the very edge of Tribeca with a great view of the Brooklyn Bridge.  They had spent the last week looking at apartments. It had been three months since they had found out they were going to be parents.  Chris had had to deal with some previous obligations, so their moving in together had been delayed some.

Scott spent a lot of time in New York, so he had been keeping Kate company.  The press had gotten wind of Kate’s pregnancy.  One of the nurses at the hospital in Florida had leaked the information to a local station.  Then the twenty-four-hour news cycle had picked up the story while Kate and the Evans’ family were in the air flying to Virginia.  By the time they landed, the whole world knew Chris Evans was going to be a dad.  His family had been shocked, but excited.

Kate’s family, however, hadn’t been pleased.  They were worried that their daughter hadn’t been in her relationship long enough and that she didn’t truly understand what she was taking on. Chris and Kate had spent a solid three hours with the serious grilling her parents had dished out.  Chris had sworn (multiple times) that he was going to take care of Kate and their baby.  In the end, they were still worried, but a little less so.  The trip to Christmastown at Busch Gardens with both families together had been helpful assuaging the Allen’s fears some.

Since the news broke, the paparazzi had made it their mission to get as much as they could about Chris’s baby mama.  Kate was almost constantly hounded for pictures and information.  Her family was contacted on a regular basis. Even her biological father had been tracked down.  That hadn’t gone over well with Kate. Especially since the man had tried to contact her.  She had had a complete nervous breakdown over it which landed her in the hospital overnight. Lisa had come to be with Kate since she could get there faster than anyone.  She had stayed with Kate until Chris had gotten there.

Kate had also been worried about everything affecting her new job, but Danielle had assured her not to worry about it.  Chris gave her as much advice as possible.  He had decided to ask Megan to help Kate out so she didn’t have to deal with the press hounding her. Kate was in almost constant contact with his publicist and had quickly become friends with her.

When Chris had finally come to New York to stay for a while, he and Kate had had their first true argument.  He had lined up apartments to look at that were well out of her price point. She hadn’t found it fair that she couldn’t pay her half of the rent.  After yelling at each other for over an hour and running April out of the apartment, they had finally come to a compromise that he would take care of the rent and she could pay the utilities.  So, here they were, following the realtor around their fourth apartment in three days.

“This one has five bedrooms.” Lacy the realtor said. “The view of the Bridge from both of the terraces is just gorgeous! The kitchen has all the best, state of the art appliances.” She led them around the wall and into the living room. “And just look at that view from the great room!”

“It’s beautiful.” Kate said.

“The fireplace is fully functional.  Gas, of course.”

“Of course.” “And this…. This is my favorite feature!” Lacy led them back around the wall into the kitchen and did her best Vanna White impression to show off the huge bookcase that framed the stairs. “I remember you mentioning having a lot of books, Kate.  This would be perfect for you.”

“That’s pretty unique.” Chris said, admiring the bookshelf as they walked up the stairs.

“This apartment is unique.  Each bedroom has its own bathroom.  Even the guest bedroom on the first floor.  The master bedroom is just grand!  So much room!  You have a walk-through closet with plenty of storage space.  And there’s a bedroom right across the hall from the master.” Lacy’s eyes drifted to Kate’s baby bump. “Perfect for a nursery.” Kate rolled her eyes at Chris and he squeezed her hand. “The terrace is just up here.” Lacy led them up another flight of stairs and opened the doors to the private roof terrace. “It’s so cozy, yet so open.”

“And it has a hot tub.” Kate said.

“That’ll be your best friend after you give birth.  Trust me.” Chris squeezed Kate’s hand again to keep her from snapping at the woman. “You’ll need that escape for some mommy/daddy time.  So, what do you guys think?”

Chris looked at Kate. “I love the view.”

“It’s beautiful.” Kate agreed, heading back inside and down to the master bedroom.

“I’ll give you two a minute to talk.” Lacy walked out of the room.

“What’s wrong, babe?” Chris asked as she explored the walk-through closet, opening and closing the closet doors. “This place is great.  It has plenty of bedrooms for when our families come to visit. There’s that huge terrace with grass for the dogs on the first floor.  That kitchen is exactly the one you were hoping for.  That cool built-in bookshelf by the stairs is amazing.” He took her hand and led her to the room across from the master bedroom. “And she may be sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, but she’s right about this room being perfect for the nursery.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his hands on her bump. “I can just picture the crib right there and your glider right there….”

“It’s a lot of money.” Kate said. “Hey, we talked about this.  You’re not supposed to worry about that.”

“I know.  I know! I just feel so guilty….”

Chris shook his head and turned her around to face him. “No guilt.  Ok?  My little family here deserves the best and if I can provide that for you guys, I will.” Kate beamed up at him. “What?”

“You called me your family.”

He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile. “Well, yeah.  You and Jelly Bean…. You’re my family.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to know if Jelly Bean is watermelon pink or blueberry blue?”

Chris laughed. “I’m sure.” He kissed her quickly. “So, what about this place?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His face broke out into a huge grin and he pulled her to him. They both laughed as he lifted her up into his arms and carried her out of the bedroom.  Lacy was waiting in the kitchen, scrolling through her tablet. “We’ll take it.” They both announced.

 *_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Scott and Kate stood side by side watching the movers maneuver the couch into place while Gally and Dodger checked the new place out.  Chris had gotten Dodger while in Savannah filming and Kate had instantly taken to the sweet dog.  Dodger had been staying with her in New York while Chris had been gone. Poor Gally had been annoyed at having to move, then having to put up with a new dog, and then having to move again. Dodger had been good for the older dog, though.  He got Gally to move around and explore.  He was also super protective of Kate.  He had quickly figured out that she was pregnant and had taken it upon himself to be her protector.  Sometimes he wouldn’t even let Chris near her.

The movers looked over for approval and Scott directed them to adjust the couch slightly to the right.  This had been the routine all day.  The living room was the last of the rooms to get furnished.  Kate and Chris had gone to Ikea (at her insistence) to furnish the apartment.  Scott had tagged along and helped pick out the furniture.  He had even helped design the closet of Kate’s dreams.

April walked into the kitchen with a large box and set it on the counter. “That’s the last box.” She announced before turning to look out the windows. “Man, this place is awesome and I am super jealous.”

“It’s not like you won’t be making use of one of those guest rooms as often as possible.” Kate joked.

“Of course, I will!  At least until the baby gets here.  Then I’ll just skip the screaming-through-the-night thing.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s life.  Do you want help unpacking your pots and pans?” “I haven’t even figured out where everything should go, yet.”

“So, that’s a no?”

“For now.”

“Breather?” Scott asked, gesturing at the newly set up living room. “Sounds heavenly.” Kate followed Scott and April and took a seat on one of the recliners. “When does Chris get back?” April asked. “Tonight.”

“Of course, he missed the moving in part.” Scott joked. “Leaves all the heavy lifting to the girls.”

“Not very Captain America of him.” April laughed.

“Oh, he’s not getting entirely out of it.” Kate assured them. “I’ll make sure to leave some boxes for him to unpack.”

“Don’t lift anything heavy.” Scott warned. “You know you’re not supposed to.”

“Hence the leaving stuff for your brother to do.” Kate sighed and rubbed her bump. “You know that sneaky bastard actually bought this place?”

“Really?” April asked.

“Yes.  He didn’t tell me until afterwards.  Now he wants to negotiate helping pay the bills.”

“Kitty Kat, you should just let him.” Scott said. “My brother likes to take care of the ones he cares about the most.  I think you kind of trump the whole family now.”

Kate laughed. “I doubt that.  I could never trump y’all’s mom.”

“Ok, that’s true.  But seriously, don’t stress yourself out over money.  I know you like to be all Miss Independent, but just let him win that battle. You’ll both feel better for it in the long run.”

“He’s not your sugar daddy.” April said. “He’s your partner.  Let him be your partner.” Kate sighed. “Fine.” She pushed gently on her stomach and rolled her eyes when she felt the funny bubbles speed up. “This one is having a dance party.”

“Can I join in?” Chris asked from the entryway.  Kate turned to see her boyfriend standing there with a grin on his face, petting the dogs as they competed for his affection. “I left early because I hated leaving you to move in to our place without me. Oh!  Don’t get up!” He rushed over to kneel down and kiss Kate before she could move any further.

“Hi,” She breathed, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck.

“Hi.”

“And on that note,” April stood up. “I’m heading out.”

“You don’t have to go.” Kate insisted.

“I do.  I’ve got a deadline tomorrow and I’ve still got some things to finish for it.” She blew Kate a kiss. “I’ll call you later, lovebug.”

Chris squeezed in next to Kate and wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she put her legs over his. “The place is looking good.”

“Thank Scott.  If there’s anything you want to move, just move it.” Kate said. “I’m not stuck on the floorplan.”

“I am!” Scott said, offended. “I worked hard telling those movers where everything needed to go.”

Chris laughed. “I think it looks great.  We’ll leave it the way it is.” He leaned in and stage whispered to Kate, “For now.”

Scott threw a pillow at his brother. “That’s it.  I’m leaving, too.”

“Oh, stay!” Kate protested.

“Nope.  I’m giving you two time together.  But don’t think you’re getting out of baby shower planning.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Can’t you just give me presents without the fanfare and the corny games?”

“Hell no!  My sisters, my mother, April, and I have plans.  The Evans family has been waiting a long time for this.” He clapped Chris on the shoulder and kissed Kate’s cheek before walking out.

Chris looked at Kate, running his fingers across her temple and through her hair. “Hi.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply. “Stop leaving me.”

“I promise you’re coming with me for the next trip.”

“Which is the Civil War premiere?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure you want me to go?”

“Are you kidding?  Of course, I want you to go!” “It’s just…. We haven’t really done anything in the public eye and I know you’re private and….” She trailed off when she noticed his patient smile.

“Babe, it’s not like the world doesn’t know who you are.  But even if they didn’t, I want you there with me anyway.  I want to show you LA and I want you to be a part of my life.  All of my life.”

Kate sighed. “There’s also another factor that makes me nervous.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll be escorting a whale around.”

“Shut up.  You’re not a whale.” Chris put his hand on her swollen belly. “You’re absolutely gorgeous and the doctor says that you’re actually not gaining as much weight as you should be.”

“I know.  I’m losing it.  My mom says she did the same thing with me and my sister.”  

He smiled at her. “So Jelly Bean is really moving around in there, huh?”

“You can’t feel it?” Chris shook his head. “You will eventually.  Right now there’s a party going on in my uterus.  Pretty sure Jelly Bean got a DJ for it.”

Chris laughed and leaned down to speak to her stomach. “Hey, kiddo, keep it down in there.  Mommy needs some rest.”

“I think he or she is excited by all the moving around I’ve been doing today.”

“Then we probably should just be very still and not add to it….” Chris started to pull away with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Shut up and take me to bed.” Kate said. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Chris leaned down and swept her up into his arms.  She squealed and laughed before begging Chris to put her down.  He relented at the stairs and followed her up, both of them stripping their clothes off as fast as possible.

When they got to their bedroom, Chris was happy to find that Kate had already gotten the bed set up and he pulled her to him as he sat down on the mattress.  She stood in front of him in just her underwear and he placed his hands on her bump. He leaned forward and kissed a trail from one side to the other.  Kate reached down and lifted his face to her.

“You are so beautiful.” Chris whispered against her lips.

She pressed her lips against his and climbed on top of him.  He held her against him as he worked to get her bra off. Her breasts, which had already been voluptuous, had filled out some and he brought one of her nipples into his mouth. She groaned, eyes fluttering, as she ground down on his growing erection.  Her nerve endings were much more sensitive these days and pregnancy sex was mind blowing.

Chris switched to her other breast as he palmed the globes of her ass.  Her head fell back and her nails raked through his hair.  His fingers dipped into the front of her panties and he groaned. “So wet.”

“No more foreplay.” Kate growled.  She stood up and got rid of her underwear before yanking his off.  Chris fell back onto the bed and Kate climbed on top of him. He let out a guttural sound as she sunk down on him.  She began to rock on top of him and he grabbed her hips to help her keep her balance. Curses and moans fell from their lips as she rode him fast and hard.  He sat up suddenly and turned them, popping out of her.  She got on all fours and he took her from behind.  She let out a yell as he entered her again at the same time he flicked her clit harshly.  There were no sheets on the bed for her to grab, so her fingers dug into the mattress as she grasped for something to hold onto.

“Fuck.” Chris cried.

“Chris, harder.” Kate begged.

“I don’t want to hurt the baby.” “You won’t!”

“But….”

“Baby, please!  I’m almost there.”

Chris growled and started to pound into her, still holding back some.  He shuddered as he felt his balls tighten just before he spilled into her.  A moment later, her orgasm hit her and her walls clamped down on him.  He fell forward, his chest against her back. They stayed still as their bodies shuddered and began to recover from powerful finishes.  After a long moment, Chris pulled out of her and they both collapsed to the bed.

When Chris finally found his voice again, he looked over at Kate. “Are you ok?”

“Are you going to ask me that every time we have sex?”

He chuckled. “Probably.”

Kate reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb against his beard. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Good.” He kissed her palm. “So, are you ready for this?”

Her eyes widened. “You’re ready to go again?”

Chris let out his loud, energetic laugh. “Fuck no!  I meant are you ready to live with me?”

Kate laughed. “Yeah.  I think so. This experience can’t be worse than the last one, right?”

“Was the last one Asshole McGhee?”

“Yes.”

“Oh yeah.” Chris nodded. “This will be a piece of cake compared to that.”

 *_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Kate grumbled to herself as she put the dishes in the dishwasher.  For the third night in a row, Chris had left the dinner dishes in the sink.  They had been moved in and living together for three weeks now.  Learning the other’s ways was a chore.  

Kate hated leaving messes in the kitchen.  Chris didn’t mind leaving the mess until the next day.  

Kate did her laundry the way her mother had taught her by separating everything out.  Chris just threw everything in the washer at once.  

Kate used coasters to keep from having to clean rings off of surfaces. Chris had apparently never heard of coasters.  

Kate kept things well stocked.  Chris would drink out of the carton or pitcher and put it back with only a tiny amount left in the bottom.

“He’s been a bachelor for so long, I think he’s forgotten his manners.” Kate muttered.

She wasn’t a complete domestic angel, though.  

Loose hair had always made her sick to her stomach, so she never cleaned out her brushes or the shower drain.  Chris had had to clean the drain out once already and it was starting to pile up again. She also took up a whole side of the shower with her bath products.  It amazed him how many shampoos, conditioners, body washes, face washes, and shaving creams one woman could have.  And that didn’t even cover the hair products and hair tools she used! Those took up a whole cabinet of the vanity.  Her makeup took up all four drawers on her side of the bathroom vanity.  She also had feminine products taking up one drawer on his side of the vanity.  Every time he stepped foot in their bathroom, he wondered where the hell she had kept all of it in her garage apartment.

“Hey, babe!” Chris called from the living room. “Come watch a movie with me.”

“Not right now.”

“Please?”

“I’m busy right now.” She lowered her voice. “Doing the dishes again.”

Her boyfriend walked into the kitchen and leaned on the counter. “Finish the dishes tomorrow.  I promise it’ll be worth your while tonight.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and she rolled her eyes.

“You are literally a horny frat boy.”

He scrunched his face up in confusion. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I’m still debating.  Why don’t you help me finish the dishes?  Then I can come watch a movie.”

“Ok.” Chris sighed and pretended to roll his sleeves up.  He completely missed that she was slightly annoyed with him. Once they were finished, she leaned against the counter for a moment and rubbed her belly.  Chris watched her with a concerned look. “You ok?”

“Yeah.  Just…. Ate too much and Jelly Bean is protesting the smaller space.” She gave him a small smile. “I’m going to go put on some PJs and then we can watch a movie.”

“Ok.” He leaned down and kissed her gently. “I’ll get the movie ready.  Will you grab me a pair of sweats while you’re up there?”

“Sure.” She mounted the stairs and took them slowly.  After changing into a pair of yoga pants and a big sweater, she threw her hair up into a high ponytail and grabbed a pair of Chris’ sweatpants.  He was taking his clothes off as she came back downstairs and tossing them in a pile next to the couch. “Are we watching a movie or making a porno?”

Chris laughed loudly and shook his head. “Well, I was planning to watch a movie, but if you’re interested….”

“I most distinctly am not.  That’s the last thing we need is a sex tape of us floating around out there.” She tossed him his pants. “Did you make popcorn?”

“We just ate.”

Kate blinked at him for a moment and then gestured at her belly. “I have no control over what this one craves.  Start the movie and I’ll make some popcorn.”

“I can make it.”

She waved him away. “I’ve got it.  Just start the movie.” Kate walked into the kitchen and opened one of the cabinets to pull out some popcorn.  She tossed it into the microwave and watched it turn around and around.  By the time she was finished, the movie had already started.  She narrowed her eyes at it. “What is this?”

“That movie you said you wanted to watch.” Chris said, taking a handful of popcorn as she sat down.

“This doesn’t look like a movie I want to watch.”

“Yeah.  It’s 28 Days Later.”

“Huh?”

“You said you liked it.”

“I never said I liked 28 Days Later.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve told you I don’t do scary movies.”

“I know.  I thought it was weird that you wanted to watch this, but….”

“I don’t want to watch this!”

“You said you did!”

“I said 28 Days, Chris!  I wanted to watch 28 Days!  The Sandra Bullock movie!” She looked at the TV where zombies were starting to attack. “Fuck!  Turn it off!”

“It’s just a movie, babe.” She surged to her feet and walked out. “Kat!” Kate slammed the popcorn bowl down on the kitchen counter and marched up the stairs. Chris turned the movie off and followed her. “Hey, stop!”

“No.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“I don’t want to watch a horror movie.  Especially a zombie one!”

“Ok. We won’t watch it.”

“Nope, we won’t because I’m going to bed.”  

“Ok. What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”  

“You’ve been edgy with me all night.”

“Yes I have.  Glad you finally noticed!”

“If you have something to say, then say it.”

“I don’t like the way you do things.”

“What?”

“You’re such a frat boy and I’m done debating about it.  I don’t like this Chris!”

“Babe….”

“Don’t babe me.  You never do the dishes.”

“I helped you do them tonight.”

“Because I asked you to.  I have to ask you to help with them!  You always just leave them in the sink and don’t rinse them or soak them or anything. That shit just gets caked on there and makes it harder to clean!  It takes five minutes to rinse them and put them in the dishwasher!  And you’re messy!  I feel like I’m always cleaning up after you.  I’ll have to go clean up your clothes in the living room!”

“I….”

“And what the fuck is up with you putting empty shit back in the fridge? Why can’t you just throw it away and add it to the grocery list?  Why is that so hard for you?  It’s common fucking courtesy.”

“Well, you’re no fucking picnic either!”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re so god damn OCD about every little thing!  Lighten up!”

“I’m sorry if I like things clean and orderly, Chris!  I didn’t know that would be such an issue!  And don’t tell me to fucking lighten up!  You lighten up!”

“And how hard is it to clean the shower drain?  It’s just some wet hair!”  

“It makes me physically ill to even think about loose hair!  And with the amount of throwing up I’ve been doing carrying your kid, sorry if I don’t want to add any more to it!”

“I didn’t ask you to carry my kid!” Kate’s eyes widened in shock and she slammed the bathroom door in his face, locking it tight. “Fuck!” Chris knew as soon as the words had left his mouth that he’d pushed it way too far.  He hadn’t meant to get so angry and he really hadn’t meant what he’d just said. “Kat, I’m sorry!”

“Go away!”

“Please open the door.” “No!”

“Please, Kat.  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the door, banging his head against it once in frustration as the tears fell down his cheeks.

Kate sat down on the edge of the bathtub and cried into her hands.  She hadn’t meant to snap at Chris.  She had been frustrated with him and then before she knew what was happening, she had exploded.  She had meant to be rational when she was ready to talk about her issues with him, but hormones had gotten the best of her.  Things had escalated too quickly.

“Baby, please open the door.” Chris said.  His voice sounded horse and it cracked with emotion. “Please?”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean it, Kat.  I really didn’t.  It was a stupid fucking thing to say and I didn’t mean it.”

Kate sighed and opened the door.  Chris hadn’t been expecting it and fell backwards.  He winced as his head bounced off the tile. “Oh!”

“Ow.” He looked up at her and chuckled. “Guess I deserved that.”

“A little bit.” She reached out to help him to his feet. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“I shouldn’t have let it escalate like it did.” He pulled her to him. “I just love you so much and….” “What?”

“What?”

“You….”

“Oh.” Chris pulled away slightly to look down at her. “I said it.”

“Yeah.”

He grinned. “Felt kinda good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean it?”

“From the moment I met you, it’s been on the tip of my tongue.  It felt really good to finally say it out loud.”

“You’re not just saying it to get out of trouble?”

“Hell no.  I mean every syllable.”

“Good.  Cause, you know, well…. I do, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to actually say it?”

“Maybe.  Maybe I need some incentive.”

“Like….” He leaned down and kissed the spot on her neck just below her ear. “This?”

“Mmm….”

“Or this….” Chris moved his lips further down her neck, lightly biting her collarbone. “Closer.”

“How about this?” He reached up and gently held the sides of her face, taking a moment to look into her blue-green eyes. “I love you, Kat.”

“I love you, too, Chris.” She reached out and pulled him closer.  He brought his lips to hers and her insides melted.

After a long, breathless moment, Chris placed his forehead against hers. “I’m so sorry, Kat.  We need to start talking more openly instead of tiptoeing around each other.”

“I know.”

“Can we promise not to let our issues build and build till we explode again?”

“Well, I can try.  Honestly, my hormones got me there and I overreacted.  Once everything passed, I realized how stupid we sounded.”

Chris chuckled. “I’ll give you a pass for hormones.”

“Fair warning: I’m gonna use the hell out of it.”

He leaned down and kissed her again, rubbing his hand against her belly. “I’m happy you’re the one that’s carrying my kid.  I can’t wait to meet our little Jelly Bean.”

Kate smiled against his lips. “Take me to bed, soldier.  There’s makeup sex to be had.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Chris lifted her into his arms and carried her through the closet and back into the bedroom.

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[dracoqueen22]

[CR] Of One’s Choice

Title: Of One’s Choice Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two, During Episode 57, Close to Home series Characters: Caduceus Clay, Caleb Widogast, Fjord Rating: K+ Description: Caduceus doesn’t know what to call this fluttering sensation when Caleb is around, but he supposes he’ll have to pay attention to it.

For @claylebweek

“Mr. Clay, if I might borrow you for a moment?”

It was Caleb asking, and that would have been enough, but there was an urgency in Caleb’s tone which rose the fine hairs on the back of Caduceus’ neck. Caduceus paused a few steps behind Fjord, and turned back toward Caleb, who stood in the hallway, fingers just shy of wringing together.

Lines of worry creased Caleb’s face, his eyes dark and shadowed. He still wore the pretend slave-gear, and the sight of it made Caduceus frown.

He didn’t like it.

“Of course,” Caduceus said. Anxiety rippled off Caleb in waves, and Caduceus swore he could taste the sour reek of it. “What can I do for you?”

“Um.” Caleb inched toward the door of his room, hand on the knob. “In private?” he asked, and he curled in, away from Caduceus, as if he expected immediate rejection.

For someone who had only recently boldly declared himself a friend of the Dynasty and an enemy of the Empire, who had done the only thing he could to save their lives, his behavior now seemed frighteningly meek.

Perhaps he was unwell.

“Sure,” Caduceus said. He handed his staff and shield to Fjord. “Put these on my bed for me?”

“No problem, Deucey.” Fjord’s forehead furrowed, and he glanced past Caduceus to Caleb before lowering his voice. “He all right?”

Once could take Captain Tusktooth from the sea, but couldn’t take the captain out of the half-orc. It was sweet of Fjord to worry.

“I guess we’ll see.” Caduceus patted Fjord on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”

“Like you always do.” Fjord chuckled and slipped into their room. By the time Caduceus turned back toward Caleb, the wizard had already vanished into his room, though he’d left the door ajar in obvious invitation.

Caduceus still knocked with polite forewarning before he eased inside. It was a small room in comparison to the others, and he wondered if Caleb would be lonely, rooming by himself when so accustomed to sharing with Nott.

Caleb was in the midst of fumbling with the straps of the leatherwork around his body, his fingers trembling. He cursed under his breath, and Caduceus read his agitation in a glance.

"Here. Let me help," he said.

Caleb's face turned red, but he nodded and dropped his hands. "Thank you," he said. "I think they are tighter than they look."

Caduceus wisely chose not to mention the fact Caleb's hands were probably shaking too much to be of use.

"Thanks to you, none of us need worry about wearing something like this again," Caduceus said as he eased the leather bands away from Caleb, and tossed them into a corner. They skidded and slid under the bed.

Probably for the best.

"Yes. Thanks to me." A storm danced in Caleb’s eyes, furrowed his brow, twisted his lips into a severe frown. "I worry I have made a grievous error. I know I did what was best at the time for our survival, yet I can't help but think I have betrayed everything."

Caduceus tilted his head. "Everything is a broad term. You can't betray everything, otherwise you've betrayed nothing."

An exhale burst out of Caleb, his eyes flicking sharp toward Caduceus before finding the floor more fascinating.

"My parents. All I've been taught. The people in the Empire." Caleb slipped away from Caduceus like a skittish animal and began to pace in small measures, back and forth, back and forth. "I have given a mighty weapon to the Dynasty."

"You've returned something that belonged to them in the first place," Caduceus corrected.

Caleb raked his hands through his hair, barely visible scars rising white and pink from his bared arms as his sleeves fell back. "And I have aligned us, myself, with the Dynasty who are even now attacking my people."

"But are they your people?"

Caleb looked at him. "Of course they are."

Caduceus hummed. He’d given this a lot of thought, given their long, long trek from Felderwin to Xhorhas, and all they’d experienced while meandering toward Rosohna. "You know every person in the Empire? They deserve to die less than the people of Xhorhas?"

"That is not... I mean..."

Caduceus understood Caleb's anxiety, his dilemma. "It's war. I don't pretend to understand how the politics of big countries work, but I do know, neither side is really right or wrong, and the ones who are going to suffer the most, are the people who don't make the decisions in the first place."

Caleb's frantic pacing stopped.

Good. This was progress.

"You saved our lives, I'm pretty sure. Or at least, kept us out of prison. We got what we came here for, which is Yeza, and we're free. We can choose where to go from here. That, I think, is the worth the price we paid."

"There are people in the Empire who would think differently," Caleb said, but he started to draw, deep, steadying breaths.

"Probably," Caduceus conceded. "But I don't want to die for them."

Caleb looked at the ground, his face pinched in thought. His hands pulled in and out of fists before he abruptly shucked his coat, throwing it on the bed, leaving him in his shirt and his book holsters. He ran his fingers over the holsters themselves, chewing on his bottom lip.

"And your, uh, your god? She feels the same way?" Caleb asked.

"I’m sure she prefers me alive, but the gods don't really pick a side in these kinds of things," Caduceus said. "Not mortal politics, I mean." He paused and looked up at the ceiling, trying to put his thoughts in order by staring at something which wouldn’t distract him. "Though I guess if she really did disapprove, she'd let me know." He lowered his gaze again.

Caleb nodded slowly, like was absorbing the information and adding it to his calculations about whether or not he'd done a good thing. Caduceus was of the mind that since they'd managed to walk away with Yeza, their lives, and their freedom, it was the absolute best outcome. A calculated risk that ended in their favor.

If they wanted, they could teleport to Nicodranas and never set foot in the Dynasty again. They had options now, when before they were in chains and running out of them.

"Isn't it strange?" Caduceus said, after a moment. "Months ago, you all took something in Zadash, and you've been keeping it with you, and now, months later, you've given it back to its proper owners, saved your own lives in the process, and are in a position to make a difference."

"Strange, yes. Highly coincidental." Caleb gave Caduceus a strange look, eyes narrowed in thought, fingers still tracing the length of the leather. "You think this is the destiny I have? Or all of us?"

Caduceus shrugged. "I don't know. Destiny is a weird thing, Mr. Caleb. We still have a choice, I think, but certain things are set in our path, and it's up to us what to do with them."

And sometimes, that was the wrong choice, if his family’s gradual vanishing, and his own guilt were any indication. Caduceus had seen the path, and assumed it wasn’t meant for him, and it wasn’t until the Mighty Nein showed up that he realized how very wrong he’d been.

Caleb sighed and seemed to deflate. “In the end, it’s better to have lived, ja?”

“That’s my opinion.”

Caleb offered a half-smile, a relieved one, and the rest of his agitation whooshed out of him. He sank onto the edge of the bed like someone had cut his strings, his hair falling into his face. He braced his elbows on his knees and exhaled loudly, shoulders sinking.

“Thank you,” Caleb said. “I think I needed to hear that.”

Caduceus moved closer, and kneeled down in front of Caleb so that he could look at the wizard without either of them having to be awkward about it. Caleb had seemed so certain of his decision earlier, after the fact, it felt like a gift to see Caleb’s uncertainty now, as if he was only willing to trust Caduceus with this weakness.

“We spent weeks on a ship for Fjord. We risked a return trip to Nicodranas to get Jester to her mother. We came all the way to Xhorhas for Nott’s family,” Caduceus said, careful to keep his tone gentle. “So I’m pretty sure we’re all behind you for this, and whatever else you might need, or any of us need in the future.”

Red spread across the bridge of Caleb’s nose, traveling to the tips of his ears. His gaze fell away, as though he couldn’t meet Caduceus’ eyes. “I am unused to having others to rely on, Mr. Clay,” he said. “I think you underestimate how much we have needed you.”

Caduceus chuckled. “Maybe I did. Fortunately, the Wildmother didn’t. She put you in my path, or put me in yours, and here we are, exactly where I need to be. But it’s still nice to hear it.”

Nice to know it as well. There were times Caduceus doubted his own convictions, doubted himself as a member of their group. They had come together before they met him, and fitting into the empty spaces in the Mighty Nein had been a slow, awkward process.

Sometimes, he worried he did not belong.

And then there were times like this. Times where Caleb leaned on him or one of the others sought his counsel, and Caduceus thanked Melora for putting him exactly where he needed to be. So maybe, delaying his journey hadn’t been entirely for naught. Or maybe she’d found a way to make it work.

Caduceus supposed he’d never know for sure.

Caleb’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You are very much welcome here, and I, for one, am glad you are one of us.” He drew in a slow, steady breath. “But look at me, jabbering on. You need your rest as much as I do, ja? Don’t let me keep you.”

“I am pretty tired,” Caduceus admitted, because it had been a long, stressful day. “Anytime you need to talk, though, I’m willing to listen.”

“And the same to you, my friend. Thank you,” Caleb said, and offered him a full smile, perhaps not with the radiance of one of Jester’s grins, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

Caduceus’ heart did that odd fluttering sensation again. Like a horde of butterflies had taken up residence in his thorax and flitted around, tickling his ribs.

“Anytime.” Caduceus patted Caleb on the knee and stood, taking his exit from the room, closing the door gently behind him.

For a moment, he paused before returning to the room he shared with Fjord. He closed his eyes and whispered a quiet prayer to Melora, to protect Caleb’s dreams tonight and offer him some reassurance, if it was at all within her power.

She responded not with words, but with a warm breeze on the back of his neck. She’d watch out for all of them.

Caduceus returned to the room, slipping quietly inside so as not to bother Fjord, but it was for moot. Fjord was still awake, and he called out to Caduceus the moment the door clicked shut.

“Caleb all right?” Fjord asked.

“Nothing to worry about,” Caduceus said as he pulled off his armor and everything he didn’t need to sleep.

“I don’t blame him,” Fjord said as he tucked his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. “We’re in over our heads in the worst way. Think I’d be freaking out, too, if I was him. Nice of ya to look after ‘im though. Help calm him down. He listens to you.”

“Does he?” Caduceus asked as he sat on the edge of the bed, forehead furrowed.

“Fuck I think we all do.” Fjord scratched at his chest before slinging his arm over his eyes. “Douse the lantern, will you?”

“Of course.”

Caduceus extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, tucking himself beneath a blanket that smelled the same as any other inn he’d slept at, despite being miles and miles away. It was fascinating how some things were the same, while others were different. Here, his feet didn’t hang off the edge, so that was a nice change.

“Night, Deucey.”

“Good night, Fjord.”

The bed rustled as Fjord turned over on his side. Caduceus stared into the dark, thinking oddly about Caleb as sleep tried to claim him.

Caleb, standing before the Bright Queen, offering the dodecahedron in a desperate bid to protect them all. Caleb, afraid but determined, dirtied and wrapped in leather, his voice rising above the noise and clamor.

Caleb, small and uncertain, looking to Caduceus for reassurance.

Caleb, smiling quietly, reassuring Caduceus in return, even if he didn’t know it.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest. Caduceus pressed his palm over it. He wasn’t sure what it meant, only that it happened around Caleb a lot.

Maybe the Wildmother was trying to tell him something.

He supposed he’d just have to listen a little harder.

****

a/n: Feedback and reblogs and comments are absolutely welcome and encouraged! :)

[sprnklersplashes]

What To Buy The Heather Who Has Everything

AO3

Martha Dunnstock’s life since the start of her senior year has been unusual to put it mildly. First there was her best (and only) friend joining the Heathers’ clique; and forging a note to trick her. Then there was her kindergarten boyfriend turning out to be gay. Then some more things she tries her best to block out, at least until she’s in the safety of her therapist’s office.

But nothing can prepare her for the fact that The Heather MacNamara is her girlfriend. That small hurricane in yellow she once spent her days cowering away from now walks her home, kisses her nose and calls her lovebug. They sit in Heather’s yellow bedroom, her parents downstairs in blissful ignorance, and talk about anything and everything. Never in her wildest dreams did she think Heather would be someone she would talk to about what scares her and keeps her awake at night.

Still, it’s a shock she can get used to; she thinks as Heather sits down at their lunch table. Not all surprises need to be bad.

“So,” Heather begins, bouncing on her sear. “I was thinking I might have a little get together at my house on Saturday. Are you guys free?”

“I am,” Martha agrees, their knees touching under the table.

“Well my only two friends are busy that night,” Veronica answers with a smirk. “What’s up buttercup?”

“Oh well, I was just thinking of having a small get together,” she explains. “Um, you know… for my birthday.”

Martha almost chokes on her pasta and Veronica’s eyes go wide. She feels her face going red as she tries to clear her throat and get some sort of sentence out.

“Your birthday’s on Saturday and you didn’t tell us?” Veronica asks.

“I just told you,” Heather tells her calmly.

“I mean, yeah… but I really don’t have time to get you a present,” Martha says.

“Oh I don’t need presents,” Heather says, shaking her head and making her blonde hair bounce. “I just want to hang out with you guys. And maybe a few girls from the cheer squad.” There’s one name suspiciously not mentioned and Martha shares a concerned look with Veronica.  Heather Duke can be seen on her own, at a faraway table. Martha can’t help but feel bad; after all, she knows what it’s like to be alone at the table, but the sight of her also makes her want to wrap her Heather in a tight hug and never let her go. “So are you guys in?”

“Definitely.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Veronica adds.

“Yay!” Heather squeals. It’s those little moments that make Martha remember why she loves Heather. “Okay, I need to go to a cheer squad meet, but I’ll see you guys in study hall.” She drops a quick kiss on Martha’s cheek while Veronica pulls a face. “See you later, lovebug.”

“That girl is getting presents from us,” Veronica says as soon as Heather is out of an earshot, dipping a French fry into ketchup.

“Of course she is,” Martha agrees. She and Veronica share a grin with each other. No matter how many shocks there are in her life, there’s always, and she hopes always will be, Veronica.

                                                                                               *****

After school on Friday, Veronica and Martha take the bus into town rather than walking home, or in Martha’s case, waiting for her dad to collect her. The town centre, particularly the mall, is mostly a foreign place to Martha. Outside of the yearly trips down for school supplies, she rarely sets foot there, thanks to both her parent’s financial situation and her own lack of self-confidence (no doubt in part to her own special nickname “Dumptruck”. The posters of girls with slim hips and flat stomachs and the mannequins with their tiny waists make her feel more noticeable than usual as she hides in her pink sweater.

Veronica breezes through the place with ease. She may have toned down her Heathers-esque look after she stopped hanging out with them, trading the blue blazer for a denim jacket, but she still stalks through the mall and navigates in a way that seems vaguely reminiscent of Heather Chandler. As does the red scrunchie that stands out against her hair, holding the dark waves back off her face. But unlike Chandler, Veronica wields her power for good. And Martha can’t deny how nice it feels to simply be left alone, not left out but just left alone.

“Come on, let’s go in here,” Veronica says, pulling her into a brightly lit store with carefully constructed displays in the windows. “She loves it in here.”

They’re not in the store five minutes before Martha understands why. The store is everything Heather would love, right down to the plush white carpeting. The walls are dazzlingly white, glass shelves on one end holding small purses, similar shelves displaying necklaces and bracelets, racks of clothes separating them along the floor; short skirts and dainty jackets and crisp shirts. Everything Heather loves is in this store.

They’re put off the purses as soon as they see the price tags, which is a shame, because they both know Heather needs a new purse and she’d just adore one of those, especially the little sunshine yellow one with a golden kitten hanging off the handle. The image Martha has of her wide brown eyes and beaming bright smile as she holds it is physically painful.

They look through the clothes rails seems like a waste of time. Heather already either has everything in the store or a nicer version of it. She has even said to Martha herself that the last thing she needs is more clothes while Martha stood in the middle of her walk in wardrobe, lost in a sea of yellow fabric.

The jewellery stand is their last hope. It’s likely their safest bet; Martha thinks her girlfriend might be part crow with the way she loves anything shiny or sparkly. Or maybe it’s being the daughter of a man who sells shiny things for a living. But every time Heather is presented with something that sparkles or shines, Martha sees her melt. It’s adorable, really.

“Hey, look at this,” Veronica says, showing her a silver chain with a yellow heart dangling from it.

“That’s adorable! Veronica you have to get her that!”

“I will,” she says, placing the necklace in the palm of her hand and smiling at it. “What about you? See anything you’re getting her?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, scanning over the rail of jewellery. Everything is beautiful and so perfectly Heather, but also so expensive. Her pockets feel pitifully empty as she picks up pieces of jewellery only to set them down after seeing the price tag. The saddest part is that they aren’t even that expensive, just out of her own reach. She picks up a little silver ring with a stone in the middle that turns all different colours when it catches the light. It looks beautiful and it makes Martha smile just looking at it, but what would make her smile even more is that ring on Heather’s finger.

“That’s pretty,” Veronica remarks. “Really pretty.”

“Yeah,” she says, knowing what the little white label says before she looks at it. “Pretty expensive too.” She sets it back down on the display with a resigned sigh

“Hey.” Veronica brushes her hand against Martha’s, her voice low. “Look, I know you don’t like it, but if you want I can loan you some money to get Heather something.”

“No,” she sighs shaking her head. “I know you’re just being nice but… no, I can’t take your money.” Veronica stays quiet, but her fingers lace in between Martha’s as she nods gently. Martha looks around the shelf in a vein hope for something within her price range amongst the glittering mass before her. She’s about to give up entirely when something tucked away behind a pair of earrings catches her eye.

She picks up a small silver teddy bear, heavy in her palm. He holds a little bunch of balloons and smiles dreamily up at her, his little head cocked to one side. He’s sweet and he’s cute and she knows Heather will think so too. But there’s still a nagging sense of guilt as she takes out her purse.

She and Veronica leave the store with their purchases wrapped in pink tissue paper, put in little brown boxes and then into white bags, all at no extra cost.

“You know she’ll love that little bear,” Veronica tells her. “Even I love it. It’s cute and shiny. What more could Heather want?”

“I know,” Martha sighs. “It’s just that… well I wish I could just get her something special you know?” She shrugs, looking down at the bag. “She’s special to me. She deserves nicer presents.”

“Hey, it’s not about how much money you spend on her,” Veronica assures her. “She doesn’t give a shit about any of that shallow stuff.” Martha nods, an agreement on the tip of her tongue, when something catches her eye. Just as they’re walking out of the mall, they pass a bakery with its cakes on display in the window. Martha grinds to a halt as she looks at them; pale pink and blue icing with white piping around the edges, just small enough for one person to eat alone or two people to share. They’re in different shapes; some square, some heart shaped, some circles, but all with dainty piping and carefully iced. Some even have fondant flowers on the top, others have small silver balls or glitter over the top. A sign advertising personal messages for as little as a dollar sits in the window, telling people to make their cake special. An idea unfurls in her mind, a smile spreading across her face. “I know that look.”

“I have an idea,” Martha says. “And I kind of need your help.”

“I’m in.”

They go to the big grocery store opposite the mall, the one that sells everything you could need at a price you can afford. Veronica lets Martha lead her into the baking aisle, a knowing smile crossing her face as she works out what she’s planning. She drops the carton of eggs and bag of sugar into the basket and Veronica stretches up and manages to grab a bag of flour off the top shelf. True, it comes close to flattening them, but that only makes them laugh.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” Veronica asks as they stand outside Martha’s house.

“I’m sure,” she says. “I want to do this myself.”

“She’s going to love it,” she tells her.

“Hopefully. If I can do it right.”

“And you will,” Veronica says firmly, placing her hands on her shoulders. “You will nail this, and she will love it.” Martha chuckles; with Veronica’s wide, determined eyes, her set yet soft smile and her strong voice, Martha almost believes her herself.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. Veronica nods and wraps her in a hug. Lately she’s been hugging her tighter than ever; she would almost say she’s holding on for dear life, letting out shaky breaths against her and whispering “I love you” against her shoulder. Martha can’t judge, because it’s what she does too.

When Martha goes into her kitchen, there’s a hasty note from her mom telling her that she’s gone to work, that her dad is still at work and that there’s burgers in the freezer if she wants dinner. She looks around her empty kitchen; the slightly stained brown tiles, the grey countertop, the small green oven. The clock’s ticking echoes off the walls, decorated with cream wallpaper covered in blue flowers. Martha’s well used to the sound and feeling of being home alone; Veronica can only come over so many times, and for a while she didn’t.

She shakes her head and begins unpacking the bag. Of course, her parents being away right now has a big advantage; baking in peace. She wanders over to the cabinet and pulls out the green hardbacked book containing every recipe her grandmother wrote down. And there’s a lot, but the one she needs is the easiest to find, marked with a leather bookmark. She takes the bowls, tins and spoons she needs out of the cupboards and onto the countertop, thankful her family is too sentimental to throw any of this out. She gives the recipe another read-over, double and triple checking she has everything. Then she opens the flour and lets the baking take over.

When Martha goes around to Heather’s house, it’s Mrs MacNamara who opens the door. Heather’s mom doesn’t look like her mom, in fact, she doesn’t look like a mom at all. Her bleached blonde hair curls just above her shoulders and she wears pink lipstick even when she’s not going out. Her white trousers hug her slim body and her fluffy white jumper shows off her collar bone.

“Oh, Heather?” she calls into the house. “It’s your friend Mary!”

“Mom, it’s Martha!” Heather calls from upstairs.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Mrs MacNamara says absent mindedly, already wandering into the living room.

“It’s fine,” she replies in a quiet voice, knowing she didn’t hear her. Upstairs, she hears Heather’s heels clicking against the floor and she comes into view at the top of the stairs, rushing down to meet her.

“Hi,” she says, slightly breathless but still with a wide smile that makes Martha’s insides meld.

“Hey,” she replies. Heather goes to take her hand, only to find them full holding a cardboard box wrapped in yellow paper. She settles for taking her arm and leading her into the kitchen, closing the door gently behind them.

“Martha, I told you, I don’t want any presents.”

“I know,” she begins. “But you’re too important to me to not get you something. Especially for your 18th birthday.” Touched, Heather kisses her cheek, making it go pink. “Come on, open it. I’m dying to see what you think.” Terrified is probably a more accurate term, but she doesn’t tell her that. She holds her breath as Heather carefully peels off the wrapping paper, fights the urge to bite her nails as she lifts the lid off. When she does, her mouth falls into a little ‘o’ shape and Martha hears her gasp just a little. “Do you like it?”

It’s small, as cakes go. If she grabbed a couple of forks they could demolish it in a few minutes. And simple enough, two layers or sponge with raspberry jam and fresh cream between them. She covered it in yellow fondant, knowing from experience it’s easier than icing, and then piped Happy Birthday Heather in white on the top. For an added touch, she added some white piping around the edges, using a picture from her grandma’s book as a guide, and then stuck the bear from the jewellery store on the top.

“You got me a cake?” she asks, her voice small. From the look of her, she’s still processing it.

“Yeah. It was my grandma’s recipe-”

“You made me a cake?” She looks up from the cake to Martha, her mouth still hanging open. Martha feels her heart crush in her chest.

“You don’t like it,” she says. “I’m sorry, I wanted to buy you something nice but money’s pretty tight right now and I didn’t know what type of cake you-”

She finds herself cut off when Heather’s lips touch hers, her hands wrapping around her neck. Martha is frozen for just a minute but kisses her back, revelling in how gentle and soft her lips are-as sweet as Heather herself. Heather’s hand cups her cheek as they pull apart, their noses still touching.

“That was a really nice way of telling me to shut up,” Martha whispers. “So you like it?”

“Like it?” Heather echoes. “You made me a cake. For my birthday. No one’s ever made me things and it’s so pretty and it’s perfect! You’re perfect!” It’s Martha’s turn to kiss her, her lips pecking at Heather’s, her girlfriend’s lip gloss smearing over her lips. “Thank you, lovebug.”

“Happy birthday, Heather,” she says softly. “Though the teddy isn’t edible.” Heather throws back her head and laughs, still wrapped in Martha’s arms.

“How did I get so lucky to have you?” she asks. “Come on, let me get two forks. Or should we get three and leave Veronica a piece?”

Martha smiles as she watches Heather getting out some forks, chatting away to her. They dig into the cake together, Heather ending up with icing on her nose and cream on her chin, which she lets Martha kiss off. Heather gushes over the little teddy too, making him talk in funny voice to Martha. Yeah, some surprises can be really, really good ones.

[artificialqueens]

The Rainbow Bouquet (Craquaria) (Koi)

A/N: This is just a one shot I’m doing  my other multi chapter fic. Don’t worry, Chapter 3 will come out, and all your gay hearts will get what you deserve (I hope.)

Pristine painted nails flipped over the sign posted on the front door, signalling to the people that ‘The Rainbow Bouquet’ was now open for service once again.

Aquaria opened the doors to the shop, stepping into the bright sunlight and light breeze that made today so beautiful. She decided that she could prop the door open, letting the nice breeze waft into the empty shop. Her fingers hovered over her name tag, making sure it was perfectly straight and noticeable, in case any customers needed her help.

Her uniform was a light pink shirt, almost resembling a polo shirt. On the left upper hand corner, on her heart was like a patchwork design of a rainbow bouquet, with the name of the shop in beautiful black cursive writing.

She retreated to behind the counter, starting to work on a flower arrangement to put in the store on display, humming along to the love songs playing silently in the background.

Aquaria fell in love with the store, and how the atmosphere felt. She fell in love with the way the flowers looked so natural in place and not forced, like other places around. She quickly moved up the ranks, once hired, and she was now is the manager of this local branch.

There was something about the flower shop that made it different from others. They offered “Level Packages”. Levels were indicated by the amount of need or urgency in a situation. For example, if you wanted to make a first impression with someone, you would be at a level 1. If you happened to be meeting the parents for the first time, you would need the Level 3. If you royally screwed up, you would require the Level 5. Very few people came in with a need for the Level 5, but it was available for missed anniversaries, texting your ex and accidentally insulting your mother in law. It was different, and it was great. It gave the store life.

The store was calm, a few customers walked around, admiring the flowers and the bouquets around the store. Her eyes drifted from her flower arrangement to out the window.

A short woman, with full blonde hair and black heels walked the storefront quite frantically, a puzzled look placed on her face as she would pick up things and put them back (neatly) in their place

As the mysterious women entered the store, a few more small details popped out to Aquaria. Abandoning her flower arrangement project, in favor of pretending to read this week’s issue of “Garden Dreams.”, she glanced over the female once more.

For one thing, she looked tired. The bags were slightly noticeable under her eyes, and you hair seemed messed up, as if she was sleeping on it. Another point, she looked like she just came from work. She dawned a large fur coat, draped over a pencil skirt and blouse, finely ironed.

She was snapped out of her thoughts when the woman approached the counter, she spoke quickly, tripping over some of words like she was anxious and late, never a good combination.

“Hi, yes, my name is Brianna- and I just, read your paper-pamphlet thing by the door?”

“Hello Yes, Welcome! What did you need help with today?” Aquaria greeted the lady warmly, still quite interested in her.

Brianna leaned in closer to the counter, as if to keep her next words disclosed and secretive.

“It’s a level five emergency.”

Holy fucking shit. It was a level five. She’d been waiting forever to receive a level five emergency. She felt, when done a good job, it could heal and mend relationships.

“We’ll get that set up for you right away, no worries.” Aquaria said, quietly pressing her button that was kept hidden under her counter.

Pink lights flashed in the store, signalling a level five threat emergency, as Brianna face palmed at the sight, so much for being discrete and quiet.

Aquaria pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen, writing down some information on the paper.

Brianna couldn’t help but look over at the girl as she wrote. The way that her hair framed her face, and fell down her back smoothly. The way her subtle makeup seemed to make her glow in the light of the flower store. The way that her shirt fit her just right. The way her hand swooped, writing in the gentle cursive on the paper. She bit her lip, and looked at the basket. She was here to mend her relationship not tear it apart. Brianna glanced at her name tag. Aquaria, such a pretty and unique name, fitting for a girl like her.

“Hm.?” Aquaria asked, looking up at her, waiting for an answer

“Oh- I’m sorry- what was the question?” Brianna asked, a light color rising to her cheeks, she only hoped she wasn’t caught staring.

“No problem, I just asked for your full name for the form.” Aquaria smiled, trying to not to show her anxiety around the beautiful woman.

“Brianna. Brianna Cracker” She said, looking at the marble countertops, pretending to admire the way the colors swirled into each other, just to avoid looking at each other.

Aquaria wrote that down carefully, in her neat cursive writing, silently giving herself an internal pep talk to stay chill and calm during the interaction.

“And- we need a number, or email. It’s just too- like confirm that things went well. Not like I- No, yeah. Just for customer service reasons. Yanno” Aquaria stammered, finding the right words to say in front of the other blonde.

She slid the paper over, gesturing to the empty line for number and email. It was fully for customer service reasons, besides she would never have the audacity to actually ask for a beautiful woman’s phone number or something like that.

Brianna couldn’t help but smile a bit, as she filled in the required information and signed off on it. The taller blonde was so endearing and adorable that it was causing her to lose her focus and concentrate solely on her beautiful smile, or charming eyes.

“Your total today equals out to 49 Dollars and 99 Cents.” Aquaria mentions, calculating the price. “That includes the Flowers, Card, Stuffed Animal, Chocolate and Gift card.” She says, taking the other girls card, swiping it though the machine.

Brianna snapped out of her gaze, and glanced at the time. She knew all these material possessions wouldn’t be able to fully solve the problem, but she could hope it would atleast help.

She grabbed the basket, thanking the workers and Aquaria, before rushing out of the door in quite the hurry.

“Hope it all goes well!” Aquaria waved and wished the other girl luck, before returning to her own work.

However, she wasn’t able to focus on anything besides the girl, and how it went. Not only how it went, but focusing on the way her eyes glimmered in the light or how she occasionally bit her tongue when smiling.

Brianna had ran out, her heels clicking along the sidewalk as she quickly walked over to her partners apartment building which only happened to be about 10 minutes away.

She was worried, and that was just the simple way to put it. Last night was her anniversary with her girlfriend of 1 year. However, she got caught up at overtime at work. She fully intended to come home and enjoy the night. Work got ahead of her and she fell asleep that night at work. When she woke up in the morning, she was overcome with an immense amount of guilt as she tried to find a way to make up for it.

She went up the elevator once arriving in the building. The obnoxious elevator music got to her as it seemed to go up so slowly. She hoped she wasn’t too angry at her.

Brianna was visibly shaking as she grabbed for her keys as quickly as she could. She wasn’t the best at confrontation and she didn’t mean to not come home last night. She did really like her.

She unlocked the door, before opening the door silently and shutting it behind her. She smiled quietly, and glanced around the kitchen. It looked as if a dinner had been planned, and enjoyed. Plates stacked high in the sink, a bottle of wine open on the table. Soft Romantic Music played in the background over the radio in the corner. She walked over quietly to turn off the radio as she caught something in the corner of her eye.

Two entangled bodies laid on the couch, wearing very little in terms of clothing. She could feel her heart drop and plummet faster than the ball on New Years Eve. She guessed her partner really didn’t care that she never came home. She had someone to keep her company after all.

Her hands felt numb as she dropped her keys on the ground, in utter shock as one could assume. Brianna could feel her eyes watering up tremendously, but she had to keep it together. For her pride.

Her partner had woken up, untangling herself, and going up to meet Brianna at the door. She didn’t seem all that shocked, upset or any other emotion as she walked up to the shorter blonde.

“How long?” She managed to say, with a bite to her words. Her facade is up, although tears wanted to fall at an alarming rate.

“Hm.. like maybe 4 months?” She said, looking at the blonde. She was a bit snippy, deciding to turn this on the blonde “Besides. You left me all alone last night. You can’t blame me.” She stated matter a factly, a smug look planted on her face as if she had the perfect argument.

Brianna wanted to scream, she wanted to yell and cry, and question. She wanted to know why, and make it known that it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t do anything to cause her to cheat like that. She closed her eyes tightly, reaching for the counter where she had placed her drink. She took off the lid and swiftly threw the iced coffee on the other, before turning around and walking out the door, saying nothing.

She walked calmly to her car, sliding into the driver’s seat, driving home letting a steady stream of tears fall.

~~~~

It was nearly closing time, and customers were long gone once again. Aquaria sat in her chair, and started to reach out to her customers again, applying great customer service and questioning how things went, and how they enjoyed their purchases today. Only certain customers were reached out too, as she flipped through the order forms on her lap. One stuck out to her, as she picked it up.

It was the very beautiful blonde from early in the morning, the paper only listed a number as a way to contact her, and Aquaria mentally gave herself a pep talk, as to not embarrass her over the phone.

The phone rang once.

No answer.

The phone rang twice.

No answer.

Maybe she wouldn’t even pick up.

The phone rang a third time.

No answer.

She must not be home.

Right before the phone was about to transfer to voicemail someone picked up the phone, the voice on the other end sounded tired or sad, or perhaps both. She wasn’t so good at reading emotions, especially not across the phone

“Hello?” Brianna said, no particular emotion present in her voice

“Hi! This is Aquaria, from the Rainbow Bouquet. I was just going to leave a voice message, but you actually picked up.” She awkwardly laughed, wishing she chose to not contact her. She was awfully embarrassed.

“Oh-? Well it’s nice to hear from you. What did you want?” Brianna’s voice perked up slightly, she really did think it was nice to hear from her. She liked the girl from eariler, and with all the drama that happened, it was nice to talk to someone nice.

Aquaria took the sudden tone change as a sign to keep going and muster though. “I’m just checking in to see how, and if you, or someone else enjoyed your order today!”

Brianna looked from her phone to the box of chocolates she was guilt-fully consuming. “Um. Well it’s being enjoyed, in just a totally different way than intended” She stated, taking pauses between her words.

“Oh? How so?” Aquaria questioned, generally curious but also somewhat concerned due to the situation that was occurring this morning that made it a Level 5.

Brianna paused for a long time, debating weather to even tell this basic stranger the things that caused her heart to crumble and crack. “I found… I found my partner with someone else.” She choked back a cry once more, conversating with the girl over the phone.

They talked for hours. Aquaria tried to provide some advice, and give some tips to grieving the right way. Brianna cracked some jokes along the way. They talked about anything, it was all on the table, and open to share. They talked until Aquaria had to head home and close up shop. They said goodbye, wondering if they might ever see each other again.

~~~~

Days passed and the two girls continued on with their lives. The other girls layed lingering on their minds as the time passed, and consuming most of their thoughts for the days that passed.

It was now Friday, and Aquaria was at work like usual. She was busy helping a very unruly customer, who was demanding to know why her flower arrangement had 4 small leaves per flower, and not 3. The usual nonsense complaint she dealt with far too often.

Brianna was off today, and Aquaria was on her mind almost all week. She was captivating and she wanted to know more, she craved more.

She slipped into the store and immediately went to another one of the employee’s who helped her rather swiftly to get what she wanted.

Aquaria was still helping the unruly customer as she waited to be checked out. Her nerves started to rise, herself wondering if she was jumping the gun. Wondering if her plan would backfire. That would be so embarrassing.

“Brianna!” Aquaria said, snapping the woman out of her own thoughts. Aquaria was smiling happily, eyes lighting up in a way that made the older ones heart skip a beat. ��Those are beautiful. I’m sure whoever they are for, will just love them.”

Brianna swiped her card, quickly purchasing the Flowers. “I’m sure they will. I heard they’re her favorite.” Brianna was blushing furiously and her hands were sweating slightly out of nervousness. She hoped Aquaria wouldn’t notice as she handed them to her. “They’re for you.” She said a bit quieter then before.

If it was even possible, Aquaria lit up even more taking and admiring the flowers. “How did you know these were my favorite?” She asked in utter shock.

“Just a lucky guess.” Brianna laughed, failing to reveal that one of the workers told her.

Aquaria opened the little note card attached to the Flowers, and in her neat cursive was written in a smooth black ink

“Coffee, later? Me and You?”

[thisismelei]

It is you vs you.

While watching anime, yung isang character sobra kong nakarelate.

She mentioned, “I am not a talented one, even being average it will took time for me to achieve.”

Nakakarelate ako on the way na lahat ng meron ako ngayon, lalong lalo na financially, is the fruit of my own labor.

Oo probably some of my family members will play the guilt trip part, slapping their obligations to my face like “di ako mabubuhay kung wala sila”, “di makapag aral”, “walang matitirhan”… hearing all of these “sumbat” suffocates me. It even made me wish I shouldn’t been born when I was teenager. Parents who do this, please stop.

There are many things I am grateful sa family ko but my life isn’t a fulfilled one. I am not happy. I do not know who I was back then. I grew up as passive aggressive because all the traumatic arguments I was raised and witnessed. I follow and follow rules blindly, and if I resist to go for what I desire I turned into a blacksheep. So then, as early as I can, I stand ALL ALONE.

Kaya kapag nasasabihan ako ng selfish o kaya naicocompare sa iba masakit talaga. Masakit kasi parang nadidisregard yung lahat ng hardwork ko throughout the time. Masakit kasi I felt unseen, unheard, not recognized. Syempre given na naiintindihan ko yung iba ibang timeline, pero ang di alam ng karamihan when they do that is nakakababa sya ng self worth.

Mapapaisip ka ng “teka trinabaho ko tong pera kong to, to spend on what I wanted my life will be.” Di nila nacoconsider na naiinggit ka din kasi yung iba na binibilhan lang ng gadgets ikaw you have to consider yung gastos kasi inipon mo yun tapos mabilis lang mawawala.

I remember buying my first expensive bag which is worth P1,000+ lang, samantalang sa iba ang dali lang iswipe sa credit cards nila.

I sometimes wish I was born with a different situation in life wherein privileges are little bit comfortable.

Isa ding factor na sobra akong cash basis na tao. If I cannot buy it in cash then I cannot afford it. I’ve met several people na trying to look rich pero puro credit cards. No offense sa credit cards users, I work as credit representative so I know when to use it sa advantage. It’s okay to use credit cards as long as you are responsible.

Mahirap, masakit, minsan nakakaubos pasensya. I am a natural hard working and resilient person, however I hope for a little comfort.

Because that’s all that I am working hard for to a future where I do not have to worry the price tag, where I can go anywhere anytime without worrying of bills and other responsibilities.

Independence may look glamorous for some, truth is, it is nothing but hard work.

When I realized this, I knew I have to be bolder. I should be proud of myself. That as early as 23 taking a step to move out and continuously rediscovering myself and bettering it, is a courage that not everybody has.

It is ME VS YESTERDAY ME.

[corruptedpoltergeist]

Walking On Fire

Chapter 4

Characters: Reader, Sam, Dean, Reader’s Father, Reader’s Mother, Bobby (mentioned, phone call)

Summary: You’ve almost hit rock bottom with your father’s sudden disappearance for a case you have no idea about. After tracking him down, you join him for the fight of your life.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader (eventually) yes I like taking my time

Word Count: 2954

Warnings: ANGST, cursing, death, usual supernatural violence, some detailed gore, yelling at a parent, FEELS, bad relationship with a parent

Square Filled: Death of a Parent

A/N: Thanks to my sweet, sweet Beta @sumara62 for correcting all my errors and for enjoying the chapter while you were beta’ing! This was written as the 4th part of my Supernatural series and for an Angst Bingo Square Fill for @spnangstbingo

Hope you all enjoy the next chapter and leave some feedback!

Catch up here! Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

With how hard your foot had been pushing on the gas pedal, it was a miracle the poor car you were driving was still in one piece, let alone containing enough gas to survive another hundred miles. Using your laptop, you had been able to track the last known location of your father’s cellphone, which was probably turned off right now.

You had tried calling him a couple of times, but it would immediately go to voicemail, a good sign that meant he was still using that number. Though he had warned you to stay away and not call him for this one hunting trip, you started having your suspicions about this case being like the others. So, you tracked his phone location down.

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the rental 4Runner you had borrowed, parked in front of a large, partially ramshackle warehouse complex, your fingers hovered over the keyboard of your laptop, your brows furrowed and (E/C) orbs staring intently at the computer screen before you. What you had on the screen were the recent newspaper articles on Erie, Colorado, not Kansas like your father had stated.

The last time your father had lied to you was to protect you from the life he had been exposed to. That was 14 years ago before you had seen and witnessed your first supernatural being: a ghost. Thankfully it wasn’t a serious case, just a child who was lost and unable to accept the fact that he had died.

Seeing no signs of any sort of supernatural being at work, you couldn’t see what was so special about this case that had pulled your father here. Actually, what case was there? None that you could see.

No irregular deaths, no strange hauntings, no disappearances, no abnormal weather pattern, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Thirty minutes into searching everything about Erie, Colorado, and you still couldn’t figure out why your father would be here in the first place. Which meant one thing: he was keeping something from you. Something big.

But what?

You sighed angrily to yourself, aggressively running your fingers through your hair as you tried to think of every possible explanation for this. Of course, you kept drawing a blank, but you wanted to believe your dad had a really good reason for this. You trusted him with your life, and there was no reason to doubt him at all. What you were most worried about was whether he was in trouble.

“Dad… What’s going on?”

“We’re almost there, Bobby… Yeah, okay. Bye.” Sam hung up as he inhaled deeply before letting the breath out, staring down the road, Dean driving as fast as he dared. They knew the exact location of where you were, and that’s where they were headed.

“She’s gotta be somewhere around here. Keep your eyes open,” Dean warned Sam, as the two of them searched for the warehouse complex Bobby had mentioned.

The sun had begun to set, and nighttime was quickly approaching. The brothers were on edge, hoping they would reach you in time before you started exploring that complex.

Dean suddenly sped up. “There. There, you see that car?” Sam looked in the direction that Dean was pointing out, seeing a brown colored 4Runner parked in the forest, just a short walk away from the warehouse complex. Dean parked the Impala, and he and Sam got out, opening the trunk and loading up with their guns with witch-killing bullets instead of the usual salt ones.

The two of them headed towards your rental car, peering through the windows, only to see your laptop and bag inside. “Dammit,” Dean curse aloud as the two of them slowly made their way towards the warehouse.

The sound of your shallow breathing and the frantic beating of your heart were all you could hear as you leaned your back against a wall, peering out from the corner to see if anyone was around, a gun held tightly in your hands and your anti-possession necklace around your neck, your reading glasses long forgotten. (E/C) eyes gazed around as you slowly made your way down the hallway, pausing at each doorway to listen for any movement before continuing.

After passing a couple of rooms, you encountered a corridor that connected the next section of the complex to the one in which you stood. But as you slowly made your way through, you started hearing voices.

One you immediately recognized as your father’s, but the other voice, a female one, you didn’t recognize. At all.

Slowly leaning your back against the wall and sliding just a tad closer to the edge of the corridor so you could see and hear what was going on, you peeked out. Your heart stopped beating for a second; the woman’s features looked eerily similar to your own.

Her eye color was the same as yours, her nose the same shape; her facial structure and her stance as well. The way she stood facing your father reminded you of yourself. But what shocked you most was how this woman looked at your dad.

With love and affection.

There were two things that raced through your mind at this moment; either this woman was related to your father in some way or…

“Dear Eugene, I’ve missed you so much,” her voice purred out in a honey-sweet tone, much to your father’s discomfort. While she looked like she just met the love of her life, he looked at her as though seeing the vilest creature to ever walk the face of the planet.

“Do not address me as your dear. I’m not here to play games or make up with you.”

“Oh, but darling, I know exactly why you’re here…” The woman started to approach your father, and you were tempted to jump out and start firing rounds when the woman suddenly stopped, a sort of glowing energy covering her like a dome. She glared at your father who stood rooted to his spot with a stern expression.

“I doubt you’d expect me to come unprepared,” your father said aloud. “An ancient Greek spell used to trap nymphs and satyrs. It would seem it also works on witches.”

His tone was harsh as he emphasized the word witch, your father’s stern gaze locked on the woman, walking around her while keeping his hands in his leather jacket pockets.

“Your words hurt me, dear.”

“Not enough, it seems. You destroyed my life, my children… You took their lives from them.”

“I did this for them!”

“And did you EVER think about the consequences?! What you would do to (Y/N)? To me? You destroyed our lives! You took Connor’s life! He was only 6 months old!!”

Any and all rational thoughts that you had of this situation flew out the window as everything began to fall into place. This woman, this witch that your father was hunting, was none other than your birth mother.

You lost control, your emotions in a turmoil, as your hands lowered, loosening their grip on the gun. You walked forward, coming out of your hiding place, approaching your shocked father.

“(Y/N), what in god’s name are you doing here?”

“Is it true, dad? Mom killed Connor?”

“Pumpkin, you shouldn’t be here-”

“WHY?” You screamed out, loading your gun and thumbing the safety off as you aimed it at her, knowing very well your silver bullets wouldn’t kill her, but it should hurt. “How could you?! You killed your own flesh and blood! My little brother! You murdered him, you cold-hearted bitch!”

You continued to scream, shrieking profanities and insults at her at the top of your lungs, your eyes filled with utter hatred. Your father had to restrain you from lunging at her. She couldn’t get out of the dome, but any normal human could move in and out of it easily, similar to a demon trap.

Your mother seemed unfazed by your words, instead giving you a scoff and roll of her eyes, which only further angered you. “You can call me heartless all you want, but I kept my end of the bargain, just as that demon did.”

The amount of struggling against your father lessened as you clenched your jaw tightly, both of you staring at her with narrowed gazes. “What are you talking about?” You demanded.

“I struck a deal with a demon 30 years ago, the same year I met and married your father.” The two of you listened attentively as she continued to speak and walk around the dome in which she was confined, not an ounce of guilt in her tone. “I was supposed to kill him but, well, what can I say? He was rather attractive, and I fell for him instantly… In exchange for sparing his life, I demanded the demon turn me into a witch, and that came at a price. I had to make a small… sacrifice.” Your eyes glared daggers at her, trying to take a step forward but your father held you back, his grip tightening in anger. “My first child, he told me. He came back when you were just 8 months old, but suddenly changed his mind, saying that he wanted the second child to be sacrificed. Said something about you and your destiny.”

“What damn destiny? The one where I fucking blow your brains out?” You screamed at her in rage, but she didn’t appreciate that at all. She flicked her wrist to the side, causing a large spiderwebbed crack to form on the dome. Once more she did it, and the dome shattered like glass. Walking forward with a newfound fury in her eyes, she directed her gaze at you as you stood your ground defiantly, your father warning you with a panicked look.

“(Y/N), get out of here, now.” You didn’t move, and when your mother was at an arm’s length, you struck her hard. Your hand stung from the slap; your mother’s face was turned to the side, her cheek reddening and starting to swell. She slowly turned to look at you, just as Sam and Dean appeared behind your father.

But you didn’t stop. “You left us for a damn demon! You broke my father’s heart! He spent years just trying to get over you and raise a child on his own while hunting supernatural beings! He protected me from all sorts of dangers and monsters, all because you were- no because you are a selfish bitch who wanted nothing more than power! You got so drunk on it that your dumb ass thought of nothing but your own selfish desires! You didn’t care that others got hurt in the process; you fucking sacrificed my baby brother for your own sake! And you still have the nerve to come face-to-face with us? After every damn thing, you made us go through because of you?”

Your mother looked about ready to explode, but she contained herself, allowing you to take out your anger on her. “I hate you. You’ll never be my mother, even if we’re related by blood. You should have died that night, not my baby brother.”

Within an instant, your mother snapped, her eyes wild as she chanted out a spell much too fast for the brothers or your father to stop. “Maledictere diabolo et oculis!”

In a sudden frenzy of shouting and movement that appeared as seemingly just a few seconds to you, though in reality, it lasted over three minutes, you suddenly found yourself on the ground, your upper body was being cradled by someone.

As consciousness returned to you, you felt a rawness, as if you had screamed your throat out, and your face felt scratched up. Something warm trickled down your cheeks from your eyes, too thick to feel like tears.

A voice called your name multiple times, your senses were reeling interminably before starting to clear when the person holding you began shaking your shoulders. “...-on!... -up!… Wake… gotta stay…. look... (Y/N).... Look at me!”

Your vision cleared up after a few moments, eyes wide as you realized how hard you were breathing, heart beating a rapid staccato in your chest. Sam’s face came into view as his thumbs wiped away whatever liquid was on your cheeks. “(Y/N), can you hear me?”

“What- Why are you shouting?” Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Sam helped you sit up as you wiped your cheeks. Smudges of red now streaked the back of your hand, and a sudden shift in your vision caused you to look at Sam, your expression filled with shock and uncertainty. Taking a quick glance around, you couldn’t see your father or mother anywhere. “What happened to me? Where- Where’s my dad?”

“(Y/N), just stay calm for a moment-”

“No, Sam! I won’t stay calm! Where’s my dad?!”

“Dean’s looking for him now. But-”

“What do you mean? He was right here a second ago!” Sam suddenly gripped both your shoulders firmly, forcing you to look directly at him.

“Listen to me. Your mother just cursed you, literally, and I don’t know what happened to you. It took a couple minutes for you to finally respond. Your mother took off with your father, and Dean’s been checking the entire warehouse complex, trying to find their location. I promise you we’ll find them.”

Once Sam was able to convince you to calm down, the two of you went in search of your father, running from one end of the complex to the other. After minutes of useless searching, and finally catching up with Dean, you were frustrated. “What if they’re not inside this complex at all?”

“I looked outside, but there wasn’t a trace of them anywhere,” Dean replied as the three of you suddenly heard the sound of a masculine shout from afar. All eyes shot toward the exit as you ran ahead of the boys, your gun long forgotten as you raced out of the complex, Dean hot on your tail with Sam only a step behind.

“(Y/N)! Don’t do anything stupid!” Dean warned as you raced through the thicket toward the direction from which you’d heard your father’s shout. You paid no heed to his warning, all sense of logic seemed to fly out the window. Alarms were going off in your head, screaming that your father was in danger.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” You shouted back, just as you stumbled out of the thicket and beheld a sight you knew you’d never forget for the rest of your life.

There was your mother, her hand prodding out from your father’s body where his heart was, her eyes gazing at him with a cold look. As she ripped her hand out of his chest, his body fell backward onto the ground, and you let out an inhuman scream that shook your mother’s bones down to the core. She glanced up at you before muttering something under her breath, vanishing in a sudden cloud of smoke.

Your body trembled as you ran to your fallen father, tears streaming down your face. You cradled his upper body in your arms and whimpered pitifully. “D-dad? Wa- wake up. Come on.” Your heart clenched as your lungs constricted, wheezing and struggling to take in air. Your eyesight blurred, burning as tears collected and streamed down your cheeks, your panic rising by the second.

“C-come on! Dad, please! Open your- open your eyes! L-look at me!” You pleaded between your choking sobs and hiccups, paying little attention to the brothers, who both had pained expressions on their faces at witnessing a sight that was all too familiar to them. “Dad, please! Please! Wake up! Stay with me! Dad!”

Dean couldn’t handle hearing your cries, every tear that streamed down your face and every plea for your father was a harsh reminder of his failure today. Your wails, as you cradled your father’s lifeless body in your arms, was like a sharp stab to his heart, his own father’s death coming to mind as a lump formed in his throat.

Sam knelt beside you with a look of pure sympathy and sadness on his face, his hand on your back, letting you cry out your pain.

The anguished cries that came from you were nothing less than a pained and panicked reaction, crying your heart out as your tears dropped onto your father’s pale skin, his half-opened, lifeless eyes staring ahead with your arms wrapped tightly around him. Your voice was getting hoarse, and your heart pounded painfully against your chest, the lump in your throat never getting smaller as it continued to swell the longer you held him.

Every part of you from your muscles to your heart, your brain, your bones all screamed out along with your vocal cries. Your lungs constricted, the oxygen deprivation didn’t stop the tears, the wails, the sobs. It only fueled it.

The man that raised you from childhood, all through your adolescence and up until now, the amazing friend that stuck by your side through every hardship you’ve ever faced, the parent that gave you advice when you needed it and a shoulder to cry on when you required it, the guardian that kept you safe from anything and everything the world threw at you, the person who made waking up in the mornings all worth it was gone.

He was gone, and no amount of pleading and begging would bring him back.

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[angryhausfrau-writes]

Something Old and Something New - Chapter 8: Dinner...

“I feel like an idiot.”

BJ curls into Peg's side and she wraps her arms around him. And they're still standing right outside of the hotel room door, blocking the hallway. But her husband clearly needs this right now – and she won't be the one to pull away.

“I just – I just spent so long getting ready to see Hawkeye, you know? And then he wasn't there. It was Trapper!”

And BJ's voice is full of anguish. Peg holds him closer.

“I know dear, I know,” she soothes.

He had clearly been thrown for a loop. And she can understand why. He'd been both looking forward to the reunion and dreading it for weeks now. He'd stood in their hotel room tying and untying and retying his tie in an expression of nervous excitement – and a desire for everything to be perfect for his and Hawkeye's reunion. And that's been shot in the foot, now, hasn't it? But there's nothing either of them can do about it now.

And they are running a bit late at this point. Late enough that Trapper has disappeared downstairs with the wedding present and they're left standing alone in the empty hallway. Late enough that she doesn't have the time to comfort him like she wants to.

None of this is going how they wanted it to. But it will all turn out all right, she's sure. Because the two of them are here together and they'll figure things out - come hell or high water. So she holds BJ tight once more and then gentles his head out of the crook of her neck. A position that he'd had to contort himself into, bending his knees to reach – and that can't have been comfortable at all.

“BJ, look at me. You're not an idiot. And I'm sure Hawkeye is downstairs with the others, waiting for us.”

The “So let's get a move on, huh?” is silent but heavily implied. And he can't really argue with that – much as he just wants to spend the whole reception in his room where it's safe. Where he doesn't have to confront his feelings for Hawkeye. Where he doesn't have to have the coming awkward conversation of just what, exactly, those feelings are. Where he doesn't have to come face-to-face with Trapper – the lover of the man he's in love with, and who he just made an idiot out of himself in-front of.

At least things can't get any worse, impressions-wise. And Hawkeye's already seen him at pretty much his worst anyway and they're still friends.

“Ok, yeah. Let's head down.”

--

Trapper makes the long, awkward slog to the gift table at the front of the reception hall. And it feels like all the rich fuckers are staring at him – cussing him out with their eyes for daring to be late, and be him, and pollute their refinement with his presence. And Jesus fucking Christ, he hates Back Bay. Charles had better fucking appreciate this.

And he ain't feeling too fucking charitable towards BJ for making him this late – and therefor the center of attention like this - either.

But Trapper's had plenty of practice bullshitting his way through poncy parties where people just barely tolerate his presence – left over from his college days at Dartmouth and the yearly holiday shitshow with his ex-wife's family – so he keeps his back straight and his face blank and his seething pissed-offedness locked up tight.

He delivers the gift. And Max owes him so fucking big for this. But also, he's glad this is happening to him and not her and Soon Li. Cuz that would prolly get about a million times worse for them than it is for him. And Max would mouth off at someone – or Soon Li would, cuz she ain't one to be condescended to either. And then whatever rich fucker'd started it would get even more upset. And that wouldn't end well for anyone.

Trapper can see the whole scenario play out piece by piece – and it ends with Max and Soon Li getting kicked out. And then the party wouldn't be no fun at all. So it's just as well she's a conniving little bastard who knows just how to play him.

But he ain't gonna let it go that easy, either. Not when he can prolly knock her down another five percent or so on that lingerie price via guilt trip, anyway.

Task complete, Trapper swings by the bar cuz he's noticed that none of the tables have any drinks other than booze at them. And maybe Marjory made sure Hawkeye's got something he can drink - but he wouldn't bet on it, given that even the kids got champagne to toast the happy couple – whenever they actually show up. And some of the kids are clearly parroting their parents in describing the bouquet of the wine or whatever else bullshit. Which, Jesus Christ. Imagine being a wine snob at eight.

So anyway, Trapper gets Hawkeye a Shirley Temple, which nets him a weird look from the bartender, but it ain't like he gives a shit about what he thinks either. Thought even the reception's bartender is posher than just about anyone else Trapper's ever regularly interacted with. Only the best at this wedding, apparently.

And then finally, Hawk's drink in hand, he makes his way over to his designated table, and thank God that's over with. And thank God that they – all the MASH contingent, plus Letta and her husband – have been put at an out of the way table so none of the Emersons or Winchesters or Oakes will have to look at them. And maybe that should feel like a snub, but Trapper's honestly glad he won't have to put up with any of the sneers and glares he got walking into the reception while he's eating dinner.

--

“Hawk!” BJ exclaims and goes tearing across the ballroom toward a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and an old fashioned tuxedo, sitting next to a man who appears to be a priest. Which seems rather out of character for the description she has of Hawkeye Pierce. But the man stands at her husband's shout.

And responds with an equally exuberant, “Beej!” before getting pulled into a bear hug.

At least BJ's anxiety about seeing Hawkeye again appears to have abated.

Peg approaches more sedately than her husband, so they've broken apart by the time she gets close.

“The infamous Hawkeye Pierce, I presume?”

He looks different from the grainy black-and-white photos she's caught glimpses of in passing, when cleaning BJ's study or when they'd been passed around to her and Erin if BJ'd been telling bedtime stories about Korea and in a particularly nostalgic mood. The man in those photographs had looked gaunt and tired and overall worn down by the mundane horrors of war. This man here is vibrant and alive and full of the kind of childish mischief most people outgrow a decade or so earlier. But despite the differences, this man is undoubtedly Hawkeye.

He grins and holds out a hand. “And you must be Peg! It's wonderful to finally meet you in person.” Then his expression turns sly. “BJ, you've been holding out on me. Your stories didn't come close to doing her justice.”

Peg finds herself grinning despite herself. Hawkeye is quite the charmer - no wonder her husband had been so taken with him.

“Hey, hands off my wife! Go bother your own date.” BJ pretends affront.

“Would that I could, but alas, Margaret has run off to the powder room with Kat and half the other women at the table. They're either unionizing or planning a bank robbery.” He turns conspiratorially to Peg. “If you want to get in on the ground floor of the heist, I'd cut out now.”

Peg laughs. “I think I'll wait a few more years to start a life of crime. At least until the children are a little older.”

“I'm just surprised Margaret agreed to be seen with you,” BJ chimes in.

“Well, it was between me and Trapper – and Kat drew the short straw in the date department.” Hawkeye grins at Trapper, who's just arrived at the table, presumably from dropping off the wedding present.

“Ouch,” Trapper says, not sounding very hurt. “Just for that, you're getting your own drink next time, Hawkeye.”

But he's smiling as he hands over the glass of whatever it is. And Peg watches as their fingers brush and linger. And she sees how Trapper angles himself around Hawkeye, pressing against him in a way that would look innocuous if you didn't know better.

Peg hadn't been entirely certain that her husband wasn't reading too much into things. That Hawkeye and Trapper weren't simply very close friends, the way she assumed BJ and Hawkeye had been. Friends forged in war and terror – and closer than brothers for it.

But it turns out that BJ's in love with Hawkeye.

And then she'd thought that maybe BJ was reading too much into Trapper and Hawkeye's relationship because of how he felt about Hawkeye. Like if Hawkeye really was a homosexual and in a relationship with Trapper, then there was a chance for BJ too. And maybe it's all just wishful thinking.

But it's fairly obvious, now, that BJ was right. And that Hawkeye's relationship with Trapper is more than simple friendship. Which has some potentially unfortunate implications for BJ's chances with Hawkeye. Which Peg doesn't really know whether to be happy or disappointed about, she honestly doesn't.

And now the conversation has foundered with her focus on Trapper and Hawkeye – and on the two of them together– and BJ's focus on her reaction. So she endeavors to set those thoughts aside for now and return to the social niceties.

“Who's Kat?” Peg asks. BJ hadn't mentioned her in any of his stories about Korea. Maybe she left before he got there.

“Margaret's roommate,” Hawkeye supplies. With perhaps a touch of emphasis. Hmmm.

“So you're on a double date?”

Trapper laughs. “Just like old times. Though I don't remember them running out on us quite this fast in Korea.”

“That's just because there were fewer places to hide.” And that's how Peg meets Major Margaret Houlihan. BJ really was not exaggerating about her in his stories at all.

--

Finally, Charles and Marjory and all the rest of the wedding party show up – so Trapper'd been glared at for nothing. He guesses the rich get to decide how late is fashionable and how late is rude and everyone else just has to lump it. But their arrival seems to be the signal for everyone to sit down and shut up so that a succession of really boring people can make terrible speeches about how great Charles and/or Marjory are. All without really seeming to know them at all.

Trapper's a little jealous of Hawkeye, BJ, Peg, and the Padre cuz they're carrying on a silent conversation in sign language the whole time – even with the other three way down the table - and that looks like a lot more fun than trying to actually pay attention. But Trapper does have Kat whispering sarcastic commentary in his ear. And sure, it's mostly so he'll whisper it into Margaret's ear like some kinda lesbian to lesbian telegraph service. But he'll take what he can get at this point.

And God, he'd forgotten how much fun Kat is. Not that Margaret ain't a good time – but Kat has one hell of a sharp tongue and Trapper's counting on her running commentary to make this upper-crust shitshow of a wedding reception bearable. Since all the Back Bay snobs are gonna be gossiping about Trapper and his friends all night, he may as well get his own entertainment outta them.

And then Honoria joins their table after the speeches finish up and dinner gets started. And she's apparently stolen a bottle of top-shelf champagne from the head table to get their portion of the party started early.

“Shouldn't you be in the wedding party?” Hawkeye asks her after turning down a wine glass of champagne. “You know, since your brother is the one getting married.”

“And your dress looks an awful lot like a bridesmaid dress,” Trapper adds. “You on the lamb?”

“It-t's tr-true,” Honoria says, with a dramatic hand to her brow. “I confess, I've run aw-way from home.”

“They gonna come hunt you down?” Trapper's a little wary of causing more of a scene this early in the proceedings.

“Ooh, do you need a disguise?” Hawkeye asks, delighted at the prospect. “How bout you and Max swap outfits, you're about the same size.”

“And I look absolutely stunning in teal, it has to be said,” Max adds from down the table.

She laughs. “Th-thanks, but I doubt th-they mind I've gone missing. Less chance of embarrassing th-the family w-way over here.”

“I'm sure that's not true,” Margaret chimes in. “Charles always spoke very fondly of you, Honoria.”

“And you seem like a fun gal to spend time with,” Kat adds with intent.

Trapper bets her and Margaret will run off somewhere with Honoria the minute they can get away with it. Not that he can really blame them for jumping at a good time when it lands in front of them. He's just a little sore that his built in dance partner is gonna abandon him – given that was the whole point in getting a date to this shindig. He'll have to hope there's someone in the rest of herd of MASH vets and their partners that wants to take a spin around the dance floor.

“In fairness,” Hawkeye says, interrupting some pretty heavy eye contact between the three women, “Charles is too busy making eyes at Marjory to notice a herd of elephants stampeding through the ballroom – much less that his sister is missing.”

Trapper looks up at the happy couple. “I'll say this for 'em. They do genuinely seem to be in love.”

If Winchester gets to looking any sappier, he's gonna have little hearts coming outta his eyes like in a cartoon.

“Isn't it something,” Radar interjects in an awed tone.

“Radar! Come sit with us, it's been an eternity since I've seen you.” Hawkeye pats the seat next to him. They've all started playing musical chairs as various couples swap with each other, using the time it's taking for the servers to reach their table at the back of the room to catch up with everyone they've missed talking to, either upstairs or before the festivities got underway.

“You saw me upstairs ten minutes ago,” Radar grumbles under his breath. But he sits with them readily enough. And brings his date along as well.

Their whole table's completely ignoring the fancy little place cards set out for them – and given that Honoria's stolen a chair from some other table, that appears to be spreading across the whole room. Trapper can spot at least one surreptitious chair theft happening while the former owner is busy at the bar. And some of the guests are just baldly demanding others give up their seats since their own have gone missing and they're obviously much more important. It genuinely feels like things may come to blows – or the posh equivalent – at some point this evening. So at least there's that to look forward to.

And it's good to know that the 4077 can still sow chaos wherever they go. Though hopefully it doesn't get them booted out before dinner's even served.

And it's nice to catch up with Radar. He's changed a lot since Trapper'd last seen him – and even since Hawkeye had, apparently. And it ain't really a surprise. He'd been just a kid back in Korea, stuck in a shit situation with way too much on his shoulders. But now he's really come into himself, it seems like.

Radar talks about running the farm – and it sounds like him and Park Sung are doing a good job of it. Not that he's one to judge or anything. The depth of his experience with rural living amounts to going to visit Hawkeye's dad and a few semi-disastrous Boyscout camping trips as a kid. But he's glad Radar's happy. And his Ma's apparently doing fine too.

But mostly, Radar talks about Patricia – his date to this little shindig and who's been pulled into a conversation about nursing by Margaret and Kat. Leaving Radar to gush over how smart and pretty and all around wonderful she is - to Trapper and Hawkeye's amusement. To hear Radar talk, she's invented penicillin and polio vaccines all in one.

Finally, Radar pauses to take a breath and Hawkeye mock whispers, “Do I hear wedding bells?” And at Radar's blushing nod, he sniffs dramatically and pretends to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. “They grow up so fast, don't they Trapper?”

“Seems like just yesterday we were conspiring to get him a date.”

“Yeah, after his fiance threw him over – jokes on her,” Hawkeye says, pinching Radar's cheek, “Radar's grown up to be quite the catch.”

“Oh, cut it out you guys. I ain't some dumb kid no more. And me and Patricia are engaged now, anyway. So I ain't thought about Lindy Sue in forever.”

“Engaged!” Hawkeye gasps, affronted. “And you didn't tell us? Does family mean nothing to you?”

Radar looks abashed and mumbles “I didn't figure you'd wanna come all the way out to Ottumwa for the wedding so I didn't bother sending nothing out. Id'a told you after I was actually hitched.”

And it makes sense, given Radar'd been left at the altar before. He wouldn't wanna jinx nothing by spreading things around. But it looks like both of them are in this thing for the long haul.

So Trapper throws an arm around his shoulders. “Radar, Radar, Radar. It's us.”

“Your Aunt and Uncle,” Hawkeye continues. “We threatened to adopt you.”

“And those threats ain't made lightly.”

“Of course we'd come to Iowa for the wedding.”

Radar blushes. It's a little embarrassing – them talking like they're his kinda parents still – but it's nice too. “Thanks you guys. I'll make sure to invite you once I know when it's happening.”

It sure won't be as grand as this one is. But it'd be real nice to have his friends there – Hawkeye and Trapper and maybe Max and Soon Li'd wanna come down for the wedding. It ain't that far from Toledo to Ottumwa. And maybe Colonel Potter'd wanna be there. He ain't Colonel Blake, but he'd done his best to look after Radar – just like Radar'd done his best to look after him. And it'd be real nice have the Father there, even if he'd have a pastor to officiate.

Radar leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and lets himself open up to the future like a sunflower opening up to the sun. Till now, he'd been real careful to keep whatever it is lets him look squeezed shut tight, just in case he'd see something he don't wanna see. Like Patty leaving him like Lindy Su'd done – not that he's been thinkin on that or nothing. Or maybe he'd see some other kinda disaster befall them that'd keep 'em from getting hitched. And he's still scared of all that.

But here, with all his friends, it feels like things are gonna work out just fine. And like it ain't gonna hurt to let the future in.

Eventually, Radar and Patricia leave – running off to go talk to Max and the Padre about their engagement, looks like. And Trapper doesn't mind that. He knows they'll have time to chat again later if they want.

What he does mind is that BJ steals Radar's vacated seat, plopping himself right between him and Hawkeye.

BJ'd been kinda hovering in the background for a while now, like Hawkeye had suddenly gained a blond, over-earnest shadow. And Trapper figures he's probably missed seeing Hawkeye everyday like Trapper knows he had after getting home, so he can't begrudge them wanting to catch up. And he has a wallet full of kid pictures and enough public-appropriate stories from work they oughtta make it through dinner ok. If BJ even deigns to talk to him, that is.

He seems real fixed on talking to Hawkeye – and only Hawkeye. Margaret barely warrants a distracted nod and Trapper doesn't even get that.

But it ain't like they've ever been close, so he just shrugs it off and goes to talk to BJ's wife. She's small and blond and pretty – and bears a striking resemblance to Louise. It's a little uncanny, if Trapper's being honest.

Mrs. “Peg, call me Peg” Hunnicutt seems like a nice gal, though. Shame about her husband.

And that's maybe a little too catty. So he turns to engage Peg in conversation about her real estate career – and the interior decorating that goes along with it - cuz it seems polite and she's kinda being ignored by BJ, too. And maybe not his favorite topic – or one that he knows anything about, given that he'd pretty much left his house like Louise had had it, plus a few additions from Hawkeye and his dad – but it beats trying to horn in where he ain't wanted.

Seeing Hawkeye is... seeing Hawkeye is indescribable. BJ almost can't believe that he's real and here and sitting next to him. Close enough that BJ can feel Hawkeye – electric and chaotic and full of an infectious joy that's not exactly settling but that feels familiar like home and bright shiny new all at once. Magnetic in a way that makes BJ have to fight not to touch him, press against his side, throw an arm around his shoulders, pull him into another hug and just never let go.

He turns sideways a little in his seat to more fully face Hawkeye and it brings their knees bumping together under the table and it's like there's a live wire running through him lighting him up and he can't fucking stand it.

Can't keep hold of the thread of whatever story Hawkeye's telling because he's too busy watching the dance of his hands. Too busy feeling the press of his leg when he leans towards BJ during an especially emphatic point. Too busy looking at Hawkeye's face – split by a huge grin and with his eyes all crinkled up in mirth and shining with joy as he tells the punchline of a joke.

He can't bear to tear himself away.

And then Hawkeye's leaning behind BJ to talk to Trapper and the little world he's built around just the two of them comes crashing down. Because, oh yeah, there's other people in the room aside from him and Hawkeye.

All the ambient noise of the room rushes back in – including Hawkeye rattling his glass of ice meaningfully at Trapper.

Who's leaning around BJ to smirk at Hawkeye – and there's an intensity so very visible in his eyes. “Why Hawk, would you like another drink?”

Hawkeye effects a “who, me?” expression, which just prompts Trapper to roll his eyes and take the glass from him – hands brushing and lingering – and BJ has to turn away.

Trapper stands and turns to the ladies. “You want a drink, Maggie? Kat?”

Kat waves him away but Margaret orders, “Scotch and water, tall,” with all the strength and steel of a military command.

“Yes ma'am!” Trapper sketches a sarcastic little salute. And then he turns to Peg. “How 'bout you, Peg? What're you drinking?” And he seems very familiar, leaning towards her in a way BJ doesn't particularly like.

“I'll be buying Peg's drinks,” BJ interjects. Where does Trapper get off flirting with his wife?

Trapper looks a little taken aback – and maybe BJ shouldn't have been so quick to jump down his throat. It's just that things between him and Peg have been a little – not strained, never that – but different. Like they're standing at the precipice of something neither of them can see and trusting that everything will be ok if they jump. So BJ's maybe been a little protective of her.

Luckily, Trapper just shrugs and says, “C'mon then” over his shoulder as he heads to the bar. And he seems completely relaxed walking through the crowded room, even as BJ wilts a little under the bald stares of the other wedding guests.

Although some of his self-consciousness may have something to do with being alone with Trapper without the buffer of Hawkeye – or even Charles – to ease the conversation along. And the way Trapper's lounging at the bar, all broad shoulders and long, lean body – seeming perfectly at ease – doesn't help any. And neither does the way Trapper plucks the cherry out of Hawkeye's drink, puts the whole thing in his mouth, stem and all, before pulling the stem back out, tied in a perfect little knot - which he places back in the glass like some kind of trophy or calling card or something.

BJ squirms a little in what's probably jealousy.

He downs his double Scotch in one and orders another. But the feeling is still there whenever he catches a glance of Trapper out of the corner of his eye – still sprawling on his barstool like he owns the whole damn hotel.

And it doesn't help when they get back to the table and he puts a big, possessive hand on Hawkeye's shoulder as he hands over his drink. Yes, definitely jealousy - and nothing else. Because what else could it possibly be?

And jealousy is something he's been trying to be better about. But hasn't exactly been easy – particularly with Trapper right there in front of him, flaunting his closeness with Hawkeye.

“Don't forget to tip your waiter,” Trapper jokes as he hands over Margaret's Scotch.

“Oh, I'll give you a tip and a whole lot more later tonight.”

Hawkeye's lascivious whisper right into his ear makes Trapper almost forget where he is and who he's with. But all he says is, “I look forward to it.” And then turns his gaze towards Margaret and Kat – two much more socially acceptable targets for whatever the hell his expression looks like right now.

And Margaret just smiles knowingly at him, bless her. “I don't know, Trapper. You took an awfully long time bringing a lady a drink. I'm not sure I care for the service at this establishment.”

No, she wouldn't, would she.

He laughs. “It's not my fault some pompous asshole ordered a punch Romaine – to be made immediately, of course – right in the middle of the bartender making your drink. I had to sit there for fifteen goddamn minutes while the poor guy chipped ice.”

“Oh! Is that why my cherry's already been plucked?”

BJ chokes quietly on his drink.

“Sorry Hawk. I know how much you like to watch.”

Hawkeye opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but Margaret interrupts them by asking after the girls. Probably for the best, cuz they're being maybe a little too overt. BJ's giving them a kinda weird look, anyway. And the change in conversational topic means Trapper gets to show off Becky and Cathy's school pictures and a real nice snapshot from when they all went up to Maine to visit Hawkeye's dad.

Despite Hawkeye's insistence that Trapper loves his daughters more than just about anything else, BJ is still surprised when he pulls out a series of photos of his daughters and shows them to Margaret. Who passes them around to Kat and then Peg.

“Oh, Trapper, they're lovely!” Peg exclaims.

“That's Cathy.” Trapper leans over her to point out which daughter is which – and BJ has to stop himself from doing something stupid. Like tackling him from across the table.

“And that's Becky. She's smart as a whip – got that from my ex-wife, along with her looks, thank God.”

“Oh, I don't think you do too badly,” Hawkeye interjects glibly.

Trapper studiously ignores him. “And that's all of us at the beach in Maine with Hawk's dad and Steve and Millie.”

Peg laughs. “Here, BJ. You'll get a kick out of this.” She hands over the photo – and BJ's a little afraid of what might be in it to make Peg so certain he'll want to see it.

And oh boy. There's Hawkeye in swim trunks - and nothing else. And sure, BJ's seen him in his skivvies plenty – one of the dubious pleasures of living together in an army tent with no privacy and a roommate with even less shame. But this is different. This is... wow.

BJ's almost glad when the waiters show up to serve them dinner and he has to hand the photograph back to Trapper. But only almost. Because what he really wants to do is look at it long enough the planes and lines of Hawkeye's sunkissed skin are burned into his memory forever.

Maybe Hawkeye'd like to come out to California sometime – he's talked about it before in some of his letters. Then BJ would be the one throwing a casual arm over Hawkeye's naked shoulder. The one Hawkeye would lean into to keep his balance on the shifting sands.

Instead, it's Trapper that's standing there with his arm around Hawkeye's shoulders and with Hawkeye pressing into Trapper's side. Trapper standing there tan and built and – BJ will admit, but only under duress – attractive. The crooked grin and aviator sunglasses certainly don't detract from that impression and BJ wants to punch the non-photograph version right in his stupid, handsome face.

Because, the thing is, is that Trapper's not a bad looking guy, objectively speaking. BJ can see why Hawkeye might want to be with him – with his movie-star looks and his secretive little smirk. Flirtatiousness practically oozes out of him like an oil slick.

But that's the thing – he never seems sincere. Through all of their interactions – and now, through all of Trapper's interactions with Peg and Margaret and Kat and even Hawkeye – BJ has never once gotten the sense that Trapper has actually displayed a genuine emotion. He just sits there joking and flirting indiscriminately like none of it matters – like none of it means anything.

And BJ thinks Hawkeye deserves better.

Dinner's really nice. Lots of laughing and joking around and yelling down the table to pass the salt and elbowing each other in the ribs cuz they're all packed together like sardines. It's almost like being back in the mess tent – minus the accompanying horrors of the Korean war.

And they tell stories from Korea, all shouting over one another and arguing about how events actually transpired. BJ joins in for most of the ones from his tenure at the front. Including stories of pranks he'd played on Frank and Charles and even Hawkeye – which causes him to elbow BJ in the ribs while Trapper leans around him to grin at Hawkeye in silent laughter. And Margaret even chimes in with little tidbits about Frank Burns that none of the rest of them had even known about, so that's fun. Particularly the part about him having a weird thing for her feet. Just lovely. Hawkeye is so glad he's learned this little fact.

“Between Frank and feet and Ponobscott and fingers, I feel like you tend to attract a very peculiar class of man, Maggie,” Kat says.

So it's just as well I've given them up, now isn't it, her eyebrows seem to say in response. And it really, really is.

“Wonder what that says about us, Trap, given that she wanted to jump your bones and actually jumped mine.”

Trapper laughs. “Don't worry Margaret, Hawkeye's into completely normal things like getting stepped on by women in high heels. You have nothing to worry about there.”

BJ blushes as Hawkeye practically launches himself across his lap to slap a hand over Trapper's mouth. “Shut up, Trap. Now she's never gonna wear those leather hip boots around me.”

Kat raises an eyebrow at Margaret who just smiles demurely. She makes a mental note because that. That bears future investigation.

Meanwhile, Trapper has licked Hawkeye's hand in a bid to get it off his mouth. And poor BJ's looking a little squashed with Hawkeye still half in his lap. And a little red in the face.

Probably because Hawkeye is now exclaiming, “Gross, Trap. Stop that – I know where your mouth has been.”

Trapper waggles his eyebrows lecherously. “And I know where your hand's been.”

Hawkeye laughs and runs his wet hand through Trapper's hair to dry it off. And their faces are right in front of BJ's when Hawkeye's hand catches in Trapper's curly hair and it's like time stops. They're just staring into each other's eyes – expressions full of such naked desire – and it's like BJ's caught in some kind of sexually charged force-field. And he's got to get out from between them, he's just got to.

Luckily, Peg rescues him by nudging Trapper in the shoulder – conveniently knocking him and Hawkeye out of their trance – and saying, “Why don't you swap with BJ? I'd like to spend some time talking to my own husband tonight.”

And Trapper agrees readily enough. Probably because it means he gets to sit next to Hawkeye too. But BJ can't bring himself to mind too much, not when he's got Peg's hand on his thigh and Hawkeye and Trapper have stopped looking at each other like they want to devour one another. Though Trapper pretty obviously has his leg pressed into Hawkeye's under the table – the way BJ had until just moments ago.

But he doesn't really want to think about that right now. So he gets down to the business of eating dinner and lets the chatter and laughter blend into a wash of background noise. The only thing that's real is him and his fork and Peg's small, soft hand on his leg.

BJ's gone a little quiet, Hawkeye notices. Quiet like he'd gotten towards the end of his visit to Boston. But maybe that's just how he is now. Hawkeye himself had gone through a similar change after the war, so he's not one to judge. And he's more than capable of filling the silences with stories of the better parts of the war – helped along by Trapper, who remembers some good ones that Hawkeye has half forgotten about.

And even though BJ isn't saying much, Hawkeye's enjoying getting to sit next to him. Just sort of soaking in his presence. Because he has missed BJ a whole hell of a lot over the years since Korea. And they have an unspecified number of days after the reunion to visit with one another, anyway.

Maybe BJ will open up a little more when it's just the two of them. Well, the two of them plus Peg. Who's an absolute delight and Hawkeye can more than understand why BJ's completely and utterly besotted with her. Which Trapper obviously picks up on, cuz he tips Hawkeye a very knowing look when Peg starts talking about the injustice of the government mandated redlined neighborhoods in San Francisco.

She's truly a woman after his own heart. And he's really looking forward to getting to know her better over the next few days.

But the dinner conversation mostly stays light. Funny stories from work, or joking flirtation with the women at their table. And he and Trapper fall back into their little double act from Korea pretty easily – just treading the line of overt camp and humorous insinuation, with Maggie and Kat playing along happily enough – and Peg, once she figures out the game. And she's very good at it – which makes sense, given that she's married to a man who makes terrible puns on an hourly basis.

All in all, it's like being at a better version of the 4077. One without death or bombs or rats or death. Plus, the food's a whole hell of a lot better than army food. Not a single powdered egg in sight – and Hawkeye's more than grateful. Though all the talking he's doing means he doesn't have very much time for eating and he has to pawn the rest of his plate off to Trapper. Who's never exactly been shy about eating Hawkeye's food, invited to or not.

Trapper takes the plate of mushed together potatoes and vegetables – stirred together by Hawkeye as a pretense that he was actually eating the food, rather than just playing with it – with a grimace. But he ain't one to waste food. And it means something to Hawkeye to give it to him.

“You're lucky I love you,” Trapper whispers into Hawkeye's ear.

He throws his head back in a laugh. As if Trapper has said some uproariously funny joke, rather than a declaration of love – framed as a tease or not. And it lets him slap his hand down on Trapper's thigh – totally accidentally, of course, and not at all an excuse to touch him intimately in public. It's a gesture that absolutely doesn't end in a gentle caress of said thigh. Or in Trapper slapping a hand to Hawkeye's shoulder in shared mirth – a hand that ends up with the thumb stroking gently at the nape of his neck.

Hawkeye feels something inside him settle at the gesture. At the reminder that Trapper's here with him and they're home and that Korea is just funny stories and distant memories to be rehashed with friends. He bumps his shoulder gently against Trapper's in appreciation and understanding. And then steals his dessert.

“You just did all this so you could eat all my cake while I finished your vegetables, you little sneak,” Trapper says with a mock glare. It's obvious he doesn't really mind – and he ought to be used to Hawkeye stealing his dessert by now, anyway.

But Hawkeye's feeling generous, so he holds out his fork. “Fine, you can have one bite.”

“Wow, thanks, Hawk. One whole bite of my own cake.”

But he takes it anyway.

And they probably can't get away with much more than that in such a public setting. BJ's already giving them a weird look. But for now, it's enough.