#so dunno how to deal with it. other than weighted blanket and sleep | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

julilihatfun · 4 years

Note

In case you're still looking for prompts: I've always been a sucker for appendicitis. It starts out so basic and simple that you just ignore it, but then it rapidly warps into something possible life-threatening. So, Geralt and Jaskier on the road, and then Jaskier gets appendicitis. Also, thank you so much for writing these nice stories

Thank you so much for this prompt - it was really interesting to write, because appendicitis was so much more dangerous back then, but I did some research and I hope, that this came out somewhat realistic. :D

___________________________________

“Okay ow.”, Jaskier says when he bends down to pick up some of the coins thrown at them. “Fuck.”

“What?”, Geralt snaps, bent down beside him.

And Jaskier shrugs and frowns as he straightens back up, leaving Geralt to do the rest of the work. “Dunno. Muscle cramp or something?”

The Witcher has the audacity to snort. “From all the hard work?”

Jaskier gasps, still only watching Geralt crawl around the pubs floor, not wanting to risk another spike of pain. Instead, he dramatically flails his arms with an indignant ‘HEY!’. He hears Geralt snort again.

“I’ll have you know that me and my many muscles work very hard!”, he then snaps, waving his arms around some more – for extra credibility and theatrics (and he does not care the least that Geralt does not even see the show he puts on because he is too busy roaming the ground for coins; Jaskier is an artist and he lives and breathes the drama!).

“I don’t see you and your many muscles working at all at the moment.”, Geralt huffs.

Jaskier pouts. “Well, we’re resting!”

Geralt rolls his eyes, puts the last couple of coins into his bag and finally stands. “Come on, we need to leave.”

“Alright Mr. Serious.”, Jaskier japes. “Right when you think they’re starting to loosen up…”

“Jaskier!”

“Fine! Fine.” Jaskier throws his lute around his shoulders, wincing to himself when his stomach twinges in pain again. “I’m coming!”

“You know, we could try to rest properly for once.”, Jaskier says as he watches Geralt strap his bags to Roach. “Maybe you would be less grumpy then?”

Geralt grunts. “I’m rested.”

“Well I’m still terribly exhausted!”, Jaskier complains and only when he has announced this, he notices that god – it’s so true. He actually is bone tired.

“You can stay here. Rest properly.”

Jaskier gasps in mock hurt. “And miss out on our newest adventure? Impossible!”, he says. “Besides, I can’t leave you alone. You would miss me terribly!”

“Yeah. Terribly.” Geralts voice is dust-dry with sarcasm, but Jaskier acts like he does not notice that. “AHA. I knew it! You do like me.”

Geralt only rolls his eyes and saddles Roach, swinging himself onto her back with grace. “Shut up and get going.”

Jaskier grins at Geralts back and runs to catch up with his Witcher and Roach. The few steps leave him abnormally winded and his stomach starts to hurt again.

Only this time, the pain does not go away.

Powering through it is easy at first. He’s had far worse before. But it is kind of annoying and Jaskier decides that he has the right to complain. A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved after all.

“Geralt, my tummy hurts.”, he announces.

The Witcher throws a look over his shoulder that does not show any of the concern that Jaskier would like to receive. “You did have a big dinner.”

“Are you belittling me?”

“Jaskier, please just walk. We will set up camp in an hour or two anyways.”

“Yeah, yeah…”, Jaskier mutters, getting back to strumming his lute. He is not really in the mood to sing, but he thinks that he might have overstrained Geralt’s nerves.

And when they finally arrive at a clearing by the river they have been following, Geralt stopping Roach and telling Jaskier to get settled, the bard feels more than just mild discomfort.

When Geralt orders him to grab firewood, his movements are sluggish and uncoordinated.

“The fuck’s wrong with you, bard?”, Geralt growls, clearly on edge.

Jaskier grimaces in displeasure. “Stomach.”, he groans. “Got worse.”

“Worse how?”, Geralt frowns. Jaskier shrugs. “Just hurts.”

The Witcher watches him for a moment. “Maybe you’re just hungry?”, he guesses and Jaskier snorts.

“What, despite my big dinner?”, he snaps, sitting down on a tree stump and curling in on himself. “And if you mention food again, you’re in for a lot of trouble.”

“Can’t be so bad if you’re still able to poke fun at me.”, Geralt decides, but kneels down in front of Jaskier anyways, pressing his palm to the bards neck. “Hm. You are a bit warm.”

“Burning.”, Jaskier laments. “Horribly sick and in need of weeks’ worth of rest!”

Geralt snorts and hands him his waterskin. “Just lie down, drink this and then sleep. You’ll be fine.”

“Right.”, Jaskier agrees, downing every last drop of water greedily, before flopping down without even bothering to lay out his sleeping mat and closing his eyes with a groan.

Geralt huffs fondly and throws a blanket over the bards shivering body, tucking the edges in carefully before getting started on the fire.

He won’t worry just yet. It most likely is some sort of stomach bug and Jaskier will probably be over the worst come morning.

Geralt decides that it is time to worry when Jaskier gasps awake in the middle of the night. At first, the Witcher guesses that this is due to a nightmare – something the bard struggles with quite a lot – but he springs to his feet when Jaskier lets out a howl of pain.

“Jaskier!”, Geralt says, crouching down by the bards head. And even without actually touching Jaskier, he can feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“Geralt.”, Jaskier whimpers, clutching his stomach with both hands in clear desperation. “Please.”

“Alright, you need to breathe.”, he instructs, for a lack of better advise.

And when he has got Jaskier calmed down a bit, he stands to walk over to his bag, ignoring Roaches questioning stare – the horse hates being awoken at night – and fishes in there for a small glass vial.

Then, Geralt kneels back down by Jaskiers side, helping the bard sit. Jaskier is trembling and moaning and the hand that Geralt has on his back is immediately damp with the bards sweat. “Well try this, it’s safe for humans and should ease the pain.”, he says, holding out the vial filled with lilac liquid.

Jaskiers hands shake so much, that Geralt has to assist him, but its pointless anyways in the end, because he can only hold it down for a mere minute before bringing everything back up.

“Right.”, Geralt says, aiming for evenly, after the retching has passed, having to support nearly all of Jaskiers weight. The bard’s breath it still hitching in silent sobs of pain and Geralt is really starting to worry now. “We won’t try that again, then.”

Jaskier shudders, hands still clawing at his stomach. Geralt has seen Jaskier have stomach ailments before, but it has never been like this. And he does not know what to do.

The Witcher takes one of Jaskiers hand in his in an attempt to comfort him, and Jaskiers grabs on for dear life. They sit like that for a while and right when Geralt hopes that things might start looking up now, Jaskiers breathing grows ragged and he whimpers, thrashing around in Geralts hold in a desperate effort to escape the pain.

“Help.”, Jaskier pleads, when this does not work, delirious with pain. “Geralt, please.”

“I… I don’t know how.”, Geralt breathes, gripping Jaskiers hand tightly. “But we will find someone that does.”, he says. “I promise, Jask. Just sit tight.”

Problem is: when Geralt heaves Jaskier onto Roach and tries to get the fuck to a nearby town as fast as possible, the jostling makes the bard scream in pain and Geralt definitely cannot deal with that.

So he gets Jaskier down and then watches him throw up again, while Jaskier sobs and moans and pleads for Geralt to do something, anything, to make this go away.

And all Geralt can do is hold him and mutter empty reassurances, while he grows more and more desperate himself.

Morning comes and Jaskier somehow gets even worse; Geralt wishes for a miracle then.

“Side sickness.”, someone says behind him, and Geralt is not the slightest bit surprised when he sees Yennefer standing there – weirder things have happened.

“Hm?”

“Your bard.” Yennefer nods towards Jaskier, who is still half propped-up against Geralts torso, face grey and sweaty, whimpering in pain. “Has side sickness.”

She eyes Geralt questioningly then. “Is that why you called for me?”

“I… guess so?”, Geralt says, despite not really recalling having called her at all.

She looks torn, suddenly. “Well, I can’t help you, Geralt. There is no cure.”, she says.

“There has to be something.”, Geralt growls.

Yennefer shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Yen!”, Geralt snaps, instinctively tightening his hold on Jaskier, making the bard gasp.

There is heavy silence for a moment. Then, the sorceress kneels down next to Geralt and Jaskier, putting her hand on the bards right side.

Geralt watches her questioningly as she puts her other hand on Jaskiers cheek, catching his attention.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry but I will have to press down now.”, she says, gentler than Geralt has ever heard her speak to the bard before.

“Ngggh- n- noo…”, Jaskier moans weakly, trying to bat her hand away.

He trashes in Geralts hold a second later, when Yennefer actually does press down, whimpering.

When Yennefer lets go not long after, he screams out in pain, hands automatically moving to his side while he curls in on himself.

“Yen!”, Geralt roars, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Definitely side sickness, then.”, the sorceress says, looking troubled.

Geralt grips his bards’ shoulder as the smaller man still experiences the aftershocks of intense pain and looks at Yennefer pleadingly. “Please do something.”

She takes a deep breath, watching Jaskier whimper and tremble, and lets it out in a sigh. “I… There is something I once read, but it’s-“

“Do it!”

“Geralt! It’s highly experimental.”

But as she watches Geralt fret over the bard, eyes heavy with worry and desperation, she thinks that she might favours the risk of having more blood on her hands over having to watch Geralt’s little friend die without having even tried.

“Fine. He has to lie on his back.”, she instructs Geralt as she stands up to hold the blade of the sharpest knife she carries with her into the flames of the dying fire.

Behind her, she hears Jaskier crying out again over Geralt’s hysteric attempt at reassuring him and when she turns around again, Jaskier is flat on his back, his head propped up on Geralt’s lap.

“What- What are you doing?!”, Geralt asks in horror as she moves up Jaskiers sweat-soaked shirt and draws an even line on his lover abdomen with a piece of burned wood.

“I have to…”, she hesitates as Jaskiers fever-bright eyes settle on her. “… cut it out.”

Geralt’s eyes widen slightly, mouth already opening in protest, but Yennefer interrupts him. “Jaskier, I will put you to sleep for this.”

She expects the bard to protest as well, but he just releases a shuddering breath. “Jus’ make it stop.”, he whispers weakly. “Please.”

Geralt finds Jaskiers hand again, looking deep into Jaskiers eyes. “You’ll be fine.”, he promises emptily. “It’ll be okay.”

Jaskier lets out a hollow, pained laugh. “Get… it… out… ��lready.”, he whimpers, feels Yennefer’s hand over his eyes and then… nothing.

When he comes to, his first sensation is lingering pain in his stomach, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was before.

He cracks his eyes open hesitantly, the previous events slowly starting to filter back in. The first thing he sees is Geralts head, looming over him.

Jaskier flinches back slightly, groaning when there is a sharp pain in his side.

“Easy.”, Geralt soothes, gently and caring (and Jaskier is SO confused right now) and straightens the blanket that the bard is wrapped into before handing Jaskier his waterskin again. “Drink something.”

Geralt props him up carefully and Jaskier takes a few sips, leaning heavily against Geralt.

“Soooo… what happened?”, Jaskier asks casually, while he rubs his sore stomach absentmindedly.

Geralt sighs. “Something in your stomach was… terribly infected. Very painful and even more dangerous. Yennefer got it out and that helped… you’ve been asleep the past two days. We got really lucky, Jask.”

“Wow.”, Jaskier breathes.

“Yeah…”

“Some proper rest at last, and I’m not even conscious for it.”

Geralt snorts, slapping him on the shoulder lightly.

“You know, I always knew.”, Jaskier says tiredly, dreamily.

“Knew that your own body would decide to turn against you?”

“That you liiiike me.”, Jaskier sing-songs happily, snuggling into Geralts chest even though the motion hurts quite a bit.

Geralt groans in frustration, but out of the corner of his eye, Jaskier can see him smiling fondly, before he falls asleep again.

#whump #hurt/comfort #sickfic #the witcher #Jaskier #Geralt #yennefer of vengerberg #appendicitis #prompts #sick jaskier #hurt jaskier #still stuck at home #but aren't we all #whump writing #jaskier whump #fanfic

255 notes · View notes

copperbadge · 4 years

Note

How goes the weighted blanket?

I dunno, maybe the whole weighted blanket thing isn’t for everyone. I mean, it’s fine, it’s not unpleasant, I’ve slept under it a couple of times without getting overheated like happened the first time, but I didn’t fall asleep faster or sleep longer or feel like I got better sleep with it. It doesn’t produce any particular sensation if I use it as a lap blanket, other than the inconvenience of getting out from under it, and I definitely can’t have it over my shoulders when sitting up -- either it makes my spine hurt from holding up the weight, or if I shift it off my spine more it feels like it’s compressing my ribcage, and it makes it harder to breathe.

I think a lot of people do get a real benefit from weighted blankets. It’s not that I don’t see what the big deal is -- it seems to be for a lot of people what a good massage is for me. It just doesn’t really produce a reaction in me, conscious or otherwise.

Right now it lives on the back of the sofa and Polk likes to sleep on it, but eventually I’ll probably either sell it or give it to someone who wants to try it out. I got it on a ridiculous sale so it’s not much money lost, and worth it to know I shouldn’t pay out more for one.

#Anonymous

53 notes · View notes

littlemissagrafina · 4 years

Note

Ooh, I’d want to see either #3 or #47 !

I went with #3 "It's three in the morning." since I already have a couple requests for 47 which will be coming later;)

It was 02:37 in the morning and Peter couldn't sleep. He'd tried everything from counting sheep, drinking warm milk and honey, to redoing some of his homework, and listening to those ridiculously overrated white noise sleeping apps. He'd only been able to listen to it for five minutes before he'd uninstalled it from his phone.

He'd even resorted to bringing out his weighted blanket but then he wanted to fidget and it became too heavy and hot in the warmth of the summer night, restricting his movements too much, so he gave up on staying in bed and slid out from the soft sheets. With another glance to the clock sitting on his nightstand, he tiptoed out the door and down the hallway. 02:45.

Once he reached the stairs he paused, listening to slight creaking that was ever present in any building but only noticeable to him because of his enhanced hearing. He moved down the stairs and quietly slid out the back door, only stopping once he came to the hammock that was strung up just to the side of the Stark's lake house.

Muffling a yawn, Peter dropped into the soft material, flicking a few stray leaves away when they fell from the branches above him. After shifting around into a more comfortable position, he swung a leg over the side and let his toes brush against the soft but prickly grass as a cool breeze ruffled more leaves from the tree.

Peter didn't know how long he lay there, only that his mind drifted from one thought to another, still unable to fall asleep.

He hated it.

There wasn't even a real reason to his recent insomnia spell. There was nothing bad or very stressful happening, no nightmares, or triggers. Nothing.

He was distracted by the sound of slightly uneven footsteps and an equally uneven heartbeat as someone opened the same door he had walked out of who knows how long ago.

"Pete?" Tony asked softly as he shuffled down the steps and up to the hammock. "It's three in the morning, Roo. You okay?"

Peter gave a despondent shrug in answer, the lack of sleep now leading way to the sad and desperate wish for sleep when it just wouldn't come.

"Yeah, sometimes it's just like that, huh?" Tony murmured, reaching out his hands– real and prosthetic– to steady the hammock so that he could climb in next to Peter.

Once he was cocooned in the fabric, Peter immediately cuddling up to him, Tony started gently combing his fingers through the boy's chocolate coloured curls. "What's going on, Pete?" He prodded a bit more.

"Dunno," Peter shrugged his shoulder, voice muffled in his honorary dad's shoulder. "Just can't sleep."

"Are your nightmares getting bad again?"

Peter shook his head. "No, nothing. I don't know why, but I just can't sleep. I'm not more stressed than normal, no more nightmares or anxiety than usual either." The visible frustrated tears felt like a knife to Tony's heart. He hated when his family was hurt or sad.

"It feels off. Out of balance. I don't know… it's just weird. I don't want it to be, I just wanna sleep." Peter's voice cracked on the last word, traitorous tears finally falling in hot streaks down his face. He squished his face into Tony's chest in an attempt to hide himself. He couldn't deal with eye contact when he cried.

Instead of pushing him, Tony only held him tighter, using his flesh hand to wipe the tears from the boy's cheeks. "You're okay, Roo. I've got you. We're just gonna lay here, alright? We don't have to sleep if it doesn't happen, we don't have to talk, we don't have to do anything. Just lay here."

With tears still falling, Peter nodded, his curls tickling Tony's nose as he did. "Thank you."

And damn if that didn't hit Tony's heart. This kid was something else.

"You never have to thank me. I've got you, Kid." Tony pressed a kiss to Peter's head and tucked him closer to his chest.

"We've got each other." Peter murmured, voice tired but still awake.

With a soft smile, Tony answered him. "We do."

The silence fell comfortably around them, only broken by the sounds of the breeze through the trees and the occasional little woodland animal out in the night.

And that's how it stayed. Neither of them fell asleep that night, sleep not gracing their weary bones, but it was okay. They weren't alone.

They had their family, they had each other.

#Agrafina Writes #irondad #spiderson #tony stark #peter parker #marvel #mcu #fanfiction

22 notes · View notes

lovelylogans · 5 years

Text

cohabit

or: five times someone has mentioned that virgil has, effectively, moved in with patton, one time virgil notices, and what virgil does about that.

part of the wyliwf verse.

the sideshire files | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: food mentions, mentions of something that could be a panic attack, allusions to sex (lying in a bed together partially unclothed, that’s as graphic as it gets), miscommunication, deceit mention, let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 10,869

notes: me, looking at the tentative, private schedule i made for this series and then at the date i’m posting this: whoops. whoops. wHOOPS—

virgil’s facing a dilemma.

see, he’s got a tray in his hands. and usually, he’s pretty good at carrying a tray one-handed, but this one’s different than the one he’s used to, so the way the weight distributes is strange, and he really doesn’t wanna risk swapping to one handed. but, if he doesn’t swap to one-handed, he’s going to have to get pretty creative right now, and—oh, wait, he can get creative. that’s pretty easy.

virgil shuffles a little, to be sure he doesn’t accidentally knock anything over, and bends over slowly to press a kiss to patton’s curls, just barely visible over the covers.

“good morning,” he murmurs, and patton makes a grumbling noise, looking close to hiding under the blankets until the sun actually rises. virgil kisses him again, on the forehead, this time, and patton peeks out from under the blankets, squinting at virgil blearily.

“morning, sunshine,” virgil teases. “um—happy anniversary.”

patton visibly softens, some of the inherent “awake ugh why” grouchiness fading from his eyes. “honey,” he says softly, and squirms a little so he can sit up some.

“here, let me—hold your hands out, just in case?” virgil says, and patton does, obligingly. virgil does keep his hands on the tray until he knows patton’s got it steady, though—over the past seventeen years generally, and the past year especially he’s seen how clumsy a just-woken-up, pre-caffeinated patton can be.

patton settles the tray on his lap, and smiles up at virgil—even now, it’s still kind of weird to see patton without his glasses on, but virgil still loves that smile, that face, glasses or no glasses.

“you made me breakfast in bed?” patton asks, grinning.

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean—i wanted to do something since we’re both working up until dinner tonight, so, i mean—”

patton’s peering at the plate—the pancakes, the bacon, the fresh fruit, the mug of hot cocoa/coffee with a carafe for refilling beside it—and virgil keeps going, because, well.

“—so i just figured i could, you know. make you breakfast. like usual. it’s, um, i know it’s not a huge thing, i just—“

“virgil,” patton says, beaming, and virgil ducks his head. “thank you.”

“it’s—well, you’re welcome,” virgil says, “but i, um, i know it’s not a lot, and—”

“i love it,” patton says, and, as if to prove his point, he picks up his mug of hot cocoa/coffee and takes a sip.

“i—well, i mean, thanks, but, um, it’s—i mean, it’s only a little outside of the ordinary, it’s not really anything special—”

“the pancakes are in the shape of hearts,” patton says—the same mushy, sappy tone he uses whenever he sees a really cute kitten or a baby or something.

“i—well, i mean, yeah, it’s not really hard, you just put the batter in a bottle and—”

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i know we don’t usually kiss when one of us has got death breath,” patton says. “but i really wanna kiss you right now.”

virgil considers this. he says, “take a drink of hot cocoa/coffee?”

patton, grinning, takes a big gulp, before setting the mug aside and puckering his lips in a blatant invitation for a kiss. virgil smiles at him, unable to help himself, and leans forward to press his lips against patton’s.

by now, kissing patton is familiar—something that a year, a week, and a day ago would have been a secret daydream of his, something that couldn’t have possibly been real—he’d always thought that he’d be pining from afar, that he’d always be waiting, that this would never actually happen.

and now—a year, a week, and a day later—it’s familiar, true, but it’s no less exciting, kissing patton. virgil’s always been a fan of routine, of things being normal, and honestly, just the fact that kissing patton is normal now is still enough to make his heart race.

patton’s lips curve up—virgil can feel it—and patton flops back against the pillows again, smiling up at him.

“i’ve never really had breakfast in bed before, you know,” patton says cheerfully, as virgil goes over to the closet, digging out one of his purple flannels from where they’re nestled between patton’s sweaters, and tossing it on over his black t-shirt. “i mean, logan did for father’s day, when he was about five or six, but he made me two slices of toast and then brought an entire jar of crofter’s and mostly used it as an excuse to try and eat the whole thing.”

“well, i’m happy i did this, then,” virgil says decisively, crosses back to the bed, and pushes some of patton’s sleep-mussed hair out of his face. he kisses him on the forehead again. “do you need anything else?”

“nope,” patton says, popping the p.

“all right,” virgil says. “i’m going to work, then. i know you’ve got that meeting with the people from that writer convention thing, so it’ll probably be sookie’s for lunch, but—”

“dinner,” patton says, smiling.

“meet back at home at six, yeah?” virgil says absently, straightening his collar.

patton’s smile grows even bigger—virgil isn’t really sure why, but he sure isn’t complaining.

“yeah,” patton says, soft, and almost shy, and virgil can’t resist going back for another kiss before he goes to work.

“looking forward to it,” he murmurs against patton’s lips, and patton splays his hand on virgil’s cheek, moving back enough so that virgil can see his eyes—bright, excited, happy.

“me too.”

...

“which one?”

virgil and logan both glance up—virgil, from tying his shoes, logan, from his latest copies of the courant and the franklin that he’s marking up with a red pen—and virgil’s jaw drops, just a little.

patton looks spectacular. he’s in a tailored black suit, in a crisp white shirt, with an open waistcoat, as he’s holding up two ties for inspection—a tie, in that sky blue color that’s always been his favorite, and a navy-and-pink patterned bowtie.

“patton,” virgil begins, voice soft.

“do not get mushy around me, it’s bad enough that i had to deal with him going all lovesick over breakfast,” logan says without looking up, and patton makes a face at logan. virgil presses his lips together to hide his smile.

there’s a stretch of silence. logan sighs loudly, as if truly impressing upon them how much of his time they’re taking up, and patton helpfully clears his throat.

“so?” he says, and logan sighs again. he gives the options a cursory glance.

“tie.”

patton grins, setting the bowtie on the table before he flips up his collar and slides the tie into place, carefully measuring the ends before he starts to tie it.

“okay, so,” patton says, distracted slightly by his tie. virgil’s only a little disappointed that he’s talking while he does, because sometimes when patton ties a tie he pokes his tongue out a little in concentration, and it’s very adorable. “i put a magnet over a twenty on the fridge, and i want evidence that you spent it on food, and that you took a break to eat that food. i know finals are coming up, but that doesn’t mean you have to power through dinner, you can take forty-five minutes to let your brain breathe a little. um, takeout menus are in the drawer, we’ll be home arooound... virgil, what time are we gonna be back?”

“i dunno, nine, maybe?” virgil guesses. “ten at latest?”

“right, yeah,” patton says, straightening the tie and tweaking the knot, one last time. “do you want anything from the restaurant, too? we can bring home dessert.”

“sure,” logan says absently, attention already reabsorbed by the papers—his english books and a stack of post-its looking like the next in line for his studying focus.

“remember to take that break,” patton says, semi-sternly, before making sure that he’s got his wallet and the keys.

“right,” logan says, frowning thoughtfully at a page before digging out his battered, post-it-noted, scrawled-over copy of the ap style guide.

“logan, what did i say?” patton says.

“remember to take a break,” logan grumbles.

“good,” patton says, and crosses the room to kiss logan on the head. logan makes a noise of complaint. “we’ll be back later.”

“no sneak coffee,” virgil adds, as patton crosses the room. virgil automatically offers patton his arm, and patton, grinning, takes it. “and try to get one vegetable with dinner, okay?”

logan hums and waves a hand at them dismissively. virgil takes that as their cue to go—patton darts ahead to open the door for virgil with a little flourish.

“bye, logan!” patton calls. “eight!”

“sixteen,” floats in from the living room, and patton shuts the door, locking it behind them, before taking virgil’s arm again.

"he’s gonna study through dinner, isn’t he?” patton says.

"probably,” virgil says. “i mean, we can text him a reminder, or something.”

patton sighs a little, before opening the car door for virgil, too. virgil slides into the driver’s seat, immediately turning the car on—the sooner they can get the heat going, the better—and patton hops into the passenger’s seat, slamming the car door and shivering exaggeratedly.

“it’s not as snowy as last winter,” patton says, “but jeez, is it cold.”

“i know,” virgil agrees. “here, gimme your hands.”

"i’ll hand ‘em over,” patton jokes, and virgil laughs.

patton and virgil swap off on the whole ‘who-has-cold-appendages-because-of-our-terrible-circulation’ thing. on any given night, one of them, if not both of them, will attempt to press their icy feet into each other’s calves to try and warm up, or slip frigid fingers under shirts. it gets even worse in the winter—the pair of them always wrapped up in blankets and snuggled all night, like a burrito that would leave at least one of them sweaty and overheated at some point—so this is routine by now, too.

virgil wraps up patton’s hands in both of his, and patton sighs softly, wiggling his fingers just a little. patton’s hands aren’t the coldest they’ve ever been, but they sure aren’t a normal temperature, either—and virgil will happily let patton leech his body heat if it makes him feel more comfortable.

“so,” virgil says. “how was work?”

patton makes a face. “i got called in for a ‘can-i-speak-to-your-manager’ today.”

virgil groans sympathetically—ugh, the worst. the people of sideshire tend to recognize the patterns of pricing and accept them (well, except for taylor) but the main problem was when visitors came to town, and since it was so close to the holidays, it meant more and more talk-to-the-manager moments.

“something about a discount, i guess?” patton says, and the corner of his mouth turns down. “even though we’d already offered him the one we’ve got, and he kept going on and on and on about price matching, or something—”

“even though you don’t do that?”

“right,” patton says emphatically. “i mean, as far as the only inn in town goes, and even then, we’re pretty cheap considering the relative area, it was just. ugh. ya know?”

“i know,” virgil says, and squeezes his hands. “sorry about that.”

“oh, it turned out okay,” patton says. “eventually i asked him to pull up the price he wanted us to match and proved my point, but it was just... ugh. seeing his face when he realized our price was lower in the first place was pretty funny, though. enough to make up for it. he left without a word after that.”

“good,” virgil murmurs, and kisses the tips of patton’s fingers. “warmed up?”

“uh-huh,” patton says, and grins at him. “thanks.”

virgil smiles back, regretfully releases patton’s hands, and starts to drive.

patton keeps talking as they drive, and park, and walk out of the car and into the restaurant, about the lull between the two influxes of holiday visitors, and about sookie, and michel.

it’s a fancy, richard-and-emily-recommended place. when he and patton had mentioned it was part of their plans in the coming couple of weeks to go out to dinner for their anniversary, emily and richard had both fallen over themselves trying to recommend somewhere, even though they hadn’t really asked for a place to go. virgil figures it’s a good sign that they want virgil and patton’s anniversary to go well, so they’ve taken their advice, and made a reservation, and promised to tell emily and richard what they thought of the place the next time they’re all at dinner.

virgil’s still chuckling to himself a little, about a story about sookie going moony-eyed over some good persimmons, when they walk into the restaurant, and he immediately cuts himself off.

well, he isn’t really sure what he’d expected when this place is endorsed by the elder sanders’. it’s a place that’s low-lit, each table offered a smidgen more illumination by a candle atop the pristine white tablecloths. the customers are all in finery that makes virgil a bit grateful that he’d decided to bust out his suit for this. waiters sweep along at a coordinated speed that virgil, practiced in the profession, envies a little bit. it’s all a bit eerily quiet under the live piano music.

“hi,” patton says to the host, polite and soft, “reservation for sanders?”

he checks the guestbook, nods, and says, “table or two?”

“yes,” and the host gathers up menus in his arms.

“right this way, gentlemen.”

they sit at the table. patton shifts, just a little bit, and they both thank the waiter when he drops off menus.

menus that are, um.... well. well, virgil’s in the food industry, so it’s not like he’s the world’s biggest expert on food, but he knows a pretty fair amount, really.

what he does not know, however, is french. after a few minutes, during which a patton-selected (virgil wouldn’t be shocked if it was also, somehow, an emily-selected) bottle of wine arrives at the table, he doesn’t magically absorb the language, either.

he leans across the table, and, in a whisper, asks, “what the fuck is poitevin?”

patton giggles, attracting Looks from the rest of the near-silent diners around them, and immediately quiets down. virgil glowers in their direction.

“no idea,” patton whispers, and consults the menu. “i mean, it’s paired with a baguette, right? baguettes are good.”

“you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?” virgil asks in the same whisper.

“not a bit,” patton says in a cheerful undertone.

virgil grimaces, just a little. “great. how many dirty looks am i gonna get if i get out my phone and try to translate this?”

“if you don’t, i will,” patton says, and so they dig out their phones together.

virgil pulls a face when he manages to translate the first item on the menu.

“you’ll hate the, um... rouille de seiche? it’s got squid.”

“oh, ick, thanks for the heads up,” patton murmurs back. “um, the ratatouille’s gotta be good, right? disney wouldn’t lie to us.”

virgil snorts, and then hunches his shoulders when he sees someone swivel in his direction, as if to ask who would dare make such an undignified noise in a place of such high repute.

patton scowls fiercely in their direction, until they turn away from their table, and then looks around the restaurant and lowers his voice.

“virge?”

“yeah?”

“i’ll leave enough money on the table plus a tip if you can figure out the fastest and least noticeable way for us to escape right now.”

virgil grins, a little. “enough money?”

“well, even if this place full of people who seem to hate the sound of happiness, the wine’s pretty good,” patton admits, and virgil’s grin widens.

“yeah, all right,” he says. “we’ll finish off these glasses and while we’re doing that—” he leans forward to whisper. “i’ll figure out a way for us ditch.”

patton beams at him.

a few minutes spent observing the waiters, looking covertly around the room, and two hastily-gulped glasses of wine later, patton dug out his wallet and casually set enough money to cover the wine on his plate, visible to their waiter. virgil stands, buttoning his jacket, and patton snatches the bottle of wine, hiding it, before blinking up at virgil with big, innocent eyes, as if the very obvious shape of a wine bottle wasn’t bulging from under his jacket.

virgil’s lip twitches, and patton’s grin grows bigger, which makes virgil smile, and patton grabs virgil’s hand with his free one and virgil tugs him along and they both start giggling before they’re even halfway close to the door that virgil’s spied in the corner, virgil snickering and pulling patton along behind him as they basically end up giving up any semblance of being proper, rigid adults they’ve got and make a run for it.

they securely lock themselves in the car, patton wheezing out “drive drive drive!” between his laughs as he fumblingly stashes the wine somewhere safe. virgil, snickering all the while, manages it—they end up a block away before he pulls into a mostly empty parking lot for some pharmacy.

"oh, my god, i can’t believe we did that,” patton says, and bursts into giggles. “oh, my god, imelda morton was there, she’s gonna tattle to mom so fast, and—”

patton can’t keep talking from all the sniggering, and virgil laughs with him.

“disney wouldn’t lie to us!” virgil mimicks patton, who shrieks with delight even as he swats teasingly at virgil’s arm.

“you went to fancy rich people school, do you know french?” patton teases right back. “you know full well i’m a high school dropout!”

“oh my god, i can’t believe we actually thought somewhere with a name neither of us could really pronounce would be somewhere we’d actually like,” virgil says.

patton flops back against his seat, still grinning, and turns his head to look at virgil, eyes twinkling and smiling brightly and curls tousled up, even though he’d tried to get them in order in anticipation of going somewhere fancy, and virgil—

virgil catches patton’s hand, and presses his lips to it, smiling. god, he’s so stupidly in love, he’s so thankful, he’s so—

“what’s that face?” patton asks softly.

“m’happy, is all,” virgil mumbles against patton’s hand. patton wiggles his fingers, and virgil lets go of it. patton’s palm rests against his cheek, and virgil leans into it—it feels like his heart will explode from how absurdly besotted he is. “i’m just—i’m just really happy.”

patton’s face softens, and he smiles at virgil—a gentle, soft, smile that’s so emotionally expressive that it kind of makes virgil want to cry, a little—and leans forward a little. the distant lights of the street lamps and the glow of the dashboard play prettily off the curves of his face, catching a curl here, lighting up his eyes there. he’s so beautiful, so wonderful, and virgil is so lucky.

“me too,” patton whispers. “i’m happy, too. and i’m happy that you’re happy, and i’m happy that we’re happy, and can i just kiss you now?”

virgil nods so energetically that his hair flops into his eyes, and patton giggles—virgil loves his laugh, he loves it—before patton pushes his hair back into place, and leans forward.

patton tastes like wine, tart and fruity, and his lips are warm and soft and a little bit wet, like he’d just snuck a swig of wine, or licked his lips. patton exhales softly, and virgil’s lips part easily. he shivers, just slightly, just a little, when patton’s tongue makes a very welcome appearance.

“love you,” patton sighs, “love you, love you—”

“love you too,” virgil murmurs, and kisses him once more, almost chaste, before he pulls back. even as close as they are, and how dark their surroundings are, he can still see that patton pouts, just a little.

“so,” virgil says. “now that we’ve run away from our main plan from our anniversary, do we have any other ideas?”

“other than making out in the back of the car like teenagers?” patton quips.

“i’ve never made out with someone in the back of a car,” virgil admits.

“you what,” patton says, incredulous. “that’s, like, a formative romantic experience!”

“i just—!” virgil says. “i never really—i mean, i didn’t really date much when i was a teenager, so by the time i started, you know, dating-dating, i had my own apartment, and—”

“unbelievable,” patton says. “next you’re going to tell me that you’ve never played spin-the-bottle.”

“nope,” virgil says.

“what?!” patton demands.

“sorry my life isn’t a corny teen movie,” virgil says.

“but you had a briefly rebellious phase, i know you did!” patton says. “you never made out in the back of the car?! never drunkenly played spin the bottle?!”

“my teenage rebellious phase was nothing like your teenage rebellious phase,” virgil says. “we, you know. spray painted walls and listened to loud emo music and threw rocks at cars, stuff like that.”

“well, i know the later half of your teenage years weren’t like mine,” patton jokes. “no baby, after all.”

“nah, no kid,” virgil says. “other than the two i’ve somehow managed to adopt.”

patton beams at him, before he claps his hands, once. “okay, so, new plan. i see there’s a pizza place over there. we’ll go and get a carryout order, plus two plastic glasses, and park at the car somewhere close to home so we won’t be drinking and driving, and then we eat and drink our fancy french wine and i introduce you to the rite of passage that is making out in the back of a car. sound good?”

honestly, patton could have said anything—we’re going to find the nearest river and jump in, even though it’s below freezing, or we’re going to go back and deep-clean the whole house, actually—and virgil would have been absolutely down to do it, as long as he was with patton.

“sounds perfect,” virgil says honestly.

so they go in and order a pizza for them to split, and another pizza, a dozen cupcakes (”we said we’d bring back stuff for logan!” patton says, as if he thinks virgil doesn’t know full well that patton will probably eat the majority of the cupcakes) and they lift a couple plastic cups that they hand out for water, for their wine. patton makes some small-talk with the cashier, who now knows that it’s their anniversary, and patton now knows that he’s a nursing student who works nights to save up for his degree.

“you two might have a lot of leftovers,” the cashier cautions, as virgil wins out the rock-paper-scissors battle of who pays this time. “these come pretty big, so i hope you’ve cleared out your fridge.”

“we’ll make enough space for it,” virgil says, handing over his card.

“he’s good at fridge management,” patton adds. virgil grins, as if this is an incredibly high comment that patton’s paid him—honestly, from his tone, it seems like it is.

“well, have a nice meal, and have a nice anniversary,” the cashier says, handing over their various boxes. “and get home safe!”

“thanks, we will!” patton says brightly.

they do—they park the car in one of the parking lots for one of sideshire’s parks that’s easily walking distance from the house. virgil leaves on the car enough to keep the heat on, and patton turns on the radio at a low level, on a station that’s playing classic christmas music in anticipation for the holiday, so virgil tries to negotiate the best way to balance the pizza box on the center console to operate as a table for their slices and their plastic cups of wine as bing crosby croons about being home for christmas in the background.

at last, virgil manages it, and patton proffers the wine bottle with a flourish.

“and now,” virgil says, equally dramatic, “we partake in our recommended pairing of—” he squints at the label, “domaine de cristia grenache with a lovely pepperoni pizza—or margherita, i don’t know which one you’re trying first—just watch how the flavor of the wine develops when introduced to the plastic—”

patton rolls his eyes, smiling sweetly, and says “bad jokes are my thing” as he passes over virgil’s plastic cup of wine before pouring his own.

“your jokes aren’t bad,” virgil says. “they’re...”

“like a pun-ishment?” patton quips.

“i take it back,” virgil says, chuckling despite himself. “that one was bad.”

“cheers, then,” patton says, and smiles wider. “to a whole year of you being romantic with me, even with all my bad jokes. happy anniversary.”

“and here’s to many more,” virgil murmurs, and taps the rim of his cup against patton’s, before he takes a sip. “happy anniversary.”

patton beams at him.

(when virgil and patton sneak back into the house, ties a little askew from the time patton’s spent initiating virgil in the arts of spin the bottle and making out in the backseat of a car, after having finished the whole bottle of their fancy wine, the pair of them shushing each other and giggling, logan rolls his eyes from where he sits in his room at the top of the stairs. he’ll go down for his dessert and a sneak cup of coffee later.)

(no, he’s not smiling and a little sappy and just generally happy that his parents dad and virgil are happy. he isn’t.)

(well. maybe he is, a little. but he isn’t about to tell anyone.)

...

"hey, man, merry christmas,” christopher says, and goes in for a hug. virgil, a little confused, just kind of weathers it. they’ve met once. but then again, this man was once patton’s best friend. maybe he’s a hugger, too.

this is also just kind of a weird situation. since patton is stuck at work, and logan is busy at the courant mostly out of stubbornness, it means virgil’s the only person who’s available to pick christopher up at the airport and drive him back to sideshire in anticipation of the christmas celebration. so. hugs it is, virgil guesses. why not.

christopher draws back, with a few strong thumps to virgil’s back, and virgil coughs a little.

“merry christmas,” virgil says. “uh, how was your flight?”

“bit bumpy, but all right,” he says. “how’re our boys?”

virgil smiles, a little, unable to help himself. “logan’s driving rudy crazy at the courant now that he’s free of Finals Prep Time, and patton’s—well, patton’s patton. he’s, um. he’s great.”

“good, good,” christopher says, and points. “that your car?”

“yeah, can i, um—d’you have any luggage?”

christopher shakes his head, jerks his thumb toward his backpack. “traveling light,” he quips.

“right, then,” virgil says, and they both go to the car. virgil mentally runs through the lists he’s prepared of Okay conversation topics, Maybe Let’s Not Go There conversation topics, and I’m Desperately Curious But Under Threat Of Death I Will Not Ask You About It conversation topics.

the last topic, admittedly, has mostly to do with young, rebellious patton, which he’s heard a few stories about and feels like he half wants to know more, half knows he’ll want to go and give patton a really long hug after hearing anything about it, so.

“so, how’s california?” is virgil’s first relatively safe conversational softball.

“sunny,” christopher says. “dry. you know, the usual.”

some more silence.

“how’d you mean, finals prep time?” christopher says.

“oh, you know,” virgil says. “smart kid like logan, he always goes a bit, um, study-crazy at the end of the semester. wants to keep his grades up, that kind of thing.”

“‘course he will,” christopher says breezily. “he’ll have his pick of colleges, just you wait.”

“i agree, but that’s a conversational landmine, just so you know,” virgil says.

“yeah?”

“logan’s trying to pick what he wants to do, and getting all his applications in order even though it’s months before he has to apply,” virgil says. “and patton’s happy for him, he is, but he’s also gearing up for the emotions that’ll happen when logan leaves, and emily and richard—“

“oh, god, say no more,” christopher grimaces. “if they’re anything like they were back then—let me guess, they’re pushing yale all the way?”

“they’re pushing yale all the way,” virgil confirms. “so. bring up college at your own risk.”

“noted,” christopher says, making a little ticking motion in the air with his finger like he’s actually writing it down, which reminds virgil, strangely, of logan.

“anyway,” virgil says. “he’s pretty sure he’s done well, and he’s, you know, logan. so.”

christopher nods. virgil moves on to the next topic.

“got any plans while you’re here, other than the sanders christmas extravaganza?” virgil says.

christopher hesitates, just for a moment, but it’s long enough that something in virgil’s brain seizes on it. he’s about to ask, before christopher says, “this is your first sanders family christmas, isn’t it?”

virgil lets it go. “yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, we did new year’s and we split thanksgiving between my family and his, and we did patton’s birthday there and something for logan’s, but—first christmas.”

“so you know how the holiday thing goes there,” christopher says, and he sounds distracted. “cool. good. picked out a present?”

“logan and patton did.”

“probably the best choice,” christopher says. “last year, they got me baccarat candlesticks. i mean, sure, they’re fancy, but what am i gonna do with golden candlesticks, you know?”

“yeah,” virgil says, and thinks about patton’s kitschy decor and how fancy things would clash with its coziness and—oh, god, they’re not gonna try and get him something fancy, are they? is he expected to get them an individual gift? he’ll have to ask patton about it. if he’s supposed to get them something, what on earth should he get—?!

“what did you end up doing with them?” virgil asks, instead of thinking about all that.

“traded ‘em,” christopher admits. “which i can get away with because they’re probably never going to come out to visit me in california. you two have got to worry about emily and richard coming to visit, so you’ve got less of a chance of getting away with that.”

“true,” virgil says grudgingly. even though the majority of the time, they meet at the elder sanders’ house, they still come to sideshire sometimes, so they can’t really risk selling it or something. maybe they could put it somewhere out of the way? table in the front hall, maybe. evident enough that they saw it when they walked into the house, but out of sight the rest of the time.

“so,” virgil says, doubling back, “any advice on how to handle a very sanders christmas?”

...

no advice could have really prepared him for this.

granted, virgil’s been coming over to sanders dinners on and off for a year now—once or twice a month, usually, with work and everything—but every time he still feels... well, he just feels out of place, that’s all. the most fancy dressing-up stuff virgil would do when he was growing up was when his family would go to church on christmas and easter, and never really dressed up much outside that. his family was firmly a pajamas-early-morning-christmas kind of family—they’d all thunder down the stairs as soon as his parents had checked that santa had come, and make cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and spend the rest of the day making dinner and playing with their toys and listening to christmas music and just having general family time.

true, the sanders household in sideshire was very much a pajamas-christmas kind of household. logan was too old to really run around in his pajamas and jump on their bed to wake them up at five in the morning, for which virgil was grateful, but they still got up early and exchanged presents and drank coffee and ate cinnamon rolls. ms. prince and roman had even stopped by sometime in the afternoon, between celebrating christmas themselves and the showing of the nutcracker that happens on christmas day. christopher and ms. prince had kind of seemed like they were at an eternal impasse, conversation-wise, but it went mostly okay. virgil’s still kind of in shock that patton’s allowed to call her ‘isadora,’ now that their sons are dating.

the elder sanders household, on the other hand...

“your tie is fine,” patton scolds him gently as they get out of the car. virgil grimaces, and drops his hands from where he’d been adjusting it for the five millionth time.

“you’re sure i shouldn’t have gotten them something?” virgil checks.

“positive,” patton says firmly. "take a deep breath, okay?”

virgil does as he says. granted, they’re here a bit earlier than normal, because virgil ended up volunteering to make dinner, somehow, so he has the safe haven of the kitchen to duck into if he needs space.

however, this also means they’ll be here for longer than normal. so.

christopher volunteers to carry presents, so virgil offers patton his arm and they fall into step behind logan and chris, approaching their imposing front door.

emily has started therapy, in a move that was, frankly, shocking to virgil. she and patton fight less, which is good in virgil’s book.

however, emily wouldn’t be emily if she wasn’t so... well. emily.

“logan, christopher!” emily says warmly, and logan tolerates her hug with his usual stiffness. “merry christmas, come in, come in... hello, patton. virgil.”

“merry christmas, mom,” patton says, accepting her hug with enthusiasm.

“emily,” virgil says. “merry christmas.”

emily doesn’t move to hug him, and he doesn’t move to hug her. they have a mutual understanding, really.

“ah, virgil, christopher!” richard says merrily. “logan, patton, hello—come in, come in, the both of you, christopher, would you like a martini, old boy...?”

the conversation fades as the rest of them file into the living room, and virgil hangs back.

“i’ll come find you soon, yeah?” patton says, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek.

“get them out of the awkward small talk discussion zone for me,” virgil says in an undertone, tilting his cheek a little so patton has better access. patton kisses it, and squeezes his arm, and heads for the door—which his mother is holding open.

“virgil,” emily says, then, “you know where the kitchen is.”

“i do,” virgil says, and she gives him a little nod before stepping more fully into the living room, and virgil goes to the kitchen.

it’s a well-stocked kitchen, with top-of-the-line appliances and cookware. virgil’s been in kitchens for as long as he can remember, so it’s not as overwhelming as the rest of the house can be, sometimes, but it’s still, well. it’s still aggressively elder-sanders-ian, in that upper-society, best-of-everything way, not quite like his utilitarian, cook-for-the-masses kitchen in the diner, or the cozy confines of patton’s, or even the familiarity of the kitchen in the house he’d grown up in or the apartment.

but, well. it’s a kitchen. and virgil knows his way around a kitchen, no matter how high-class. even if it’s williams sonoma and alessi and le creuset, a spatula’s a spatula, and a pot’s a pot, and a pan’s a pan. the knives are sharp, the ingredients fresh, and the recipes long-since memorized, so virgil settles into a rhythm of letting dough rise and preheating ovens and chopping up vegetables and cracking eggs and making sure the stove is warm and—

a soft couple knocks at the door, and virgil looks up, fully expecting patton, or maybe logan, but—

“virgil, old boy,” richard says. “would you like some punch?”

“oh,” virgil says, a little startled, and wipes his hands on the dish towel he’s slung over his shoulder to accept the cut-crystal glass. “um, sure. thank you, richard.”

“it smells delightful,” richard says. “what are we having?”

virgil quickly swallows the tentative sip he’d taken—some kind of cherry soda, some champagne, maybe, the aftertaste leaving a bite that probably meant vodka—and gestures.

“well, i thought,” he began, and cleared his throat. “it’s—well, emily didn’t recommend anything in particular, so i figured i may as well—” virgil shakes himself and gets himself on the right track. “it’s tradition, my family’s, i mean, to have breakfast for dinner, on christmas.”

“oh, how endearing!”

endearing. well, that’s just about a seal of approval, virgil guesses.

“so,” virgil says. “biscuits, there. eggs and bacon are about to be made. i was going to ask if there were any particular votes on how many waffles would be wanted, i noticed you had an iron, but—”

“as many as you’d think best would work nicely, i’m sure,” richard says. “how’s the diner, these days?”

richard, since his declaration of his blessing a year ago, has dropped in on both the inn and the diner a handful of times since. each time, he seems to delight in the small town charm of it in a way that was only a little snobbish—the way he’d exclaimed over a slice of mud pie was a prime example, things like “what a funny idea!” and “is this very... popular?” and “ah, the kids, of course, of course”—but in a mostly well-meaning kind of way.

virgil hopes so, anyway.

but he talks about the diner with richard as he mixes up the batter, things like menu changes and insurance policies and really, mostly the parts of business that would be boring to almost anyone else. well. mostly.

until, that is, richard starts asking about how to properly make an egg over-easy, and then, somehow, virgil is sipping at his punch as he carefully coaches richard through the art of how to fry an egg.

“...right, then, jiggle the pan a little to be sure it isn’t sticking,” virgil’s saying, as the kitchen door opens once again and a familiar face peeks in.

“like this?—oh, this is looking a lot better than the last one, isn’t it?” richard says, entirely too cheered.

“it is,” virgil says, conscious that the scent of burnt egg is still hovering in the air.

"have you gotten grandpa to try cooking?” logan asks, wandering into the kitchen and sitting at the counter.

“more like i’ve barged into the process,” richard says. “should i plate it now?”

“yep,” virgil says, and examines it. well, it’s an egg, certainly. maybe not quite as cohesive as an over-easy egg that virgil might make, but... not a bad egg.

“i’m afraid i’ve never really cooked before,” richard says thoughtfully. “it was always a bit of a passing interest, i suppose, but that was always more about food itself than it was the cooking. perhaps i should try it.”

“it’s a skill everyone needs to learn at some point,” virgil says with a shrug.

“do you cook often, at home?” richard asks. “or do you bring things back from the diner?”

it’s logan who answers. “usually, he’s still working at the diner when it’s dinnertime, but if he isn’t, he’ll usually cook.”

"i get to sneak you more vegetables that way,” virgil says, only a little bit joking.

gradually, people bleed into the kitchen, bit by bit—patton’s next, and he tries to sneak chocolate chips into the waffle batter, as if virgil won’t prepare him his own chocolate-chip waffle—and then christopher, ferrying refills for everyone, and at last emily deigns to enter her own kitchen with a slightly world-weary sigh as she opens the door, only to come to a stop at the sight before her.

“emily!” richard says excitedly. “i’m frying bacon!”

the sight before her is her husband, son, grandson, grandson’s father, and son’s partner all working in the kitchen, each with their own job—richard with the bacon, logan with the eggs, patton keeping an eye on the timer for the waffle iron, christopher with the mimosas he’d decided were absolutely necessary for breakfast for dinner—and virgil overseeing it all, trying his best to make sure no one would burn themselves or the food.

“delightful,” emily says, a smidge disdainfully.

“dinner should be ready soon,” virgil says, disregarding her tone.

emily sighs. then, utterly surprising virgil, she rolls up her sleeves, and says, “i’ll set the table, shall i?”

the breakfast-for-dinner thing goes over surprisingly well, and virgil isn’t sure if he should thank his assistants’ good cooking or the whole “good will of christmas” thing, or maybe emily’s had her own three ghosts of christmas past, present, and future visit and she’s about to pull a scrooge, but virgil isn’t about to ask which option it is.

they’re at the last part of the evening—christmas presents, then coffee, and then he and patton and logan will be heading back to the house as christopher stays at emily and richard’s. apparently they’re all going to some mutual friend’s party tomorrow, or something. christopher seems a little twitchy about it, whenever he or patton ask him for details—virgil would be too, really. he’s so far managed to escape the realm of sanders parties, but it’s only a matter of time.

emily and richard get books from logan, bottles of californian wine from chirstopher, and home-knitted scarves, a fancy bracelet, and a new set of cufflinks from patton and virgil.

logan gets books, books, and more books, in addition to the stuff he’s gotten from virgil and patton at home this morning—the journalist and the murderer, the latest ap style guide, the new new journalism, the corpse had a familiar face, a biography of agatha christie, a couple young adult series that are the latest on his reading list—plus a fancy pen, all the better to report with, virgil guesses.

patton gets new knitting needles, some high-quality yarn, ties, a couple books, and—

“what’s this?” patton says, unearthing three stuffed animals—a quokka, a capybara, and—virgil squints at the tag—a fennec fox.

“it’s through the world wildlife fund,” emily says briskly. “we made donations—in your name, of course—and this was an option for it. so there’s a thank you note and a photo of the animal you helped adopt in there somewhere.”

“i hope we correctly selected the animals,” richard says. “i remember you liked those, when you were young.”

patton looks up, startled but smiling.

“thank you,” he says softly, touched. virgil reaches over automatically and squeezes his hand. patton squeezes back. “i—you chose exactly right.”

virgil has a feeling patton would have said that with any animal they could’ve picked for him, but he can’t deny that those are good options, as far as patton’s concerned—all of them are small, cuddly, and cute, and all of them are prey animals that need protection.

“and for you, virgil,” richard says, and virgil braces himself with his best thank you, it’s a great gift smile that he might have practiced in the mirror. it starts off pretty good.

virgil gets a couple cookbooks, some new measuring cups, . some fall a little flat, like, virgil doesn’t think that he and patton are going to have much use for a cheeseboard, but who knows, but some, like the immersion blender that he’s been considering for a while, make up for it.

“i’d guess it’s been a while since there was some new cookware in that house,” emily says archly.

“i’ve mostly been bringing over stuff from mine, yeah,” virgil says neutrally, but he’s really too focused on the soups he can start to make now that he’s got an immersion blender in his home kitchen.

“and one more thing,” richard says, and hands over a small, relatively flat box. emily looks slightly sour, like she’s sucked on a lemon. she huffs, a little, crossing her legs primly and taking a drink, which bodes well for... whatever this is.

virgil takes the box, and unwraps it, revealing, well. another box—leather, well-made.

“what is it?” logan asks after virgil’s staring at it for a few moments, setting aside his ap style guide.

“it’s a pocket watch,” virgil says, not quite sure how to react to this. it’s a pretty neat looking pocket watch, actually—all silver, roman numerals, the gears exposed, steampunk-adjacent but not so steampunk that emily and richard would disapprove of it—but, well. virgil wears t-shirts and hoodies and jeans on a daily basis. so he isn’t sure exactly when he’s going to wear a—

“dad,” patton says softly, and virgil glances over at him, and back at the watch, and back at patton.

richard explains, almost kindly, “emily’s father got me a pocket watch, the first christmas we spent together as a family.”

virgil’s mouth goes dry, and he looks back at the watch.

“oh,” he says, and swallows hard. “it’s—it’s lovely. thank you.”

he fumbles with the catch, for a few moments, closing it again, before he runs his fingers along the sleek, silvery chain, the latch.

patton kisses him on the cheek, and rests his cheek briefly against his shoulder, like an excuse to stare at the watch.

the first christmas we spent together as a family rings in his ears. virgil leans his head against patton’s head, feeling his hair against his cheek, before virgil. clears his throat and looks up at the two elder sanders’.

“seriously,” he says, quiet and serious. “thank you.”

emily lets out a put-upon sigh, but she smiles flatly all the same.

“you’re welcome,” she says.

and that’s close enough to christmas peace and good will between men, women, and people outside of the gender spectrum for virgil.

...

“two dozen?”

“absolutely not.”

“fine, one dozen.”

“roman,” virgil says, on the edge of a sigh.

roman grins at him, huge and unapologetic.

“you are out of your mind if you think you can negotiate your way into me giving you a dozen donuts for breakfast,” virgil informs him. “c’mon, pick something on the menu that’s got some kind of nutritional value, and i might give you a donut on the side.”

“fiiiiine,” roman sighs. “waffles?”

“i said nutritional value,” virgil says.

“cheat! meal!” roman says, slamming his fists against the counter to emphasize each word.

“roman—”

“virgil, i have been eating nothing but chicken and quinoa and vegetables,” roman informs him. “i’m dying of a lack of sugar, dying, let me have this. waffles and a donut and hot cocoa/coffee.”

“your mom’s going to kill me,” virgil says.

“she knows i’m here for a cheat meal, she isn’t expecting me to eat something healthy,” roman says brightly, because he knows when he’s won.

“fine,” virgil says. “fine. what kind of donut do you want, and any toppings on the waffle?”

“chocolate icing for the donut, and chocolate chip waffles,” roman says. “i’m going all-out here.”

“i hope you know how much pain you cause me on a daily basis, i seriously do,” virgil informs him.

roman laughs after him as virgil goes to put in his order, and gets him a mug of hot cocoa/coffee and his donut.

“oh!” roman says, when he gets back. “i nearly forgot—” and he starts digging through his bag.

“if it’s some kind of new shirt in your latest attempt for a makeover, i don’t want it,” virgil says, hovering enough of a distance away that roman would have to lunge to try and shove a shirt into his arms.

roman rolls his eyes. “please,” he scoffs. “you wish i would bless you with my sense of style—oh, here it is!”

he pulls a book out of his backpack, and sets it on the counter.

"could you give this to logan? he left it at the apartment last night. i’d give it to him, except i have to get back to the studio right after this—mom wants to rearrange the barres or something, so i’m going to be hauling around furniture all day. it’s probably her way of sneaking a strength workout in during a rest day, honestly,” he muses, and virgil picks up the book, flipping it to examine the spine.

“siddhartha?” he says, trying to sound it out.

“yeah, you’d have to ask him about it,” roman says. “some kind of religious studies unit for his english class, i guess? anyway, you can give it to him when you go home today.”

roman takes a bite of his donut.

“if i’m going to patton’s today, you mean,” virgil corrects absently, and roman blinks at him.

“um,” roman says, “you mean, if you’re going home today.”

“i—no?” virgil says. “i mean, i—i live here. and i go over to patton’s a lot, sure, but i don’t live there, that’s not—”

but even as he’s saying it, his brain is tossing up images as if to specifically contradict him. his and patton’s socks jumbled together in the drawer. the christmas cards from his siblings on the fridge. virgil’s spot on the couch, if they’re all talking, his spot in the armchair if they’re all having quiet time. his default chair at the dinner table. his hairbrush in the bathroom. his lotion in the nightstand cabinet because the weather’s so cold, which means his hands get as dry as anything. his cookbooks, which have somehow nestled their way into the empty nooks and crannies in patton’s kitchen that can fit them even though he can hardly remember bringing them over. making coffee for logan and patton in the morning, enough caffeine to provide them with one or maybe two cups each, before he starts transitioning into half-caf. some of the little decorative things that his siblings have given him from the various cities they’ve lived in over the years. virgil’s handwriting dominating the grocery list. logan and virgil and patton splitting up chores. virgil’s flannels and patton’s sweaters in the closet, all hanging side-by-side.

everything he’s carted over there, over the past year—bit by bit, piece by piece. item by item. things he’d think he’d need if he was staying over, and then, well, never bringing them back. never returning things to his apartment. and that begged a question—

when was the last time he’d slept in his apartment???

“oh my god,” virgil says. he couldn’t identify his own tone if he had been recording this conversation and could play it back three hundred times.

“what?” roman says.

“oh, my god, i’m living with patton,” virgil realizes, with a long, noisy exhale, and he sucks in another breath. “we’re living together.”

roman stared at him, slightly slackjawed, before he sets aside the donut.

“please don’t tell me you just now realized this.”

“shut up,” virgil says, his face heating up.

“you just now,” roman says, slightly gleefully, “like, just now. you just now realized that you and patton are—”

“shut up!” virgil hisses, conscious of the other diners starting to eavesdrop, and roman snickers, holding up his hands in surrender, and virgil figures the only way he can really salvage this is if he goes to hide in the kitchen and has his crisis there.

so he does.

...

"well, it’s nice to see you, virgil, but it’s been a while since i’ve seen you here,” emile picani says, adjusting his glasses and clicking his pen.

virgil clears his throat, wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans. “yeah. i, uh—yeah, i guess.”

“so,” emile says, big doe eyes wide and sympathetic. “what’s up, doc?”

“it’s, um,” virgil says, and clears his throat. “it’s been pointed out to me recently that i’ve... essentially... moved in with patton and logan.”

“is that good?” emile says, and virgil chews at his lip.

“i—i mean, i think so,” virgil says. “i want it to be, anyway. i mean, i’m—i’m excited about patton, i love him, logan’s—well, logan’s basically my kid too—and i definitely figured moving in would be a someday, but when i realized i basically had already, i—well, i kinda... i’m not the best at change, so i kinda freaked out, a little.”

to be precise, virgil had mentioned that he’d probably stay at his apartment just to be there to open the diner and maybe make an ingredient run beforehand, and patton had pouted a little but agreed and hadn’t seemed too upset, or cotton on to the whole “virgil’s-taking-some-space-because-he’s-anxious-about-the-future” thing that virgil was trying to do, which almost made it worse, and then virgil couldn’t sleep because the bed was too big and too cold and too uncomfortable and he spent most of the night pacing and trying to untangle all the thoughts in his head and hadn’t quite succeeded, so. an appointment with emile it was.

which he explains, and emile hums thoughtfully, tapping his pen on his notepad.

“so, what’s your goal for this session?” emile says. “or sessions, if you like, other than untangling your thoughts.”

virgil considers it, and says, “the last time a change to our relationship happened, i didn’t... well, i didn’t really handle it very well. i ended up basically shutting everyone out for nearly a week so that i could figure myself out. and i mean, i’d like—i want to live with patton. i was happy when i was basically living with patton, so i don’t know why the change being pointed out to me made me freak out, and i don’t want—i don’t want to shut him out again. so. to get... to get accustomed to the idea, maybe, and to—to communicate a bit more clearly about making it official, i guess, and then maybe to figure out how to deal with becoming a landlord or whatever else i might do with the apartment. those are my goals.”

emile smiles, nods, and clicks his pen. “let’s see what i can do to help you achieve that, then.”

...

“how much salsa, again?”

“maybe just bring me the jar?” virgil suggests, from where he’s transporting chicken breasts from the pan to a bowl. “i’ll eyeball it.”

logan nods, and fetches the salsa from the fridge, before he leans his hip against the counter, tilting his head to survey the way that virgil’s begun shredding the chicken.

it’s a quiet evening at home for the pair of them—patton’s staying late at work—so virgil’s decided to make enchiladas for dinner, which he hasn’t made in a while.

virgil takes in a breath, remembering one of emile’s suggestions, and clears his throat, keeping his stare fixed on the chicken. “can i ask you something?”

“sure,” logan says.

virgil swallows, and says, casually, “i was wondering what you thought about—um. well, you’re a smart kid, i’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that i’ve been... here... more. so i was wondering if you were, um. comfortable. with me—” say it, virgil, just say it, “living here.”

the reaction isn’t what virgil’s expecting. logan, without breaking facial expression (he rarely does, virgil doesn’t know why he’d expected that) digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, putting it on speaker.

“hello, my love, the light of my life,” roman says pleasantly, and logan smiles a little, a sort of teenage-puppy-love expression that he’d ardently deny if patton or virgil teased him about it later.

“you’re on speaker and you owe me lucy’s,” logan says smugly.

“what?! dammit!” roman says.

“he what,” virgil says.

“i told you so,” logan says.

“yeah, yeah, yeah,” roman grumbles. “god, virgil, i won out the last time we bet on your love life—”

“you—" virgil begins, before he shakes himself and decides to leave any parental lecturing about gambling for later, and maybe to patton and ms. prince.

“you just had to ruin my streak,” roman continues in a grumble. “fine, then. if i have to. lucy’s date tomorrow after you’re done with the franklin?”

“we’ll text about it,” logan informs him.

“okay. love you, even if you are at an unfair advantage!”

“love you too,” logan says, hangs up, and tells whatever expression on virgil’s face, “shut up.”

“didn’t say anything,” virgil says.

“anyway,” logan says. “i have been slowly transitioning from phrases like ‘i’ll see you back at the house’ to ‘when we’re at home’ for months now, i can’t believe you just now noticed.”

“you—what,” virgil says blankly.

“i’ve been slowly bringing over your cookbooks to see if you’d ever notice, but you never really did—”

“that’s how they got here?” virgil says, thrown off.

"—and i’ve been bringing your possessions more and more to the forefront, too, look,” logan says, going into the living room and holding up—

“is that my throw blanket?”

“it is,” logan says, setting it back on the couch. “and the photo of your family on the mantle, and the christmas cards from your siblings on the fridge, and the plant you and dad picked out when you went shopping last week.”

“you—you put those all there?” virgil says. “i thought patton did.”

logan shrugs, non-commital, and suddenly something clicks for virgil. sometimes, non-verbal methods are the way that logan communicates he cares, which virgil gets—he’s been making the kid eat healthy for as long as he was capable of it, after all.

“so,” virgil says slowly, because he needs verbal assent, here. “you’re okay with it?”

logan stares at him, a look that combines the essence of i can’t believe you’re so dense sometimes and fondness. his lip quirks up, soft, and a little like he wasn’t intending to smile at all.

“yeah,” logan says, a little softer than his usual brisk, abrasive tone, but virgil’s fully willing to let this emotional moment happen without commenting on that. “yeah. i’m okay with it.”

virgil clears his throat from where it’s suddenly a little clogged up, and messes up his hair, and, fleetingly, logan grins at him with the same kind of smile he’d used when he was six and lost his first tooth in the diner, when he was nine and won in the school-wide spelling bee, when he was sixteen and he and patton told him they’d gotten together.

“good,” virgil says. if his voice a bit rougher than usual, logan has the strategic grace to not mention it.

...

“so,” roman says, “you wouldn’t be my neighbor anymore, i guess.”

virgil shrugs. “diner’s still there, and you’re over at the house often enough.”

“you are,” logan confirms.

listen, virgil isn’t sure how he got signed up for the “carpool-the-kids-to-their-date” thing, but he somehow has, so now he’s driving them to a roller rink because roman won out on deciding where date night would be after the milkshakes at lucy’s they’re both sipping on.

“have you talked to dad about it?” logan says.

virgil tries not to squirm. “not yet. i will tomorrow, probably.”

logan scowls, visible enough in the rearview mirror. “while i’m working a weekend shift at the franklin.”

“got it in one,” virgil says. “are you still sure that you’re going to dee’s after?”

“i could totally still kill him for you,” roman adds.

“we have an understanding,” logan says, giving roman a Look. “an alliance, so to speak.”

“you can say that he’s your friend now, it’s okay,” virgil prompts, and feels someone kick at the back of his seat.

“someone who initiated a duel is not a friend!” roman says, aghast.

“louise is the one who did that, it’s just,” logan says, and then, “well, you know. he’s...”

logan trails off. roman scowls out of the window, and logan pauses, before he leans over enough to kiss roman on the cheek.

he mumbles something that sounds like “you’re still my favorite,” and virgil tries not to comment, he really does, but—

“no making out in the back of my car.”

“we weren’t!” roman squawks. “god, virgil, you’re not my dad—”

“thank god—“

“—you’re so embarrassing, maybe it’s good that you’re moving,” roman huffs, flopping back against the seat.

“you’re just bitter you lost the bet,” logan informs him.

“yeah, we’re gonna talk about the gambling thing,” virgil says. “you know that can be addictive, right, even if it just starts with lucy’s?”

instead of answering, roman says thoughtfully, “when you move, can i have that nightmare before christmas hill scene cross-stitch you’ve got framed?”

“absolutely not,” virgil says.

"i’ll steal it for you,” logan says.

“or i can steal it while i’m helping move out boxes,” roman says.

“none of this has distracted me from the gambling lecture i’m about to give you both,” virgil says, and both boys groan.

...

for someone so invested in sleeping for as long as he possibly can, virgil really shouldn’t be so surprised that patton’s bed is so comfortable, but it is. so much more comfortable than his own, back in his apartment.

patton’s sheets are soft and they always smell clean. he’s got a soft, fuzzy blanket, and a quilt, and then a thick, quilt-stitched duvet to top it all off, decorated in soft blues and whites. patton’s mattress is soft, but not too soft, and his pillows are at the exact perfect degree of fluffiness.

of course, being in patton’s bed with patton might be what makes it the best, in virgil’s mind, but he’s pretty biased.

virgil lets out a soft, content sigh as he adjusts himself, just a little—his head on patton’s chest, patton’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and with his lips pressed against his hair, virgil’s hand on patton’s chest. virgil absentmindedly follows nonsense paths with his fingertips, feeling the old, white scar from patton’s top surgery under his fingertips.

he’s content. he’s happy. he really, truly is.

so he shouldn’t be so anxious right now. they’ve been together for a little over a year, now, and things have been going well, they’ve been going great, it’s just—well. he supposes it’s a step that most people get nervous about regardless. but he shouldn’t be nervous right now, when patton’s humming, soft and tuneless, and it’s late at night, a lazy saturday morning that’s turned into a lazy saturday day and then night, and the day’s been great. it’s been amazing.

he’s talked to logan about it. he’s talked to roman about it. he’s talked to emile about it, for god’s sakes. he just needs to... well. talk to patton about it.

patton’s lips move, pressing against his head again, and he squeezes virgil a little closer.

“i can hear you thinking, darling,” patton murmurs. “penny for your thoughts?”

virgil hesitates. well, now’s as good a time as any, he supposes. he adjusts himself, so that he’s leaning on one arm, hand still on patton’s chest, but now he can look at patton’s face.

“so, um,” virgil says, and swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “i just—i’m gonna say something, and you don’t have to say anything right now, it’s not an immediate yes or no, but just—just so you know. okay?”

patton blinks at him—it’s strange, even now, to see him without his glasses on—and nods.

“okay,” he says apprehensively.

virgil adds, “i mean, it isn’t—it isn’t bad, or anything, just something you should know.”

patton relaxes minutely. he runs his hand up and down virgil’s bare back, and virgil shivers, just a little.

“okay,” patton repeats, soft and soothing. “okay, honey, go ahead.”

virgil holds his breath, before he says tentatively, “i was thinking about renting out the apartment.”

virgil does own the diner—which means he owns the apartment above the diner, too, which is where he’s been living for the past seventeen years, he’d moved in once his parents had moved out of sideshire and sold the house he’d grown up in. it used to just be an office, but after he’d taken over the diner he’d made it into a living space. but now, well...

patton’s smiling—a slow, soft smile that’s spreading across his face.

“or—or, um, making it an office plus a break room or something, i’m not sure how i’d go about renting out something, i guess i’d technically be a landlord, but—”

“love,” patton says softly. “you wanna move in?”

virgil ducks his head, cheeks burning.

“you don’t have to answer right now,” he mumbles. “i just—you can think about it, and i know i’m kinda inviting myself in, here, but—”

and very suddenly, virgil is on his back, and patton’s lips are on his, and virgil can’t really think of anything else right now, and when patton’s lips part from his with a truly embarrassing smacking noise, patton is absolutely beaming.

“i don’t have to think about it at all,” he declares.

...

“did you stuff this thing with bricks,” roman wheezes as he carts down yet another box from virgil’s apartment. virgil isn’t really a material person, he thinks, but it turns out that given seventeen or so years he can accumulate a lot of stuff. who knew?

“no, the bricks are the next load,” virgil says, accepting the box and settling it in the trunk of his car, surveying it. “how much is left?”

“next one should be the last one,” logan reports, handing over his own box for virgil to place in his car.

“perfect,” virgil says. “i think i might drive this to patton’s after that, then, it’s nearly full. we can deal with furniture and stuff later today, or maybe next week.”

“if it gets me a break,” roman huffs, and stomps back up the stairs—virgil watches him go, and then logan, before he digs out his phone and sends a text.

virgil: one more load and then i’m gonna be dropping off the last of boxes soon

patton: okay, sounds good!!! patton: i’m so excited for you to come home, darling <3 <3 <3

virgil grins a bit stupidly down at his phone. he’s excited to go home, too.

#my post #text #my fic #the sideshire files

204 notes · View notes

hispeculiartreasure · 5 years

Text

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Nine | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen

Word count: 5,500

Chapter 9/24

Warnings: A bad word, a barely-violent bar skirmish

AN: Thank you for patiently awaiting this chapter! This posting schedule is much, much more suitable. You are all so lovely and supportive. Let me know your thoughts on this chapter! And send me an ask if you’d like to be tagged.

Fun fact, the Commando Cocktail was actually on the Stork Club’s drink menu in the late 1940s! It definitely had a more sensuous namesake but I just took an opportunity and ran with it 😉

Chapter Eight

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

First thing in the morning the bullpen is already abuzz with squeals and giggles. The typists of the office huddle around their sweet friend as she holds out her hand, the square cut diamond sparkling in the morning light.

“It’s beautiful, Dorothy. Congratulations,” you purr, squeezing her fingers after perusing the jewelry close-up.

“I’m assuming he asked you in an insanely romantic way?” Millie sighs, chin perched in her hands.

“Yeah, tell us the story!” Frances giggles.

Dorothy settles into her chair, eyes shining. As she begins her tale Suzy leans in to you and whispers, “We’re dropping like flies around here. Alice last week, Dorothy today. And they’re some of the youngest. If you come in next week with a ring I’ll toss you out a window.”

You hide a smile behind your hand. “Relax, Suze. It’s sweet.”

“So sweet my teeth are gonna rot,” she grumbles.

“Cynicism is not a good look on you.”

Suzy huffs and turns a dazzling smile to Dorothy as the remaining girls continue to ask questions. The two of you take steps toward your desk and Suzy sighs deeply. “All of a sudden people are marrying like there’s no tomorrow. Five years ago if people were getting hitched after courting for six months your parents locked you in your room until the vapors wore off.”

“Are you jealous?”

The redhead scoffs. “No, but. . . the change has got me. . .” she twists to you, the cynic having been replaced by someone much more forlorn. “It’s got me feeling like I’m behind, ya know?”

“Aw, Suze.” You take her hand in yours. “I get it. The war changed a lot of things, a lot of people.”

“Yeah. Guess so.” A moment passes before she clears her throat and takes her hand back, smoothing her skirt before she motions to your desk. “You’ve been busting your tail this morning. Why’d you get here early?”

“I’ve got lunch plans. Wanted Flannery to know I wasn’t shirking my job by staying out long. Would you believe she was here when I came in at 7?”

“Lord, does that woman sleep?”

“Unclear.” You both turn to watch the back of Flannery’s head bent over her desk, firmly ignoring the fuss over the engagement ring.

“Well. Hope you have a good lunch.” With a wink and a bounce of curls Suzy is gone.

Your fingers fly over your typewriter as you eye the clock, praying your boss doesn’t approach your desk with a new task before lunchtime. With a record number of letters typed, addressed, and sealed up you leave your swivel-chair spinning when your break begins.

Wicker basket in hand you savor the sunshine on your skin as you walk a few blocks to the building Bucky’s team is currently working on. You round the structure, lifting a hand to shield your eyes against the high sun as you look for your boyfriend among the people hanging off of the skyscraper. It’s almost laughable how much he stands out from the other men in his crew.

Where most of the boys are thin and gangly, Bucky is lean and formidable. His work was neat and efficient, an obvious routine to his movements. While you did enjoy your view from several stories down. . .

Bringing your fingers to your mouth you whistle shrilly, causing every head to swivel down to you. You can’t decipher many of Bucky’s features but you can tell he’s smiling the same dopey smile he’d had after you’d shared that first kiss a few weeks ago.

Around the grin he yells, “What’re you doing here, Sixth Floor?”

“Bringing you lunch, Sergeant! Unless you’d rather me go,” you shout back, tossing a thumb over your shoulder.

“I’ll be right down.” You watch as he slowly descends, breathing a sigh when his feet safely meet the ground.

“Hello, beautiful,” a kiss lands on your cheek while he dries his hands on a towel.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

You toss him one end of a thin blanket you’d packed. “I’m assuming you’re not too good for a picnic?”

He catches it with a hum and mirrors your unfolding, settling it to the ground beneath the shade of a tree in the courtyard. “I dunno. My delicate sensibilities may be set off-balance.”

“Are your delicate sensibilities offended by sandwiches and fruit?”

“I think they can be persuaded to cooperate, unless you forgot the coffee.”

“You think I’m stupid?” you say as you pull the thermos out of your basket.

Arranging your skirt to maintain modesty you take a seat on your blanket. Bucky sits near before reclining to rest his weight on his elbow, body turned toward you.

“Today been okay?” you ask as he takes the wrapped sandwich you offer.

“Just like any other day. It’s blazing hot up there; one of the guys almost had a heat stroke.”

“Goodness, I hope you’ve been drinking water.”

His eyes soften as he replies, “Yes ma’am. By the way, I have an appointment with a local job counselor next week.”

“Bucky, that’s fantastic!” you enthuse, grabbing his arm.

“Fingers crossed he can help me figure out how to head towards being a mechanic.”

“I sure hope so. I’m proud of you for reaching out to him. This is a great start.”

Before you can ask why he’s gazing at you adoringly he asks, “How’s work been?”

“Busy. Our business year is almost done so our mail has been stacking up. Plus I’m pretty certain Anderson’s mistress broke up with him: he’s been in an extra testy mood. Oh, and Dorothy got engaged last night.”

“I thought that happened last week?”

“No, that was Alice.”

“Hard to keep it all straight,” Bucky mutters as he guzzles his cup of coffee.

You can’t help a giggle. “That’s exactly what Suzy said. Dorothy seems happy, though.” Bucky only hums in thought.

The next several minutes are quiet, spent enjoying each other’s presence as you people watch and eat.

“Dinner tomorrow?”

“Mhmm,” you hum affirmatively around a mouthful of grape.

You sense a hesitancy in Bucky as he stares at his cookie. After a big gulp he says, “Do ya wanna do drinks after with Steve and Peggy?”

Your stomach drops. “You want me to meet them?”

“I do.”

A million thoughts stampede through your brain in the span of three seconds. This is a big deal. They mean a lot to Bucky. These are his best friends. What if they hate me. What if I’m not good enough, what if one word from them means Bucky never speaks to me again? What if-

“Only say yes if you want to, I don’t wanna pressure you-”

“No no no no,” you blurt, shaking your head. “I want to. It’s just. . .”

“Just what?” Words leave you, an empty silence hanging in their place. “Tell me,” Bucky nudges, hand tangling with yours.

“It’s an intimidating prospect.”

“Because of what they do? Really, they aren’t that big of a deal, just have jobs that-”

“Not intimidating because of who they are. But who they are to you, Bucky.” His eyebrows furrow, so you continue. “Steve has been your lifelong best friend and you’ve been to war and back with Peggy, literally. I’m honored that you want them to meet me but at the same time. . .”

“Wait -” he leans back. “Do you think they aren’t going to like you?”

“There’s always a chance-”

Bucky had the nerve to laugh - not a laugh of derision, but genuine disbelief. “Not a chance in the world. Steve knows you’re special. He knows me better than I know myself, he’s seen how I’ve been since you. And Peggy. . . she may be a harder sell. But that’s got nothing to do with you. It’ll go fine. Okay?” And with his fingers running up and down your arm, who are you to question him?

“Okay.” You shove half a cookie in your mouth to stave off the urgent impulse to run away.

------

“They’re late because they already hate me right?”

Bucky scoffs, leaning his elbows onto the table in the back of the club. “How can they hate you when they don’t even know you? I already told you, Steve called before I left to pick you up. Something popped up at work and a meeting was going to run long. They should be done right about-” he checks his watch, “-now. They’ll be here soon. But to me it sounds like you’re complaining about getting extra time with me.”

You shove at his arm and grumble, “Oh shush.” All he does is chuckle. The band playing loudly from the corner does little to calm your nerves. Every few minutes you pat down your hair for flyways and make sure your dress isn’t wrinkled. You twirl the ring on your right hand over and over before Bucky’s hand stops your fidgeting with a gentle touch.

“You okay? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Just because I may always seem confident doesn’t mean I am. Few people get to see me with the jitters.” You slant your eyes to his. “Consider it an honor of yours.”

He opens his mouth to presumably soothe you before something over your shoulder catches his attention. “There he is.” You turn as Bucky stands to greet Captain Steven Rogers and suddenly you understand why Connie is such a fan.

You’d seen the posters and pictures of him in uniform but seeing him sport a suit and tie was another ball game. Somehow his golden hair shines bright under the dull lighting which also cast a beautiful shadow across his broad shoulders. He seems impossibly taller with every purposeful step to your table, jaw set in a firm line.

But then the biggest smile washes across his face as he steps into Bucky for a hug. As men do, they pat each other on the back and part - suddenly Steve’s attention is all on you. Blue eyes so similar to Bucky’s grow warm.

“It is so nice to finally meet you,” he offers his hand. “You’re all he’s been talking about.”

You laugh and grasp his hand, introducing yourself. You glance to Bucky, worrying he’d be bothered by the admission of him discussing you. He’s remarkably at ease, shoulders dropped, face relaxed.

“Where’s Peggy?” Bucky asks.

Steve gestures dramatically as the three of you take your seats. “She was pulled aside for a private meeting on our way out the door. But she shouldn’t be too long.”

“Never thought you’d be the one in a relationship with work-life balance,” Bucky jabs.

“And you never miss an opportunity to badger me about my work.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you two are quite the pair,” you look between the two men.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’ve got some stories.” As he dives into a story involving a rock mysteriously hurtling through the window of the Barnes’ family home you can’t help but be a bit shocked.

His presence commands attention but his demeanor is overtly disarming, daresay gentle. With a boy-ish charm he animatedly tells the story, strongly disagreeing with Bucky’s adjustment of details. You were expecting a hardened war hero, rough and tumble with scars to show for it. This extremely young man was the last thing you were expecting to walk through the door. You feel a peace settle over you as the men tell their childhood story in tandem.

Bucky gives you a moment of eye contact and his lips twitch to a smile. Not so bad right?

The delightful verbal sparring is interrupted by three giggling women - well, girls. They bounce up to the table, looking barely old enough to be allowed into the bar. Gushing about Captain America this, Howling Commandos that, they talk over each other getting louder by the moment. Steve smiles tight and you take note of how much his posture has shifted. Shoulders squared back, adjusting his tie every few moments. Several autographs later the women are finally guided back to their table by a helpful waitress.

Viscerally experiencing a shift between Captain Rogers to Steve to Captain America had you reeling. Seems the duty of being America’s Golden Boy came with some steep costs. Minutes later the same waitress reappears, apologetically placing a drink to your table.

“A Commando cocktail for you sir, from the same three ladies.” Steve sighs and pushes the drink to the middle of the table, decidedly ignoring the eager glances of the gaggle of girls across the room. “May I refresh anyone’s beverage?”

“I’ll have a Sidecar and she,” Steve points to the empty seat next to him, “will have a whiskey, neat.”

“Make that two,” Bucky adds.

You indicate that you’re still working on your first before eyeing the gifted drink between you. “The Commando cocktail. . . did your special ops team have a drink named in your honor?” you ask, perplexed.

Bucky moves his head from side to side. “Could be us. Could have a different meaning. I hope to God it’s not us, you’d think someone would have the decency not to mix bourbon and absinthe in our honor.”

Steve changes the subject to avoid any more embarrassment on his part. “I hear you’re a mechanic,” he leans in with interest.

“Was,” you correct. “Now I’m just a secretary.”

“A typist,” Bucky corrects you in turn. “And I’d say your skills are still pretty up-to-date.”

“Updated enough to do a house call? My Harley’s been making a funny noise, maybe you’d be able to fix it,” Steve says with a chuckle.

“I’d love to take a look at it. Is it high-pitched or low? The vibrations in motorcycles tend to knock the batteries dead fast.”

Steve does his best to smother how impressed he is behind his drink.

“Don’t know what good fixing it will do ya Steve, you’re just going to end up throwing it at something again,” Bucky scolds as he takes his own sip.

“Doing. . . throwing. . . what?” You ask.

Steve blushes, moving to answer when Bucky interrupts him. “This guy has thrown more bikes at enemies than days I spent as a POW. Just ‘cause you’re strong enough to toss ‘em doesn’t mean you should, pal.”

A clipped British accent floats over your table. “Don’t tell me you two are at it again over those motorbikes.”

You turn toward the voice and realize you had not known the definition of intimidation until you’d seen Peggy Carter. She almost perfectly matches Steve’s earlier confident stride except for the click of her heels. After a full day of work her makeup was flawless, accompanied by chestnut hair curled to perfection. High-waisted trousers followed a perfect line to her feet - paired with her simple white blouse and she was one of the most stunning women you’d ever laid eyes on.

The three of you stand as she arrives at the table. “Bucky, always lovely to see you,” she gives him a brief hug before turning on her heel to face you. There’s a sharpness to her gaze as she quickly looks you up and down. “Peggy Carter, pleased to finally meet you.” The handshake you share is firm, inspecting. Just like that, every defense you’d relaxed with Steve was right back in place.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Peggy.” She nods once and narrows her eyes slightly before turning to Steve.

“Hello, darling,” she hums to him with a subtle touch to his arm.

“Did your meeting go okay? Looked intense,” Steve pulls Peggy’s chair out for her before she sits and Bucky does the same for you.

“Bureaucratic nonsense, I’m afraid. I’ll fill you in later,” brown eyes cut to you and Bucky before giving a miniscule shake of her head. “Now what were we discussing?”

“We were talking about the ace mechanic at the table.” Was that a hint of a brag you heard in Bucky’s voice?

“Ah, yes. I heard of your time working in the factory. Do tell us more,” Peggy says breezily before sipping her whiskey.

You share the same story you’d shared with Bucky on your first date - though slightly less eloquently. While Steve reacts encouragingly and asks questions, Peggy sits in relative silence. Every time you turn her way, she’s watching you. Anyone passing by the table would just see someone listening; you could see the analysis rolling through her mind.

Once the conversation shifts you feel a warm hand gently resting on your knee for the briefest of moments. A sweet, It’s okay gesture from Bucky while he reminisced of their days overseas. Mere weeks into this and he could already read you like a book. Then again, reading each other was what started this whole thing, wasn’t it?

“. . . don’t you think?”

The awkward silence prompts you to shake out of your thoughts and glance around the table, everyone looking at you expectantly.

“I’m sorry, say again?”

Peggy drains her glass before setting her steeled gaze on you. “I was just observing that working with some men can tend to be draining. Have you shared that experience?”

You nod, choosing your words carefully - just as carefully as the question had been posed.

“I believe some men have difficulty accepting that a woman might be more knowledgeable in their field, due to their own presuppositions. I had hoped the way women stepped up to work during the war would have been celebrated but it only seems to have threatened the men that came back. I do hope that changes over time.”

She hums and adds a small, “Indeed” while Steve gives a sympathetic smile. “And how did you come to find out about Bucky’s war record?” The suspicion in her voice is minute, but still detectable.

“He had mentioned serving in Europe on our first date, so I knew he was a veteran. I didn’t find out about the. . . special operations until about a week later. One of my coworkers put two and two together when Bucky visited work one day and spilled the beans.”

Bucky grins in Steve’s direction. “She’s a big fan of yours, Stevie. Practically said she’d marry you on the spot.” Once again, Steve’s cheek dust pink.

“For which I apologized to Bucky for. It was mortifying. And unfair to have that reveal sprung on Bucky with no warning.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky insists, hand finding yours under the table.

Abruptly Peggy stands, prompting the two boys to jump to their feet. “I’m going to powder my nose. Would you like to join me?” she directs your way.

“Umm. . .” Bucky catches the hint of panic in your eye and tilts his head. What’s the worst she can do? “Sure. Could use some freshening up myself.”

“Lovely. Excuse us, boys.” Peggy leads the way through the clusters of people, past the bar to the restroom. The door clicks behind you and you’re afraid Peggy will be able to hear how fast your heart is beating. She rummages through her handbag for a moment before settling herself in front of the mirror. You take a position to her right, utilizing the other half of the mirror.

Uncapping a tube of lipstick Peggy expertly applies a fresh coat to her already rose-petal-red lips. Even the way she applied makeup was daunting. And you can’t shake the feeling that she’s waiting for you to speak first.

You clear your throat as you brush your fingers through your hair. “Thank you for taking the time to meet us tonight. I know how important you and Steve are to Bucky.”

“Hmm, yes, it’s our pleasure. They are very important to me as well. Both of them.”

Oh boy.

“The three of us have been through a war together, after all. You don’t come out of that without feeling a certain level of loyalty. I believe Steve and I share a concern for Bucky’s wellbeing.”

“Have I done something to make you particularly suspicious of me?”

As she turns to you, her softened features take you by surprise. “Whether he admits it or not, Bucky is an attractive, semi-notable public figure who happens to be attached to an extremely public figure. I wouldn’t put it past a woman to use Bucky to try to get close to Steve. Girls have tried before.” She checks one pin behind her ear before stepping to the door again.

You blink several times before responding. “And you think I’m one of those girls?”

“Not anymore.” She takes a few steps back to you. “My main concern for him now is the fact that he’s. . . in a vulnerable place. The war left many soldiers trying to find their footing. I want to make sure he doesn’t get tipped over in the process. I’d hate for him to feel any unnecessary pain if I could have headed it off from the start.”

“I. . . I do care for him, Peggy.” You face your reflection again, hands resting on the sink. “I had absolutely no intention of becoming romantically involved with someone. And then he was so kind to me in an environment where men have been. . . less than kind. Everything I learn about him draws me in closer. The last thing I want to do is be a source of pain or volatility.”

With a shaky breath you search for eye contact again, finding a new warmth emanating from hers.

“Well, I suppose we can work with that,” she offers as she opens the door. The tense air shifts and you give a small smile as you pass through the door and begin to follow her back to the table.

You are just stepping around the bar when a feminine “That’s okay, really. . .” catches your attention. Following the voice, your attention is drawn to a young couple standing by the bartop. Although every moment they were starting to look less like a couple and more like a man with wandering hands. The girl tries to step back which only results in his meaty hand fisting into the side of her dress and pulling her chest to his. Based on her expression what the man had to say was less than proper. She struggles to step out of his grip which only seems to tighten the more she wiggles.

You’ve had enough of that.

You detour from the route you and Peggy had set toward the table. Peggy picks up on your absence and turns to watch you curiously.

“Excuse me,” you state more than ask. One pair of panicked eyes and another pair of glazed-over ones come to rest on your face. “Is everything alright here?”

“Ev’things swell, sweet dish. We’s just having a lil talk.”

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

“Is that true, Miss?”

“Um, I- I’m-” she attempts to squeak out before the man bellows again.

“Was my word not good enough for you? You tryin’ ta grandstand your feminine chops for some cool cat?”

“I was speaking to Miss-” you turn expectantly towards the girl who’s looking younger by the minute.

“Cartwright. Helen,” she whispers.

“I was speaking to Miss Cartwright so if you’d please take a step back, sir.”

“I don’t gotta do nothin’ you tell me to.” You pull Helen behind you which only makes the man more belligerent. He starts yelling less-than-appropriate words and soon his anger rounds on you.

Drawing up to your full height you stare the man dead in the eye. “Is this the way you treat all women? Or just the ones smaller than you?”

A giant hand wraps itself around your forearm, jerking you towards him. “Now listen here bitch, I-” Before he can finish his drunken thought, perfectly manicured fingers clutch his wrist. He’s violently pulled away from you, arm pinned behind his back - his face making intimate contact with the bartop.

“Now now,” Peggy coos. “That’s no way to treat friends of mine. Seems like you need a moment to cool down.” The brute strains against Peggy’s grip, a foot kicking back every so often. You land a spiked heel directly to the top of one of his feet, digging in for good measure when his howl of pain can be heard over the tune of the band. “Thank you for that, dear,” Peggy says, clearly enjoying the situation. A scuffle is heard behind you but you’re too focused on making sure the boar doesn’t hurt Peggy to pay it much mind.

“Looks like you two have things handled, but could I be of assistance?” Steve strides next to you, honeyed voice contrasting sharply with his stern gaze.

Peggy blows a puff of air at a curl that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Would you mind escorting this gentleman to the curb? I believe fresh air is in order.”

“My pleasure.” With the back of his collar fisted in Steve’s hand the bully has no choice but to have his face unceremoniously unstuck from the bar and pushed toward a back entrance. Peggy follows closely, speaking in the man’s ear the whole way out, waving off a pair of security guards.

You can feel Bucky’s presence but turn your attention to the now-shaking young woman, bringing your hands up to her arms. “Helen, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head. Tears hang stubbornly in her eyes, fighting not to show how shaken she really was over the ordeal.

“I’m sorry he put his hands on you. Do you have anyone you can call?” She nods, reaching for the purse hanging off of her wrist. “That’s great.” Your eyes drift to Helen’s waist. “Oh dear. Looks like you didn’t make it completely unscathed.”

Helen’s gaze follows yours before she lets out a dismayed sigh. “I just picked this dress up from the cleaner’s yesterday.” She fingers the ripped fabric of her dress. Now tears are flowing freely.

“It’s only ripped on the seam, that can be fixed in a jiffy.” You look over your shoulder at Bucky and ask him to retrieve your light coat from the table. He’s gone and back in a flash and you drape it over Helen’s shoulders. “Take this to cover up on your way home. Let me find a pen and paper and I can write down the information for my favorite seamstress in the city. Her prices are fair and her work is solid.” A scrap of paper and a pencil are produced from your purse and you add your information at the bottom. “In case you need anything else while you’re in the city,” you explain as you hand the note over.

“How can I get your coat back to you?” Helen asks as she buttons it closed.

“Don’t worry about it,” you dismiss. “It’s almost summer and I was due for a new jacket anyway. Just stay safe, okay?” You wipe a few leftover tears from her face and nod in encouragement as she heads to the phone booth by the entrance.

“Are you alright?” Suddenly you’re hyper-aware of Bucky’s close proximity, his hand gently raising up your forearm toward a lamp on the bar.

“Um, I think so. He grabbed me pretty good but it shouldn’t be too bad.” You rub the area the drunk had gripped and hiss softly at the tenderness of your skin. “It’ll heal.”

“I guess I don’t need to tell you that was incredibly stupid?” Bucky attempts to sound nonchalant but the slight edge to his voice gives him away.

“Probably not. But it’s better this than something even worse happening to Helen because I ignored it.”

“My God, there’s another one of him.” You both face a newly arrived Peggy who is taming her curls, Steve not too far behind.

Bucky grumbles, “Evidently.”

“That took an exciting turn. What say we cut a rug to forget that jerk?” Steve steps to your side. “May I have the honor, ma’am?” He asks, offering a hand to you.

“Me? Oh, sure.” You settle your hand in his lightly, looking to Bucky for his confirmation. He quirks his mouth to one side, nods subtly. He’s harmless.

As Steve gives you a simple twirl onto the dance floor you notice Peggy in Bucky’s arms a few couples away and you can’t help but wonder what they’re discussing. As you and Steve move around the room Peggy speaks steadily, Bucky hanging onto every word.

“You alright?” Steve’s deep voice snaps your attention back to him. He’s watching you empathetically.

“Just been a bit of a rockier night than I expected,” you say with a half-hearted chuckle. You catch yourself relaxing in Steve’s arms - not the way you did in Bucky’s, obviously. But there was still a soothing sense of security coming off of Steve in waves. “I pictured this going much differently.”

He breathes a laugh as he spins you out and brings you back in. “It’s going about as I expected, except I wasn’t the one causing trouble tonight. Thanks for that.”

A genuine smile breaks your sobriety. “Just hope it didn’t ruin yours and Peggy’s opinions of me.”

“Hardly!” he says with glee. “I already knew I would like you and the bit at the bar probably sealed the deal for Peg.”

“Really? Because I got the feeling she isn’t my biggest fan.”

“Ah, she’s just protective and tough. The first time she got really angry with me she grabbed the nearest pistol and fired four shots at me.” Steve laughs at how comically wide your eyes grow. “I deserved it. But there’s a lot of love and care beneath the cool gazes and harsh tone.” He catches your eye and clears his throat. “Although I’m not the one who told you that,” he whispers conspiratorially.

A grin overtakes your face. “Thanks for that. Makes me feel a little better.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s driving you crazy not being able to hear what they’re talking about right now, huh?”

You sigh, the pair of you circling around where Bucky and Peggy are in both your sights. “You’re not wrong.”

“Did Bucky ever tell you the specific effects the serum had on me?”

“Made you super strong, super fast? That’s the gist of what I got.”

“To accompany that, all my senses are heightened. I can smell my favorite bakery across the city, can read signs a mile or two away. And,” he looks down at you mischievously, “I can hear just about every conversation in this room.”

“You can? That has to be insanely overwhelming.”

“It was for the first few months. Then I learned how to tune certain things in and out. You wanna eavesdrop with me?”

You shake your head, “Oh, I don’t-umm, I’d hate to pry.”

“You don’t have to. I’m going to.” Oh, you really like Steve.

Steve turns you so he has a clear view of his best friends and seems to focus intently beyond your shoulder.

“Peggy said something about being careful how quickly he moves forward with you. Bucky just asked Peggy why she was trying to scare you away earlier. She says she was testing your resolve, which stood up better than she expected,” he spares a glance to you, “Bravo to you on that. Peggy says she admired your action with the young woman at the bar. Bucky’s not surprised that you stepped in when there was trouble . . and now they’re just talking shit about me, which is their usual topic of discussion. Did that help?”

“It did. Thank you, Steve.”

“Anytime.”

Quiet follows for a few bars of the song, your brain mulling over the whole night.

After another turn Steve asks, “You haven’t met the family yet, right?”

“Right. Bucky’s dodged the subject more than once. I haven’t pushed it.”

Steve grimaces. “I can’t really blame him. I love the Barneses like they’re my own, but they can be overwhelming sometimes.”

“So I’ve gathered. Honestly, all I know is that he has three sisters and that was only shared in a few asides.”

“Three sisters, all younger. Becca, Rose, and Evelyn. He’s close to his Ma and Becca. Him and Rose don’t have many issues, mostly because they never spent a lot of time together. Things with Evelyn are strained because she’s turning into an adult and Bucky is having a hard time letting her. And his father. . .” Steve weighs his words. “His father is old-fashioned and always will be. They don’t get along.”

“Sounds like that’ll be a fun meeting.”

“When the time comes, you’ll do great.” Steve was so earnest in his reassurance you couldn’t help but believe him.

“May I cut in?” you turn to Bucky’s voice, glad to see him smiling.

“Only if you trade for this gorgeous partner of yours,” Steve teases, mocking a bow to Peggy.

“Oh sod off,” she scolds as Steve pulls her close while the band begins playing a new song.

You nestle into Bucky’s side with a hand tucked in his, relishing in the ease of a moment alone together.

“You good?” Bucky whispers when the song has almost come to an end.

Pulling back, you match his amorous gaze. “Yeah. I’m good.” A soft kiss meets your temple and you practically melt further into Bucky.

“Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Thanks for asking me.”

“Try not to be too much trouble next time, huh?”

“No promises, Barnes.”

Chapter Ten

Tags:

@moderapoppins @lookwhatyoumademequeue @lucyyannabel@crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @thinkwritexpress-official @fearless2tobeme @laneygthememequeen @past-perfect-future-tense @drhughgrection @promarvelfangirl @connorshero @anditwasjustus @p3nny4urth0ught5 @usernamemingmei @the-canary @thorfanficwriter @blueskiesbleakeyes @silverwing2522 @satansmushroom @nerd-without-a-cause @barnesrogersvstheworld @firewolf-marvels @reginaphlanageadams @kiliakit @forsaken-letters @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @part-time-patronus @biavastarr @ellaenchanted91 @ihopeyousteponarosepetal @handfulof-roses @bloatedandlonly @barnestruck @itsbuckysworld @captainsbuck @writemarvelousthings @marvelous-avengers @havanaangel @animeflower26 @igotkatiepowers @clockworkherondale @buckybarneshairpullingkink @abovethesmokestacks @lucyyannabel @ursulaismymiddlename @hiddles-rose @thisismysecrethappyplace @palaiasaurus64 @fanfic-diaries @fangirlfictionmain @creideamhgradochas @mcueveryday @cassianpeia

#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Reader Insert #1940s Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes Series #Bucky Barnes x You #All We've Got is Time #Chapter Nine #beka writes #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction

286 notes · View notes

kerfufflewatch · 5 years

Text

quick HC about their feelings on marriage that turned into a 1700-word fic, whoops whoops

“Somethin’ wrong, sugar? Went a bit quiet on me there.”

Hanzo blinks, and his eyes burn as the ceiling swims back into focus. He glances down at McCree, draped over him with his chin propped on Hanzo's chest, then out the window. The sun had still been setting, its golden rays still sneaking through the blinds of their dorm to dapple across their sheets and skin, when they had first settled into bed in the pleasant exhaustion of post-orgasmic glow; now, it is simply dark.

Hanzo affects a smile as he looks back to McCree. "It is nothing," he says, but McCree's worried frown only deepens.

"You sure?" McCree presses gently, and Hanzo is helpless to do anything but sigh and fall back against the pillows. Damn McCree for his perceptiveness--nothing fools him anymore.

"It is something Genji said to me earlier," he admits to the ceiling, unable to meet McCree's gaze.

"Yeah? What'd he say?"

"He . . . asked when we planned to get married."

It had been an offhand comment made earlier that day--a joke more than anything else. They had been discussing the mission that McCree himself was out on, as well as half of the rest of the team, over cups of tea in the dining hall. Hanzo doesn't quite recall how the conversation had transitioned from the mission to McCree to Hanzo's relationship with him, but nonetheless something had prompted Genji to tease, "So when are the two of you just going to get married and get it over with?"

The question had caused Hanzo to sputter on a mouthful of tea, making Genji laugh. After wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Hanzo had replied, "We have no plans to do any such thing."

"No?" Genji had tilted his head a little, looking both thoughtful and thoroughly amused. "I admit I don't know how either of you feel about it, but it seems like something that should have come up."

"It has not," Hanzo said shortly.

Genji shrugged exaggeratedly and the conversation moved on, but the idea had stuck in Hanzo's head. True, he and McCree had been together now for some time--just over two years--and it made sense to wonder if they would ever take that step. But the thought of it alone had made fear curdle in his gut, and he had left his cup of tea unfinished. Once the announcement came over the comms that the Orca was arriving with the team, Hanzo had forgotten it entirely in favor of meeting McCree at the hangar (and wrestling him into bed for the first time in two weeks), and he wished that had been the end of it. The memory only came back as they lay together now, and Hanzo would happily have never said a word if not for McCree's damned perceptiveness.

McCree sits up slowly, sliding off of Hanzo to prop himself up on his arms at Hanzo's side. "Don't think we ever talked about that before," he says slowly.

"No. I told him as much."

McCree's brow furrows, and he clears his throat. "But it's still buggin' you," he says slowly. "Maybe it's . . . somethin' we should talk about?"

Hanzo sighs deeply. He does not want to have this conversation at all. Everything about their relationship may be unconventional in some way, but McCree still has the more romantic heart of the two of them, still has better ideas of how these things should go, and Hanzo is certain his answer will ruin everything.

"Hanzo?" McCree prompts. "What—"

"I do not want to get married," Hanzo says.

There is a pause. "No?" McCree asks. Hanzo waits for him to say anything else that might betray more emotion than the single syllable, but when nothing else is forthcoming, he swallows and turns his head away on the pillow.

"In my family, marriage was a tool," he explains. "Most marriages were for convenience, or power. Those that were not were few and far between. I in particular, as the future head of the family, was expected to marry whoever would provide the best relations. Eligible women from other families were offered to me, and I suspect I to them, as though we were meant to choose our favorite toy and hope we tolerated each other. My feelings on the matter, or even whether I cared for any of them at all, were not important."

Hanzo hunches his shoulders, as though it will protect him from McCree's disappointment. "I have never been that fond of the concept overall, regardless. Perhaps because of my upbringing, the assumption I would never have a truly loving relationship. But I cannot shake that association, that feeling that marriage is nothing more than an inescapable contract done for the benefit of others, even if I know better now. I do not think that will ever change."

The bed dips as McCree shifts. Hanzo grips handfuls of the blanket in tight fists. "Can I say somethin'?" McCree asks.

With great reluctance, Hanzo turns his head to look at McCree. "I don't think I wanna get married, either," McCree says.

Hanzo blinks. The tightness in his chest loosens so abruptly that he feels lightheaded. "You don't?"

McCree shakes his heads. His mouth twists with an uncertain frown. "I did, once upon a time," he says. "When I was younger, when stuff was . . . well, nothing was all that stable in Blackwatch, but that was probably the closest I was gonna get. Wasn't even sure I'd live to see my thirties, though, let alone long enough to have anyone. After that, well . . . I've signed enough contracts that have fucked me over, lost a few other folks, that the idea of gettin' married proper just makes me nervous. Too much shit to deal with if it all goes south."

He shrugs, but the motion is forced. Hanzo turns fully to face him and takes his hand on the bed between them. McCree gives a weak smile as he threads their fingers together. "And all that's assumin' we even got it all cleaned up to do it legally," he continues. "But even if we didn't do the papers and all, I never really wanted to make a big fuss about spendin' my life with someone if I could just do it. Especially if it might not be all that long."

The relief that Hanzo first felt evaporates, replaced by a sour feeling of dread in his stomach as a new thought occurs to him. By the look on McCree's face, he has thought the same.

"Then where does that leave us?" Hanzo asks softly.

McCree blows out a breath. "Dunno," he says. "Guess that does sort of leave us without the usual end goal, doesn't it." He worries the inside of his cheek as he thinks, while the weight of their realization hangs heavy in the air between them.

Eventually, McCree says, "But, here's the thing. Does it really matter?"

"Does it not?" Hanzo counters. "If neither of us wants to marry when that is normally the end of a relationship, does it not matter? I would have thought you, more than I, would want this."

"Does it have to be the goal? It's not like anything else in our lives is normal. If neither us wants it but we're still happy, ain't that enough?"

"I am happy," Hanzo says emphatically. "I just fear that this means . . ." He trails off, unable to voice the words aloud, but the meaning is clear enough.

McCree shifts his grip on Hanzo's hand and brings it to his lips, pressing a dry kiss to the knuckles as he thinks. "I don't know what I want in the future," he says softly. "It was only pretty recently that I even started thinkin' there might be a future for me, let alone one with someone else. I'm so used to movin' around, doin' something new every day, not banking on anything stickin' around. I don't know how long we'll be in Overwatch. I don't know if I wanna stay here until I can't do it anymore, or move out to a little house in the middle of nowhere, or go back to takin' bounties, or what."

He meets Hanzo's gaze, his eyes wide with sincerity. "What I do know, though," he concludes, "is that whatever I end up doin', I want you there with me." He offers a tiny smile, which Hanzo returns with a wobbly one of his own, the emotions clamoring in his throat making him nervous to speak. "However we do it, I know I wanna spend my life with you, as long as you'll have me."

Hanzo's throat tightens and his eyes begin to burn traitorously. He swallows past it all, refusing to let himself be overwhelmed. "I want that as well," he says thickly. McCree's smile breaks into a grin, triggering a swell of confidence in Hanzo as he continues, "Likewise, I was never able to envision a future for myself. Sometimes, it still feels like wishful thinking to imagine there is anything after today. But I cannot see myself without you, and if there is a future to be had, I want it to be with you. Even if it is not by the route we are expected to take."

Hanzo feels better when he sees McCree's smile wobble, too. "That sounds like a plan to me," McCree replies, the casual response belied by the tears that he rapidly blinks away.

Hanzo chases that answer with a hard kiss--graceless, barely more than a press of lips and teeth and soon broken by matching bouts of joyful laughter. McCree pulls Hanzo into a tight embrace and Hanzo goes willingly, muffling the last of his laughter in the hollow of McCree's throat. He sighs and melts into boneless contentment as McCree's hand comes up to stroke through his hair.

"I love you," he murmurs against warm skin. He only hesitates a fraction of a second before he does, and it occurs to him just how strange that is when not long ago, he could barely admit to himself that he had feelings for McCree at all.

McCree's hold tightens as he buries his face in Hanzo's hair. "Love you too, sugar," he breathes. "We're gonna do just fine."

As they settle in for sleep, it's on the tip of Hanzo's tongue to point out that it's still early, and they never got around to eating dinner. However, wrapped up as he is, warm and heavy, in awe of the potential futures that lay before them, Hanzo decides they can wait just a little longer.

#kerfuffle fic #overwatch #mchanzo

519 notes · View notes

mickeylovebot · 5 years

Text

THERAPY - fluffy/sad gallavich oneshot

Mickey and Ian had been married for a couple years. They lived together, happily. They took turns making breakfast. They went on dates every couple of weeks. They still fucked all the time, everywhere they could. They were still in love, but now it was comfortable. They weren’t endlessly fighting for one another. They knew they had each other. They knew they could love and rely on each other. They were soulmates, together at last. One night, though...

“Mick. Mickey, wake up.” Ian shook Mickey worriedly. Mickey had been twitching in his sleep, gasping for air.

Finally, Mickey awoke, looking around like he didn’t know where he was.

“It’s okay, Mick. You’re here. I’m here.” Ian tried to reassure him.

Mickey looked into Ian’s eyes and immediately felt a bit better. And then a bit embarrassed. “Fuck.” He complained.

“Are you okay?” Ian laid back down, spooning Mickey and gently rubbing his hand. “That’s your fourth nightmare this week.”

“I’m fine, don’t fuckin’ call it a nightmare.” Mickey said defensively.

“Mickey–”

“Can’t hear you. I’m going back to sleep.” And that was that. But Mickey kept his eyes open, and snuggled back into Ian, silently fearing falling back asleep.

Ian kept his eyes open too, staring at the back of Mickey’s neck, counting his neckhairs, knowing that Mickey was going through something Ian couldn’t fix.

Ian woke up earlier than Mickey for work. On his way out, he kissed a half-asleep Mickey on the cheek and they exchanged “I-love-you”s before the day. Ian worked as an EMT. Mickey worked as security in another south side store. But Mickey was off that day.

“Hey Mick, I’ve got a funny story ab–” Ian said loudly once he’d gotten home. It was usual for them to share what happened during their days. They shared everything. “Mick?”

But he couldn’t see Mickey. He checked every room frantically, finally making his way to the bedroom, where Mickey was curled up in the corner, shaking and sweating, staring blankly at the floor. “Mick.” Ian ran over and kneeled down next to Mickey. “Mickey, baby, what’s wrong?”

Mickey didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. Ian looked around for anything, a broken window, a mark, anything, and finally saw Mickey’s tattooed knuckles strained because he was holding his phone so tightly. Ian managed to loosen Mickey’s grip, which Mickey was still unresponsive to.

Ian saw that the phone was open to the middle of an article, where a teenage boy was talking about how his father abused him in detail. Ian started tearing up, realizing what Mickey might be going through.

“Mickey, can you look at me?” Ian asked Mickey quietly. He knew what it was like. He’d seen it a million times as an EMT. And he knew that’s how he’d looked whenever he was having a panic attack, whenever he was having a flashback, whenever his meds had gone out of balance. Mickey blinked. “Mickey, please. Look at me.”

Mickey finally, slowly, looked up at Ian. Ian had never seen him so scared.

“You’re safe.” Ian said. “You’re safe here. Nobody will hurt you here. He’s not here.”

Mickey kept staring at Ian. Tears were starting to well up in his eyes as well.

“C’mon, let’s get you up, get you to the couch.” Ian took Mickey’s hand and arm and tried to help him up. Mickey was almost burdening Ian with his entire weight. He could barely stand. But they made it to the couch, where Ian sat beside him, facing him, holding him. Tears were pouring out of Mickey’s eyes now.

“It’s okay. It will all be okay, Mick. You’re safe.” Ian tried to soothe him, like he soothed his patients, like he’d been soothed before. Eventually, it worked. Mickey fell asleep, to which Ian laid him down gently and put a blanket over him. Ian couldn’t bear to leave Mickey like that and fell asleep too, sitting up, holding his hand. When he woke up, Mickey wasn’t there. He went searching again and found him lying on their bed, staring at an opened beer bottle on the side table.

Over the years, Mickey opened up about a lot of things. He was getting more and more in touch with his feelings, which was miraculous, really. But Ian knew that something this deep would be hard to get out of him. So all he did was lie down and spook Mickey again, silently, and to his surprise, Mickey spoke up.

“I’ve stabbed people,” He began, “I’ve been shot. I own like a million guns. I’m the shortest guy I know and I still have a fucking great right hook. I have guys that will listen to anything I ask. I’ve tried to kill people, a few times. And yet somehow, somehow...” His voice cracked a bit. He couldn’t say the rest, but Ian understood.

“Mick,” Ian almost laughed at the ridiculousness, “You’re still tough. You’re still the guy who will throw a punch at anybody for anything, hell, half the time you don’t even need a reason. You’re still the guy who people should be afraid of. You’re still the guy who’s endlessly sarcastic and sometimes cold. You’re still the toughest guy I know. And... you’re still the guy I fell in love with. And if I wasn’t so in love with you I think I’d be scared of you too.” He whispered that last part. Mickey gave a somewhat sad chuckle. “But he’s your dad, Mick. The piece of shit who raised you, if you can even use that word. Of course it was gonna bother you eventually...”

Mickey said nothing, for a moment, and turned around to face Ian. He had that same look in his eye that he had for years. The look that said the blood pumped in his veins for the stupid redhead in front of him. He still looked sad, worried, angry, but the love he felt for Ian got through all of that. He gently cupped Ian’s cheek and looked him right in the eyes. “But why now?” He said quietly. “Why is that bastard giving me nightmares now? I didn’t even have fucking nightmares when I was nine years old.”

“Well,” Ian pulled Mickey closer, “You’re relatively safe now. You’re not constantly thinking about the next drug deal, the next shooting, the next time you have to beat a guy for mistreating one of your prostututes. And you never dealt with it... so, your mind decided to deal with it now.”

“I don’t want him to have power over me like this. Not anymore.” Mickey said with a clenched jaw.

“I know, baby, I know.” Ian kissed him softly and then Mickey laid his head on Ian’s chest.

He wrapped his legs around Ian’s and listened to his slow heartbeat. “What do I do now?”

Ian knew what to do next. But he figured he’d leave it for the morning. He’d let Mickey just rest. He’d put on Mickey’s favourite show and make his favourite food for dinner. And in the morning...

Ian quickly ended his call when Mickey came to the kitchen for breakfast.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “Who was that?”

Ian hoped he’d have more time to think of how to tell him. “Um... a therapist.” He said honestly.

“Oh, why, your meds out of whack again?” He asked casually as he put a waffle on his plate.

“For you, Mick.” Ian admitted quietly. Mickey’s mouth hung open.

“No. I’m not goin’ to a shrink.” He said sternly.

“You need somebody who can help you, Mickey.” Ian pleaded.

Mickey shook his head. “You help me. I don’t need a doctor. I’m not bipolar, or depressed, or anything. It’s just a fuckin’ nightmare.”

“I’m not... I can’t be there all the time. I can’t make your nightmares go away. But a therapist could help you deal with it yourself. A therapist could really make it all go away for you.”

Mickey stared right at him, speechless. “I said no.” And Mickey went for his jacket.

“Mick–” Ian tried to stop him, to sit him down, to talk about it.

“I’m goin’ for a walk before work.” Was all Mickey said. He looked at Ian once more. He looked like he knew, deep down, that maybe Ian was right. And then he quickly kissed him on the lips, said “I love you.” And left.

The day trudged on slowly for the both of them. Ian was sick with worry about Mickey. Mickey was sick with guilt about leaving Ian in the dark like that. They both waited impatiently for the end of the day, where they could talk. Ian came home first, and was pacing around the apartment, trying to find something to do, something to clean, to keep his anxious mind off of it until Mickey got home.

And when Mickey finally got home, Ian shamelessly rushed to the door and took Mickey by surprise with a kiss.

Mickey grinned into the kiss and pulled away. “What was that for?”

“I was worried.” Ian said breathlessly.

Mickey rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to–”

“I do.” Ian interrupted. “You’re one of the very few people I actually care about. I do need to fucking worry.”

And Mickey, seeing the distress Ian was under, let go of his emotionless pose. “I’m sorry.” He said with eyes that were just as sorry.

“Can we talk about it? Therapy?” Ian asked.

“Fine. But just talking.” Mickey was already on the defence. But he would listen. For Ian’s sake.

Ian nodded, “Okay, come in, I made tea.” He didn’t admit that he made tea because he needed something to distract himself with.

“Tea?” Mickey muttered to himself.

Ian set the tea down on the coffee table. From the few times Mickey had tea, he remembered: one sugar. And black for himself.

Mickey sipped his tea and watched Ian awkwardly. Neither of them knew where to start.

“I need you to be okay.” Ian blurted out.

“I’ll be okay.” Mickey tried to reassure him. But Ian knew that nobody would be okay after what Mickey’s gone through.

“Why don’t you want to go?” Ian asked genuinely but still with anxiety.

“I dunno...” It was the truth, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t want anybody picking inside my head.” Anybody but you, he thought.

“What if I go too?” Ian asked, out of nowhere.

“What? With me?” Mickey asked in a way that already said no.

“No. On my own, just... I’ll tell them things too. About Frank, maybe. About never having a real parent. About Monica... I’ve been through, uh, half the shit you’ve been through but I probably need it too.”

Flashes of moments flew by where Mickey had to be the protector, the comforter, the one who held Ian when he cried, when everything came back up. He remembered how his chest tightened and how he’d do anything for Ian never to feel that way again.

“I don’t want to either,” Ian continued, “I don’t like bringing that shit up. But if you will, I will.”

“You’ll really talk to them? About everything? A stranger?”

Ian nodded quickly. “If it means you’ll do the same.”

“Fuck,” And Mickey’s wall had been broken down. “I’ll try it. I guess.”

Ian looked both surprised and ecstatic. He immediately pulled Mickey into a tight hug. Mickey pretended to be annoyed.

“Thank you, thank you.” Ian said quietly, sincerely.

“I said I’ll try it.” Mickey pointed out as Ian pulled away from the hug.

Ian couldn’t help but kiss Mickey, holding the back of his neck gently. He kissed Mickey’s cheek, jaw, neck.

“If this is the gift I get for going to therapy maybe I’ll go quite a bit,” Mickey joked.

“Shut up.” Ian smiled. They looked at each other so genuinely, so adoringly. “I love you.” Ian said, as if it was coming out of his mouth before he knew it, as if he was admitting it for the first time.

“I love you too.”

And just like that, Mickey was taking another step in his life, for Ian, like everything was, always for Ian.

Ian sat thankful, comfortable, and mindlessly kissed the silver band on Mickey’s ring finger. And Mickey noticed, and felt warm inside. And they were okay, together.

#gallavich #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #ITS WHAT HE DESERVES.#MICKEY DESERVES THE LOVE #i love him 🥺#ian x mickey #my writing

30 notes · View notes

nightingiall · 5 years

Text

little do you know, chapter 24; gravity

Fact: She’s in love with him, too.

previous chapters + drabbles

Niall was freaking out.

His leg had healed significantly over the past few weeks, and he didn’t need the crutches all too much anymore, but he still needed to take it easy. Which was why Mona could not understand why he was currently limping back and forth across the length of his bedroom. She didn’t know why he was so stressed. After all, nothing was happening that warranted this type of behavior.

The only thing that was happening was that his mom was coming over for a visit.

“This is a big deal!” he got out frustratedly after she insisted, for the millionth time, that it was not. “I told her that she didn’t have to come and that I was fine but of course she didn’t listen and is coming over here for the second time in the past few months—”

“Niall,” Mona huffed, cutting him off. She was currently sitting on his bed helping him sort through his clean laundry since apparently she kept leaving her socks in his hamper and now she couldn’t find any of them. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Finally, he stopped pacing, but only to send a glare her way. “You’re not helping,” he muttered after a moment, resuming his route across the length of his room.

Mona groaned, tossing a sock at him. The stress was radiating off of him and it was starting to make her feel jittery. “Stop it, you’re driving me nuts!”

Niall huffed, turning towards his window and leaning on the edge. “You don’t have to be here then,” he muttered under his breath. Clearly it wasn’t exactly meant for her to hear.

But she definitely heard it, and she rolled her eyes, pausing to watch him quietly for a few moments. He was leaning on the windowsill to take the pressure off his bad leg, occasionally running his fingers through the hair near the nape of his neck in the way he did when he was annoyed. She frowned to herself, wondering what about this situation had him so worked up. She thought he and his mom were fine.

She figured she should let him cool off for a bit before asking him again, so she slipped off his bed and towards the kitchen. Liam wasn’t around and with only the two of them in the apartment, it was unnervingly silent. She opened the freezer to see if there were any ice packs in there since Niall had an annoying habit of leaving them around. Luckily, there was one left. She grabbed it and wrapped it in some paper towels, knowing that Niall would probably be in pain once his adrenaline rush wore out with all the pacing he was doing.

When she got back to the room, Niall was sitting on the bed, elbows resting on his thighs and head bowed as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. She sighed to herself. She didn’t like seeing him so upset. Silently, she made her way over to him. His eyes were closed before she reached out to him, and when she trailed her fingers through his hair, he looked up at her with those sad blue eyes that always made her heart ache.

“Thanks,” he mumbled when she handed him the ice pack. “And I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

Mona smiled at him. “C’mere,” she murmured, holding her arms out towards him, and he wasted no time in pulling her in, her knees nestled between his as he wrapped his arms around her hips and rested his forehead on her tummy. She held him for a while, swaying slightly with her fingers playing with his hair. It was a bit grown out since he hadn’t had a haircut in a while and it was still slightly damp from the shower he’d just had, but he hummed as she pressed her fingers over his scalp and down the back of his neck, rubbing circles all the way across the width of his back.

He sighed, shoulders slumping as he relaxed. She leaned down to press her lips to his head, and when he looked up at her, she thought that he looked so exhausted, so she pressed another kiss to his lips too. “I’m tired,” he mumbled quietly against her lips. “Will you lay down with me?”

She turned around to glance outside the window only to find that the sun was rapidly dipping down the sky, the building across the street bathed in a warm, golden glow. “Okay.” She skimmed her knuckles against his cheek and smiled at the way he leaned against her. “Let me go shower first.”

He huffed, frowning at her. “Fine,” he grumbled, “but you better come back otherwise I’ll go hunting you down.”

At that, she giggled, smoothing back his hair to press her lips to his hairline just because she could and because she couldn’t help herself. “So grumpy today,” she teased, and when even that didn’t elicit a smile out of him, she rolled her eyes fondly. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

She left him to get comfortable in his bed on his own. With the way his eyes were drooping, though, she figured he’d be asleep by the time she got back. Anyway, it was still a bit too early to go to sleep and she wasn’t all that tired. Her shift with Jingle today had been a slow one and the past few days had been quite uneventful.

Regardless, she and Niall were great. After that kiss on the rooftop there was a palpable shift in their relationship. Sure, they were no strangers to the occasional cuddle or kisses, but every single touch seemed a bit more meaningful now. It wasn’t just a one-off thing, and now, whenever Niall held her hand or even did something as simple as brushing the hair out of her face, she knew that there were bigger feelings behind the gesture.

Everyone else had noticed too. They wouldn’t necessarily comment on it, but Zayn would give her a wink whenever she sat next to Niall on the couch or Liam would grin wickedly at her whenever he caught her leaving Niall’s room on some mornings. Mona didn’t mind though. She was happy, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like things were beginning to make sense.

After she showered, brushed her teeth, and had done all the steps—even the extra ones she saved for when she was really in the mood—of her skin care routine, she slipped into some comfy sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt and headed back to Niall’s room. As she’d suspected, he was already snoring softly when she got there.

When she lifted the blanket to crawl in next to him, he snuffled slightly, humming under his breath as she made herself comfortable. “Took you long enough,” he mumbled, reaching back to pull her arm over his body, holding her hand to his chest.

Mona giggled. It wasn’t often that she got to be the big spoon so she happily curled into him. She pressed her lips to the back of his neck and to the hinge of his jaw and to the corner of his mouth, resting her cheek against his when she was done. “Tell me why you’re so cranky today,” she murmured into his skin, peppering feather light kisses over his face in hopes of making him smile. She grinned when it worked, his cheeks lifting as he did.

“Lemme sleep,” he whined, wriggling until she was curled up against him normally again. She sighed against the back of his neck, wondering what in the world had him acting all fidgety. This wasn’t like him; out of the pair of them, he was always the most forthcoming about how he was feeling. She frowned, realizing now how he must feel whenever she brushed him off and didn’t want to talk about anything.

She supposed the only thing she could do was leave him be for now. When he was ready to talk, he would. It wasn’t long until she was closing her eyes, drifting off into a dreamless slumber.

When Mona woke, she found that she was suddenly the little spoon.

It was now dark in the room and she wondered if that meant it was late at night or early morning. Still, she kept her eyes closed because she didn’t want her body to wake up completely, otherwise she would never go back to sleep. Niall’s arm was draped across her, a heavy, solid weight against her side, and she wondered if he was sleeping.

As if reading her mind, he pressed his lips to the back of her neck, keeping them there as he tangled his fingers into hers. She couldn’t help but smile a little, shifting back so their bodies were pressed closely together. “Darlin’, you awake?” he whispered, and warmth pooled in the pit of her tummy because it felt like so long since he had called her that. His voice didn’t have the grogginess of a person who had just woken up.

The same could not be said about her. “Barely.” Her eyelids were heavy and she could feel herself beginning to succumb to her drowsiness. “Sleepy.”

He sighed against her shoulder, the scruff on his jawline rubbing against her skin. He pressed fleeting kisses to her neck, traveling up her jawline until he got to the corner of her mouth, leaning his cheek against hers. She couldn’t help the way she affectionately rolled her eyes at him because he was mimicking what she had done with him earlier. “Sorry I was being such a jerk today,” he murmured. He was a comfortable weight on her body and, if anything, it only made her more sleepy.

She hummed, turning around to wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest. “You apologized already.” Her favorite thing in the world had become pressing her ear just over his heart to listen to the rhythm it made, the sound a slow and steady beat that comforted her like no other. “Sorry I was prying. You don’t have to talk about it yet if you don’t want to.”

Niall held her close, his hands skimming the back of her arm and the length of her spine, fingertips pressing warmth into her skin. “You weren’t even really prying,” he muttered, but his voice didn’t sound annoyed, just tired. As if trying to convey that he came across more frustrated than he was, he pressed a kiss to her head, nuzzling into her.

She sighed, shifting so she could look up at him because she wouldn’t be able to sleep if her sunshine boy was out of sorts. “I don’t like when you’re upset,” she mumbled, skimming her fingertips across his cheekbones and down his jawline. He took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers, sending her a small, tired looking smile, and something about it made her heart twist.

“I’m not—I’m just...I dunno,” he inhaled deeply, holding her hand to his chest, “anxious, I guess. Because my mum is coming over.”

Mona frowned. “But why? I thought everything was okay between you two.”

He was starting to fidget and she found herself reaching out to hold his other hand so he wouldn’t start to chew on his fingernails. “They are. Everything’s great between us and I miss her but,” he shrugged, but Mona could tell he was anything but nonchalant. “I didn’t want her to spend more money considering she was the one who bought my plane ticket for Ireland. And I feel guilty because...I want her to come.”

She couldn’t help the way she shook her head at him, leaning forward until their noses were nearly touching. “Don’t worry about all of that,” she said, running her fingers through his hair and twisting the ends a bit. “She loves you and wants to be here for you. Just let her.” His neck was warm as she tucked her head into it, sighing contentedly into his skin. “Besides,” she murmured, “maybe she’ll talk some sense into you about hobbling around when your knee is still healing.”

At that, Niall laughed, and the sound, all light and airy, filled her with a happiness she couldn’t even explain. He held her close, fingers tracing shapes into her shoulder blades, and the feeling started to lull her back to sleep.

“Stop worrying,” she mumbled just before she fell asleep completely. “Let her love you.”

If Niall said something after that, she had no idea. Because she took a deep breath and suddenly, she was out like a light.

Maura’s laugh was genuine and contagious and loud.

All Mona could think about whenever she heard it was how Niall probably got that laugh from his mother.

Maura had been staying with Niall for the past few days and, needless to say, none of them were ever bored around her. Mona’s first impression of her, from all those months ago, was that she was such a graceful and poised woman, and that impression carried through when Maura arrived to visit Niall. But once she got comfortable with the group of them, her demeanor changed drastically because she could have them laughing like no one else could.

And besides, it was nice to have a motherly figure around for the past few days. They all gravitated towards her and she welcomed them with open arms. Literally. Mona had walked into Niall’s apartment one day to find Harry, Zayn, and Liam all cuddling with her on the couch, all of them too engrossed in whatever they were watching on the television to even notice that she had arrived. Niall, on the other hand, lounging on the seat adjacent to the couch, was the only one who had eyes for her. He looked between his friends being coddled by his mother and Mona and shook his head, and she had to stifle a laugh back in response.

Now, they were all sitting on the rooftop, sharing drinks and laughs and overall just enjoying each other’s company. It was Maura’s last day in the States and she wanted to spend it having a relaxing picnic with all of them, despite them offering other fun places to go in the city. Maura, clearly, won that argument, because they were all currently lounging around, the early summer breeze keeping them warm, their stomachs full from the meal Maura had prepared for them.

Mona clutched her tummy and wiped the tears from her eyes, sprung from the laughs that ensued after Maura told a story about some snoring man on her flight. She smiled to herself as she looked around at everyone, her family, all together and laughing and having a good time. This was happiness. Niall met her eyes from where he was sitting next to his mom and winked at her, grinning widely at the resulting blush that bloomed across her cheeks.

Despite being embroiled in a debate with Harry about whether, of all things, chocolate chip cookies are best when they’re chewy or crunchy, Maura caught this exchange, and while Harry was trying to rope Harlow into the conversation, because he knew she would be on his side, Maura turned to whisper something to Niall, and then he was the one who was blushing. When their eyes met again, Mona grinned wickedly at him.

After what felt like a conversation that lasted hours, chewy cookies won with Mona being the deciding vote, despite some compelling arguments from the other side, like how crunchy cookies were the best ones to dunk in milk. There was a bit of an uproar from team crunchy, but once they all noticed that the sun had started to dip lower behind the buildings, the mood transitioned into a more somber one. It was time for Maura to leave.

They all followed her down to Niall and Liam’s place where she needed to get her things before they said their goodbyes. She embraced everyone one by one, and when she got to Mona, she smiled softly at her before she welcomed her into her arms. “Take care of him, will you?” she murmured into Mona’s hair. “He may not ask for it but all he wants is love sometimes.” When she pulled away, she caressed Mona’s face, her blue eyes seemingly glittering, just like her son’s. “I will always love him from afar, wherever I am, and I know all of you will love him from here, but your love is different from the rest of ours. Will you do that?”

Mona smiled at her, bringing her hands over Maura’s wrists when Maura pressed a kiss to her forehead. The gesture made her miss her own mother. “Of course,” she murmured. She didn’t know the extent to which Maura knew about her relationship with Niall, but she could definitely try her best to fulfill this request.

Maura grinned at her in response. “Good.” Now she spoke a bit louder so they weren’t whispering to each other anymore. “And make sure he takes care of that knee!”

At that, Mona laughed, giving Maura another hug. “I will.”

When she looked up, she realized Niall was watching them carefully from where he was standing on the other side of the room near the door. Maura made his way over to him last, hugging him tight, and Mona felt her heart twist at the sight of him burying his face into Maura’s shoulder despite their height difference. She wished he got to spend more time with her, even though this entire week had comprised of her doting over him and taking care of him.

They all walked Maura outside where Zayn was waiting. Despite all her insistence that she was fine taking a cab, Zayn borrowed his cousin’s car and declared that he would drop her to the airport himself. Harry accompanied them while the rest of them waved as they pulled away, Mona squeezing Niall’s hand as they watched them drive off, not missing that sad glint in his eyes.

Liam also waved them goodbye as he left for work, and then she, Harlow, and Niall rode the elevator back up to the rooftop to finish clearing up and bringing the leftover food back to their apartments. Harlow had gathered all the trash and made her way out to toss it, leaving Mona and Niall to carry the rest of the things back downstairs. Mona had packed everything into large tote bags for easy transport so all they had to do was sling them over their shoulders as they headed towards the elevator.

“Hey,” she said to him when they were finally alone, snaking her arms around his waist as his easily fell over her shoulders, her stomach giving a little swoop as he grinned down at her. “We’re in alone in an elevator,” she whispered, because she simply couldn’t resist and it had been a long time since they played their little elevator game. Besides, he looked so down, she would do anything to cheer him up.

Niall laughed against her lips, the sound filling her insides with warmth, and he hummed before he said, “Well, don’t mind if I do,” his fingers tucked beneath her chin as he tilted her face up, kissing her sweetly. His lips moved languidly against hers, their bodies slotted perfectly together, and he sighed against her lips when the elevator dinged as it stopped at their floor.

She took the bags from him before they split and went their separate ways, but not before he made her promise she’d meet him at his when she was done putting everything away. He pressed another fleeting kiss to her lips before she went into her apartment, and she couldn’t help but lean against the door when it closed behind her, sighing contentedly and grinning at nothing before she headed towards her kitchen to unpack the tote bags.

This behavior had been common for her over the past week or so, mostly because Maura had been with them and teased them to no end whenever she caught them in a moment where they smiled at each other or held hands or pressed a kiss to the other’s cheek when they thought no one was watching. And Mona wasn’t even embarrassed at the teasing. She was happy with her sunshine boy, so much that it made her feel light and airy and as though she could float up into the sky whenever she chose.

And besides, a few moments of teasing was worth the blush that would spread across Niall’s cheeks because he was endlessly cute when he was all bashful and embarrassed and she couldn’t get enough of it.

She couldn’t get enough of him, really. Because he did things that made her heart feel like it could burst right out of her chest at any moment, like pressing his lips to her forehead before she left for a shift or making her a thermos of coffee whenever she was running late in the mornings or murmuring “Good night, my darlin’” against her lips before she fell asleep in his arms. She never knew it was possible to love a person this much.

It was also freeing in a way she had never felt, because for once in her life she allowed herself to lower her walls and care for someone in a way that meant more, in a way that felt like a promise and a guarantee at the same time. Sure she sometimes still found herself slipping into a chasm of overthinking whenever she felt insecure or unsure, but Niall was always there to hold her hand and pull her back towards him at the end of the day.

“You have no idea how happy it makes me to see that Niall’s found someone like you,” Maura had murmured to her one night when they were lounging in the living room watching a movie and Niall had fallen asleep in Mona’s lap. “The way he looks at you,” she had sighed out, holding her hands over her heart, “you make him so happy, it’s so wonderful.”

There was just one wrinkle. She hadn’t yet told him that she loved him. Which she hadn’t even realized until now as she closed the fridge door when she was done packing everything away. The thought had her pausing as she stood in the middle of her kitchen thinking this through. She had no problem showing him how much she cared for him, but how could she not have said it yet? She vaguely remembered Niall saying it, though, and to be honest they’d been so caught up with other things over the past week that they just didn’t have time to sit down and really have a conversation about them.

She was so lost in thought that she barely heard it when Harlow called out to her that she was heading out to work and not to wait up for her. Mona waved her off, tidying up the kitchen in a daze before going to take a quick shower. Once she’d turned the water on, letting it wash over her skin, she tried to think of a moment over the past week where she could have said it. Because...surely she said it? It almost felt like she had. Just the other day they had settled into Niall’s bed for the night, his arms wrapped snugly around her, and she had pressed her lips over his heart and said, “You make me so happy.”

But then, she remembered now, how that conversation took a turn when Niall whispered, “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you at Empire State.” She’d been so taken aback that she nearly bumped her head into his chin when she looked up at him.

“You...saw me?” she asked, stunned, because honestly, that day felt like it happened a million years ago and the memories were fuzzy.

He had sighed. “No. But when I got back, I didn’t turn my phone back on until that day before I went to Connemara’s and...I saw your messages.” Those damned, desperate messages that had gone unsent due to lack of signal in the subway. It was a wonder that they’d gone through after all, albeit several weeks later. Perhaps the universe was on their side after all. Niall, however, was frowning so deeply at this admission that she had to wriggle her hands out from under the covers to tap her fingers against the corners of his lips so he’d stop. “I should’ve waited,” he said softly, “maybe things would have turned out differently.”

Silence blanketed them for a few moments, mostly because Mona had no idea what to say. In a way, if she thought about it really hard, his words made sense. Him seeing the messages explained his demeanor change towards her and him running after her at Connemara’s. Still, that day seemed so far away, and their lives were so different now. And regardless of what had happened, they were there, all tangled up together in Niall’s bed, and their relationship was in a good place. So, with that in mind, she said, “I think we still ended up just fine,” and she meant it. There was nowhere else she’d rather be at that moment.

“I love you, Mo,” was what he’d murmured after a long moment, and she had been already falling asleep, exhausted from the day’s events. He pressed his lips to her hairline and she’d smiled. She had to have said it back. She swore she did. But the next thing she remembered happening was waking up the next morning.

Now, she huffed to herself. Had she fallen asleep? Did she not say it back? Because now that she thought about it, all of that felt like a dream because she had been so tired. And they had been in such a great place lately that she really didn’t think about it. Still, she rolled her eyes at herself. If there was anything she accomplished today it would have to be getting her relationship status with Niall straight. After slipping into some leggings and an oversized t-shirt, she headed over to Niall’s only to find him sitting on his bed, his back against the headboard, eyes glazed over seemingly lost in thought.

“Hey,” she murmured before crawling in next to him, making herself comfortable under the blanket. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

He smiled at her, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothin’,” he mumbled, and Mona gave him a look, lacing her fingers into his. He sighed, shrugging. “It’s dumb.”

She nudged his shoulder with hers, squeezing his hand as her way of encouraging him. “I’m sure it’s not.”

The thing about Niall was that he was very expressive, not necessarily in his face, but more so with his body language, and the way he slumped into himself, twisting his fingers into the hem of the blanket in the way he only did when he was nervous, told her that there was definitely something bothering him. And it may or may not have to do with her.

He started to chew on his lower lip, and when he met her eyes, she found that there was a sort of uncertainty swirling in those bright baby blues. “Listen,” he started, shifting his body so he was facing her better. “If my mum said anything that made you uncomfortable...I’m sorry.” And, well...that was not what she was expecting him to say. Her confusion must have shown on her face because he rushed to clarify. “It’s just that...when I went to Ireland, I didn’t tell her about any of the drama. So she thinks that we’ve been together together since the last time she visited.”

Mona opened her mouth to perhaps say something but no words came out, so she simply pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, wondering what on earth any of that meant. “Sooo,” she drew out slowly, huffing out a tiny laugh. “Sorry, what exactly are you apologizing for?”

Niall cringed and she raised a brow at him, unclear on where he was going with this. “It’s just, she doesn’t know anything about where we stand and...if she said something, about us, that you weren’t comfortable with, then I’m sorry.”

He started to chew nervously on his nails and suddenly, realization hit her like a speeding train. The source of his insecurity was her and her inability to talk about her feelings. He was apologizing for anything Maura said that might’ve had her feeling like she needed to pull away from him again because that was something she’d done countless times in the past.

She just stared at him, open mouthed, for a few moments before the words just flowed out of her.

“Niall, I love you.” There. She said it. And she meant it. And it was long overdue.

At her words, he suddenly froze, hand falling into his lap as he slowly sat up straighter. When he looked at her, she could see the shock swirling in those bright blue eyes. “What?” was what came out of his mouth, his voice nearly a whisper.

She reached out to hold his hand, smiling at him because she knew it was now or never. She needed to tell him exactly how she felt so they could get out of this weird in-between stage of this transition in their relationship. “I’m in love with you,” she said softly. She half expected her heart to be beating a million miles a minute, but instead, she was perfectly calm. This was exactly where she needed to be, the words coming to her naturally because they were her deepest, most genuine feelings. “More than I ever than I ever thought it was possible to love a person.” She paused, hoping these were the right words, hoping that this made everything better once and for all. “When I said that you’re my soulmate, I meant it. You’re the only person I can be vulnerable with. Since the beginning...there were never any walls up with I was with you. You’re...you’re it for me.”

Niall, for his part, simply gaped at her. Moments stretched between them before he was able to even respond, and when he finally spoke, he said, “I’m not...this isn’t a dream, right?”

At that, Mona closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly before huffing out a laugh. “No, this isn’t a...what’s with you and that question? This is like the third time you’ve asked me something like that recently.”

He laughed too, but he was still looking at her like he was wondering if this was all real. Then, he tugged on the hand she was holding, pulling her into him until she was straddling his lap in a way that didn’t jostle his bad knee. “It’s just…” Those bright blue eyes were blazing up at her as he reached out to brush away some hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “You’ve said that so many times to me in my dreams.”

Mona smoothed her hands across his shoulders before linking them behind his neck, leaning forward to rest her forehead on his. “Well, this is real,” she whispered, their lips brushing together slightly. “I love you, Niall.”

“God,” he breathed, his hands slotting against her lower back. “Say that again.”

She grinned into his lips, murmuring, “I love you,” before kissing him reverently, heat traveling down her skin as she held him close.

“Mona Shaw, I love you so damn much.” His voice was hushed, and he pulled away to press his lips to her cheeks and temples and nose and then back to her lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” He kissed her again and this time it felt like the world slowed down, everything around them fading away, and for once, Mona didn’t have to wish for time to freeze for them because she could have this moment whenever she wanted. “I love you.”

Suddenly, she was feeling too much, the emotion welling up inside her, and she had to tuck her head into the curve of his neck as she tightened her arms around him in an embrace. He was so warm and smelled like clean laundry and he loved her and she felt like she could float up into the clouds. “You make me so happy,” she mumbled into his skin before pulling back to look at him. He was watching her so fondly and giving her that sweet sunshine smile and her heart felt like it would burst. “I want to be with you,” was what she blurted out, smoothing her hands through his hair. “Not in a just friends way.” And then, unsure, she asked, “Is that okay?”

Niall’s grin grew tenfold and she swore it lit up the whole damn room. “Are you kidding?” He leaned back against the headboard, laughing softly. “That’s all I want, darlin’.” She kissed him again and again just because she could, because she wanted to, because it made her happy. “Mona Shaw, my girlfriend. Who’d’ve thought?”

And Mona laughed a real belly laugh because he was too much but also because she loved the way the word girlfriend sounded coming from him. He kissed the sound right out of her mouth before he started to laugh too. And she didn’t even care that they were suddenly reduced into a giggling mess because her tummy felt like it was filled with champagne bubbles and it felt like there were fireworks going off above them and this felt like the new beginning they both needed and waited so long for.

Niall had his arms wrapped around her and it felt like she was right where she needed to be.

#hopefully there are minimal typos i wrote this in a fever dream #little do you know #writings #1dff

40 notes · View notes

sunkissedpages · 6 years

Text

We’re Only Kidding Ourselves- Part Five || Tom Holland x Reader

A/N: I know it hasn’t quite been a whole week since I posted Part 4, but there are a few new faces around here and I wanted to get another part up asap!!

Prompt: Enemies to lovers au (from @marvelellie‘s 1k writing challenge!!)

Summary: You work as a production assistant for the Spider-Man: Far From Home crew, or rather as Tom Holland’s handler. The two of you don’t get along very well to say the least, but you won’t quit and he can’t fire you so you’re stuck with each other.

Warnings: swearing, injury, angst y’all already know what the fuck is going on

What I listened to while writing: this italian music playlist on Spotify bc...Italy

Word Count: 3.9k

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

After what felt like an eternity Tom’s voice broke the silence. “Are we really doing this?”

“Do we have another choice?” you asked.

“Not that I can think of,” he sighed. You felt him roll towards you on the bed. You stiffened even further. “We’re adults, this shouldn’t be a big deal, right?”

“Are you talking to me or yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just try and get some sleep, Tom. You’re filming for thirteen and a half hours tomorrow.”

“God, do you ever turn it off?”

You had the urge to turn towards him so that you could see his face, but you resisted. It felt too intimate, like if you did you’d be crossing some invisible line that you couldn’t come back from. So you stayed on your back, hoping he couldn’t read your expression in the dark. “What do you mean?”

“The handler, do you ever turn it off? Like when you close your eyes do you just see excel spreadsheets and schedules? Are you ever a normal person, or are you always this anal about everything?”

That stung. Just when you thought you had established some sort of understanding Tom had to be an asshole again. You heard Tom inhale sharply, probably regretting how harsh he sounded, but no apology came. You didn’t respond and bit your lip, trying to fight off angry tears that were threatening to fall.

You rolled out of bed, pillow in hand.

“Where are you going?” Tom asked when he felt the weight on the bed shift.

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” you replied bitterly.

“Y/N, don’t be ridiculous,” he said and you scoffed audibly. “No, that’s not how I meant it. I, I’m sorry! Just, you-”

“Don’t worry about it, Tom,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. “You’re my boss, we shouldn’t share a bed anyway, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You felt Tom’s eyes on you as you moved around the hotel room. You didn’t know what was going through his mind, but he didn’t say anything. You found extra blankets and even more pillows in the closet that you laid on the floor next to the bed. The floor was hard, like you’d anticipated, but what you hadn’t been expecting was how cold it would be. The carpet must only be a thin layer over a hard slab of concrete. With a huge exasperated sigh you sat up and crawled over to your open suitcase to put on a sweatshirt.

“Y/N, come back to bed.” Tom’s voice was gruff with fatigue.

You fought a shiver. Those words, in that tone, without context, sounded very sensual. But there was context. Months of it. So you only let it throw you off for a quarter of a second before responding.

“I’m fine, Tom. Go to sleep.”

If Tom had mentioned last night to either his brother or Harrison, they didn’t say anything about it to you. You were all huddled in one of the crew tents with the space heaters, standing behind the monitors watching Tom and Zendaya film a scene in the middle of the street.

Waking up this morning had been hell. You’d been in and out of sleep all night so you were exhausted. You and Tom had both lain awake for hours without speaking to each other. Your back hurt, your everything hurt. You’d been taking Advil all day for the pain in your muscles that was the result of sleeping on the ground.

“Tom’s really off today,” Haz muttered to Harry. “He keeps messing up his lines, and his accent keeps slipping.”

“Yeah I know,” Harry agreed. “I dunno what’s the matter with him.”

“Maybe he’s tired,” you suggested even though they hadn’t been talking to you.

“Said he slept fine,” Harry shrugged.

“Like a baby,” Harrison added and you had your answer about what the boys knew about last night. Not only had he not told them, he’d lied to them. But why? Your face must have given something away because suddenly both of them were zeroed in on you.

“What?” Harry asked. “Did he say something different to you?”

“Uh no, sorry” you lied. You were shit at lying and you might have been able to get away with it with Harry, but Haz had known you longer and furrowed his brows at you with suspicion. “My back just hurts,” not a lie, “I slept on it funny last night.”

Harrison’s expression changed from one of skepticism to one of concern. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No I’m fine, thanks.”

Everyone turned back to the monitors and you breathed a sigh of relief. Tom was still struggling out there and as he fucked up more and more Zendaya would shoot the camera glances like she was on Parks and Rec. A crowd of other crew had gathered around the monitor to watch and all murmured to each other about what was taking so long to move on to the next scene. To your surprise your immediate instinct was to defend Tom to them rather than join in, but you kept your mouth shut. Come on, you thought to yourself, get it together. No one was going to be happy with him if he extended their thirteen and a half hour work day.

After several more takes the scene finally seemed to be going pretty well until Tom tripped on a step and smacked his face onto the side railing. There was an audible ooh from everyone who was watching around you, but you didn’t stick around to hear anything else they had to say because you were already running. Haz and Harry were right on your heels, and they each passed you, but you kept your pace. Every muscle in your body was screaming at you to stop, but you couldn’t, you could worry about your own pain later.

By the time you got over to your boss he was already surrounded by medics and his friends. You stood on the edges of the crowd, trying to see what was going on. He’d hit his head from what you could tell. He looked like he wanted to cry.

You pushed through the crowd and made your way over to him. “Can everyone but the medics move back a little?” you shouted, taking control. You were only half expecting anyone to listen to you, but everyone did and took a few steps back to give Tom more room.

One of the medics ushered you closer and had you crouch down next to Tom. “He blacked out for a second. We’re going to need to check him for a concussion,” he said to you, a little out of earshot of Tom.

You looked at your watch. Filming was already a little behind. “Can you you do that to him here?”

The guy shook his head. “He needs to see a neurologist at the hospital a few miles away. He’s also going to need to rest for a few hours.”

“What’s going on?” Watts asked as he made his way through the crowd. The medic explained the same thing to him. “Fuck me.”

“He’ll be back in a few hours good as new,” the man promised Watts, but he shook his head and turned to you.

“Keep him resting until tomorrow, I’ll push up the scenes with Mysterio to this afternoon instead.”

You bit back a curse. That was going to inconvenience a lot of important people. You hoped they’d be understanding. “Have someone send me the new schedule,” you told Watts then addressed the medic. “I’ll grab his brother and best friend and we can go.”

“Wait what’s going on?” Tom asked the medics frantically as they spoke into their radios and to each other in Italian.

“They’re taking you to the hospital to see if you have a concussion,” you explained when no one else would answer.

“What?” He looked up at you with wild eyes. “No, no I’m fine,” he insisted and started to get up. As soon as he did the medics yelled at him to lay back down until they could get a boat. “I’m fine! I can keep going!” he shouted at them, giving you a desperate look. “Y/N-”

He’d never wanted your help before and it was the one time he did you couldn’t do anything. You felt guilty, but he needed to get to the doctor.

“Tom I want you to get some rest,” Jon said to Tom, crouching down to him.

“No, I can still-”

Watts put a hand out. “Don’t try and be a hero, you’re already playing the greatest one out there. We’re just going to move some scenes around and you’ll be back tomorrow good as new, okay? It’s not worth risking your health over. Take it easy today,” he looked up at you. “Miss Y/L/N, update me throughout the day. Make sure he gets some rest.”

You were a little surprised Jon Watts knew your name but you assured him that you would watch out for Tom. You liked the fact that he cared about his cast and crew. Even though he was upset about the accident and stressed out over rescheduling he hadn’t shown it to Tom because he already knew Tom was beating himself up about it and didn’t want to twist the knife. If you ever got to live out your dream of being a director you hoped you could be like him.

Harry and Haz were allowed to approach Tom after that and you watched them each talk to him. You stood off to the side and saw Tom wipe away tears of frustration and immediately looked away. You couldn’t start feeling sympathy for him now. It was going to effect how you did your job.

The first available boats on the canal were gondolas so Harry and Tom got in the first one with two of the medics while you and Haz got in the second with the other medic. Gondolas were supposed to be romantic. Racing to the emergency room with your boss was the least romantic reason to be in a gondola that you could think of.

You sat in the boat with your head in your hands.

“He’s going to be fine,” Haz assured you. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to him on set before. He broke his nose on Chaos Walking.”

“I know, but this happened on my watch,” you groaned. “Tom is my responsibility.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have anything to do with this. He was just off today and that’s not your fault.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and shut your eyes tight because it very well could’ve been your fault. The fight and the lack of sleep had to at least be contributing factors. Tom had never had an off day like this before. What else could it be?

Tom was checked into the emergency room without much issue and the medics took him back immediately to see about his head. Harry joined you and Haz in the waiting room.

“Typical,” he said and gave half a chuckle as he made his way over to the both of you.

“Figures he’d fuck himself up walking and not doing stunts in the spider-man suit or something,” Haz chimed in.

“Div,” Harry laughed and shook his head.

You couldn’t believe neither of the boys were worried about Tom. From what you seen he’d hit his head pretty hard.

“You alright, Y/N?” Harry asked, noticing how quiet you were.

“Yeah, just a little stressed out.”

“About Tom? He’ll be fine,” Harry said, brushing it off.

“He was crying,” you said softly. “I’ve never seen him cry before.”

Harry cleared his throat but didn’t say anything.

“Want anything from the vending machine, Y/N?” Haz asked, clearly trying to change the subject. “I’m going to get some chocolate probably.”

“I’m good.”

“You should eat something,” he insisted. “Keep your energy up.”

“Fine, I’ll have a KitKat if they have them.”

“And if they don’t?”

“A snickers bar.”

He winked a confirmation and headed off around the corner, leaving you and Harry sitting in silence. You weren’t sure how to describe the mood in the room, but it was uncomfortable and dull, like the life had been sucked out of everything. Maybe that’s how all emergency rooms were, but it felt wrong.

Harrison returned with your KitKat a moment later, but the mood didn’t lift. Soon he was sucked into it too. The three of you, sitting in silence, waiting. You realized Haz and Harry had been joking around about Tom because it was their way of coping. They didn’t want to have to think about what might happen if Tom was seriously injured and you didn’t blame them.

You passed the time by talking to your parents and calling the hotel to see if any rooms had opened up. There was still nothing available, but you asked them to let you know when something did. When you hung up Tom was over at the front desk with the boys being discharged.

You walked over and looked at him expectantly. “I’m fine, stop looking at me like that.”

“Fuck off,” you shot back instinctively, completely forgetting that you were still in the emergency room for his head wound. Tom was in the middle of signing papers, but stopped to raise his eyebrows at you. “Sorry. So you’re completely fine?”

“They said if it is a concussion it’s super minor and that I should be fine by tomorrow. I’m just supposed to rest and keep an eye on how I’m feeling I guess.”

“Turns out your thick skull is good for something,” Harry joked and clapped Tom on the back.

“That was a cheap one, mate,” Tom laughed and shook his head at his brother.

Getting back to the hotel was an ordeal because some fans had seen Tom go into the hospital and were an absolute mess waiting outside the emergency room. Upon checking Twitter you saw that someone had tweeted that he’d died and had to stifle a laugh.

Harry and Haz offered to hang out with Tom in his room, but he told them he just wanted to be alone. Fuck, you’d expected to be at work all day and now you had to spend hours alone with Tom. It was early evening and you weren’t supposed to be back until after midnight. The sun had only just started setting. You might have taken a book down to the lobby or to a cafe around the corner except for the Jon had specifically asked you to keep an eye on Tom and make sure he was resting. You’d much rather give yourself a concussion, but followed him down the hallway and to your room anyway.

“There hasn’t been an update with the rooms,” you informed Tom after the door had shut behind the both of you “so we both have to stay in this one again.” He just nodded.

The room had been straightened while you were out. The bed was made and the blanket you’d slept on was folded neatly beside the pillows. You wondered what housekeeping had thought of the odd setup.

Tom immediately flopped on the bed with a groan. “I can’t believe how much of an idiot I am.” You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or just ranting out loud so you let him keep going. “The entire schedule had to be move around because of me, Marvel is having to pay the hospital bills, I cried in front of the whole cast and crew-”

“Everyone has an off day,” you offered, taking the armchair.

Tom sat up to look at you. “I had an off morning,” he corrected, “the day was a shit show.”

“You’ll look back on it and laugh.”

“Maybe,” he said reluctantly then suddenly threw himself back on the bed dramatically “fuck, going to work tomorrow is going to be so embarrassing.” He covered his face with his hands.

“The only option is to fake your own death.”

He lifted his hands from his eyes. “It’d never work, people know my face.”

“Plastic surgery.”

“My voice.”

“Half the world doesn’t even realize you’re British you’ll be fine.” Then you remembered the tweet you had seen. “Speaking of faking your own death, thirty thousand people on Twitter already think you’re dead so you should either run with it or fix that.”

“What?!” Tom already had his phone out. “You’re just telling me this now?”

“Oh my god, of course everything is always my fault.”

“Social media is literally in your job description.”

“Sorry I must have been distracted by the possibility of you actually dying!”

“You’re being dramatic, I wasn’t fucking dying!”

“You know what I mean! I was worried about you!”

“...You were worried about me?” Tom asked and as quickly as the bickering had started it came to a screeching halt.

“Uh yeah,” you felt sweaty all of the sudden. You had been worried about him...but only because it was the human thing to do. “Without you I don’t have a job, you know.”

“Wow, for a second I actually thought you cared about me,” Tom said with a smile, though it sounded like he was only half kidding.

“Me? Never.”

“Here how’s this?” Tom finished typing and handed his phone to you.

“‘Hey guys, not dead’? That’s it? You don’t want to make it funnier?”

He shrugged. “It’ll still get at least 50k likes anyway.”

“Asshole.” He laughed. “What about something like ‘sorry guys still alive’?” He made an eh hand motion. “Or...’sorry Anthony and Seb I’m still alive’?”

“That’s brilliant.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Go ahead and tweet it,” he said.

“Me?” you asked.

“Yeah, you already have my phone.”

You quickly typed it out and checked for typos before hitting send. It felt oddly powerful tweeting out to 2.5 million people. You wondered if that’s how Tom felt every time he tweeted something

You tossed the phone back to him on the bed. “I’m going to shower,” you told him. “Unless you want to go first?”

He shook his head. “All yours.”

You took the time to shave and wash your hair more thoroughly. This hotel had surprisingly nice shampoo. By the time you were done the bathroom was completely steamed up. Only once your hair was up in a towel did you realize you’d forgotten to bring a new change of clothes into the bathroom with you.

“Son of a bitch,” you muttered to yourself.

You could make one of two choices: put the dirty clothes back on or wrap yourself in a towel to go get your pajamas. Well, there was an unspoken third choice which was to go out into the room completely naked, but there was no way in hell that was happening. You decided to be an adult and wrap yourself in your towel to go get the clothes you’d forgotten. You’d just have to play it cool. Maybe Tom would be asleep.

Obviously with your luck he wasn’t. He was watching Baby Driver on cable when you came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Shut up!” you said defensively and clung to the towel tighter.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I forgot my pajamas, okay?” you huffed with embarrassment.

“Yeah, it’s not a big deal.”

Your cheeks were absolutely on fire as you rifled around in your suitcase for pjs. When you looked back up Tom was averting his eyes and looking at his phone, but he couldn’t hide the shit-eating grin on his face. So much for playing it cool. You were never going to live this down.

Once you were dressed and had somewhat regained you composure you joined Tom back in the room.

“How are you feeling?” you asked.

“Fine.”

“Are you hungry? We could order room service.”

“Sounds good,” Tom rolled over and snatched the menu off of the nightstand. “What do you want?”

“Do they have spaghetti?” you asked him.

“We’re in Italy.” Tom rolled his eyes. “Yes, they have spaghetti.”

“I can’t read the fucking menu from over here, I didn’t know!”

“Well they have spaghetti, Y/N.”

You ended up both ordering the spaghetti.

By the time the food came the credits to Baby Driver were rolling and Titanic was starting. It was in Italian, but there were English subtitles. You and Tom were sitting on the floor eating your pasta in front of the screen.

“I’ve never seen Titanic,” you admitted.

“Shut the fuck up,” he deadpanned. “It’s a classic!”

“It freaks me out.”

“It’s a romance.”

“All of those people dying is not romantic.”

“Don’t you want to be some sort of film director? You have to watch Titanic if you’re going to do that.” You were surprised Tom had remembered that about you. “You’re watching it. We’re not going to sleep until it’s over.”

You were okay with that. Watching a movie meant Tom was resting which is what you needed to make sure he was doing. Once you were both done with your spaghetti you placed the bowls and tray outside of the room and Tom took his turn in the shower, but not before making you promise you wouldn’t change the channel while he was gone. You moved to the bed to get more comfortable and found yourself getting invested in the story. You were starting to see why it was one of the most famous movies of all time.

When Tom came out of the shower you wanted to throw something at him. He was soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist.

“You’re unbelievable,” you scoffed and shook your head at him.

“What? I just forgot my pajamas!” he smirked as he grabbed clothes from his suitcase and retreated back into the bathroom. Dick.

When Tom was fully clothed and a little less drippy he joined you on the bed. As if on cue the scene in the car started as soon as he settled next to you. It wasn’t anything outrageously raunchy, but you still found yourself holding your breath until it was over. You were overly aware of Tom next to you, hair still wet, breathing evenly, eyes trained on the screen. You relaxed visibly once the scene cut and Tom laughed.

“You’re a dork.” It was the nicest insult he’d ever given you.

The painting scene made you want to die. Your palms were sweating and your cheeks were burning furiously. Tom remained entirely composed unless he was looking at you in which case he’d laugh and give you a hard time. You wished you weren’t so flustered.

“Hey, we’ve only got twenty minutes left, don’t fall asleep yet.” Tom shook your shoulder gently.

You had curled up on your side and your eyes had started to droop. It wasn’t your fault this movie was three years long. You groaned, but sat up anyway.

“This movie is too long,” you complained.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity the credits rolled. You had actually gotten a little emotional at the end, but you weren’t going to admit that to Tom.

The two of you were quiet as you got ready for bed. The silence was comfortable, for once. You both brushed your teeth and took your meds and Tom put on his retainers. It was all very domestic. Tom climbed into bed while you took a moment to plug up your phone and computer by the desk.

“Y/N?” Tom asked, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“Don’t sleep on the floor tonight.”

Sorry this is up kind of late tonight (but it’s not 2am like last time) !! I really need to get a schedule going lol. Thanks to @splashofbi and @patdandtop for the movie suggestions I was rlly struggling with those!! Anyway lmk what you think about the part!!

WOKO Tags: @parkerstylesperalta @everythingbooknerd @marvelellie @splashofbi @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @timelock97 @ohheyitsem @starsholland

Forever Tags: @mischiefmanaged49 @bookingbee @cloverrover @captainbuckyy

Send me an ask to be added/dropped from a taglist

#marvelellies1kcellie #were only kidding ourselves #woko #tom holland #TOM #tom holland x reader #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic #tom holland imagine #spiderman #spiderman homecoming #spiderman far from home #far from home #harrison osterfield #haz #enemies to lovers #peter parker #tom holland series

756 notes · View notes