#so quick suggested writing it from luka's pov

[verfound]

MINIFIC: Oct. 23: Day 6: Tiny (MLB, Lukanette, DLM AU)

Shout out to Quick for this one.  I liked what I had, but I also didn’t, and she had some suggestions that…quadrupled its size.  Huh.  Maybe I shouldn’t say thank you.  😝

For @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers October Minific Challenge 2023.

Read on Ao3

To Feel Alive Again: Day 6: Tiny

Luka hissed as the tug on the leash he was holding caused his hand to slip and the flame from his lighter to get too close to his thumb, burning it.  The cigarette he’d been trying to light fell to the sidewalk and rolled away with the breeze, and he sighed as he looked down at the runt that had caused it all.

“Would you just piss already?” he grumbled, digging in his pocket for another cigarette.  “It’s fucking cold out here.”

The dog he had been charged with walking today, an annoying little shit named Pip (who was seriously the tiniest dam dog Luka had ever seen, and she was full grown), skittered up to another lamp post and sniffed.  Luka sighed and tipped his head back, frowning at the cloudy skies above.  He wondered if it was supposed to rain today.

“Have a great day!”

His head dropped back at the voice, his eyes scanning the street around him until he heard the voice again.

“Hi!  What can I get…?”

Pip had stopped outside a café to (attempt) to do her business.  Through the plants and signs lining the glass, he could see a familiar raven-haired undead girl…smiling behind the counter.  Not just smiling, but laughing and talking to people like…like she was a normal, well-adjusted, happy person.  That liked interacting with other people.  It was a completely different person from the girl who had kicked his shin under the table an hour ago for stealing her bacon.

(…he should probably stop that.  It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford his own bacon.  She just got so indignant every time he did it, and her eyes got a bit bluer when she was annoyed, and…he owed her a few breakfasts’ worth of bacon.  He should fix that.  Soon.)

The customer she was helping said something that made her laugh, and he was momentarily distracted by the way her smile filled her entire face, how her eyes crinkled at the edges, the laughter that itched at the edges of his mind like an old, familiar song when the door opened again.  The way his hand twitched for some paper – for his fucking guitar – eager to get the notes down before he lost them forever.

He was moving before he fully registered what he was doing.

Pip yelped as he scooped her up and dropped her in her doggie bag.  She growled when he went to zip it up, and he sighed as he scratched behind her ears.  She shook his hand off and snapped at him.

“Be nice,” he said, rolling his eyes as he moved to the door, “or I won’t get you anything.”

The café was busier than he’d expected, and by the time he reached the front of the queue Pip was snoozing in her bag.  Marinette didn’t notice him at first, busy counting the change the last customer had given her, and he took a moment to just…appreciate her.

Because he wasn’t staring.  Or admiring.

Or checking her out? Théo’s sleazy voice drawled in his head, and he tried not to roll his eyes.  He wasn’t doing any of that, because that would be weird.

“What can I get…oh,” Marinette said, her eyebrows lifting as she finally looked up to see him standing there.  “H-hi.”

“Hi,” he said, the side of his mouth twitching with a smile.  He looked up at the menu, pretending not to notice the way she was suddenly fidgeting with the hair trying to escape her messy bun.  “Barista, huh?”

“It’s close enough to patisserie,” she said, shrugging one shoulder as she tucked some hair behind her ear.  “And the boss is…flexible.  With hours and breaks.  Plus, y’know.  Free coffee.”

“Cool,” he said, nodding.  He was still looking at the menu, trying to find something that passed as plain, black coffee.  What the hell kind of place was this?  He couldn’t pronounce half the shit on the board.

“Did…did you want…” she started, and he hummed as he looked back at her.  She was shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, her lower lip between her teeth and her cheeks a light pink.  “I mean…were you…”

“Hmm?” he asked, an eyebrow lifting as he watched her.  She sighed and gestured to the board.

“What do you want, Luka?” she asked.  “Are you going to order something, or are you just…checking up on me?”

“Hey, I didn’t even know you worked here,” he said, holding his hands up defensively.  “I just…saw you from the street and…wanted to say hi.”

“…hi?” she asked, her voice flat.  She raised her own eyebrow, and he tried to smile at her.  “Because you totally didn’t do that when you were stealing my breakfast an hour ago.”

His smile fell, and she winced as she looked back at the till.

“Sorry,” she said.  “That was…”

“I refuse to do Mendeleiev’s dirty work for her, Mari…Emma,” he said, glancing at her name tag.  “If she wants to check in on you, she can do so herself.”

He hesitated a moment, but then he reached out and laid a hand on hers.  Her eyes snapped up to him, surprised.

“…I’m just being a friend,” he said.  When her eyebrows rose, he shrugged and pulled his hand back.  “Or trying to be.  Honest.  We don’t…you don’t get many lasting friends.  Unlife like ours.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked back up at the board, frowning as he resumed his search for whatever the hell they called black coffee.

“…thanks, Luka,” she finally said, making him glance back at her.  Her smile was still hesitant, but it was more genuine this time.  Honest.

…he liked her smile.

“Seriously, though,” she said, shaking her head.  “Can I get you anything?  Black coffee?”

“Please,” he said, smiling at her.  He patted the bag at his side, where Pip grumbled at the jostling.  “And something for my friend?”

“Your…?” she asked, and her eyes widened when he opened the bag to reveal the sleeping dog inside.  “You…you have a dog?  And it’s so little!  When?  How…how did I not know this?”

“She’s not mine,” he said.  At Marinette’s confused look, he shrugged.  “Part-time dog walker.  I can make my own hours and move around the city as needed.  Plus, dogs.”

“…you like dogs,” she said, as if she found that amusing.  Maybe surprising.  Her smile grew a bit more, and he shifted uncomfortably as he felt heat crawling up his neck.  “Well, what do you know.  Luka Couffaine’s just a big ol’ softie, isn’t he?”

“…shut up,” he said.  “Pip’s a vicious killer, thank you very much.”

“Pip?” she asked.

“…Pipsqueak,” he said.  She was outright grinning now.  The bell above the door jingled as another customer came in.  “Her maman thought she was being clever.”

Marinette was still giggling as she handed him a large black coffee and a to go bag.  He reached for his wallet, but she shook her head and waved him off.

“On me,” she said.  Her cheeks darkened as she ducked her head.  “For a friend.”

He smiled, and she told him to go before he held up her line.  He had a feeling it was more before he could fluster her any more, though.  He held the door open for a group of collège students on his way out, still smiling.  He was at least a block away before he opened the bag and found two cookies – a macaron for him and a shortbread biscuit for Pip – and his smile grew.

“…I think she likes us, Pip,” he said, pulling the biscuit out and handing it to the dog.  He frowned when she nipped his fingers taking it.  “…oh, fuck you.  You’re walking the rest of the way, asshole.”

If he hadn’t dropped the entire biscuit at the bite (and she wasn’t happily devouring it), he would have taken that back, too.

[cuttoothed]

quiet hiccups and lonely eye?

This was a fun one! Very mild warning for Peter's dirty mind: I almost never write his POV, but apparently when I do, he's a bit of a lech. No offense intended to anyone from Kent, it's a lovely place!

*

They’re at Moorland House for the annual Lukas family gathering, which is a charming affair where the entire extended Lukas clan all get together and avoid making eye contact with each other for two days. Peter despises the annual gathering for a number of very good reasons.

Firstly, there’s nothing to do. Kent in general is as dull as ditchwater, and Moorland House is the bleak, dull, ditchwatery heart of the whole miserable county. There isn’t even a pub nearby.

Secondly, the people are duller than the house. Peter is aware that he’s been blessed with something of an...excess of personality, but honestly, if he has to spend one more evening attempting to hold a conversation with Aunt Frances while she stares over his shoulder, he might just burn the whole bloody house down with the family inside. And he couldn’t even do that because the moldering pile is too bloody damp.

“Thirdly,” Peter begins, before Elias’ fingers close very tightly around his hand.

“Yes, Peter,” Elias says through gritted teeth. “I am very aware of how much you do not enjoy visiting your family, and all the reasons why. Painfully so, you might say. However it is only two days, and it pays to keep Nathaniel happy, so do put on your best dutiful brother face and suck it up.”

Peter goes quiet, and the car jolts and rattles down the country road towards Moorland House.

The gathering starts with the traditional silent dinner in the aptly named Long Hall, which is so long that, legend has it, hapless servants have become lost navigating from one end to the other. Peter is wearing a tailored suit that still somehow sits uncomfortably across the shoulders, squeezed between Elias and his great uncle Oscar. Uncle Oscar smells of mothballs and breathes in a slow, labored wheeze that sounds at every moment like it might be the last one. Peter is half praying that he falls dead into his scallops; at least it would liven things up a little.

Dinner passes in absolute, droning silence, as is traditional. Peter entertains himself by rubbing his foot up and down Elias’ inner calf, and occasionally dropping a hand into Elias’ lap for a quick grope. He half considers doing the old dropped fork routine and seeing how long he could get away with giving Elias head for, but dismisses it. Elias gets so fussy about that sort of thing.

Elias, of course, sits in perfect, pristine silence, pointedly ignoring all Peter’s attempts to fluster him. He doesn’t so much as touch his fork against his plate, and Peter sees Nathaniel give an approving nod when Elias finishes his entire bowl of consommé without slurping once. Elias gives Peter a significant look, one eyebrow arched, clearly pleased with himself. Peter scowls. Elias shouldn’t be trying to impress his family; they’re not worth impressing. Yes, Nathaniel controls the money, but so what? Money isn’t everything. And it’s not as if Elias’ precious Institute would ever go unfunded, as long as he has Peter.

And that’s it, isn’t it? Peter doesn’t like Elias cozying up to Nathaniel, playing into the Lukas family traditions. It feels like Elias is securing his place in the family’s good graces, preparing for the eventuality that he won’t have Peter anymore.

Peter knows why, of course. It’s because last year at this gathering they were married, and this year they’re married, but in between was a rather acrimonious divorce. They were only apart for a few months, but it seems Elias hasn’t forgotten, is still feeling insecure. Which is silly, because yes, all right, they’ve had their rough patches, but Peter would never abandon him. Not for more than a little while, enough to make him deliciously lonely and desperate for Peter’s affections. He doesn’t like the idea of Elias not needing him anymore.

Peter sulks through the rest of dinner, scrapes his fork on the plate and chews loudly as he can. He spots Elias shooting him an irritated look, which he disregards. Spots Nathaniel glowering at him, and waves. At last, after an eternity, the final course is cleared away, and digestifs are served. Peter downs his calvados in a single swallow, and sits there listening to the silence.

And then, from beside him, there’s a sound. A small, abrupt sound that stops immediately. A few seconds pass, and it happens again. Peter turns his head. Elias is staring straight ahead, his lips pursed and looking utterly serene. Then that sound again, and with it Elias’ shoulders convulse for a second. He is, Peter realizes, hiccuping.

Elias reaches for his water glass and opens his mouth to take a drink, hiccuping loudly as he does. Several heads turn disapprovingly in their direction. Elias clamps his mouth shut again, but the small sounds continue, regularly, every few seconds. Nathaniel is frowning now, casting about the table for the person (other than Peter) who’s interrupting the sacred tradition of silence. He hasn’t noticed Elias’ shaking shoulders yet, but it’s only a few moments until he pinpoints the source. Peter grins, gleeful for a moment.

And then he sighs, and gets to his feet with a loud, exaggerated yawn.

“All right,” he drawls, shattering the quiet. Every head around the table swivels towards him, all equally pale and shocked. “This has been truly lovely, but it’s time I took my darling husband to bed. Come along, dear.”

He grasps Elias’ arm, and Elias lets himself be towed to his feet, still hiccuping quietly through his clenched teeth. His eyes meet Peter’s with something that might be gratitude, and Peter winks at him. Peter can feel Nathaniel’s eyes drilling silently into the back of his skull, but he doesn’t turn around as he leads Elias out of the room, whistling cheerfully to himself.

Up in their room, with its musty drapes and four poster bed, Elias gives him a look that might almost be shamefaced, on anyone who wasn’t Elias Bouchard.

“Thank you, Peter,” he says. “I appreciate you intervening.” Peter shrugs.

“I don’t care what those people think of me,” he says. “And neither should you. You’re mine, Elias, and you don’t have to ingratiate yourself with that flock of old crows.”

“Murder,” Elias says.

“Bunch of crows,” says Peter. “The point is, you don’t need a backup plan, Elias. I’ll take care of your Institute, regardless of how things are between us personally. I promise.”

Elias stares at him for a long moment, looking as if he’s about to argue. He opens his mouth, and hiccups loudly. And somehow that’s it, Peter starts laughing. Elias doesn’t laugh, but his mouth does curve into a tiny smirk, even as his shoulders shake with another hiccup. Peter bridges the space between them and pulls Elias close, cupping his husband’s sharp jaw in his hands.

“You’re mine,” he tells Elias, letting his voice drop low. “And I’m yours. Okay?”

Elias nods, his mouth still clamped shut against the hiccups, and Peter brushes a gentle kiss against his lips. When he pulls away, Elias’ eyelids are fluttering pleasantly. Peter grins and waggles his eyebrows.

“How about we go to bed,” he suggests, “And see if we can’t find some way to startle those hiccups out of you?”

Elias rolls his eyes, and pushes Peter towards the bed.