#they’re getting a heater soon it hasn’t got delivered yet

[tauforged]

anyways. do you guys like my sea monkey setup. i’m personally pretty proud of it i hope they do well

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot “Cats and Dogs, Strawberries and Chocolate” (Rated PG13)

Summary: A power outage. A horrible rainstorm. A long day of work and school. They're all trying their best to ruin Kurt and Blaine's Valentine's Day. But the moment they remember what's actually important, nothing in the world can ruin what they have together. (1855 words)

Notes: Written for the Klaine/CC Valentine's Day Challenge 2019 prompt 'This Is the Time' by Billy Joel.

Read on AO3.

“Ugh …” Kurt grumbles when he races into his building, blown inside by the wind and rain, and sees the lights overhead fizzle out. “Flippin’ Con Ed … still haven’t gotten the power fixed …”

Surprise, surprise.

Kurt had expected this when he’d found out a transformer had blown in Manhattan last night, but he’d also hoped he’d be proven wrong.

No such luck.

The lights in their building are dim as it is on a normal day. The power company had the whole day to work on it. Why did Kurt assume it would be fixed? Then again, what does he know? He can’t even replace a fuse in their heater. Repairing the power grids for the entire city? That has to be a little more complicated, right?

Luckily, he didn’t have too many issues with the power at work. Vogue is a magical wonderland, it seems, run entirely on dreams, fashion, and utter fabulousness. But at NYADA, it was a pain in the butt seeing as the actual building is older than a Vaudeville stage mom and just as temperamental. He got through dance class fine since they’re held on the upper levels, with huge windows where outside light can flood in. Intro to Musical Theater was a bit more challenging, being held in a downstairs auditorium with no windows and thus no help from the outside.

His costume design class, taught in the basement, was canceled entirely.

He’d hoped that living in Bushwick, their loft would be safe, but no. Apparently what’s going on isn’t a Manhattan thing, but a 5 Boroughs thing, ergo they’re going to have to suffer through intermittent hours of cold and dark until things get fixed.

What sucks worse is that it’s Valentine’s Day, and a power outage of this magnitude definitely ruins Kurt’s plans for the evening.

Looks like they’re home for good.

Kurt takes the stairs up slowly, mentally punching himself in the gut for not having the forethought to plan anything for Blaine before now. It’s not like he didn’t put in any effort. He had every intention of buying Blaine roses, but when the subway glitched out while he was trying to make it to work, he opted to bypass the small florist on the corner on his sprint to the bus thinking he’d pick up flowers on the way home. Little did he know that a sudden rainstorm would make the man who owns the kiosk pack up early. Kurt took for granted that he would. Aren’t street-side florists like the post office on candy and flower themed holidays? Neither rain, nor sleet, nor black of night, or whatever?

When that backfired, Kurt considered picking up a box of chocolates. Two Targets and three drugstores later, he discovered that every box of chocolates had been sold out, and the lines for the boutique candy stores were wrapped around the corners. But Kurt wasn’t out of the running just yet. He hedged the rest of his bets on dressing them both up in their finest and going out to dinner. But if the electricity wasn’t a factor, the weather is. It flares up outside when he thinks about it, dropping rain in buckets on the snow and ice covered sidewalks.

Kurt never did like Valentine’s Day. And even though he’d once decided (for the space of about a week) that it was his new favorite holiday, it still rubbed him wrong. But that doesn’t mean Blaine doesn’t love it. (And, yes, Blaine once said it sucked, but that didn’t last long, either.)

It’s just one day – one stupid, made-up day. Kurt has no excuse not to make one day special for Blaine’s sake.

But on this Valentine’s Day in particular, the universe is trying him.

He reaches his floor and stops, glaring down the hallway at his loft door. With the wind howling outside and the lights sputtering overhead, it’s like a scene from a B-rated horror movie.

Yup, Kurt thinks. That sounds about right.

He pads gently down the hall, trying his best not to make too much noise and alert Blaine to his presence.

No reason to disappoint the man he loves so soon.

He turns his key in the lock, slides the door open, and is greeted by a sea of black, the only light visible coming from the glow of emergency candles in the kitchen.

“Hey, honey,” Kurt calls out unenthusiastically as he unwinds his drenched scarf. He’s wrung it out twice already, but it’s somehow still extremely wet. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” Blaine replies, sounding just as thrilled as Kurt.

Kurt slides the loft door shut. “How’ve you been?”

“Uh … fine?”

“Have you been stuck in the dark all afternoon?” Kurt asks, making small talk while he peels off his sopping wet coat. He’s going to have to hang every stitch of his clothing in the bathroom. If he leaves it to drip by the front door, they’re going to have a moat by morning.

“Yes and no,” Blaine says, accompanied by a scuffling sound, like pots sliding across the stovetop. Kurt hears a crash, and more scuffling ensues, along with a quietly muttered, “Shoot, shoot, shoot!” All thoughts of wet clothes and eventual moats aside, a curious Kurt leaves the rest of his belongings by the front door and creeps into the kitchen.

“Honey?” Kurt hears another crash! followed by another defeated ‘Shoot!’ “Is everything …?” The lights flicker on and stay on, and Kurt sees Blaine, holding a strawberry that has seen better days, staring at him like a deer about to be flattened by a Chevy Malibu. Thick, brown goop drips from Blaine’s fingertips, from his wrist, and from his palm. It’s on the stovetop, the floor, the counter, the wall, pouring over the lips of two pots, and it’s even in Blaine’s hair. Kurt deduces that the brown goop is chocolate – badly melted chocolate - and it seems to have gotten everywhere … except on the strawberry “… all right?”

“I … uh …” Blaine mutters, licking his lips and looking around at a kitchen he probably hasn’t seen in decent light for the past hour. He looks at the uncovered strawberry clenched in his hand and sighs. “Uh … no. I’m sorry.” Blaine wipes at a drop of melted chocolate on his cheek with the back of his hand, but that only smears it up to his eyebrows. “I think I messed up.”

“What were you trying to do?” Kurt grabs a hand towel off the handle of the oven and rescues Blaine from his strawberry.

“Well, I had the day off, and you didn’t,” Blaine starts, reluctantly releasing his berry and allowing his exhausted-looking fiancé to help him clean up, “and with the electricity and the rain … I didn’t want you to think that the second you came home I’d expect you to rush out again and do something. So I thought, you know, I’d make you a special Valentine’s Day dinner, with chocolate-dipped strawberries for desert. But the electricity kept going out, so the oven wouldn’t turn on for the roast, and the chocolate refused to melt right, and now …” Blaine looks up at Kurt, his face dotted with chocolate that Kurt couldn’t originally see, traveling in a line across his forehead “… I’m a little bit … covered.”

“Yes.” Kurt leans in and licks the smear on Blaine’s cheek. “You are.”

“I should have just called DoorDash and had someone deliver a perfect dinner for you, but I felt so guilty expecting someone to come out in this weather to bring us food.”

“Well, it is their job,” Kurt says, carefully picking dried chocolate out of Blaine’s curls. “They’re getting paid for it. If you felt guilty, you could have given them a big tip.” It strikes Kurt at that moment that he could have done the same thing – fired up the old DoorDash app and ordered dinner, flowers, chocolates, better candles. It would have arrived before he did and the night would have been saved.

“You’re right,” Blaine agrees. “I should have just done that. I wrecked Valentine’s Day.”

Kurt stops picking at chocolate when Blaine drops his head, and he wraps his arms around him. In the quiet of their kitchen and underneath the blinking overhead lights, Kurt tries to think of a way of letting Blaine know that this isn’t that big a deal. It’s one day. It’s one dinner. It’s a situation entirely out of their control. At least Blaine tried to make their evening special. Kurt, racing across the city and bypassing every store on every block, is the one who really messed up. He works at Vogue! He could have had one of the staff photographers whip up some tastefully NC17 photos of him that he could have slid into a portfolio folder, wrapped in newspaper, and brought home.

He just didn’t think of it.

Because everyday living in New Yok City is as stressful as it is wonderful. Everything’s so chaotic, so expensive, and no matter what time of the day it is, it always seems like they’re working – homework and Vogue and their jobs at the diner. Yes, this was one night, but it was a night they were both fighting to make memorable.

But regardless of what they wanted, Mother Nature and Con Ed had other plans. So they’re going to have to make do.

It won’t be the first time. Nor the last.

There are going to be trying times ahead for them, things bigger than a ruined holiday. It’s inevitable. That’s part of getting older. And when those days come, as trying as tonight is, this will be a day they look back on, smile wistfully at one another, and remember when Kurt came home looking like a drowned rat and Blaine tried to dip strawberries in the dark.

There’s nothing wrong with ‘making do’ as long as they’re doing it together.

“Excuse me for saying so,” Kurt says, “but I don’t see this as you wrecking Valentine’s Day.”

Kurt feels Blaine’s head move as he peeks up at him. “You don’t?”

“Nope. I don’t see this as you wrecking it at all. In fact …” Kurt holds his fiancé at arm’s length so that he can get a better look at the damage he’s done – chocolate on his face, chocolate on his jaw, chocolate on his hands. He’s messy all right, but not enough for what Kurt has planned. He reaches over to the stovetop, to the pot of quickly cooling chocolate, and dips a finger inside “… I think that you have given me the greatest Valentine’s Day present in the whole world.”

Blaine raises a puzzled eyebrow. “And that is …?”

“An excuse …” Kurt takes the chocolate on his finger and begins to spread it on the clean areas of Blaine – a swipe across his lips, one down the bridge of his nose, trailing down over his Adam’s Apple to the hollow of his neck “… to spend a rainy Valentine’s Day here at home … licking chocolate off my sexy fiancé.”

[whosxafraid]

Luka and Edith!

Meme: Married Life MemeStatus: Open

leaves their dirty clothes on the floor

Sometimes he’s not that great of shot. Sometimes he leaves a trail of clothes from the front door of the house all the way to the tub. That sit there like a breadcrumb trail for her to find when she gets back from dropping the boys off at school. Because once again the job they don’t talk about him having, kept him out all damn night. 

But bless her that she’s there when those sometimes happen. Bless her that she follows behind, picking them up and starts the washer without a word. Never asking about the grime and dirt and is that blood?. Instead she makes him breakfast. Instead she brings him a fresh cup of scald that neither of them mention has a hint of Jameson to it. Instead she nurses the aches and pains. Kisses the long night off his lips, and leaves nothing in her wake but peaceful sleep.

forgets to run the dish washer

He doesn’t honestly know how she does half the things she does. Maybe it’s just her. Maybe it’s a motherhood thing. Maybe it’s both. But everyone’s allowed a hick up now and then. Everyone’s allowed a mistake. So when it comes time for dinner and there isn’t a dish clean, and she’ll be home in five minutes with two starving boys—

He sets the oven to warm. He rolls up his sleeves and gets the hot water going. Because a man isn’t defined by his stature or his accomplishments. A man is defined by what he’s willing to do, to take care of those he loves. And he loves her and her boys. So he does the dishes, the old fashioned way. Has dinner on the table when she herds her offspring in the door, and they eat. And no one says a word about the dishwasher’s quiet hum from the kitchen.

pumps gas for the car

One am. Ten hours outside of nowhere Iowa. A state between them and him. And still his nose twitches. Still the palms of his hands itch. That makes it hard to keep hold of the lever. Breath coming in clouds amid the evening air. Green and yellow tracking every movement in the darkness beyond the hazy halo of the station lights. Eventually determining there’s nothing of import and shifting away. Flickering over his shoulder and into the back door window. 

He can just make out the red hair smushed against the heavily tinted glass. Barney’s been out cold for a few hours now, the wee blond on the other side even longer still. He should stop. Let them get some sleep in real beds, but they’ve miles yet to go and the risk to too high. 

The lever is released a second before it stops on it’s own. The nozzle replaced and he’s oh so carefully opening the driver’s door. Sliding into the seat and pulling the door shut again. The briefest glance at her in the passenger seat tucked beneath his jacket and lost to sleep same as her children. A small flinch and shift when he starts the engine up again and pulls away into the dark.

He’ll sleep when he’s dead. There needs to be as much distance between them and where they started as possible before they stop for any longer than a few minutes. He’d promised her safety after all. And that’s exactly what he was going to deliver.

Not ifs. No ands. No buts.

drives when they’re going somewhere

Five thirty-four am. Day lights breaking. The soft twilight between that he wished last longer at times. By six it’s enough to have her stirring, and by six fifteen she’s cracking her eyes open. Sitting up, stretching out the kinks. Blue blinking wide, and hands covering up a yawn. 

Quiet good mornings between them. The offer of coffee at the next exit that has something worth while. And they push onwards down the highway. Silence as it has been all night. Because what do he say? What can make this all better. Make this all less terrible than it is? Make this feel less like running and more like escaping. More like starting over fresh. 

There aren’t really words, so instead he simply offers a hand. Placed on the console between them. Offers a reassuring hitch of a smile, that he knows gets to her. And maybe it feels better than it should when she takes it. Threads her fingers between his and squeezes. Answers with her own little smile. 

And for a second–everything is right as rain.

rearranges the furniture

           “No…no over ther–no wait…ugh this isn’t working, hang on.”

He sets the couch down for the umpteenth time. Flops down in it and waits. Because he knows she’s going to be back in precisely seven point three minutes to have him completely undo everything they just did and start over again. 

But you won���t find him complaining. Manual labor and the sheer stupidity of how heavy the couch actually is…there isn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. Because how domestic is this? Moving furniture around twenty times in twenty different ways til you end up with it all right back where it started. Pretty damn domestic if he has anything to say.

But he won’t complain. Why?

Happy wife. Happy life.

falls asleep with the TV on

There’s something to be said for movie and chill. It’s that thing that came before Netflix and chill. Only no body bothered to name it. Because when you’ve got kids. When their the center of your universe from six am to nine pm–you haven’t got a lot of energy left by the time you can sit down.

So he puts on her favorite movie. Pulls her away from the latest diy project she’s decided to tackle, and wraps them up in her favorite blanket on the couch. And he’ll sit there long after she’s fallen asleep on his shoulder. Sit there and watch the colors move across the screen, until eventually he’s carrying her off to bed. Tucking her in, bidding her the sweetest of dreams with the brush of lips against her forehead. 

He can’t stay tonight. He’s got work to do. And there’s a note left by the coffee pot. He won’t be home for at least a week, but he’ll see them soon. 

gets to use the bathroom first

Like clock work when he hasn’t been up for longer than any creature what needs to sleep should—he’s up just before the sun is. Careful not to jostle the bed when he slips out of it, more deftly than someone his size should be able too.  Onward to the bathroom, to get rid of things that yes still happen to him at two thousand plus years old. 

Then it’s light footed steps that carry him down the hall. Pulling on a t-shirt to cover things the boys don’t need to see. Peeling open the fridge, grabbing all the essentials he needs to make breakfast for an army of three plus one. And by the time three different alarms are going off plates are made and milks are poured. Ready and waiting, for two zombies and their ever herding mother to come filing into the kitchen.

And every morning it’s the same.

            You didn’t have to. I could have.

And every morning he simply shrugs. Hands her a cup of coffee made to her taste, a smile and kiss to her forehead.

           “Aye, oi’ know.”

decides the temperature for the ac/heater

          “Oi! Dunna even be d’inkin’ o’bou’ i’.”

               But it’s boi—

           “Ye ma be col’. Dunna touch i’.”

Teenage grade grumbling as bare feet shuffle away down the hall. Drowned out only by the crisp snap of newspaper as it’s folded and then folded again. A glass of ice water sweating its life away next to him on the table. He’s just as miserably hot, but Edith is sick and anything he can do to make her more comfortable he’ll do. And the boys will learn a the value of suffering so someone you love doesn’t.

sets up holiday decorations

When you’ve lived as long as he has. And spent a good lot of those years on your own. Decorating for any holiday, eventually just stops. Becomes a fairly useless task because what goes up must come down. And holidays were meant for families. Not people with not a person of significance to their proverbial name.

So he forgets until she mentions it one day, while their out window shopping. He forgets until she stops at shop filled to the brim with Christmas lights, fake trees and snow. He forgets until he sees the way her eyes light up and that one smile that could out shine the sun if it chose, settles in her features. 

         “Come on, lass. Le’s go see wha’ we can be foi’ndin’ fer ye’house.”

Because he’s on a mission now isn’t he? He’s going to make this the best Christmas the three of them ever had. And maybe he’s already pulled up a list of local tree farms on his phone. Because the best Christmas deserved a real tree too.

leaves the lights on

She always leaves the porch light on. No matter the weather. No matter anything. It’s always on. Because she says it’s like her own personal light house. Her way of being that little light in the dark, that you never know who might need it. And it stuck with her didn’t it? Carried with her across the thousand miles from one home to a new one. 

And maybe that’s exactly what it starts being for him. When it started he can’t say. But pulling into onto that street…when all other lights had long been extinguished–it’s there. There to guide him that last stretch of road. That softens the steps between the car and the front door. That shows the way for his keys. That halos him in an easy glow of warmth, like it’s silently welcoming him home no matter what hour it is. 

And eventually he stops himself from turning it off with the shutting of the door. Because lighthouses are not meant to go out. And he’ll not be the one to extinguish this one. Not now and not ever.

uses the bathroom with the door open

Years of living alone, you forget to do certain things. Things like shutting the damn door when you’ve got to take a piss. And the first time she’d walked into the bedroom and heard—well he’d felt the door shut before he heard it. And ever since it had became a tick. He’d forget she’d remind. Until eventually it became a wordless habit. A way things just went. And never her mind that he still chuckled about the absurdity of it, every single time.

fixes the plumbing (or calls the plumber)

                  I’ll just call some–

          “Oi’ go’i’lass. Jus’ be o’leak.”

                 I’m standing in an inch of water!

           “Oi’ be in ta drive way. Have ta wee shoi’te open ta back door.”

And in he comes. Boots squeaking agianst wet tile. Stepping over a damn made of towels and old tshirts. Tool box set down and angling himself a bit weirdly under the sink.

             “Oi’ lad. Hand me ta d’ree qua’ers.”

Because call someone? No. He’s lived too long and had to fix his own plumbing and half a dozen other things breaking in his life to toss money at someone that will take an hour to get there. He’ll do it himself. With a little help from his best assistant of course.