#I totes invisioned like Gilmore girls grandparents but Worse

[rhaenyratargeryn]

title: the rise and fall of the house of soup

rating: T for terrible puns

fandom: Body Count (IF)

pairing: Arthur x f!mc

summary: an idea I got of how I imagine a meeting with Arthur’s parents might go based on this ask! And also incorporating my own headcanon silliness from discord 😂

notes: don’t ask me how to write this man, I simply am borrowing him and thus his reactions are probably totally wrong hdhebsbsa

—

Your motivation had been simple.

Should the dinner go well and should Arthur’s parents approve of you, they would be less likely to toss his “association” with “that young woman” in his face. You knew well enough you were a topic of contention that had yet to fully be brought to the forefront, Arthur sidestepping the conversation through strategic avoidance.

You’d been together nearly three years and had never met his parents. There were plenty of excuses especially with your work. There had been the writing of the book and then the publishing of the book and now there were tours and signings and last week HBO had even reached out to discuss possibly buying series rights.

It was a wonder what some experience could do for a thriller-horror writer and you considered this dinner just another furthering of your knowledge in that regard.

Arthur had reluctantly helped pick out an outfit that would garner his parents’ approval. Had coached you on topics to stay away from, topics to simply nod and agree and other pointers. Some of them already had you clenching your teeth in silent indignation, but you did your best to keep your spirits up.

The night of, your designer (but not too mainstream designer) outfit was pristine and ready. You stepped out on soft, stocking feet into the kitchen just in time to hear the ending of a terse, quite conversation. Arthur was flipping his phone around and around between his fingers, no doubt wishing to replace it with a cigarette. Talking to his parents always brought out the otherwise non-existent craving.

“Was that French onion?” You asked neutrally. It was perhaps low-hanging fruit to have named each and every Campbell a type of soup based on how much you disliked them, but— well. There it was.

“My father.” Arthur said, his nose wrinkled as he pressed his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose.

Ugh. Cream of Celery.

“Reminding us of when ‘dinner will be served’ again?” You said, mocking the posh lit of his father’s accent very poorly.

Arthur’s scowl was answer enough, “… is it too late for one of us to suddenly become dreadfully ill?”

“Probably.” You replied, coming around to slide your arms around his middle from behind, cheek pressed against his back, “I could always pretend to get a call. No one understands what happens with publishing anyway.”

“No, I—. It will be fine.” Arthur said, his voice clipped. Despite your touch, he was still tense, muscles coiled and taunt as if he were prepared to flee.

“Well, if someone pulls out a puzzle box full of cards, I’m drawing the line.”

Your attempt to lighten the mood by comparing his family to a satanic cult earned you one half-hearted scoff. Regardless, his hand came up to settle over the one you had pressed against his chest and he drew it up to press a kiss to the back.

“Shall we?” He said with all the eagerness of a man being led to the gallows.

—

Of course they were the sort to have “drinks” before dinner. Arriving at the Campbell home you did your best not to seem too impressed by the lavishly decorated foyer and halls. It looked like it would have some sort of name from a BBC drama— like Downton Abbey or Thornfield Hall. You kept such observations to yourself as someone took your coat and led the two of you to a back room where Arthur’s parents were waiting.

Arthur was wrapped up in his usual defenses, but his palm on your lower back as he guided you through the hall was both reassuring and seeking of reassurance. Mr. and Ms. Campbell had pleasant, tight smiles on their faces as he introduced you, smiles tightening only further at the mere sound of your own accent.

You were ushered to sit on a small sofa with Ms. Campbell (French onion), passing one last soft touch over Arthur’s arm before you left his side.

“Something to drink?” Cream of Cel—Mr. Campbell said, the overt way he pronounced each syllable of your name making it sound not much like your name at all and more like a veiled criticism against your parents for picking it.

“Yes, sherry please.” You replied, eyes catching Arthur’s for a moment and noting the subtle approving dip of his head. Even what drink you should request for the aperitif was a planned performance. Mr. Campbell made a vague sound of affirmation as Ms. Campbell requested the same.

“What a lovely dress, is it Chanel?” Ms. Campbell began, the chess piece touched, the first opening move made.

“No.” You countered with a small smile.

“Don’t tell me, I’ll get it— Prada—no. Givenchy?”

You shook your head, smiling as Mr. Campbell handed you a glass of sherry and you sipped at it demurely before answering, “Cavalli.”

“Ah. I might have known.” Ms. Campbell said and you noted there was perhaps even a genuine sparkle of interest now in her eyes where before there had been plainly veiled disdain.

“Your lady knows her brands, Arthur. Which is good that one of you knows how to dress properly. Arthur will just toss on any old off-season shirt and be done with it.”

Mr. Campbell made a chortling sound of agreement, which you assumed was some kind of laugh. Arthur said nothing and sipped thinly at his own drink.

“Perhaps you can whip him into shape?”

“Funny, it was Arthur who picked out this dress for me.” You said, smile not reaching your eyes as you slid your hand over the soft fabric. Having her compliment redirected to her son had the small sparkle snapping out of Ms. Campbell’s eyes faster than you could say Chunky Hearty Cheeseburger Soup.

French onion, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I ever compared you to this woman.

Was the one thought that had your smiling into your sherry. Maybe you’d been a bit too hasty in your soup designations. The conversation travels between topics that Arthur had already prepared your answers for. All you needed to do was say them with firm, opinionated certainty that they were right and correct and wait for the Campbell’s to hum their increasing approval.

All in all, things were going well. They had even begun to thaw somewhat, though not to an amount you would have called anything but barely congenial.

“Ah—I remember now.” Ms. Campbell said, her eyes turning over your appearance, “This dress is from the winter collection from last year.”

You could tell by the tone of her voice points were being deducted, but it somehow didn’t seem to be you she was scoring. You didn’t even know if this dress was from last year—you didn’t really care. Arthur however gave one small squirm that had you thinking her observation must have been true.

“Would have been more appropriate to pick something a bit more closer to this season, wouldn’t it? He always is glossing over the finer details. Next time you need a dress for dinner I will give you my girl’s number. She is a godsend and would have never let you walk out of the house with those heels and those accessories. How blithely he’s matched them…”

Mr. Campbell made that same strange mirthless laugh, “You would think after that expense of your education you would be inclined towards thinking of the whole picture.”

Arthur simply took every small barb in stride, his features cool and indifferent. It had been like this all night.

“Though I’m sure by now you’ve dealt long enough with his heedlessness.” Mr. Campbell said, throwing the ball into your court to serve an insult of your own if you wished.

“I must confess to being deficient when it comes to women’s fashion.” Arthur said simply, tilting his glass back and forth and watching the contents swirl side to side.

“Only in women’s fashion?” His father added, his tone edged and yet another chuckle slid in to mask the obvious insult as a jest.

Death by a thousand cuts. That is what this was. Instead of serving to be his shield, you felt you were being asked to join in— encouraged to belittle Arthur. To bemoan him as careless, indifferent and thoughtless. To confirm the poor opinion these two cans of chunky hearty cheeseburger bullshit carried as the final test of your worthiness in their eyes.

But he wasn’t any of those things. He wasn’t.

Your fingers curled around the stem of your glass and you willed forward your resolve to tip it up to your lips and drain the contents in one quick gulp. The glass clicked as you set it on the immaculate, unused coffee table which you suspected was purely ornamental.

“He does certainly spend more time taking me out of clothes then putting me in them.” You said glibly, turning to flash Ms. Campbell a winning smile. The woman blanched, your words, hardly even scratching the surface of the crudeness you were capable of taking her off guard.

You stood and waltzed around to the drink cart, digging around in the contents until you found a bottle of champagne.

“Dom Perignon?” You said, a protest forming and dying on his father’s lips as you carelessly popped the top, “Dom mind if I do.”

You poured yourself a generous glass, topping off to the very tip of the sherry cup. Arthur was half poised, half out of his seat, staring at you with what could only be described as—horror? Confusion? Or simply incredulous delight?

You came to sit back on the sofa with an undignified plop, bottle still in hand and ready to top of your glass the moment it became a tiny bit empty.

“Now I don’t know about you two—“ you said, smacking your lips, “But I for one, think Brexit is possibly the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of.”

—

You did not make it to dinner.

You did not make it passed drinks.

One bottle of Dom Perignon and a near shouting match that had Cream of Celery half way towards “Tomato” and an hour or so later you were being carefully, tenderly ushered back into the flat you shared with Arthur.

You giggled and leaned heavily into Arthur’s arms, taking in the expensive, citrusy scent of his cologne, “I’m going to have three-hundred dollar wee.”

“…is that a declaration or a warning?”

“You’resofunny,” You slurred, voice still somehow a coo as you rolled back unto your feet, heels long since abandoned in the front seat of Arthur’s car, “You smell so good and you didn’t let me fall over that last step and—and—“

Your eyes stung as your turned your face up to meet his own bewildered expression.

“And I like you so much. So much. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

It was around then that you burst into tears right there in the doorway. Hot angry tears that would have, if you were more sober, mortified you for Arthur to witness. He hadn’t spoken much at all since you left his parents and you found you couldn’t tell if he was angry or ashamed or embarrassed by your behavior—but despite that, the arms around you were gentle and firm, if a bit hesitant and stiff.

He pressed a kiss into the top of your head.

“I don’t want them to ever like me. I want them to shudder at the very thought of my being on the same island as them!” You declared, “I’m going to make their lives so miserable they won’t have time to even think about you. I’m gonna make those high tory fucks hate my guts!”

It was around then you realized Arthur was shaking, his shoulders jerking up and down as he did his best to repress—laughter?

“I’m serious!”

And he laughed aloud. Bursting free of all that tension he had been carrying for days. The dark cloud finally pouring out its rain. He shook his head, stared at you as if you were some beautiful, otherworldly and foreign thing. Arthur took your face into his hands and held you still as he kissed you—senselessly, endlessly… until the champagne in your blood stream wasn’t the only thing making you dizzy and warm.

“I believe you.” He murmured against your lips, his thumb brushing across your cheek, “You positively mad, unbelievable, insufferable—“

And then he sealed off his own words by kissing you again.

“I thought the plan was to simply smile and nod your way through dinner…” Arthur said, clearly confused underneath his amusement at the night’s events, “You were doing well enough.”

“They kept pecking you. Peck, peck—like little cocks.” You murmured, nestling back into the circle of his arms and happy to find yourself warmly received. A rarity.

“It wasn’t even that bad.”

“… I’m callin’ them. I’m callin’ um right now and startin’ in on Boris.”

Arthur laughed again and you wondered how long it had been since his parents’ had ever heard this laugh. Relaxed and open and unrestrained.

It didn’t matter. They didn’t deserve to.

“You need to eat something and get some sleep.”

You mumbled your agreements and then after a moment added, “…s’weird that I kinda want soup?”

Arthur smiled—the soft one, the one reserved for private moments like this where only your eyes could see the gentleness in his own.

“I suppose I could bring you up some soup.”

“Chicken noodle.” You said with a resolute nod, openly taking advantage of his generous mood. He tucked a strand of your hair out of your face and behind your ear, gently taking the edge of it between his fingers and rubbing until you made a pleased sound.

“I’ll see if we have any.”

“That’s you. Chicken noodle. Classic, cozy, warm—delicious.” You added suggestively if only to hide the tenderness of your words before, spoken soft and low between you.

Arthur didn’t say anything but his brows furrowed together and for a moment you worried you’d offended him by gracing him with his own soupy nickname, but instead he kissed you again half so sweetly you couldn’t help but moan into his parted lips.

Maybe you would never earn his parent’s approval, but you were fairly certain neither one of you cared. Because all that mattered was you, him— us. No others required.

#body count #body count if #body count fanfic #arthur campbell x mc #Arthur x Mc #f!mc #arthur campbell #I JUST HAD IT RATTLING AROUND AND NEEDED IT OUT ME BRAIN #I totes invisioned like Gilmore girls grandparents but Worse #like levels of worse never before seen #oc; dakota blue #the puzzle box of cards is in ref to Ready or Not lmao