#and maybe a beta cuz holy man -- i should probably have edited this

[funkypoacher]

#44 (this one is solely for my own indulgence, sorry, lol), and #51 for the “Obligatory OTP Asks,” please (i’m not specifically saying july & daniel, but i *kinda* am)!

Who would dance in the kitchen making dinner? Would the other join in or watch from the doorway?

And

What’s a non verbal way they say I love you?

I combined them into one prompt rather than answer them straight-forwardly (as I do). And I am making pierogies a New Canaanite thing. Because… I can.

Anyways, have a little too much conversation and not enough action :)

Daniel/Courier

FoNV

“Holding Pattern”

Cutting willow branches to uniform length became busy work in the worst way. Planning to wattle a short fence, the futility was obvious: the only thing getting at her garden was the very-occasional rad-rabbit soonly dispatched by a bullet. But she felt compelled to do it—to erect superficial barriers where she could; to sever this from that, and mark, very clearly, what was hers and what still wasn’t. It was her upbringing—the prerogative of any NCR-born citizen. And despite July’s exile due to exaggerated crimes, she couldn’t deny her birthright to divide, conquer, and claim.

Putting the last revised willow branch on the ground with the rest, July, perched on a squat stool, brushed wood chips off her lap and perked her ears. There came another clang from the kitchen—the scraping of metal momentarily interrupted a low humming, melodious yet nonspecific, which, afterwards, resumed filling the air as it had the last twenty minutes.

July stood. She peered through the open door connecting garden to kitchen. Inside, Daniel was working at the table, portioning yellow, pillowy filling onto round disks of dough that were then pinched shut and placed to the side. The air was heavy with steam and the smell of potatoes; as Daniel put the next pierogi in a line with the rest, the occasional ad hoc roll of his hips or shoulders collected into a casual rhythm. Added to the soft, hummed tune, Daniel’s swaying became dancing.

It was surreal. To see anyone treating her kitchen as wholly their own offended some fairly deep instincts of both hospitality and territory, but, then, it wasn’t ‘just anyone’ going into her cupboards, or exploring her pantry, and, oh, despite the strangeness, the euphemisms weren’t lost on her, either.

When Daniel looked up, there was flour in his beard.

“Done out there?”

July nodded. Scrutinizing the table with over-mustered interest, she breathed deep, forced her brow into an expression of sweet curiosity, and wondered, “what are you doing?”

“Making dinner,” Daniel answered, smiling at the need to explain. “That’s alright, isn’t it? I mentioned using the flour and potatoes—”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” July assured him, arms crossing tight at her chest. “You brought them, after all, which was very generous. I just—I mean, I should really be doing this.”

Insinuating herself, July snatched a circle of dough, slapped it in front of her new spot at the table, and spooned a portion of cheesy potato filling. She dropped it in the middle, flashing a genial smile that Daniel answered with a polite frown.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, but it’s my home,” July established, pinching the dough edges carefully enough that she might’ve been working eggshells. “So, really, this should be up to me.”

The floorboards creaked under shifting weight. Wiping his hands on the towel previously slung over his shoulder, Daniel walked to the other side of the table, providing him the opportunity to scrutinize her face, probably. July kept her head bent so she wasn’t sure, but she felt his stare pacified by the only thing that ever brought him peace: seeking honesty.

“I see. Then you’ll be waiting on me hand and foot, I’m assuming. I’m to be a guest here.” 

July shrugged, gaze still away from him. “I suppose.”

The room paused with a silence so unlike minutes before, when the walls had been washed with the echoes of humming and clanging cutlery. Then, always heavy, always burdened and dramatic, Daniel sighed his particular, straight-from-the-gut sigh. July didn’t love to hear it, but it was, at least, familiar. 

“I’d hoped to be more than that. More than a guest.” 

July looked up. Reaching across the table—over a wooden rolling pin pilfered from the ancient general store, over flour dusting a table that she’d salt-scrubbed for nearly three hours, over utensils and bowls collected from everywhere until they made-up her domestic world—across all these things, July reached and grabbed Daniel’s wrist.

He flinched. There was an adage from somewhere about willing souls and weak flesh, but July didn’t think it could possibly apply to their situation. 

“I understand what I am to you,” July said, smiling with soft, sincere happiness. “I believe everything you said yesterday. This situation between us, though…” Her smile faltered. “It’s in a holding pattern I can’t abide. If we’re to be married, then fine. If you’re waiting for a blessing from you family—”

“I’m not.”

“Good, because it’s not going to come.” Letting go of his wrist, July straightened her posture. “Divided, conquered, and claimed. At least I’ve done what was expected of me.”

Daniel scowled. “This doesn’t have to be about my family. This is about what I believe, and what I think we deserve.”

“Deserve?” July looked down, horrified by that prospect. “Daniel, I know what you think we deserve.”

“This isn’t about the Sorrows, either. Or Zion.” Where July’s voice had exhausted in strength, Daniel’s gained. “This isn’t about any failure. To me, the vow of marriage is sacred. And I believe we deserve the righteousness that comes with waiting.”

‘Righteousness.’ Waiting. July appreciated where his mind was at—gone stuck filthy in a gutter—but Daniel’s collection of the things ‘this wasn’t about’ was mirrored by July’s, though, curiously, sex topped her own, private list of irrelevancies.

“Do you…?” She swallowed. “Do you remember—?” She laughed. Taking a deep breath, July decided what this was least about was the weight on her chest: an oppressive sadness so great that it leaned on her throat. “Never mind,” she said with relief born of clarity. “Let’s just… Do what we’re doing.”

“No, what were you going to say?”

July was convinced towards explaining by the warmth in Daniel’s tone. “It’s just…” The woman shrugged. “We’ve been here before. In this same holding pattern. Living in sin… or not, depending on your point-of-view.” She smirked. “Last time, though, it was about escaping everything going on here. Forgetting the fight; ignoring what would or wouldn’t happen when the White Legs were dead.” She looked him relentlessly in the eye. “But we were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yesterday you said you wanted what we used to have, but what we had was not this. I mean, we’ve both said last time was a mistake. So I—I don’t understand what you want. You said marriage, but what else?”

Daniel’s brow rose. “Are NCR proposals usually so specific?”

Mortified by her now-vocalized fears, July absently poked at a piece of rolled dough. “You’d be surprised.” 

Daniel repositioned himself at the table across from her. There was airiness in his movements; a natural freedom that was contrary to her rigid posture. “What I want is to make you dinner.” Picking up some dough in his palm, he went back to it: spooning up the potato filling, placing it in the middle, and pinching it together. “These are… Well, they’re comfort food for me. They’re not meant to be, I suppose.” Daniel smiled, absorbed in his work. “They were made by the women all pitching in and dividing the batch up. They’re good for when stores are low. Not many ingredients, but they are delicious.”

“So it’s women’s work?” 

“Not necessarily,” Daniel answered with a similarly smug grin. “There’s usually a man or two around, though often just to taste test, if I’m being perfectly honest.”

Dusting his hands off, Daniel half-filled the spoon. Walking around the table, he made his offer, and July, after looking over his expression, dipped forward. She took the spoon into her mouth; she might’ve wished for a bit more salt, except the way Daniel was watching her had her hungry in the way that any little thing satisfied, so the pierogi filling struck her as delicious. Not too proud of the sound she made as she swallowed, July covered her mouth bashfully, blushing.

“So, you wanted to make something that reminded you of home,” she accused him affectionately, hand still hovering in front of her mouth.

“No,” Daniel replied brightly, “I wanted to make you something special. Something you maybe haven’t had before. We’re going to make a home together, and I figured I’d start there.”

July choked on something she hadn’t been eating.

“I see.”

It was hard to say who was affected more by his words: July, who, looking up into his eyes, felt herself pulled forward, dreamy fondness and deepening yearning sapping her ability to stay upright, or Daniel, whose subtle movements closer seemed much more deliberate, and whose lips parted and chest swelled.

He gripped the table at their side, the spoon clattering away from his fingers. July tried not to go looking for the scent of campfire or soap as she inhaled, but she knew it was there: in his hair, and across his skin.

“There’s one more problem with this holding pattern we’ve got,” she said, voice low.

“What?” Daniel’s voice pitched with distracted, yet real, concern.

“Another night of you just sleeping on the couch might kill me,” July whispered across his earlobe.

It wasn’t the first time they’d barely dragged themselves away from an indiscretion. It was the first time that day specifically, but it wasn’t likely to be the last. So July forced herself outside again, leaving Daniel with the cooking.

Stealing a last look, July smiled to see that his humming and slow, off-handed swaying had returned. She was sure it would be full-blown dancing one day. And, of course, July was further thrilled to see he wasn’t shying away from meal-prep. It had always been a well-known fact that his cooking outshone hers. Whether or not it was done now as an expression of love was irrelevant: what mattered was they wouldn’t be suffering her burnt pot-roasts, as Daniel, unafraid of fixing her mistakes, took apart her last poorly-pinched pierogi.

#my writing #i just really want some peirogies guys #and maybe a beta cuz holy man -- i should probably have edited this #daniel #honest hearts #fonv #july wells #also thank u thank u a million times thank you for the questions #and listening to me blather on about these genuine jerks