#earl's kitchen + bar | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

longing-for-the-past-times · 7 months

Text

wisdom teeth

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

word count: 1,472

synopsis: Simon comes home from a mission only to find you in bed, sick and in pain. Your wisdom teeth are coming out and he does his best to care for you

notes: as always, i suck at writing a good synopsis; inspired by this request- not proofread, hope you enjoy :) ; and yes, when two of my wisdom teeth decided to come out in the world last spring I could barely open my mouth without being in pain- I hope no one else has to go through what I did

warnings: a little too self-indulgent? fluff

masterlist

Simon knew something was wrong when he spent nearly an hour nursing his cup of Earl Grey, and you hadn't joined him yet. While it wasn't unusual for you to sleep in sometimes, it was still the morning after he'd returned from a mission and you would usually be fussing all over him. Ghost knew he was being irrational, but with each passing second his mind couldn't help but spiral into darker and darker thoughts. What if he had done something to upset you? You didn't greet him last night either - merely cuddled against his chest when he joined you in bed - was it something he said on the phone? Or rather didn't say? Didn't he call you too often? Or perhaps you might have met someone else..?

"'m sorry, S'mon. I might spend'he day'n…"

A small curse left his lips as he shook himself out of his thoughts. The tea had long gone cold by the time he eventually got up from the table and threw the remnants down the kitchen sink. His stomach was basically growling, protesting at the prolonged hunger it had been objected to, yet Ghost did not head for the fridge or the cupboards: he may have drunk his tea by himself, but, when he was home, he would never have breakfast without you by his side.

So instead, he headed for the bedroom, quietly opening the door and half-entering the room. He had to squint as the blackout curtains were still obstructing any ray of sunlight that might have entered inside otherwise, his expression morphing into a frown upon hearing the faintest of groans coming from the bed.

Traversing the room in two steps, he laid on the carpet, by your side of the bed, gently placing a hand on your forehead. His heart dropped at the foreboding feeling of you having a fever, too focused on the situation at hand to notice the soft way you began to rub your head against the cold skin of his hand.

Ghost, on the other hand, did not realise the cause of your distress. Seeing you in pain was causing him pain too and his tired mind, still set on the military mindset he had instilled during the last mission, was looking for a culprit.

"feels so good, love", you mumbled with your cheek still squished against the pillow, your eyes involuntarily making contact with his.

You've been together with Simon for more than two years and sharing an apartment for a year now, but the sight of his handsome face, unconcealed by any mask or balaclava, still left you out of breath and at a loss for words. That morning was no different, his worried expression filling your heart with even more love and joy towards him, so much that you swore you could feel it burst at the seams. You relished in the soothing sensation of his palm being pressed against your flushed skin, but at the same time, you couldn't help but smile at him in an attempt to reassure him you were fine.

In fact, you weren't. And you forgot that, at least for the last few days, any movements that involved opening your mouth, no matter how minor, were instantly accompanied by sharp waves of pain, coursing through your entire being. So, for the hundredth time that week, your smile was quickly replaced by a pathetic whimper and a hand helplessly pressed against your cheek, as if it would make the pain go away.

"Who did this to you? Just say the word and I-"

His concern was so raw and real that it made your heart melt like it was a chocolate bar left in the sun. You had missed his overprotective attitude and the scary dog privileges it brought with it and in that moment, the realisation that all of it was back hit you hard. So hard that in fact, you started laughing- your loud chuckles quickly turning into sobs of pain as your jaw was protesting against the sudden movements.

Your eyes were closed in an attempt to dull the pain that engulfed your entire face, but you could feel Simon's distress rolling off him in waves. So you blindly reached for the phone and opened the notepad application, typing in what you were unable to say out loud at once:

"Wisdom teeth are coming out."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Simon took a moment to assess the situation. A rush of relief surged through his veins as it was all clear then- the prolonged sleeping periods, the fever, why you couldn't open your mouth without being forced to close it immediately after. A selfish part of him was relieved that it was something he could physically deal with, and his protective instincts really started to kick in.

Pulling the curtains was not a solution as the brightness of the daylight would only make you feel more overwhelmed, but the room still needed some light- and the bedside lamp was not a solution as the bulb would have also been too bright. You would also need something to calm you, but not pills because they would interfere with the painkillers he also made a mental note to get and-

"I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head, love! :)"

He had to squint to process the text when you shoved the phone into his face, his lips curling up at the sight of the smiley face you typed at the end. Urging your face to morph into something that remotely resembled a smile, you extended a hand towards his face and caressed his cheek with your thumb, in what was meant to be a silent confirmation that he was on the right track and nothing that he would or wouldn't do would upset you in any way.

"I'll be back in 30 minutes at most!", he solemnly declared as he pressed his lips against your forehead, a small tendril of hope bubbling in his chest upon the feeling of the fever starting to fade away. "Why don't you try to get some rest until I come back and then we'll see what we can do!"

You could only nod in confirmation as he pulled another blanket from a drawer and draped it over the one you already used, making a show out of tugging you in.

---

When you woke up again, the pain wasn't entirely gone, but the air in the room had somehow shifted. It took you a moment to bounce back into reality, your eyes slightly widening at the faint light that illuminated the previously dark room.

Fairy lights were hanging over your head.

And the soft notes of a piano song could be heard from outside the room.

"How are you feeling, love?", Simon's deep Manchester accent resounded somewhere in your proximity, and you almost jumped out of bed when you realised he was once again sitting on the floor, half leaning against the bed. His mask was, once again, out of sight, and his blonde strands of hair were tousled, likely from the many times he kept running his hands through his hair. Your eyes involuntarily stopped on the faint scar that split the left corner of his lip in half and, for a brief moment, all the pain and distress you found yourself in were gone, your heart filling with an overwhelming amount of love and adoration towards the man standing in front of you.

"So I brought you some painkillers, but before we try them I suggest a cup of this calming tea mix I found at the store-"

The sentence was left hanging in the air as you shook your head in disbelief and cupped his face in your hands, planting a soft kiss on his lips. If Ghost was caught unawares by your sudden display of affection, he did not let it show, but instead, he laced his hands against your neck and deepened the kiss, closing his eyes at the close contact you found yourselves in. Loudly expressing his feelings was not one of his strengths, and deep down he could not believe he had managed to find someone like you, who could understand him so well.

"Welcome home, Simon!"

"I think I'm feeling better already…", you quietly mumbled once you broke the kiss, your lips gently brushing against his cheek. Closing your eyes as well, you grazed your nose against his face, finding comfort in his scent. He may have been home for a day, perhaps he took a shower too, but the distinctive smell of gunpowder, mixed with sweat and cologne, was still there. And you did not mind it at all.

That time your jaw did not hurt as bad as your mouth curved into a smile.

#cod ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #call of duty imagine #ghost fluff #amy writes #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost x you #ghost x y/n #simon riley x you

611 notes · View notes

celenawrites · 9 months

Text

Mornings like these are rare.

You wake up and look outside the window, seeing the dawn rise on you as you estimate that you only have an hour until the sun shines through the beige curtains of your room. An hour before you have to get up and leave for work.

You yawn audibly, and then you turn to face your boyfriend, Simon. He’s sound asleep, which is a first, especially since he’s usually up and running - years of serving in the military ingrained in him a sense of strong discipline, something that even soft domesticity cannot break him out of. He was always up by four o’ clock(maybe out of habit, maybe because he couldn’t sleep as well as he wanted, maybe because he had a nightmare he wouldn’t burden you with) and he stayed in bed for ten minutes or more, until muscle memory forced him to leave the soft bed and take a cold shower to get himself awake. Then he’d eat a protein bar from the pack you had ordered for him the week before he was supposed to come home, and then he’d put on his running shoes (all clean and nice due to you) and he’d go for a morning run with his face covered with a black surgical mask instead of his usual balaclava or skull mask.

He’d come back around six o’ clock, all sweaty and heaving as he sits down on the rickety armchair in the living room as he catches his breath. He’d look at the clock and notice the time, slowly making his way to the kitchen to brew two cups on Earl Grey tea and he carefully pours it into the mugs with cute puppies scribbled on them (you got them for a steal from a flea market, and all he could do when he saw your shopping bags was huff in amusement with eyes twinkling as he aids you into arranging the small trinkets, utensils and potted plants around the house). He’d take out your favorite cookies to serve along with the hot beverage, plating it up on the tray like you usually did and he’d enter your room again, softly running his scarred hand through your soft hair as he’d gently ask you to wake up and share some tea with him before the day begins.

This small window of time, where you and Simon do nothing, speak nothing but let the tea and the love you have for each other warm you up was the highlight of the day for the both of you.

Then he’d send you off to work while he busies himself with all the overdue handiwork needed around the home you share with him. Fixing creaky doors, mowing the lawn, putting nails in the wall so you can hang up more paintings, hooks - anything that would make this place more homely than he ever remembers it to be. On days you didn’t have work, you would stick around him - half a dozen steps away from him as he went around the house and worked to fill in the hours before lunchtime. Sometimes you’d make him lemonade to drink in the scorching heat, and other times you’d rope him in to watch a movie with you, only to end up sleeping on his shoulder as he gently shuts off the television and whisks you off to the bedroom, holding you in his arms and letting himself have the much-needed rest his brain refuses to let him have at night.

If he wakes up before it’s evening, he’d gently urge you to grab some lunch, maybe an early dinner before curling up beside you while you read your book as you gently muss up his badly cut hair, promising to him that you’d help him fix the uneven cut he’s had to give himself while he was deployed. He hums contently, letting himself feel like he deserves this as he dozes off in the night. Like he deserves you.

Today he does none of it.

It is rare for Simon to sleep through the night uninterrupted, and even rarer for you to wake up before him. So you soak up this moment, hoping that the memory that follows it will do you justice as you try to remember the few times you got to admire your other half the way he usually gets to do with you. You count his soft eyelashes, your eyes squint as you look at his hair as the sunlight shines upon his head like a halo. Terrifying as he may be with his persona as Ghost, you were certain that this is another sign that Simon, your Simon, was nothing short of angelic. You sigh as you look at his crooked nose, broken by a very violent bar fight he had engaged into when he was young and brash and thirsting for senseless violence and blood. (He won the fight, despite his inexperience. He had told you so with a dry chuckle, and you tried not to let your amusement show through as you shook your head in disappointment)

You look at the scar that runs from his temple down to near his left earlobe, white and thin like lightning as if Zeus had struck this behemoth of a man for being mortal and still putting all the heroes of past eons to shame. You look at his lips - pink, dry, thin and scarred, and you almost let your fingertips touch them as you memorize this rare visage of your lover. But you know Simon’s tired (oh so tired), and you’d rather give up on the opportunity to admire him than interrupt him when he’s finally asleep after fighting fruitlessly to finally rest for the past three weeks.

However, your attempts at being quiet fail you anyway.

Suddenly, as if he can almost sense your awake state, his eyelids flutter and his breath picks up as he blinks awake. Brown pupils meet yours as he intently stares at you with sleep-laden eyes, his blonde eyelashes flickering whenever he tries to blink off the fatigue plaguing his weary bones. You smile at him kindly, letting your hand gently rest on his face as your fingers curl up into the blonde tufts of hair on his head. He leans into your touch, softly kissing the inside of your wrist as your fingers trail over his head, around his face.

“Good morning, Simon”, you greet him softly, and his breath hitches slightly as he looks at the love you carry in your eyes for him. At the love that drips from every word you say to him.

“Would you like me to make you some tea?”

Note - I felt like writing some domestic fluff with our beloved Lieutenant right after watching Barbie, so here we are. Hope you enjoy.

Divider by @/firefly-graphics on Tumblr.

Find me on AO3!

#call of duty #cod #cod:mw2 #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley #char.simon ghost riley #celena.rambles

684 notes · View notes

sighonaraa · 8 months

Text

@jamiesfootball since we're on the topic of making people sad via rescue animals........

When Dani was six years old, his mother banned him from animal shelters from now until the end of time. One too many times had he dug his heels in and refused to leave without bringing home every sad-eyed rescue, and the resulting tantrums had been of such intensity that even his sweet-tempered mother had found herself at the end of her rope with him. This, Dani understands. He's the same age now that she was then, and he thinks if a small child pouted up at him with a puppy in their arms, he might just do whatever they asked.

And then...well. Then Earl happened. And Dani hadn't so much as looked at an animal shelter since.

But in the locker room, Jamie's been showing everybody pictures of Big Ben--large and round, growing rounder each day, well-fed on a loving diet of kitchen scraps and whatever treats he manages to pitifully mewl from Jamie and his silly, generous heart--and he grins so wide as he does, bright enough to light a dark room. He seems happier than Dani's ever seen him, and it warms him down to his very bones; and this, too, he understands. He has sat on Jamie's couch and held his breath as Big Ben crawls across his lap with heavy paws. Waited as Big Ben tucks himself into a ball. Beamed with pride as Big Ben purrs beneath Dani's gentle, steady pets. There's something very healing in that touch of skin to fur, the knowledge that there is a living creature that trusts you implicitly, without question.

All of this to say, Dani is going to blame Jamie if this all goes poorly. It won't! But just in case.

The animal shelter nearest his house is grey brick and glass windows where the one in Guadelajara was red-toned stone and a patio arrayed with reclining chairs. It makes it that bit harder for Dani to take his first step out of his car and towards the front door, pulse thrumming in the hollow of his throat. His eyes shut. He hears the impact of the ball, the sudden swallowing silence of the crowd. His next exhale rattles in his ribcage.

He opens his eyes, and with them, the door.

***

Six-year-old Dani had been correct. When confronted with an animal shelter full of rescue animals, the only logical course of action is to puddle on the floor and weep over how few of them your hands can hold. Unfortunately, adults are illogical creatures, and so Dani is forced instead to walk the length of the cages over and again, barely listening to what the kind Ms. Alicia Furns is telling him about this litter of kittens, and that one-eared bunny, and those twin snakes who cannot under any circumstances be separated.

His gaze snags on one particular cage, as they walk back the way they've come. For a moment, he's convinced it's empty; but upon closer inspection, there's a dog in there, curled up in the far back corner. Box-headed and sleek grey from head to paws, enormous eyes peering up at Dani like the poor thing's already convinced he's going to walk away.

But Dani doesn't. He halts, almost screeches to it--in his periphery like that, this dog had almost looked like Earl. And he...he has to fight through the sudden thickness of his throat, force himself to kneel at the bars of the cage. "Excuse me," he says, soft, fingers tracing the cold metal. "Who's this?"

"That's Jude," says Ms. Alicia Furns. Her voice has gone funny, and a bit sad. "I'm afraid he's something of our resident anger management problem. He's been returned three times, now."

Dani thinks of Roy, and a faint grin twists his lips. "We've got a resident anger management problem at my own workplace," he says. "Has he bitten anyone?"

"Only one, his last owner," says Ms. Alicia Furns. "But, well." Dani doesn't have to turn to know that her expression is fierce. He can tell by the inhale, the precipitation of speech; sharp and sudden, like a forcibly withheld sob. "That last owner kept Jude chained in the yard. Wouldn't let him inside the house."

Jude appraises Dani warily. Dani wonders whether it was only the last owner that kept Jude chained. The dog has the eyes of a creature that's been left alone far too long.

"I'd like to let him into mine, I think," says Dani, and feels his chest loosen as though a knot has been untangled.

***

That night, after Dani's sent Sam and Jamie and Isaac off with promises to keep them apprised of Jude's movements, he lays Jude's new bed out on the floor in the living room and calls for the dog to come and lie down. But Jude doesn't move. He's standing by the door to the backyard, half-pressed to the glass. He's a large creature, head resting at Dani's thigh when standing, and yet in the night, in the looming darkness of Dani's home, he seems small and fragile and frightened.

"Do not worry, mi amigo," Dani says, gentle. "You are not going outside. I promise. See?" He makes a motion over his chest. "I cross my heart. That is a binding promise."

Jude makes a snuffly sound. His big paws scuffle against the tile.

"You are not going outside," Dani says again. "You are safe here." And he says it to Jude but he says it to Earl, as well, Earl who he keeps tucked away inside his heart, where the world cannot touch him. He gets on his knees and extends his palms. "You are safe here."

A moment passes. Another. Jude takes one step away from the back door, and then continues venturing closer, tentative and shy. Dani does not understand how it has taken him this long to be loved.

Jude's head--solid and sturdy and soft, so soft--nestles into the curve of Dani's palm. It is a light touch and yet stronger than Dani has ever known. There is enough love within that touch to make up for all the rest of it.

"There you are," Dani whispers, stroking his thumb along the length of Jude's muzzle. "Here you are."

(Jude sleeps in Dani's bed that night. When they wake, Dani holds him close and the sun shines on them both.)

#AUGH OH MAN!!!#giving dani a pitbull is. potentially. my magnum opus.#gav if you see this please know i took the name jude from the same story. you get it #ted lasso #dani rojas #sid speaks #long post #VERY long wow sorry y'all

142 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

North To The Future [Chapter 2: The Distance]

The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, discussions of sex, discussions of drugs, discussions of murder, very indecent discussions in general, alcoholism, incompetent flirting, taxidermy, Taco Bell.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @elsolario @meadowofsinfulthoughts @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @b1gb3anz @hinata7346 @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl

Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

The answering machine beeps. “Bitch, pick up,” Heather says through the speaker. And then: “Bitch!!! Pick up!!!”

You dive for the phone on the kitchen counter. Your dad gets there first.

“Hey, Heather!” he booms cheerfully. He takes a bite of a gooey chocolate chip cookie and swipes crumbs from his beard with the back of his hand. Your mom, smiling and sly, sips her Earl Grey tea at the dining room table. “Yes, yes, well I am loath to remind you that I live here too. Uh huh. Okay. Did you want to speak to my daughter? Or were you secretly hoping to get me? I could tell you about my riveting mailbox renovation project. There’s also a cow moose that’s been coming around recently, she’s a princess, I got a big ol’ salt lick and put it out in the backyard for her. No, Heather, no, a cow moose is just a female moose. It’s not a new species or anything. Lord have mercy. Okay, here’s ladybug.”

He passes you the phone. You pretend to glower at him, not very convincingly. “Hi, Heather,” you say.

“I am mortified.”

“I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it. He was in the Marines, he’s probably heard worse.”

Your dad bellows: “I sure fucking have!” Then he guffaws in a baritone rumble as he meanders over to the table, polishing off his cookie. Your mom chuckles and shakes her head as she flips a page in the latest issue of Alaska magazine. There’s a salmon on the front cover. No points for originality.

“Anyway,” you tell Heather. “What’s up?”

“Are you finally going to go tonight?”

“Go where?”

You can hear the hopeful, baiting smile in her voice. “Ursa Minor.”

The bar. The bar Aegon asked me about. He came by the clinic yesterday afternoon to pick up Sunfyre and the Nova, that’s what Jen said; a work friend dropped him off and he dashed inside and left just as quickly. You had been busy in the exam room vaccinating Ms. Finnegan’s Saint Bernard—no Cujos allowed in your neighborhood—and thoroughly unavailable to socialize. Still, he hadn’t bothered to wait around to say hello. This bothers you. This bothers you a lot more than you wish it did. He doesn’t care about me, he doesn’t remember me, he’s too busy being a serial killer to talk to me, the possibilities are truly endless. You twirl the mint green phone cord around your fingers. “Umm…”

“You have to go,” Heather begs. “Everyone’s going to be there. Joyce, Kimmie, our whole clique from high school. And Trent! And Trent’s hot friends! He really wants to buy you a drink. Like really, really wants to buy you a drink. He’s been asking about you constantly since you moved back home. It’s pathetic, actually. Take pity on him. Let him spend his whole paycheck on your Bacardi Breezers, and then if you’re still not interested you can ignore him to your heart’s content. I wouldn’t blame you. I know he’s a dumbass.”

Trent. Heather’s brother is two years older than you and a peripheral figure of your life—like a comet that clips by Earth every few decades—for as long as you can remember. He even called a few times when you were at Colorado State for vet school. He’s tall and popular and buoyant, a long-haired former quarterback who took your high school to the state championships and still holds semi-legendary status in Juneau. And there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him, nothing at all…except that Heather’s right. He’s kind of a dumbass. You don’t feel any particularly ardent yearning to see Trent, no gnawing curiosity. But if Aegon might be at Ursa Minor… “I do love Bacardi Breezers.”

“Yes, I remember,” Heather says, her words warm with the memories: her bedroom floor at 2 a.m. surrounded by Just Seventeen magazines and nail polish bottles, picnics on the summertime shores of Dredge Lake, your parents’ backyard on early-autumn nights illuminated only by the crackling firepit. She’s a thread woven through your life like a vein through flesh.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

“Booyah!” she hollers through the phone. “8:00?”

“8:00.”

“Wear something slutty.” And then Heather hangs up.

~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t wear something slutty. You wear a very uneventful chunky teal sweater. Aegon is dressed in a black crewneck sweatshirt, cuffed jeans, and Doc Martens combat boots. He’s sitting at the bar when you walk in, the bells on the back of the door jingling. Ursa Minor is drowning in an ocean of multicolored lights, tinsel, garlands, tiny ceramic Santas, at minimum three medium-sized Christmas trees; Dale must have gotten into the holiday spirit early this year. The taxidermy deer heads on the wall have ornaments suspended from their antlers. The whole place smells like pine and peppermint. Shania Twain’s Any Man Of Mine is piping from the stereo. You and Aegon exchange a microsecond glance as you hang your parka on the coatrack—there’s a girl perched on the barstool beside him, you recognize her from around town but can’t recall her name—and then you cross the room to join Heather in her booth.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she sighs defeatedly upon seeing your apparel. Heather is wearing low-rise jeans, a chainmail halter top, and no bra. She has arranged her hair with numerous butterfly clips.

“Wow, you’re basically JLo!”

“Wow, you’re basically retired.” She sips her Sex On The Beach and shoves an ice-cold glass bottle towards you, dewy with condensation and conveniently already opened. “I ordered you a Bacardi Breezer. I had to take a guess on which flavor you’d be in the mood for, I know it changes several times per minute. Is coconut okay?”

“Coconut is awesome.” You start chugging. You steal a glimpse of Aegon and his…friend? Girlfriend? Date? Booty call? Fiancé? Wife? She’s chatting away obliviously. He’s nursing a rum and Coke and staring at you with his bleary, black-ringed eyes. “How’s it going, Joyce?”

Joyce is nestled in the far corner of the booth and engrossed in a fantasy novel. There’s some hunk riding a horse on the front cover. “Hey,” she says without looking up. She flips a page.

“Do you want anything?” Heather asks her.

“Yeah, a lobotomy.”

You say to Heather, smiling: “If I’m retired, what’s Joyce?”

“Dead,” Heather replies. All three of you laugh. Then Heather props her elbows on the table and tinkers with her rhinestone choker so it can catch the Christmas lights, glittering and casting scintillations. “You like my new bling?”

“Oh yeah, it’s super, it’s off the chain.” You half-listen to her lament the lack of shopping options in Juneau—Ketchikan has a Walmart now, apparently, but that’s nineteen hours away—while conducting covert reconnaissance on Aegon and his unspecified companion. It is genuinely baffling that you care this much, but that doesn’t make you care less.

“Um, hello? Hellooooo? Earth to grandma? What the hell are you staring at…?” Heather twists around to see Aegon at the bar, very sloshed and very obviously still watching you. “Him?!”

“Do you know him?”

“I know of him. He works on the same boat as Trent. I’ve never really talked to him. But I’ve heard plenty of things. Very…intriguing things. Titillating things.”

“What have you heard?”

“The bottom line?” Heather grins, conspiratorial. “He’s a mattress.”

“A mattress…?”

“Good for sleeping on and not much else.”

This bothers you, it sends hot blood to your face and your stomach into freefall, though if asked you wouldn’t be able to articulate why. Heather notices and backpedals rapidly.

“I mean, he’s cute, I guess. If you’re into guys who look like they live in a dumpster and have scurvy. He sort of reminds me of Kurt Cobain…except I think the hair is real.” She gasps. “He could give you little Kurt Cobain babies! Cobainbies!”

“I don’t want his Cobainbies.” You down the rest of your Bacardi Breezer.

“You are kind of acting like you want his Cobainbies.”

Aegon says something to the girl beside him. You gaze at him morosely. “He’s a drunk.”

“Great, Alaska has one of the highest rates of alcoholism in the nation, he’ll fit right in.”

“He’s not staying.”

“Just because it won’t be a long time doesn’t mean it can’t be a good time.” Heather wiggles her thinly-tweezed eyebrows, then observes your lack of amusement. “Alright, forget it. I’ll shut up. I wouldn’t be your best friend if I wasn’t trying to help you get laid, you know.”

“Go help Joyce get laid.”

“I’d have better luck with Pope John Paul II.”

“Go help Kimmie get laid.”

“Kimmie’s probably getting laid right now.”

As if a demon summoned by a Ouija board, Kimberly Barbieri gusts into the bar. Every friend group has a Kimmie. She is dramatic and irritating and captivating, she is effortlessly carnal, she is forever regaling you with the volatile ebbs and flows of her love life and enlisting you in her schemes: who to ensnare, who to shun. The rest of you are the supporting cast of characters and have been essentially since kindergarten. You all pity her and yet are viciously envious of her.

“Ugh!” she huffs as she throws her Kate Spade bag down on the table. You, Heather, and Joyce peer up at her with anticipatory smiles. The main character has suffered a new development. Aegon tosses Kimmie a casual appraisal and then turns back to his rum and Coke.

“Yes?” Heather prompts.

“I’m so done with Brad. I mean, I’m really done with him this time. Our three month anniversary? And he takes me to Taco Bell? Taco Bell?!”

“As if!” Heather offers, urging her along.

“As if!” Kimmie echoes in vehement agreement.

“Was Brad aware of the aforementioned anniversary?” Joyce says.

“He should have been!”

“I love Taco Bell,” you say, purposefully incendiary. Heather winks at you. This is the game you’ve played since before you could spell your own names.

“Really?” Kimmie has one hand on her hip, the other gesturing erratically through the air. “You’d be happy if your boyfriend of three long months took you to Taco Bell? You’d be real fucking psyched about that? You’d be planning the goddamn destination wedding in Barbados?”

“Oh yeah.” You are stone-faced; you are the best at feigning earnestness. Joyce is biting back giggles from behind her book. “I would do some very unwholesome things to a man who bought me Cinnamon Twists.”

“Are you on drugs?” Kimmie says. “Are you smoking crack? Are you huffing paint? Have you turned into that kid with the LSD stickers that they warned us about in high school?”

You reply, deadly serious: “I’m just a slut for Cinnamon Twists.”

“I can’t talk to you right now. I need a beer.” And that’s something else that guys unfailingly love about Kimmie: she drinks beer. She flees to the bar.

Heather’s smile dies as her eyes drift to Aegon. She sips her Sex On The Beach meditatively. She asks you, her voice low: “You think he’s the Ice Fisher?”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Oh come on, he showed up right before the murders started happening, that’s a coincidence that bears discussion.”

“It’s not him.”

“And how could you possibly know that?”

You scramble for an explanation. “He’s not big enough,” you decide. “The Ice Fisher is someone who can throw a dead body over one shoulder and lug it for miles through the wilderness.” And that’s probably accurate, but it’s not the real reason you don’t think Aegon is a killer. You couldn’t put the real reason into words if you had years to work on it. At the bar, Kimmie is shamelessly flirting with Dale, who is your parents’ age and closely resembles Robin Williams when he was first rescued from Jumanji. Aegon imparts some final words to his companion and she leaves him, not entirely thrilled.

“How did you two ever cross paths?” Heather asks, mystified.

“He has a dog.”

“Oh, right, that makes sense.”

“Why is it so unbelievable that we might have bumped into each other once or twice in this oh-so-charming, close-knit little haven of a community?”

“Well,” Heather says. “Because you’re so freakishly smart and successful and mature and responsible, and he’s…” She smirks. “Definitely not any of that.”

You glance over at Aegon. He glances back. You both look away. “He’s not so bad.”

“You should go talk to him.”

“Is Kimmie somehow not enough entertainment for you?”

“Dayum, he’s watching you again,” Heather marvels. “You should definitely go talk to him. You know, if you’re totally sure he’s not a serial killer.”

“Should I really?”

“Yes.”

You consult with Joyce. “Should I really?”

Joyce speaks without halting her reading. “Yes.”

You look at Aegon. He gives you a teasing little half-smile. Are you gonna? That smile says. And as Kimmie is coming back from the bar, you go up to sit two stools away from Aegon.

“Dale, can I get an appletini?”

“Appletini?” Dale’s brow wrinkles with confusion. You may not be a frequent Ursa Minor attendee, but you know Dale reasonably well. He’s a casual friend of your parents and a familiar face at holiday parties, town events, and trips to the grocery store and post office. “No offence, ladybug, but what the hell is that?”

“An appletini,” you repeat, crushed. “I saw it on tv. It’s a new cocktail, it’s this neat bright green color, they have it in New York…and Los Angeles…and…and…”

“Do you know how they make it in New York and Los Angeles?” Dale asks.

“No,” you admit sadly.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Forget it. Just get me a mango Bacardi Breezer.”

“That I can do,” he says chipperly, pops the cap off, and slides the bottle across the bar to you. You take a swig.

Aegon chuckles. “Embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing?” you fling back, smiling despite yourself.

“Your drink of choice is a Bacardi Breezer, that’s really fucking embarrassing.”

“I like all the tropical flavors! It makes me feel like…” You close your eyes, momentarily dreamy. “Like I’m on a beach somewhere. Like I’m in some gorgeous, warm, exotic place.”

Aegon finishes his rum and Coke and spins the empty glass absentmindedly with one hand. Dale fixes him a new one. “Where’s your favorite beach? Besides that one.” He points towards the harbor. “That one doesn’t count. Nothing in Alaska counts.”

“Then I’ve never been to a real beach,” you confess.

“What!” Aegon gapes at you. “Never?!”

“Never. Not yet.”

“Jesus Christ.” He blinks dazedly and drinks his rum and Coke. He is profoundly, unmistakably drunk.

“Did you drive here?” you ask.

“Nah. I walked.”

“Stumbled, you mean.”

He grins, showing his teeth. “I crawled, like the rat that I am.”

“Maybe you should try being sober sometime.”

“I don’t do well when I’m sober.”

“You work like this?”

He shakes his head. “Just enough to take the edge off. I can’t lose my job. Then I’d be in real trouble.”

“Have you always been a…?” What’s a diplomatic word for alcoholic? Before you can make an attempt, Aegon understands what you mean.

“Since I was fifteen, yeah. More or less.” He shrugs and stirs his drink with the little plastic toothpick with a maraschino cherry speared on it; the ice cubes clink in the glass. He bites into the cherry and slides it off the toothpick with his teeth, chews it, swallows, licks the glistening red juice from his lips. “I’ve been better than I am now. I’ve been worse.”

“How much worse?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

I want to know everything about you. “No reason.”

He evades you. “How’s the mailbox?”

“Mid-renovation. My dad is making a new one that looks like a moose.”

“That’s cool of him.”

“He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“You like your parents,” Aegon says, as if this is something curious, noteworthy. “You get along with them.”

“Yeah.” You pause before continuing, not knowing what he’ll think of it. “I still live with them, actually.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Well, I mean, it makes sense for now, because I just moved back to Juneau over the summer, and their house is right next to the vet clinic, and my dad’s always there when I need advice, and I’m the only child and they’re sort of really attached to me and maybe I’ll start looking for my own place soon but I just figured that in the meantime—”

“Hey, Appletini,” Aegon interrupts, smiling. “I think it’s awesome that you like your parents.”

“Really?” you say, hopeful.

“Really.” He drains his rum and Coke. Dale hesitates; he doesn’t make another until Aegon thumps his empty glass against the counter, wordlessly demanding one. “Why didn’t you take some time off to travel after you finished vet school? California is just a quick plane hop from Colorado. You could have spent a week or two in one of those gorgeous, warm, exotic places you’re so enamored with.”

“I thought about it…but the scheduling didn’t work out. My dad was retiring from the clinic, I was taking over for him, it was more important for me to be here.”

Aegon seems to find this incredibly entertaining, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on. “You took over your dad’s business.”

“Yes, I did.”

He nods, strangely wise, his blue eyes on you. “And you’re kind of happy about that, but you’re kind of stuck too.”

Goddamn, isn’t that the truth. “You see a lot.”

“20/20, baby.”

You study him. His white-blond hair is tucked behind his ears, except for that one undomesticated lock that always seems to escape to rest on his cheek. His eyes are hazy and swimming yet intelligent, almost cunning. He’s staring right back. He’s studying you too. He’s beautiful, you think. He’s sad and funny and magnificent and ruined all at once. How is that possible?

“What were you gossiping about with your friends over there?” he asks, flicking his thumb towards the booth where Heather, Kimmie, and Joyce are currently gawking at you.

Sex, love, drugs, whether you’re a serial killer. “Taco Bell,” you reply.

The front door flies open and a boisterous gaggle of young men flood into Ursa Minor: flannel, cologne, cigarette smoke, heavy thuds of work boots. You recognize most of them. There’s Matt, and Rob, and Gary…and Trent. He spots you and beelines for the bar.

“Hey!” Trent greets you enthusiastically, flipping his lustrous hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head like a horse. Then he addresses Aegon. “Sup, bro?”

“Sup.” They bump fists. Aegon nearly misses.

“Congratulations on finishing vet school,” Trent says to you, beaming a bit too dazzlingly. “I don’t think I’ve really seen you since you got back. How are things? How are your folks?”

“Things are good. My parents are good. Everything’s good.”

“Good!”

“Totally.”

There is an awkward silence. An increasingly awkward silence. Trent is not deterred. “Can I buy you a drink or something? A Bacardi Breezer, perhaps?” His gaze drops to your nearly-empty bottle. “Um, another Bacardi Breezer, perhaps?”

“So Heather has been disclosing all my secrets.”

“I’m sure you still have some,” Trent replies, flirtatious. Aegon’s eyes widen as he gnaws on his plastic toothpick.

“That’s a tempting offer,” you say. “But I’m stopping myself at two drinks tonight. It is a Wednesday, after all.”

“Yeah, a Wednesday,” Aegon agrees, slurring. “What kind of loser gets wasted on a Wednesday?” Then he bursts out laughing and almost falls off his barstool.

“Definitely another time though,” you tell Trent. Like when pigs fly.

“Oh, okay, yeah. Sounds good. See you around.” And Trent, former football star extraordinaire, saunters off to join his friends at the pool table. There’s a massive bull moose head mounted on the wall right above it; it’s adorned with a red Santa hat. That Don’t Impress Me Much plays from the stereo.

Aegon leans over the counter. “Hey, Dale, would you happen to have anything that’s not Shania Twain? Please and thank you.” Dale grunts, then reaches beneath the bar to get his 6-inch-thick binder of CDs. He scans through the transparent plastic pages and eventually makes a selection. CDs, not cassettes. Very high-tech.

“So you go wherever you want to,” you say to Aegon. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Just about, yeah.”

You gulp down the last of your Bacardi Breezer. And next comes your theory: “But you never stay longer than six months.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Exactly.”

“What happens if you stay in the same place for more than six months?”

“My ghosts start catching up with me. One ghost in particular.”

“Is that a metaphor, or…?”

“Oh, I love this song!” Aegon shouts, slapping his palm on the bar and then lurching out of his seat. You listen: it’s The Distance by Cake. He sings along loudly, out of tune. “The green light flashes, the flags go up, churning and burning, they yearn for the cup—”

“This song?! The NASCAR song?!”

“It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!” His hands reach for you but stop short. They hover in the space between you, open and inviting. “Sing it with me, come on. As they speed through the finish, the flags go down, the fans get up and they get out of town.” He holds up an index finger. “The arena is empty except for one man, still driving and striving as fast as he can. Let’s go, Appletini, sing it!”

“No way, not happening.” But the ice of your face has thawed and melted into a massive, flush-cheeked grin. People are staring as he staggers around the floor: your friends from their booth, his friends from the pool table, Dale from behind the bar, the assorted middle-aged locals from their tables cluttered with Budweisers and bar snacks: peanuts, pretzels, Chex Mix, mini bags of Utz chips.

“The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, and long ago somebody left with the cup, but he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns, and thinking of someone for whom he still burns.” Aegon claps his hands. “Sing it, sing it, sing it!”

You leap off your barstool and join him on the floor. “Yes!” Aegon cheers, pumping his fist in the air. Heather, Kimmie, and Joyce are shellshocked, their mouths hanging open. Who says you can’t be the fun, spontaneous friend on occasion?

You and Aegon sing together, stomping clumsily around the floor: “He’s going the distance, he’s going for speed, she’s all alone—”

“All alone!” Aegon adds, cupping his hands around his mouth like a bullhorn.

“—All alone in her time of need, because he’s racing and pacing and plotting the course, he’s fighting and biting and riding on his horse, he’s going the distance…”

You use your empty Bacardi Breezer bottle as a microphone. Aegon plays air guitar oddly realistically, his fingers scaling an imaginary fretboard. You are reminded of his jade green electric guitar, pummeled and unused and slumbering in his dreary apartment. He stays near you but never touches you, never even tries to. His hair shags over his eyes. His cheeks are pink, gleaming, healthy-looking. The song ends and you stand there together in the sudden quiet, still breathing heavily, your eyes on each other, planning out which places you would touch first if such a thing was in the cards.

At last, Aegon speaks. “You want to go to Taco Bell with me?”

“What, right now?”

“Yeah. Right now.”

“Okay.” After two Bacardi Breezers, you’re probably alright to drive, but you are not in the business of taking chances. Fortunately, there is another option. Juneau’s only Taco Bell is just a few blocks from Ursa Minor; you can easily walk there, and you’ll certainly be fine to drive after a half hour and some food. You fetch your parka off the coatrack. “Where’s your coat?” you ask Aegon.

“Captain Morgan keeps me warm.”

“You are unbelievable.” You leave him momentarily to say goodbye to your friends. They sit in the booth gazing up at you with stunned wonder. “I’m going to Taco Bell with Aegon. I probably won’t be back. I’ll drive him home afterwards.”

“Aegon…?!” Kimmie exclaims.

“It’s Greek.”

“Uh. Okay.” Heather’s words are halting. “Um…have fun, I guess? Use a condom. Be safe.”

“Yeah, don’t get murdered,” Joyce says.

“I don’t think he has the requisite hand-eye coordination for strangulation at the moment. But thanks for your concern.”

You pay your tab, collect Aegon from the bar—he’s guzzling down one last rum and Coke, wiping escaped drops from his chin with his knuckles—and walk with him under dim streetlights and infinitesimal stars to the glaringly florescent, green-red-yellow beacon of the Taco Bell. Aegon insists on paying. His bills are rumpled and stained. Five minutes later, you’re sitting in an otherwise empty dining room doling out menu items like Christmas gifts, the labeled wrappers crinkling: a Mexican pizza and tacos for Aegon, a Gordita and Cinnamon Twists for you, a Nachos Supreme to share, two large Mountain Dews.

“What’s your favorite beach?” you ask him as you eat.

“San Diego,” Aegon replies, drowning his Mexican pizza in hot sauce. “Sapphire water, golden sand, cliffs you can climb all over, sea lions everywhere. They’re adorable, they bark like dogs. But they’ll attack humans. Trust me, I know.” He sucks hot sauce noisily from his fingers.

You consider him, crunching on Cinnamon Twists. “So this is what you do. You get a girl in every city and leave as soon as you’re bored with her.”

He is amused, mischievous. “Are you applying to be my Juneau girl?”

“No. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re half-right.”

“Which half?”

“The girls don’t usually last six months.”

“So more like two girls. Or five, or ten.”

Aegon smiles and says nothing. He shoves a loaded nacho chip into his mouth, never taking his eyes off you.

“You’ve told me a lot of things that don’t paint you in an especially flattering light,” you say. “Why?”

“I’m not honest with many people. Figured I’d try it out with you.”

“How’s it feel so far?”

“Not too bad, actually.”

Seconds tick by. The hushed lull—punctuated only by chewing and straw slurping—is not awkward at all. “You could stay, you know,” you say. “Here. In Juneau. Not forever, but for a while.” Long enough for me to figure you out. Long enough for me to decide what to do with you.

“No.” Aegon is resolute.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” he says, then pivots. “Besides, if I was going to stay anywhere it wouldn’t be freaking Juneau, Alaska. There’s nothing here. You have one decent bar, you have one Taco Bell. You don’t have a mall, or a movie theater with more than three screens, or an arcade, or a Barnes & Noble, or a halfway decent beach…for Christ’s sake, you don’t even have a friendly neighborhood scam psychic with a neon sign in their living room window.”

You’re smiling. “So that’s something you’re into. Scam psychics.”

“I’m just saying it adds to the ambiance.”

“Okay, but anyone could do that. I’ll be a scam psychic, there, boom, that box is checked.”

He chuckles, incredulous. “Oh really? You? Reading palms and tarot cards?”

“Yeah, totally. Give me your hand.”

He lays his left hand flat, devouring a taco with his right. Shredded lettuce rains down onto the table. “This is going to be good.”

You trace the lines of his palm with your fingers, skimming them like a whisper. His fingertips are calloused, you notice. Goosebumps rise up on his arm. “Hm. Hmmmm. Yes, yes, I can see many things.”

“Tell me, oh clairvoyant Madame Appletini.”

“Your liver is sad.”

He explodes into laughter, pushing his hair back from his forehead with his right hand. “Truly a singular insight.”

“And! You love dogs because they don’t judge you for your many shortcomings.”

“Right again. Okay you only get one more, you’re cutting close to the bone here.”

You draw a feather-light circle around the perimeter of his palm. He shifts in his seat, watching you, abruptly serious. “You’re not the Ice Fisher. And it hurts you that people think you are, because you’re actually—somewhere underneath all that disturbingly delinquent, self-destructive behavior—kind of a decent guy. In fact, you’ve never hurt anybody.”

“Wrong.” He snatches his hand away and changes the subject. “Here, here, let me do you.” He motions to your left arm. You oblige him, stretching it across the table. He begins by massaging your palm, kneading it with both hands. You are suddenly warm all over, feverishly warm. Then he cradles your hand in his and inspects the lines of your palm, his thumb gliding weightlessly over them. “You possess a supernatural sense of responsibility. This is both a blessing and a curse.”

“That’s probably accurate. Aim for a more shallow observation next time.”

“You would marry a Cinnamon Twist if you could.”

You giggle, almost inhaling a mouthful of Mountain Dew. “Yes, totally. I would take it to Vegas. Elvis impersonator and everything.”

“Now this,” he says, pointing to a crease that cuts your palm in two. “This is fascinating. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary.”

You lean closer. “What does it say?”

Aegon is still clasping your hand, but his eyes are fixed on yours. They are groggy yet bright, so bright. He is smiling. “You want me so fucking badly it’s eating you alive.”

Your jaw falls open, but you don’t say anything. Neither does Aegon. You just stare at each other from across the table, not hearing the wind outside, not feeling the time passing. He’s right, you realize; it dawns on you like a dream remembered from the night before. I think he’s right.

Someone clears their throat. A Taco Bell employee has approached the table with a broom in one hand and a dustbin in the other. He is wearing a psychedelic striped shirt: lavender, aquamarine, pink, white. He looks sick of life. “Hey, we’re closing the dining room in five minutes.”

“That’s fine,” Aegon says nonchalantly. He drops your hand and starts in on his last taco. “We were just leaving anyway.”

Carrying your half-full cups of Mountain Dew, slurping and chatting about the attributes of Juneau, the two of you wander back to Ursa Minor without acknowledging what Aegon said. You drive him home through a sea of cold, black nothingness, everything beyond the Jeep’s windows silent and still. His apartment building is only a few minutes away from the bar. The ride ends much too soon. A lyric from The Distance is wheeling around in your skull: In his mind, he's still driving, still making the grade. She's hoping in time that her memories will fade.

“How’s Sunfyre?” you ask, your Jeep idling outside his apartment. You are genuinely concerned, but also making conversation so he won’t leave yet.

“He’s great. Want to come up and see him?”

You almost say no, because of all those cautionary tales women are told from childhood about men, strange men, drunk men, too-kind men, all men: that they’ll get you alone and off-guard and then they’ll paw at you begging for things you don’t want to give. They’ll lull you into a false sense of security—compliments, feigned vulnerability, hot chocolate, Taco Bell—and then strike like lightning, quick and flare-hot. But when you say yes and follow him upstairs, Aegon doesn’t try anything. He stands in his tiny, drab living room with his hands in his jeans pockets, a whisper of a smile on his face, just watching you as you check Sunfyre’s stitches and tease him about his cone and scratch his soft floppy ears. Sunfyre wags his tail and then rolls over on the scuffed hardwood floor so you can rub his belly.

“He’s in heaven,” Aegon says.

“Yeah, dogs really like me.”

Aegon drags his hands through his strange silvery hair, staring at the wall. “So do alcoholic Greek guys.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon x you #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd imagine #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x you

292 notes · View notes

sommerregenjuniluft · 3 months

Text

@hpsaffics feb 3 - time loop - 1117words

aka fem bartylus in their bonnie and damon from season 5 of vampire diaries arc (i made myself cry with this but also i'm on my period so who knows ksfjf)

“Hey, look,” Barty says, her head popping up over one of the grocery store shelves, “The small, pickled corn cobs you like so much are on Sale.”

Regulus doesn’t have to look up to see the shit eating grin stretching her lips as she holds up the jars of pickled corn with the impossible to miss, red SALE stickers that have been there for every single day of the past 3 months. She simply rolls her eyes and turns to grab an OJ out of the cooler, like she does every Saturday morning. Regulus believes in keeping a weekly and daily schedule in favor of not going insane, thanks a lot.

There’s a noise across the empty store that sounds like Barty put two of the jars into the shopping cart.

Regulus sniffs, ignoring the flutter in her stomach as well as the sting deep inside her ribcage.

She goes about filling her own cart methodically, absentmindedly listening to Barty mucking about wherever she is. Humming under her breath, bags crinkling, the sounds of the cart clinking against stuff. Barty has great spatial awareness in any situation except for the grocery store.

Regulus still feels last weekend in the tender bruises along her Achillies heel. If bruises stayed that long she’d have enough evidence from a year ago to build a real case. They do not, however, so Regulus is just left with the knowledge of it and that hollow feeling in her chest like someone had a big scoop and Regulus’ heart was a tub of Ben & Jerries.

She continues down the aisle in a bit of a daze. Eggs, oatmilk, protein bars, Earl Grey, Spaghetti and Fusilli because Barty is a fussy shithead that won’t eat other forms of pasta.

They meet again in the snack aisle, Regulus rounding the corner and finding Barty curled over her cart, studying the back of a honey puffs packet.

She’s gnawing on her bottom lips, rosy mouth pursed to the side and the line between her eyebrows deep and pulled low beneath her fringe and Regulus watches some of the longer brown hair slip over her shoulder and to the front. The round muscle is bare, freckled, and so are her arms because last week Barty made it her mission to go through Evan’s closet and cut off the sleeves of his every one of his t-shirts.

Regulus had been furious.

She misses him desperately. Pandora and Sirius, too. The very first night she’d slept in her best friend’s bed, clad in one of Sirius’ softest shirts. Regulus doesn’t remember a time she’d wept herself to sleep so harshly.

Barty had come and gotten her after 32 hours of refusing to leave the room and dragged her into a shower before plopping her down on one of the kitchen bar stools and making pancakes for her. Whipped cream and blueberries on the side. And then she’d left to go wherever it is she goes every single morning after breakfast until she’s returning for lunch.

She slips the strand of silky straight hair behind her ear now and then glances up when Regulus advances farther into the aisle.

Their eyes meet for a moment, mint and blue gray, clashing, getting caught in each other. Hooks sinking in, ripping at the entangled spots, and when Regulus finds it in herself to break away she feels raw. Chafed. A hotly throbbing ache. Burning.

Regulus looks around in the shelves but she isn’t really seeing any of the things. It takes a moment and then she’s taken aback when she genuinely can’t find the Ritter Sports party mix. It should be right in front of her, nestled between the Kinder stuff and the no name rows of chocolate bars. There’s an empty space on the shelf where they should sit and Regulus blinks at that spot in confusion.

Before she can do more about it the cold metal of a shopping cart grazes Regulus’ naked calf, jolting her and making her look up at Barty where she’s come closer, still lazily draped over the handle of her cart, now sporting an amused expression.

Her smirk is horribly smug and sitting a little lopsided on her unfairly beautiful face, “Lookin’ for something, Black?”

Regulus opens her mouth to respond but then Barty props her chin in one of her palms and cocks her head at an exaggerated angle, pointedly letting her gaze wander over the shelf Regulus is standing in front of numbly. And then up.

Regulus blinks again and then follows her line of sight automatically. She sweeps her gaze back around and up and then spots the chocolates where they’re perched on the very top of the shelf. Neatly set up over the row of Reezes there.

All the way up there and impossible for Regulus to reach.

Her favorite chocolates.

Barty had taken the time to put every last of Regulus’ favorite chocolates on the top of that shelf with such care for order she’s never once applied to their pantry in the months they’d lived together back when they were a couple.

Regulus feels her browns knit, eyes burning with anger and when she looks over she watches the smile on Barty’s face turn wider. That’s about all Regulus is able to take.

Her chin starts crinkling and she feels her lips start to wobble despite the way she’s biting down on the inside of her lower one hard enough to draw blood. There’s nothing Regulus can do against the tears shooting into her eyes and the way her throat starts to clog up before, pathetically, a single sob escapes her.

And then she’s crying. Full on, shoulders shaking with it and Barty’s smile falls.

She looks properly panicked and the cart gets shoved to the side, colliding loudly with the opposite shelf, and then she’s there to pull Regulus into a hug.

Her head hangs uselessly as she weeps into the crook of Barty’s arm and chest, deep heaving sobs as Barty cradles her head and holds her tight by the shoulders.

“Hey, hey,” Barty mumbles, voice strained, “I’m sorry, Reg, I’m sorry. I’ll get them back down.”

Regulus uselessly ruts her face into the naked skin, tasting salty shame in the corners of her lips.

“Every single one of them, I’ll get them all down, baby. I’m sorry,” she whispers, breath hot on the crown of Regulus curls.

Regulus finds her hands fisted into the material of Barty’s shirt, clutching at it numbly while she tries to swallow the sobs, “I hate you.”

Barty nods above her, “I know, baby,” and if Regulus didn’t know any better she'd think she hears shame and regret mixed into the words. “I know.”

17 notes · View notes

clovrtree · 2 months

Text

Wayne Manor was much grander on the outside than it was on the inside. Sure, the long sloping archways and winding grand staircases grabbed his attention, but otherwise it felt… normal? It was very lived in despite being spotless.

Alfred walked with a confidence from someone who has lived here for many years, and Peter didn’t doubt that fact. Karen had informed him moments ago about how Alfred took Bruce Wayne under his wing after his parents had died. They were like father and son.

“I’m sorry for intruding on your morning, Mr. Pennyworth.” Peter apologized for the umpteenth time, shoulders sagging as he curled slightly in on himself.

“You are not a bother, young Peter.” Alfred assured with a smile in his voice. The man led the teen all the way through the bottom floor, where they ended up in a large kitchen that was surprisingly modern. It must have been redone within the last few years. “Do you have a tea preference?” he asked, gesturing for Peter to sit at the long island counter.

He obeyed the gentle command and slid onto a stool. His feet no longer touched the ground, so he crossed his ankles and rested them on one of the leg bars. “No, sir. I’ve never really had tea that wasn’t iced.”

Alfred hummed in slight displeasure. Clearly the British man had his qualms about the correct temperature of tea, but he couldn’t blame Peter! They were in America, where iced, sweet tea dominated most people’s tastes.

“Well then, we’ll go with a staple. Does Earl Grey sound alright with you?” He asked while setting a kettle of water to boil, pulling out a long box of tea bags with different colored tags, likely symbolizing different flavors.

Peter nodded in agreement with the choice, resting his head in his hand and looking around the kitchen. He had assumed that they would both be quiet while the water boiled, but he was wrong.

“So, young Peter, where is your family?”

The innocent question sent a wave of sadness over him. Either dead or dying in a place where I can’t help them, he thought absently.

“They aren’t here.” he decided to reply, figuring it was the easiest lie to get away with. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, just a half truth. He could get away with those easily.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you living with a friend, then?”

Oh, he thought that Peter had a place to stay. Peter frowned, unsure if he really wanted to tell this man that he was homeless. “..I’ve got a friend in the area.”

Also only a half truth, considering Karen was talking in his ear once more.

“Peter, Alfred Pennyworth is your best shot at getting help. The family that he works for could be very beneficial allies in your time here considering their wealth and social statuses.”

“...but I’m not living with any, no.” Peter confirmed after letting Karen’s words seep into his mind. She was right, as usual. He would need to learn to accept help sooner or later, and this man looked about two sentences away from offering Peter more assistance than just tea.

Alfred frowned thoughtfully, eyes flickering across the counter as he pondered to himself for a few moments. “...you are not from Gotham, are you?”

Peter shook his head, confirming Alfred’s suspicions. That sinking pit that was the teens stomach at the moment was starting to ease itself through their conversation. This was okay, this was fine, Alfred wouldn’t do anything bad to him.

“I see.” Alfred mumbled. “...young Peter, may I ask how long you have been alone?”

“Not long.” He answered truthfully. It had been less than 48 hours since Peter last saw anyone he recognized or knew. The last face he could remember was Tony’s, with an apology on his tongue.

“...I’d like to make a few calls, my boy. Could you wait here?” Alfred asked kindly with a smile, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of Peter. He hadn’t even noticed that it had finished during their conversation, and he picked up the warm cup with both hands.

He nodded in agreement, giving the beverage a testy sip. Like he said, warm teas were never really his thing, but this Earl Grey stuff wasn’t so bad. It tasted old, but in a good way. Maybe vintage was a better word.

Alfred stepped out, leaving the teen alone in the large kitchen. Its tiles were a warm cream color, and the accent wall was charcoal brick masonry, a surprising contrast to the old wooden walls. Various pots, pans, and other handled dishes hung from the ceiling on a rack over the island, and just above that was one of the many overhead lights. They looked like miniature stage lights.

The appliances were all a sleek black, and had strange brand names that Peter didn’t recognize. He guessed Whirlpool didn’t exist here.

There was a big window on the far wall, showing a view of the backyard. He recognized the winding path as the one that he had used to find the dumpsters. On the other wall was a breakfast nook that jutted out in a half hexagon, housing a little table with comfortable looking wooden benches to be sat on.

Knowing this house, Peter could already tell that there were probably two or more dining rooms elsewhere. No rich man hosts parties in his breakfast nook.

“How are you feeling, Peter?”

He wanted to be mad at her for asking a question at this time, but then he realized that Alfred probably wasn’t paying attention to Peter at the moment. At least, not entirely. He was supposedly on the phone in the other room.

“...Strange. I’m trying to figure out what Mr. Pennyworth wants with me.” whispering surely couldn’t hurt.

“I think he just wants to help you, Peter. You’re an unaccompanied minor who is injured and homeless.”

“He works for a rich guy, he can’t be that generous.” he grumbled, glaring at the counter and sipping his tea. Tony be damned, the rich were never that easy to understand. There had to be some sort of goal with keeping Peter around.

“I was created for you by a rich man.”

“You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You’re from Mr. Stark, I’ve never even seen this Bruce guy.”

“They sound very similar to me, Peter. Especially based on the information I’ve gathered on the internet.”

Peter scoffed, downing the rest of the tea and cringing at the way it burned in his throat. He should have let it finish cooling off, but Karen was really starting to frustrate him. The kitchen filled with silence once more.

Alfred entered a few minutes later, holding a cell phone up to his ear. He glanced over Peter, taking stock of the boy and giving a description.

“Sixteen year-old white male, dark brown hair with a white streak on the front–” “White streak?” “Yes, Master Bruce. It would do you well to have patience and let me finish my sentences.” Alfred rolled his eyes, and Peter smiled a little bit at the sass. They really did seem like a father and a son.

“Where did you say you were from, young Peter?”

“Queens.”

“From Queens, New York.” “And he was digging through our trash?” “Indeed, Master Bruce.” The silence that followed on the other end of the line told Peter that Bruce Wayne was thinking.

He was glad for his super hearing. Without it, he wouldn’t have been able to hear the entire conversation happening on the phone.

“I’ll be home before lunch. For now, set him up a room.” “Of course, Master Bruce.”

Peter paused, eyes widening a little bit. There was no hiding the fact that he heard Bruce. Alfred hung up the phone, and Peter was fast to start speaking.

“Did he say to set me up a room?” He asked, a bit nervous. He couldn’t possibly stay here, he already felt like he was intruding after being invited in for tea!

But if he did stay, he could figure out what that secret room was underneath the manor. It had been nagging at him since he got inside. He wanted to get into that study and find the staircase.

“If that is alright with you.” Alfred nodded in confirmation to Peter’s nervous question, an air of reassurance wafting off of him. “I promise you that Master Bruce is not as bad as certain news sources have made him out to be.” He smiled gently. “You are from New York, I have no doubt that you’ve heard a lifetime of insults about him.”

Peter just nodded hesitantly, not seeing a reason to break his interdimensional cover. He could figure out plenty about Bruce from Karen, like a mini crash-course. She would catch him up to speed on anything he would need.

“Master Damian, Master Tim, and Master Duke are all at school already, meaning that you’ll get to meet them later. For now, how does a shower sound?”

Peter couldn’t and didn’t try to hide the smile that slipped onto his lips. “..a smile sounds nice, Mr. Pennyworth.” Peter stood up, eager to get the feeling of Gotham’s Harbor off of his skin.

“I’m sure that I can find something to fit you in Master Tim’s room. Here, I shall lead you to a bathroom.”

The semi-tour that Peter got for the next ten minutes was overwhelming. Once again, they passed through many rooms on the first floor before arriving at the foyer, where Alfred led him up the grand staircase and down the left hall. Two turns and an archway later, Peter was standing in a large guest bedroom that was probably the size of his living room back with May.

“There is an en-suite bathroom that you can use. If you leave this door unlocked,” Alfred gestured to the main bedroom’s door. “Then I can leave you fresh clothes on the bed. Does that sound okay?”

Peter nodded, looking around the bedroom. As much as he wanted to fall into the queen bed and roll up in the soft looking blankets, he felt like he would tarnish the material with his current state. Showering would need to come first.

He flashed Alfred a smile and two thumbs up. “Sounds great, thank you Mr. Pennyworth.” he beamed, backing into the bathroom and shutting the door carefully, clicking the lock shut.

Unbeknownst to him, the moment the door shut, Alfred’s gentle smile faltered. He forgot to hide his super suit, I’ll need to look into potential amnesia symptoms.

Peter’s shower was plain and uneventful. He scrubbed his skin until it was pink with a loofah and gel body wash that was stocked bountifully in the shower caddy. He massaged his scalp and hair with both shampoo and conditioner too many times to count, relishing in the feeling of the warm water flowing down his back. The pressure was perfect.

He would have stayed in there forever, but steam was starting to fill the room. He didn’t want to waste any water either, even if he doubted that a water bill was any problem for billionaire Bruce Wayne. It was the thought that counted, after all.

He stepped out onto the fuzzy drip mat after twenty-ish minutes, wiggling his toes in contentment. He felt thoroughly clean, and the hot water had let his muscles relax wonderfully.

Unsure of what to do with his dumpster-clothes, he folded them carefully and left them on the counter. As for the Iron Spider suit, he frowned, more unsure. “..Karen, are you confined to the Iron Spider?”

“No, Peter. I can use a small sample of the nanobots creating the suit to make something more convenient to wear. Would you like that?”

Her voice came from a speaker near the neck of the Iron Spider, and he nodded. “Yeah, can you make anything?”

“Do you have a preference?”

He hesitated. Did he have a preference? It couldn’t be anything too substantial, since Alfred might notice that he didn’t have it before and assume that he stole it from the house. Then again, he still wanted to be able to hear Karen at all times…

“...can you make something that looks like a hearing aid?” he asked hesitantly. After a beat of silence, the nanobots that usually make up the mask of the Iron Spider sparked to life, crawling across the toilet seat and connecting together to make a small black and red earpiece that would wrap around his outer ear. When he picked it up and slipped it on, Karen’s voice spoke.

“Does this work for you, Peter?”

He wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror, turning his head enough to see the device in his ear. Peter smiled. “Yeah, it looks great, Karen. I can just say I had it in my pocket so that no one would steal it.”

“That makes sense, good thinking, Peter.”

He beamed at her praise, eyes flickering down to the rest of his body. He felt.. Different. He could have blamed it on the interdimensional travel, but upon further inspection, he realized that he was different. Was he older? He seemed fundamentally bigger, even if it was just by a miniscule amount.

The last time Peter measured his height, he was 5’7. Embarrassing for a kid his age, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Now, he stood at nearly six feet, having grown at least four inches. It surprised him. What didn’t surprise him was the fact that most of his wounds were either gone or mostly healed. The large gash in his side was just a mass of puffy pink raw scars, now.

He met his reflection’s eyes, and like in the library, they were green. That white streak in his hair had just become more prominent since he had washed, and was a snowy white. Its presence made him uncomfortable.

He forced his eyes to look away and wrapped the towel around his hips. He doubted that Alfred was waiting in the bedroom, but he would still rather not walk out naked in this house he didn’t know.

Peter stepped out into the bedroom and glanced around. After making sure that it was empty, and using his tingle to check for any cameras, he walked to the bed where a few sets of clothes were.

The first set was a pajama set with multiple golden W shapes on it. The logo looked vaguely familiar, and he thought that he could recall it from his research on the Justice League. It was long sleeved, with the base clothes being a deep navy blue.

The next set was a black pair of drawstring sweatpants with a plain white t-shirt and a green zip-up jacket. This one also had a logo on it- but of a circle being sandwiched by two horizontal lines.

The third and final set of clothes was a pair of blue denim jeans with holes in the knees covered by frayed white threads. Alongside it was a gray t-shirt for a band he had never heard of called Ashes on Sunday. This one got paired with a plain purple pullover sweater.

Peter mulled the options for much longer than he had to, his hair dripping onto the bedroom’s hardwood floors. The pajamas and sweatpants both seemed extremely comfortable, and he wasn’t sure if he was feeling jeans right now. But then again, he was likely about to meet a very wealthy family, and would want to make a good first impression.

In the end, his mind won over his heart, and he tugged on the provided black boxers and socks, followed by the jeans, t-shirt, and pullover. Everything was just a bit too small, but he wouldn’t be complaining. This was the cleanest he had felt in days. Being in space in the Iron Spider suit had made him sweat an awful lot.

Peter went back into the bathroom and grabbed the suit. Then he briefly searched the room to find a decent enough hiding spot for it. He couldn’t just leave it in plain sight- Spiderman didn’t exist here, so he couldn’t use the cosplay excuse that had worked far too many times back home.

He settled for tucking the Iron Spider underneath the bed, slipping it between the wooden slats that held up the mattress. It took a bit of wiggling and adjusting, but once he was done, no one would be able to see it by looking under the bed unless they looked at the mattress.

Satisfied, Peter walked out of the bedroom, quietly tugging the door shut. It was at that point that he realized that he didn’t know how to find Alfred. Maybe he was in the kitchen? How was he supposed to get there?

“Go through the archway at the far end of the hall and make two lefts.”

Peter sighed in relief through his nose, smiling. Thanks to Karen, he was able to make his way back to the kitchen in just under ten minutes. Even though Karen was giving him directions in his ear, he still needed to seem somewhat lost just in case Alfred found him wandering.

Speaking of, Alfred was not in the kitchen. Peter frowned, looking around the room. “....Karen, can you scan the house and find him?”

“One moment.”

Peter hummed a thanks, leaning against the counter. Being in a room meant for food made his stomach clench uncomfortably- he really should eat something soon. Ever since being bit, his appetite had changed drastically. He ate quite a lot now, and considering he hadn’t eaten since before Titan, Peter was overdue for quite a few meals and snacks.

“Alfred Pennyworth is located near the dumpsters in the backyard.”

“Oh.” he said out loud, only momentarily surprised by the answer. Alfred had never finished throwing away the trash. Now Peter felt bad, since he was intruding on this man’s time. This was his job, after all, and he hated to be in the way. “..I’ll just wait here, then.”

At first, it was easy. Peter kept himself occupied by asking Karen different things about this universe, its customs, and about Bruce Wayne. Every so often, he would ask for Alfred’s location, and upon confirming he was nowhere near the kitchen, he continued his vocal investigation.

Karen proved to be an extremely valuable resource for him at the moment. Since being connected to the library computer, she had found access to almost every private and non private server in the world. She couldn’t even do that back home, which proved to Peter that this universe was not as technologically advanced as his own. A silent thanks to Mr. Stark was tossed out, and he hoped that somewhere in the multiverse, the man felt his gratitude.

He learned that Bruce Wayne was not as sleazy as Peter had originally guessed. He had no public relationships, and almost all of his children were adopted orphans. The exceptions to that were Damian Wayne, who was his biological son, and Stephanie Brown, who lived permanently with her mother and visited Bruce occasionally.

Peter also learned about Batman. The vigilante had been on the scene for quite a few years, and seemed to cycle through sidekicks like they were plastic forks. His current one was a kid who held the Robin title. Batman’s preference for working with literal children was… concerning at best.

Working with a teen was one thing, but based on the descriptions that Karen gave, this Robin couldn’t be older than eleven, and even that felt like it was pushing it. This was also his fifth robin. The rest either retired or died.

Hearing about the second Robin’s death saddled Peter with an uncomfortable churn in his chest. Beaten to death and then exploded, and the man who did it was still around. Peter frowned when Karen told him that the Joker was still alive, and had recently broken out of Arkham Asylum.

Peter hoped that Tony would avenge him if anything ever happened. It’s not like Spiderman was Iron Man’s official sidekick, but there was a similar dynamic happening here. In fact, Peter hoped that Tony was working to avenge his death right now.

If the multiverse was merciful, it would let Tony get the revenge that he deserves and live a long happy life in the afterglow.

Everything else that Peter learned from the conversation was basic information about the world and its customs. Superhero identities were kept under a harsh lock and key, villains ran amok almost daily, and the supers tended to keep to themselves unless there was a dire emergency. The Justice League felt more like a club than a team. Meet occasionally, only work together when needed.

“Alfred Pennyworth is approaching the kitchen. Arrival in ten seconds.”

Peter frowned, but sat up straight and wiped the expression from his face with his hands. He really needed to change Karen’s alert settings, he needed more time to mentally prepare for this.

Alfred’s footsteps entered the kitchen ten seconds later, just as Karen predicted, and Peter looked over with an easy smile. “Hey, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Alfred smiled, looking a bit surprised to see Peter. He glanced over him, appraising the outfit and giving a very subtle nod of approval. Peter wasn’t sure if it was approval to him for his selection, or to himself for providing such a fashionable choice.

“Young Peter, I hadn’t realized you would be out so fast. My apologies. Was finding the kitchen easy?” he asked, tugging off his white gloves and setting them neatly on the counter so that he could wash his hands.

Peter shrugged. “I got a little lost, a lot of these hallways look the same.” he replied, glancing at the back of Alfred’s head.

The butler nodded in understanding, turning off the faucet with his elbow after a moment. “You sound just like the rest of Master Bruce’s children.” he chuckled softly, not seeing the look of panic on Peter’s face at that statement.

Peter acted like Bruce’s kids, and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He didn’t want to get attached to these guys, and he didn’t want them to get attached either.

“How many kids live here?” Peter asked, evening out his voice as much as he could.

“Three, though he has seven. I’m sure you know that already, though.” Alfred hummed, opening the fridge and retrieving a few fresh vegetables.

Peter nodded absently, and after a few seconds, spoke up once more. “......whatcha makin?”

“I was going to prepare a brunch, I’m sure that you’re hungry.” Alfred replied, rinsing off bell peppers, green onions, and tomatoes in the sink. “Do you like omelets?” Peter could hear the man’s smile.

“Yeah, omelets are good. Have you ever had them with bacon?”

“I have, but we do not keep pork in the house. Master Bruce is Jewish.”

Peter nodded in understanding, not that Alfred could see. “That’s cool, I didn’t know that.”

Alfred used the knife and cutting board to slide the chopped bell pepper pieces into a small bowl, then he started on the rest of the produce. “We do have beef sausage that I could mix in if you were wanting meat. Would you like that?”

“...Yeah, if it’s not too much of a bother.” Getting protein into his system sounded heavenly right about now.

“Beef sausage omelets it is then, young Peter. How many shall I make you?”

“How many?”

“Yes, how many?”

Peter paused. He needed to say a normal number. No regular teenage boy would eat seven omelets in a day, even if he really wanted seven omelets. Alfred seemed to somehow understand his quiet dilemma, even if it was only slightly.

“Whatever you don’t finish, I can pack away to be reheated.” He assured, glancing over his shoulder to Peter.

The teen bit the inside of his cheek, and after a moment, nodded to him. “....uh, maybe seven? Or eight?”

Alfred paused, obviously not prepared for the answer. He nodded after a moment of collecting himself, making some sort of mental decision. “As you wish, young Peter. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Peter learned very quickly that Alfred’s cooking was a weapon. His control of flavor, texture, and quality truly made him an asset to the culinary community. All seven omelets were eaten within minutes of being served, and Peter found himself missing their delicious flavor, despite his semi-full stomach.

Now that Peter had bathed and eaten, he felt very content with himself. He could almost forget about the conversation that had happened earlier between Alfred and Bruce over the phone. He said almost, because the unmistakable sound of the Manor’s front door being open sounded softly in the kitchen.

Peter felt every muscle in his body tense up, and he crossed his arms uncomfortably in his chair. He was about to meet Bruce Wayne. The teen counted the footsteps until they paused in the threshold of the kitchen a few minutes later. Suddenly, Peter’s tingle spiked frantically, buzzing around the back of his neck and shoulders, making his spine itch. This man was dangerous.

Alfred turned from the sink where he had been cleaning up and smiled gently at the man a few feet behind Peter. “Ah, welcome home Master Bruce. This is Peter.”

A large man rounded the island and stood at the end, wearing a black suit pressed to perfection with a forest green tie tucked under the white collar. His hair was oily black, and only had a few stray grays on his hairline. His eyes were a deep blue, but they held a gentleness when they looked over peter.

Just like Alfred, Bruce was seeing a homeless teen with bruises painting his face. At least now he was clean and clothed.

“Peter, it’s nice to meet you.” Bruce smiled gently, extending a large hand. Peter shook it hesitantly, feeling suddenly small while sitting at the counter. He wanted to run and hide.

“You too, Mr. Wayne.” Peter replied quietly. He immediately noticed the way that Bruce assessed Peter with a few once-overs. It was similar to Natasha, or Steve. They were always telling him something or another about knowing your opponent before they knew you.

“Please, call me Bruce.” When Peter nodded, Bruce continued. “I hear you were knee-deep in my dumpsters when Alfred found you.” he joked, obviously trying to ease the tense teen.

Peter noticed and forced himself to relax his shoulders, nodding a bit and letting his smile loosen up. “...yeah, I’m sorry about that. I just figured that diving in the richer neighborhoods was safer than the city.. Plus, y’know, a more valuable yield and all.”

Bruce Wayne nodded, easing himself into a stool. “That makes a lot of sense, great observation, Peter.” he approved, much to Peter’s surprise. He hadn’t expected for this man to be critiquing his dumpster diving tactics. “What’s your last name, kid?”

“...Parker.” No harm in telling Bruce that. The man wouldn’t find anything if he paid off the police to give him records.

“Peter Parker, I like that. Where’s your family at, Peter?”

The teen bit the inside of his cheek, glancing down at the counter when Bruce asked about his family. The air in the kitchen became tense, and for a moment, Peter felt his vision get a little blurry.

“...not anywhere near here. My uh.. Uncle died a few years ago. I left my aunt to go on a foreign study with my mentor, and my mentor was…” he hesitated, trying to find the right word. “...is out of the country at the moment. I’m not sure where he went.”

The perfect half-truth.

Bruce seemed to mull over his answer, brows pinching together slightly. “...I see. Do you have any names we can potentially look up? Or a phone number?”

Peter sighed through his nose. “...May Parker-Jameson is my aunt. My mentor is Tony Stark.” he knew that both of those would yield no search results. He had already tried and failed.

“I appreciate your honesty, Peter.” Bruce smiled and reassured. “We’re gonna let you stay here for the time being, okay? We won’t call CPS.”

Peter frowned. That thought never even crossed his mind- of course someone would try calling CPS on this homeless teen! But not Bruce, apparently.

“Bruce Wayne has a tendency to take in homeless orphaned teens.”

Very informative, Karen, Thank you so much. Peter thought sarcastically. He had figured that out after learning more about Bruce’s kids. Peter just… didn’t want to be another one of this man’s charity cases.

“Thanks, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce and Alfred both shared a glance and a smile, and Bruce stood up. “I’m going to finish the rest of my workday from home, Alfred. Peter, if you need me, I’ll be in my study, okay? Though I’m sure that Alfred can help you with anything you may need.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded, staying in his seat. He tracked the man as he crossed the room to the entry archway.

“The rest of the kids will be home this afternoon after school. I’ll go ahead and let them know in advance of your unexpected stay, that sound okay to you?” Bruce asked, already pulling his phone out.

“Sure.” the teen shrugged idly.

“Thanks, Peter.” Bruce smiled.

Batchat

Bruce ; We’ve got a situation at the Manor, everyone be ready to meet a new face when you get home.

Duke ; oh god don’t tell me you adopted another one

Tim ; Is seven not enough, old man?

Bruce ; I’m serious, boys.

Dick ; What’s their name?? :D

Bruce ; Peter Parker. I’m going to do some digging. I’d like to have everyone home this weekend so that we can all get a look at him.

Bruce ; That means Jason, too.

Dick Wayne added Jason Todd-Wayne to the Batchat.

Jason Todd-Wayne left the Batchat.

Bruce ; I’ll message him privately.

Dick ; :((( why is he so stubborn

Tim ; Because he’s your brother. B, what’s the situation?

Bruce ; Homeless teen from Queens. Alfred found him digging through the dumpster wearing destroyed clothes and a supersuit. He’s got signs of a Lazarus Pit being used.

Duke ; oh shit

Tim ; White hair, green eyes?

Bruce ; Yes.

#batman #spiderman #batman spiderman crossover #dc x marvel #dumpster diving for treasure #batman fanfiction #batfam #batfam plus peter parker #chapter two !!!

19 notes · View notes

grey-rambles · 2 years

Text

Of Iced Coffee and Interuptions

Technoblade x Reader; Coffee Shop AU

This is for @dreamwvrld's one year writing event. Kay's "Starstruck" series is what got me into this side of the fandom, and this writing event is what finally encouraged me to give writing another try! Hope you like it!!

Words: ~7.6k

Warnings: some swearing, potential gendered language (I did my best to make it neutral, but I may have missed something)

Notes: sorry if anything doesn't make complete sense-- this is pieced together from an SBI fanfic draft I abandoned back in November, and writing I did mostly while in a fevered haze while I was sick. I think it turned out pretty good regardless though!

You let out a sigh, breath dissipating into mist in the cool autumn air. Walking up Main St. this early in the morning, dawn’s rays just starting to peek over the tops of the buildings, was always a peaceful way to start your day, a quiet sort of anticipation of the day to come as the street was just starting to come alive. Although you would much rather still have been cozy in bed…

Walking up to the window of Crow’s Roost, you noted that the lights were already on inside the building, casting a warm, yellow glow onto the sidewalk outside. So, Techno had arrived before you, then.

The bell above the door jingled merrily as you unlocked and swung open the door, shattering the quiet of the morning. Heading further into the shop, you start unbuttoning your fall coat, calling out a “Morning, Techno!” to the man behind the bar.

“Mornin’,” he calls back quietly, mouth quirked up every-so-slightly on the left side into a smile. He had paused in his actions to glance up at you when you arrived, but quickly moved back to setting up the espresso machine for the day, hands steady and practiced as he pulled test shots to calibrate the machine.

You grabbed the keys to the staff room from where they were tucked underneath the counter, heading towards the basement staircase with purpose.

“We need more caramel syrup!” Techno called out to your back, “And sleeves!”

“Got it!” you called back, hurrying your steps even further. Down the stairs, through the security door, and onwards into the staff room, where you set down your bag and took off your jacket, popping your lunch into the designated fridge in the kitchen. Quickly switching out your boots for your more practical work shoes and throwing on your apron, you grabbed the items Techno had requested and flew back up the stairs to help the man finish up with the opening tasks.

This was a well practiced dance between Techno and you at this point; you had been working at “Crow’s Roost Cafe and Bakery” for going on three years, and Techno for even longer. The two of you were typically scheduled to open shop together three days a week, and honestly, those were your favourite shifts. It had taken about six months for Techno to really warm up to you, but once you both got comfortable with each other, it was the start of a beautiful relationship.

The two of you had fallen into a routine for these early mornings ages ago– he opened up and calibrated the espresso machine, while you set up the pastry case and brewed the drip coffee. He would then head outside to unlock and set up the patio furniture while you swept up and reset the tables inside the cafe, and then you would typically have ten minutes to sit, have a drink, and chat before it was time to open the doors to the public.

“The usual this morning?” Techno asked, already reaching for the Earl Grey tea bags to start your London Fog.

“Nah, I’m feeling like a Cafe Dulce today, didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Bruh,” he says, switching over to the double shot portafilter and fiddling with the grinder, “I literally do not know how you can drink this stuff, it’s basically sugar masquerading as coffee.”

You giggle. “Ah yes, Mr. Blade, but you’re forgetting a very important fact. I… do not like coffee.”

He lets out a gentle huff of laughter as he quickly measures out the sweetened condensed milk into your glass, then begins pulling the shots overtop, turning away to start preparing his own drink. The two of you fall into comfortable silence as he finishes up with your drinks and tidies the station, before carrying over a tray with your drinks and a croissant to share, and sitting down across from you.

“So,” you say, gently stirring the sweetened condensed milk into the espresso in your glass until it all dissolved, “what’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” he takes a sip of his cappuccino, “Niki will be in around 10 to help you out for a couple of hours until Tommy gets out of class around 1, then she’s got some special orders to work on downstairs. Phil wants me to come with him to the roastery at about 9:30 to do some quality checks, but we’re having a meeting in his office about something first, so you’ll be alone for about an hour, will that be okay?” At your nod, he continues, “Ranboo will be in at 3 when you leave, and he and Tommy are closing tonight.”

“Will you be at the roastery all day, do you think?” you ask him through a mouthful of croissant.

“Nahh, Phil doesn’t think this’ll take too long, he just wants me to get in some more practice, especially with the light roasts, since they’re more fiddly. I’m anticipating being back here in the early afternoon, but we’re running low on most of the syrups and chai concentrate, so I’ll probably be downstairs working on those for the rest of the day.”

You try not to let your face fall too obviously– as much as you love your other coworkers, Techno is by far your favourite to work with, the man’s dry wit and chill personality meshing wonderfully with your own. But, as his apprenticeship under Phil continued on, he was spending more and more time off the main cafe floor, instead putting in hours at the coffee roastery a few blocks down, or in the basement kitchen area preparing house-made syrups and other drink components. It feels like you rarely get to spend any time with the man anymore, and that makes something deep within your chest ache.

Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you set down your now-empty glass and clap your hands. “Well! It’s about time to open this place up, so let’s get moving!”

The morning is relatively steady, but not particularly busy, as per usual. The big rushes in your location tend to come at lunchtime and after work. It gives you some time to get through some of the busy work around the cafe, like restocking the merchandise shelves, and refilling the tea leaves, chatting casually with Techno off and on.

You’re just turning away from the scale used to measure out the drip coffee beans to quickly sneak a look at Techno, when you notice that he’s already looking at you. You tilt your head slightly, smiling softly. “What’s up?”

His eyes widen slightly at being caught, and a very faint, almost imperceptible pink flush spreads up his neck and across his cheeks. If you had been less well-versed in reading your coworker, you would have missed it.

“I uh,” he stuttered slightly, before continuing on more confidently, “I was wondering if you’d—”

“Good morning, you two! How’s the day been so far?”

You turn to the entrance and see the owner of the shop, one Philza Minecraft, just coming through the door.

You shoot him a wide smile. “Good morning, Phil! It’s been pretty good so far, not too busy. We’ll need to order in more vanilla rooibos soon though, it’s getting pretty low.”

“Espresso’s pulling really long today too,” Techno adds, “I fiddled with the grind settings, so it’s okay for now, but we’ll probably have to pull it apart and descale the pipes soon.”

“Alright, good to know,” Phil says, “I’m gonna head down and start getting ready to head over to the roastery. Tech, if you could finish up here and head down, I need to speak with you about something before we head out.”

Techno nods his assent and quickly begins a surface clean of the espresso station, passing along any relevant information to you in his usual calm monotone. Just as he turns to head down, you shoot up from where you’ve been causally resting your back against the counter.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot!” you exclaim, “What were you gonna ask me, before Phil walked in?”

The subtle blush travels quickly back up Techno’s cheeks. “Don’t worry about it,” he says gruffly, “it wasn’t important.” He turns quickly on his heel and walks away, not waiting for a response.

Blinking slightly at Techno’s abrupt (and rather stange) behaviour, you turn back to the counter to continue your shift.

~o0O0o~

You’re just finishing up with an order when Techno storms back into the cafe, letting the door to the stairwell slam behind him. You exchange concerned looks with one of your regulars as you hand over their drink. Techno continues on through the mostly empty cafe, stopping just shy of the door to put on his outerwear, scowl affixed on his face.

“Heading to the roastery now, Techno?” you ask his back, as he buttons up his coat. He ignores you. Your eyebrows furrow slightly. “Techno?” you repeat, as you begin making your way over to him.

He continues to ignore you, finishing up with the fastenings on his leather gloves and reaching for the door of the shop.

You place a single hand on his forearm, effectively stopping him from leaving. “Hey, don’t ignore me. What’s wrong?”

He turns to face you, expression softening slightly.

“Sorry. That talk with Phil didn’t go in the direction I thought it would, but I shouldn’t take it out on you. I really do need to go now though.”

“Do you want a drink for the road?” you ask, desperate for just another moment with him. He shakes his head, expression hardening again as he looks back at something behind you. He shoots a “Good-bye” over his shoulder as he whirls around and walks out.

You turn around to see your boss in the doorway to the stairwell, expression strained.

“You headed out too, Phil?” you ask, circling back around to your post behind the counter.

He grimaces slightly. “I’ll probably give it a couple of minutes. Let Tech have some time to cool off a little on his own.”

“What was that all about, anyways?” you ask Phil, as you hold up a travel cup towards him with a raised eyebrow. At his nod, you begin preparing his usual Americano Misto. Phil lets out a sigh, letting his head drop back.

“My son’s coming home.”

“Oh?”

Phil sighed again. “Yeah, he moved away for university five years ago, but now that he’s graduated he’s not very happy living there anymore. We’ve been talking about it for a while, but he’s recently started showing interest in helping me out with the shop again, like he did in high school.”

“Well, I’m really happy for you, Phil,” you say, passing over his finished drink, “but I don’t understand what this has to do with Techno storming out of here.”

“Well, Techno is my apprentice, and the understanding we had was that he would take over the shop from me some day. And I’d still like for him to! He’s very good at his job, it’s just… he's very good at the coffee part of the job. Less so the… people part of the job."

You nodded, understanding where Phil was coming from. There was a reason Techno typically handled the drink making, and you, the till when the two of you worked together… he wasn't the most social person, especially with strangers.

"And so," Phil continued, taking a sip of his drink, "I thought that maybe the two of them could split the job. Wil doesn't know a thing about coffee, but he studied political science with a minor in business, so he could handle the people side of things, and Techno could deal with the coffee."

You hazard a guess. "But Techno didn't like that very much when you told him?"

“You could say that, yeah," Phil said with a strained laugh, "He stormed out of my office pretty much as soon as I finished talking."

You pause in wiping down the counters, brow furrowed, staring out the front window. That… was incredibly unlike Techno. He and Phil had had their share of disagreements, but you had never heard of an instance where the younger had literally walked away from the problem without at least trying to talk it out. To say you were concerned was an understatement.

As though sensing your tumultuous thoughts, Phil clapped his hands gently. "Well, no sense dwelling on it. I'm sure we'll get it all sorted in the end. I should head out now though, thanks for the drink, mate," he called over his shoulder on the way out the door.

Giving your head a quick shake to clear it of any wandering thoughts, you turned back to your work. Phil was right– no sense in worrying too much over it, everything would be resolved in time.

~o0O0o~

The rest of your shift seemed to fly by, between the lunch rush and catching up with Niki and Tommy, and soon enough you were handing off your station to head home.

"Have a good close, guys!" you called over your shoulder as you headed for the stairwell.

"Good night, king!" Tommy hollered back, Ranboo opting to just shoot you a wave.

Pushing through the security door, you pause for a moment as soft music floats through the air of the basement. The door to the staff room is ajar, propped open slightly by a small can of paint, casting a soft beam of light into the otherwise dimly lit space.

Peering your head in through the open door, you see Techno, back turned to you, humming along to the song playing on his phone. He's got a couple of pots on the go on the stove, hair pulled back into a messy bun and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He seems relaxed, fully focused on the task at hand.

Moving a little further into the room, not wanting to disturb his workflow, you quietly head towards the coat tree to get ready to head home, keeping an eye on Techno all the while. You're somewhat transfixed in watching him work, seeing him so at ease.

Techno walks over to the storage shelves adjacent to the cooktop, back still turned to you. Huffing very slightly, he reaches up and grabs down one of the industrial sized bags of sugar, carrying it back over to his station easily.

Now you had helped Phil unpack and shelve those things a couple of times, and they were heavy. You hadn't realized that Techno was so strong until now, watching the muscles in his shoulders and biceps flex as he set the bag down on the countertop. God, he could probably pick you up and pin you against a wall if he wanted to–

Wait, what? Where did that thought come from?

You must have made some sort of noise, since Techno finally looked up from his work and turned towards you. “Oh hey, didn’t see you there,” he said, seeming much more calm than he had this morning, “You headed out for the day?”

“Yeah, all done for the day!” you reply. Silence falls for a moment as you turn to hang your apron on the shelf, before you break it again to mention, “Seems like you’re feeling a little bit better.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t really sound happy. “Yeah, a bit. Still reeling a little bit, if I’m honest.”

You take a seat in one of the chairs to change your shoes out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Techno lets out a sigh, shoulders slumping a bit. “How much did Phil tell you?”

"Not much, just that his son was coming home, and that he wants the two of you to split the duties involved with running the shop when he retires.”

"I mean, that's pretty much the long and short of it." Techno sighed, falling into a contemplative silence as he gathered his thoughts, gaze distant. You sit for a moment, just observing his silhouette in the dim lighting. He really is very handsome, you mused, tracing over his features slowly. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, large hands. Bright eyes and long pink hair, roots just starting to grow out. You feel a sudden urge to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows with your finger.

He turns back to the countertop abruptly before he begins speaking again. "Phil originally didn't want to offer me an apprenticeship, did you know that?"

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. Techno'd already started his apprenticeship when you had begun working at Crow's Roost, and Phil had always spoken so fondly of the younger, pride shining in his eyes, you would never had thought there was any sort of patchy history there.

Making a small noise of acknowledgement and interest, you wait for Techno to continue, your boots sitting forgotten on the floor in front of you.

"Yeah, he really wasn't too keen on the idea at first. I'd been working here for about a year, had just finished my first semester at college, and I was miserable. But I liked working here. And I liked learning about coffee– it's a lot more hands-on than my English courses were, no matter how much I love literature. So, I dropped out to start working here full time.

“Phil started teaching me some of the more complicated barista stuff– I had set my eyes on winning the National Barista Championships as my goal at that point, and Phil won that thing twice back in the day, so he walked me through creating my own signature drink, and gave critiques on hundreds of shots of espresso while I perfected my technique. Like, he spent hours in here with me after the shop had closed for the night, practising everything.

“And then the local competition came, and I dominated. Then Regionals. I swept that one too. Phil came with me to every event, talked me down while I had a panic attack backstage, helped me through my social awkwardness while talking to the judges and other contestants before and after the competition.

“And soon enough, it was time for the National Championship. Waiting for the competition to end and the results to be posted was agonizing. But in the end…. I won. And at that point, I knew this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

“We threw a pretty huge party, here at the shop, after my win. It was nice, but it all came down to me and Phil here again once everyone had headed home. He told me how proud he was of me. And I asked Phil if he would like to take me on as an apprentice officially. That I’d done some thinking and decided that this is where my passion was, that I wanted to learn more about the art of coffee, and we had worked so well together, so wouldn’t he pretty please be my teacher?”

Techno pauses here, finally. "And he said no. Said it had nothing to do with me, that he just didn't want to train anyone at that moment."

He laughs. "I had just won the most prestigious award a barista can win, and it didn't even matter any more because I still couldn't have the one thing I wanted more than anything.

"I knew Phil had a son, of course. Even met him a few times. He's nice enough, though he was never really interested in the business, much to Phil's disappointment. I think he was hoping to be able to pass his passion onto his kid, but Wil was always more interested in his music and his politics than he was in coffee. I don't know if Phil just stopped holding out hope, or if they reached some sort of agreement, but he came to me about a month after I initially asked, saying that he had reconsidered the apprenticeship, and that he wanted to take me on."

"And now Wil's coming back…. It just makes me feel like second choice all over again."

The two of you sit in contemplative silence for a few moments. You stare at Techno’s back, trying to figure out anything that you could say that might help him. After another moment, you heasitently ask, “Have you… told Phil any of this?”

He snorts. “Talking about my feelings with my pseudo-father figure? Cringe.”

“Techno…”

He turns to face you again, leaning casually against the counter. “None of this is his fault or his problem. He never asked for an overly-attached and insecure protégé. I clearly am putting more value on the relationship than he is, and that’ll just have to be okay. It’ll be hard, but I’ll get there.”

You look at him in disbelief. How can someone so beautiful be so very stupid?

“Techno…” you stand and move closer to him, meeting his eyes, “that… is maybe the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard. “Heh?”

He opens his mouth as though to continue speaking, but you cut him off before he can. “Dude, anyone with eyes can see that Phil thinks the world of you! I’m sure this is all just some sort of misunderstanding, and I’m sure he would be happy to talk it out with you if you bring it up. There’s no need for you to suffer in silence because you’re afraid of being ‘cringe’.” You put air quotes around the word, and your heart warms when the corners of Techno’s mouth lift slightly into a smile at the action, but they quickly fall again.

“How can you be so sure?” he asks you, expression surprisingly open and vulnerable for a man usually so stoic. Your stomach swoops at being trusted with this side of him.

“Because I do. Every time Phil talks about you, his face lights up, and he has done nothing in my presence except for sing your praises. Even today while he and I were chatting after you left, he was talking about how he just wanted you to be able to play to your strengths in the future. Did he not explain to you how he wanted the split between you and his son to work?”

Techno looks to the side. “I may not have… stuck around for long enough for him to get that far…”

You roll your eyes. Of course he didn’t. “Well, he explained it to me. He wants you to run the coffee side of things, and for– Wil, you said?-- to handle the ‘people’ side of it. He minored in business in college if I recall correctly.”

You place a hand gently on Techno's forearm, moving a little closer. He twists his arm around to gently grasp at your arm in turn. “I know that this isn’t how you imagined this going, but at least give it a chance. Talk to Phil, let him explain. Work on splitting the duties with Wil. Try it out. Please. For me.”

“And if it doesn’t work out?” Techno’s eyes bore into yours. The smell of coffee and spices surrounds you. The playlist has ended leaving only the sound of breathing, like the two of you are in your own little world. His skin is hot against yours where you touch.

“Then you finish out your apprenticeship and strike out on your own. Open up your own shop, run it however you want."

He lets out a breathy chuckle, thumb running softly across the skin of your arm. "Open up my own shop, eh? Not sure how that would work. Who'd want to have me for a boss?"

"I would. I'd follow you anywhere." You feel a blush rise up on your cheeks, but you refuse to break eye contact with the man in front of you. He looks surprised, but then his face melts in to a gentle expression.

Very gently, he sweeps a strand of hair off of your forehead. "How is it that you always know exactly what to say?"

His hand moves down to cup your face, thumb running back and forth over your cheekbone. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back up to his eyes. Your heart flutters, then starts beating overtime.

CRASH!

Startled, you whirl around to see Ranboo in the doorway to the staff room, an overturned box of metal tumblers on the floor next to him.

"I uh. Sorry," he stutters, face absolutely burning red, "I needed- I just- Almond milk!"

The poor boy practically races over to the shelf and grabs a case of almond milk before practically running back out again, door slamming shut behind him.

You turn back towards Techno, but the moment has already been lost. He's turned to face the counter again, stirring something in one of the pots on the stovetop. The back of his neck is pink.

"I… guess I'll head out then," you say to break the silence. Techno barely spares you a glance as he says a stiff goodbye. The silence surrounding the two of you as you finish getting ready to go is stifling.

As you walk out of the shop into the late afternoon sun, you ponder what just happened. What was that? Was Techno actually going to kiss you? Would you even have wanted him to?

With a jolt, you realize that you would have. You absolutely would have.

Several things suddenly click into place for you. The excitement whenever the two of you worked together. The ache in your chest when you don't see him for a while. The… kinda weird thoughts you've started having about him.

Oh god, you were in love with Techno.

~o0O0o~

Now that the realization had been had, it was basically all you could think about for the next three days while you were off work. It consumed basically your every thought.

You received a single text from Techno during that time, on the first day of your time off. It read "Talked to Phil. You were right. I'm meeting Wilbur on Wednesday. Thanks" and the high of getting it carried you through the rest of the day.

Heading in to your shift on Thursday, your stomach is filled with butterflies. You haven't seen or heard from Techno since that text message three days ago, and you were very excited to be seeing him again. Maybe you could even discuss what had happened in the staff room that day…

Arriving outside "Crow's Roost", you note that once again Techno had beat you there, light shining out onto the pavement from the windows of the shop. You open the door eagerly, greeting dying on your tongue as you spot Techno… chatting with a tall, curly-haired stanger wearing a beanie.

"Morning Techno," you call out, "who's this?"

Both men look at you as Techno replies, smiling very slightly at you, "This is Wilbur, Phil's son. He'll be hanging around the shop for a few days, getting the feel for how things work around here."

You smile, stepping forward with your hand extended to shake as you introduce yourself. Wilbur's grip is firm as he shakes your hand. His eyes look you up and down, appraising. "It's very nice to meet you finally, I've heard a lot about you from my father."

"All good things, I hope," you joke in return, smiling up at him.

"Very much so," he replies. You realize that you're still holding onto his hand, and drop it as though you've been burned.

"Well," you say, "I should go down and get ready to start. Anything we need from downstairs, Techno?"

"Nah, not today," he replies, eyes focused on his hands as he fiddles with a portafilter. He's no longer smiling, you note.

You quickly head down and get ready, starting your opening routine. As you begin pouring the premeasured drip coffee beans into the grinder, Wilbur comes up beside you. "What are you working on?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm starting on the drip coffee. There's four different roasts to get through, and we only have two brewers, so I like to start the first couple before I put out the pastries for the day."

"Oh, that makes sense."

Wilbur continues to ask you questions as your shift continues–"What's your favourite pastry that we sell?", "Why are the teas organized this way?", "How long have you worked here?", "When is the busiest time of day?"-- and before you know it, your shift is over, and you're handing off your station to Niki. With a jolt, you realize that you've barely said a word to Techno the entire day.

"I'm sorry for pretty much ignoring you today Techno. Wilbur sure has a lot of questions, huh?"

Techno smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "That's okay. It seems like you were handling it pretty well."

You giggle slightly as the two of you lapse into silence. You begin putting on your coat and boots, as Techno settles at the desk with a pen and a stack of what looks like invoices.

You take a deep breath. Now or never.

"Hey, Techno?" you begin, nervously. He hums in response, eyes still trained on his paperwork. "I was, um, hoping we could talk about what happened the other day. You know. With the two of us."

His eyes flick up to meet yours. The tension in the room is so thick, you swear you can feel it suffocating you.

Techno opens his mouth to reply, but before he can say anything, Tommy bursts into the staff room in dramatic fashion.

"BLADE! I FUCKED UP!!"

Techno sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "What did you do this time, Tommy?"

"Well you see, I, being the massive, big brained man that I am, noticed that the left steaming wand wasn't working so well. So I, being so generous and kind-hearted, decided I would take the cover off and, well, you see, now it, uh… won't go back on? So I can't use it? Please don't tell Phil."

Techno sighed again, even more deeply than before, burying his face in his hands for a moment before looking up. "Bro, how did you even manage…. Nevermind, I don't wanna know. Head back up, I'll be there in a sec."

Tommy nods, tossing a "You're the biggest man ever, Techno!" over his shoulder.

Techno looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I really have to deal with this. We'll talk some other time, okay?"

You nod, disappointment curling in your chest. "Yeah, some other time, for sure."

He stands and heads for the door, pausing for a moment to lay a hand on your shoulder. He looks as though he's about to say something, when a crash sounds from upstairs. "I really have to go. But we'll talk soon, okay? I promise."

And then he's gone.

You nod to yourself firmly. You'll bring it up again next shift.

~o0O0o~

You do not, in fact, get to bring it up next shift. In fact, you don't get to bring it up for the next three shifts you and Techno work together. Wilbur spends his time following you around like a child would its mother, and he asks just as many questions. You do your best to answer them all politely and thoroughly, even if you are getting a little annoyed that he won't give you a single moment alone with Techno.

~o0O0o~

"What's this thing do?"

“That’s a heat sealer for the tea bags. Since we make each loose tea bag to order, we need some way of holding them closed after we put the tea in there.”

~o0O0o~

“Why does one of the coffee grinders have that red sticker on it?”

“It’s so we don’t accidentally put the flavoured coffee in the wrong grinder. The oil that we use to flavour the coffee would affect the flavour of any unflavoured roast, so to avoid cross-contamination, we grind all the flavoured coffee in the red sticker grinder, and the other roasts in the other one!”

~o0O0o~

"Hey Techno, do you have a minute? We still need to talk about– Oh, Wilbur, no! Don't touch that! Sorry Techno, I'll be right back…"

~o0O0o~

“What’s your favourite drink on the menu?”

“Hmmm… depends on the day, but right now I’m really loving the hot chocolate! You can never go wrong with a London Fog as well. If I’m going to have coffee, it’ll be a Cafe Dulce.”

~o0O0o~

“How does the nitro cold-brew dispenser work?”

“If you look underneath, there’s two tanks; one is full of cold brew, and the other is full of compressed nitrogen gas. When you pull down the handle on the dispenser, it combines the correct amount of both as it pours. That’s why we only sell it up to a 16oz; anything larger would be too much nitrogen in the body at once, could make you sick."

~o0O0o~

"Hey Wilbur, have you seen Techno around?"

"Not for a while, he left about an hour ago. Why, did you need him for something?"

"...Nah, don't worry about it. Here, how about I show you where we keep the extra merchandise for restock."

~o0O0o~

“Why don’t you drink coffee? I mean… look where you’re working!”

“Yeah, it just tends to make me really jittery, and I never really grew to appreciate the taste. Besides, we have so many tea options! It’s what works for me.”

~o0O0o~

“When will we get the gelato in?”

“Not for a while, I’m afraid. You just missed it. We typically stock it from May until September.”

~o0O0o~

"Hey Techno, I was hoping we could talk- oh. Hey Wilbur."

"Hello! So, I was wondering…"

~o0O0o~

“I don’t think Techno likes me very much,” Wilbur announces suddenly one day, about a week and a half after he first started observing around the shop. He'd spent most of that time trailing around after you like a little duckling, keeping up an almost ceaseless stream of questions, and other idle chatter while you worked.

You had taught him how to use the till and package pastries, and he had taken to interacting with customers with an easy charm, bantering with you or Tommy during lulls, much to the amusement of many of your regulars.

The two of you were currently sitting at one of the tables, waiting to open up the shop to the public. You had made drinks for yourself and Wilbur, Techno making himself scarce as soon as his tasks were done. He'd been doing that a lot recently, you'd noticed. You were trying not to overthink things, he was probably just busy doing stuff for Phil, but you couldn't help but get the feeling that he was avoiding you for some reason.

"What makes you say that?" you asked.

"He's constantly avoiding me, and he's pretty much always glaring at me from the sidelines. It's weird, because when I first met him, he seemed a little awkward and closed off, but like he was genuinely trying to get to know me," Wilbur sighed, "I dunno if I did something to piss him off or what, but I'm really not sure this is going to work out if we can't even communicate with each other."

You frown and take a sip of your drink, lost in thought. "I wouldn't worry too much about it yet. Techno's not a particularly social guy– it took him six months of working together regularly for him to warm up to me! Just keep at it, he'll come around."

Wilbur looks uncertain still. "If you say so."

"Do you want me to try and talk with him?" you offer.

Wilbur shrugs noncommittally, and the topic is dropped. But the interaction stays in the back of your mind for the rest of your shift.

~o0O0o~

You wave good-bye to Wilbur with a tired smile at the end of your shift. It had been a busy one, that was for sure. He waves back and blows you an exaggerated kiss, a new little habit of his from the past couple days, before letting himself out the emergency door into the fading light of the evening. You continue down to the staff room.

Head in the clouds, lost deep in thought, you begin going through the motions of getting ready to head home slowly, as your mind continues to race.

You look up from your thoughts as the door to the office opens. There stands Techno, in all his slightly dishevelled glory, looking a bit like a deer in headlights at the sight of you.

"Techno," you say, a little dumbly. He nods stiffly in return. An awkward silence falls over the two of you. You pick at your boot laces, gathering courage to speak.

"You've been avoiding me." You say, cutting straight to the point. Techno avoids your eyes, moving over to one of the filing cabinets and starting to rummage about. He intends to continue ignoring you, you realize. Something ugly rears up in your chest.

"Okay, no," you say, standing up and crossing your arms, "we aren't doing this. You promised me we'd talk, but I've barely seen you all week! What's going on?"

Techno mumbles something you couldn't hear, eyes still downcast.

"I'm gonna need you to speak up and look at me."

He groans in frustration, throwing his head back. "I said that maybe if you hadn't been so busy flirting with the new guy, you might have seen a little more of me." He, in turn, crosses his arms over his chest, chin raised defiantly in your direction.

That response catches you off guard. "I-what?"

Techno levels you with a glare that screams 'are you stupid'. "Oh come on now. The two of you have been attached at the hip all week! You seriously can't be that oblivious– even I noticed something going on there!"

"Techno…" you say slowly, "I'm not interested in Wilbur."

Any fight that may have been in Techno's posture abruptly drains out of him. "You don't have to lie to spare my feelings. I've seen the two of you together all week; you complement each other well. He's handsome, smart, witty, charismatic. The two of you are well matched. Why wouldn't you be interested in him?"

"Because I'm in love with you!!!"

Both you and Techno freeze at your exclamation, but for different reasons. He appears to be processing what you had just blurted out, while you were just in shock that you'd said it at all.

"Hold on, what?" he says.

"You heard me the first time," you mumble. Now it was your turn to turn your gaze to the floor, refusing to look at him. You wrap your arms more securely around yourself, now more of a comforting self-hug than the defensive crossing of your arms from earlier. Because of this, you don't notice him approach you until you feel his hand on your chin, raising up your head to face him.

"I think there's been a bit of a missed connection here someplace," he says, looking you dead in the eyes, "So, you're not interested in Wilbur at all?"

You shake your head as best you can in his hold, your throat too dry to speak.

"And," he pauses for a moment, before continuing, almost hesitantly, "you… love me?"

You nod your head, still unable to speak. Your heart was racing inside your chest. Was this finally it?

Techno continued on, still hesitant and a little unsure. "And. What would you say if," he pauses and takes a deep breath, as though gathering his courage before continuing, "I asked if I could kiss you?"

Swallowing thickly, trying to find your voice, you manage to get out in almost a whisper, "I would say yes."

You close your eyes in anticipation, which means that you felt more so than heard Techno's gentle exhale of a laugh before his lips covered yours.

It was a very soft kiss. His lips were slightly chapped against yours, and you sound your arms around his neck to press closer. His hands, in turn, fell to your waist in a gentle hold.

You're uncertain how long the two of you stand there, trading gentle kisses, but when you finally pull away, your lips are tingling slightly, and they feel like they might be swollen.

"So," Techno begins, "that happened." You can't help but giggle. Even after everything, he's still the same old Techno.

"At least we didn't get interrupted this time," you joke. He smiles, just the slightest ghost of a thing, and brings a hand up to cup your cheek.

Techno licks his lips, as though nervous. "So. Would you like to get dinner sometime? With me?"

You lean your cheek further into his hand. "Yeah, I'd really like that," you smile up at him. You feel his body relax instantly at your words, which makes you giggle again. His grin widens into a proper, rare smile, and it takes your breath away, just a little bit.

"Did you really think I was going to say no?" you ask him through breathless little giggles, and he blushes lightly and looks away. "Techno! I just spent God knows how long kissing you! I literally confessed my love for you! And you still thought I'd turn you down?"

"I mean, when you put it that way, it does sound a little silly…"

You laugh again, and move to lean your forehead against his shoulder, arms locking around his waist in an embrace. He, in turn, rests his cheek on top of your head, squeezing you a little tighter.

You lose a little bit more time, standing with him like that, before you remember where exactly you are, and how easy it would be for this moment to turn awkward if your boss were to come in. Reluctantly, you begin to pull away.

"I should be getting home," you say to Techno, "but when would you like to do dinner?" Swallowing your pride and ignoring the insecure part of your brain that's screaming at you not to seem desperate, you hopefully add "I'm free tonight?"

Techno blesses you with another of his smiles. "Yeah, that works for me. I've got some stuff to finish up here, but I can meet you around six?"

The two of you iron out a few more details as you finish getting your things together to head for home. Techno assures you that the restaurant he's planning on is fantastic, and that you're going to love it. You decide that he'll pick you up from your house and drive the two of you there.

"Awesome, I'll text you my address!" You lean up on your tiptoes to kiss him one last time. This quickly turns into two, then three, more kisses, each one deeper than the last, until you're slightly breathless, leaning up against Techno's chest.

"I should get going," you say, making absolutely no move to seperate yourself from him.

"That would require you letting me go," he says, amused, raising an eyebrow when you put up at him. Though, he rewards you with one last peck, and you finally began to untangle yourself from him, satisfied.

"I'll see you tonight? you confirm one final time.

"Yeah, see you then darlin'."

You begin to grin uncontrollably as the per name leaves his mouth, happiness welling up inside you. It feels as though you're walking on air as you head out of the building with a smile still permanently affixed to your face and a bounce to your step.

You had a date to get ready for.

Fun fact! I spent a little over three years working in the coffee industry, and it shows!!

Another fun fact! Nobody drinks iced coffee in this fic. I just liked the alliteration...

If you saw verb tense mistakes, no you didn't ♥️

#dreamwvrld day writing event #grey's rambles #dsmp x reader #technoblade x y/n #technoblade x reader #technoblade imagine #god im so nervous to post this

348 notes · View notes

looking-for-orion · 9 months

Text

"cardigan"

by Taylor Swift

(quotes by Casey McQuiston)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･✧*:･ﾟ

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someones bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite

“Hey, um, sorry. I know it’s late, and it’s Christmas Eve and everything. You probably have, like, family stuff, I’m just realizing. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Wow, this is why I don’t have friends. I’m a dick. Sorry, man. I’ll, uh, I’ll just—” “Alex, Christ,” Henry interrupts. “It’s fine. It’s half two here, everyone’s gone to bed...There’s a long pause before Henry says, “Hang on. Bea, can I have a minute? Hush. Yes, you can take the biscuits. All right, I’m listening.”

"...Henry, who knows him. Henry who's seen him in glasses and tolerates him at his most annoying and still kissed him like he wanted him, singularly, not the idea of him."

To kiss in cars and downtown bars

Was all we needed

"When he sees Henry next at a gala in Berlin, and he feels that gravitational pull, chases it down in the back of a limo...he knows himself better."

"They end up somewhere in West Hollywood at a shitty, sparkling karaoke bar..."

You drew stars around my scars

"Alex forgets what he's going to say next. He just...Well he gets told he's great a lot. He just doesn't often get told he's good enough."

"Henry comes to stand in front of Alex, his thigh brushing against the inside of Alex's knee, and he reaches one hand down to still Alex's nervous fidgeting...Henry's hands move, brushing up to Alex's shoulders, the dip of his throat, the underside of his jaw, and when Alex finally looks up, Henry's eyes are soft and steady. "You still are. Because you still bloody care so much.'" He leans down and presses a kiss into Alex's hair. "And you are good. Most things are awful most of the time, but you're good." ...He let's Henry push him backwards on the bed and kiss him until his mind is blissfully blank, let's Henry undress him carefully...Henry kisses his mouth over and over again and says quietly, "You are good."

But now I'm bleedin'

"A Tuesday night, hiding on the roof of the Residence, pacing so many furious laps that the skin on the backs of his heels splits open and blood soaks into his loafers. His CLAREMONT FOR AMERICA mug...smashed in his bathroom sink. The smell of earl grey coming up from the kitchens, and his throat going painfully tight."

'Cause I knew you

Steppin' on the last train

"He finds a note in the kitchen: Alex, Had to go early for a family matter. Left with the PPOs. Didn't want to wake you. Thank you for everything. X

It's the last message Henry sends him."

Marked me like a bloodstain, I

"...he's gone, stupid lovesick a fucking disaster. The tripwire of 'Things Only People In Love Say and Do' set off."

I knew you

Tried to change the ending Peter losing Wendy, I

"It was never supposed to be an issue," he goes on, his voice hoarse. "I thought I could have some part of you, and just never say it, and you'd never have to know, and one day you'd get tired of me and leave..."

I knew you

Leavin' like a father

"Telling henry about the divorce, those weird tumultuous years, the day he came home from a Boy Scout camp-out to discover his dad's things moved out..."

"Seriously?" He says, helpless and indignant. He's still dripping. "What the fuck is going on? A week ago it was emails about how much you missed me and meeting my fucking dad, and that's it? You thought you could fucking ghost me?"

Running like water, I

"And Alex watches helplessly as he turns and starts hauling himself out of the water and onto the dock, pulling his shorts back up shivering legs...he watches Henry walk the long line of the dock, disappearing into the darkness....In the morning, Henry is gone. Alex wakes up to find his bunk empty and made up, the pillow tucked neatly beneath the blanket. He practically throws the door off its hinges running out onto the patio, only to find it empty as well. The yard is empty, the pier is empty. It's like he was never even there."

And when you are young, they assume you know nothing

"I know you're young, but this is a forever decision. Even if you dont stay with him forever, if people find out, that sticks with you forever. So you need to figure out if you feel forever about him."

But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss

"So,'"she says. "Do you feel forever about him?'" And theres no room left to agonize over it, nothing left to do but say the thing hes known all along. "Yeah," he says. '"I do.'"

I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs

"The thought enters Alex's mind: What if it was never his decision to make? What if he got so caught up in everything Henry is— the words he writes, the earnest, heartsickness of him— he forgot to take into account that it's just how he is, all the time, with everyone? What if hes done the thing he swore he would never do, the thing he hates, and fallen in love with a prince because it was a fantasy?"

The smell of smoke would hang around this long

"He and Henry drift to a swing at the edge if the porch and he curls into Henry's side, buries his face in the collar of his shirt, Henry puts an arm around him, touches the hinge of Alex's jaw with fingers that smell like smoke."

'Cause I knew everything when I was young

"He loves Henry, and it's nothing new. He's been falling in love with Henry for years, probably since he first saw him glossy print on the pages of J-14...That long. That much."

I knew I'd curse you for the longest time

"He's in Henry's face now. If he's getting his heart broken tonight, he's sure as hell going to make Henry have the guts to do it right...[Henry] gets a handful of Alex's shirt collar, and Alex's knows he's going to love this stubborn shithead forever."

Chasing shadows in the grocery line

"In the quiet of the morning, he shows up in pieces. A pile of journals on the desk, the topmost splotched with ink from a pen exploding in his bag on a plane. An oversized cardigan, worn through and patched at the elbows, slung over an antique wingback chair near the window. David's leash hanging from the doorknob...the sheets smell like Henry...Henry never said yes to any kind of future last night...this could very well be the last time he gets to inhale Henry's scent on anything."

I knew you'd miss me once the thrill expired

"Tell me you're done with me. I'll get back on the plane. That's it. And you can stay here in your tower and be miserable forever, write a whole book of sad fucking poems about it. Whatever."

And you'd be standing in my front porch light

And I knew you'd come back to me

"The doorknob turns and Alex opens his eyes to find Henry, holding two mugs and smiling a wan, unreadable smile."

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan under someones bed

You put me on and said I was your favorite

"...trying to give you up this week nearly killed me. And when I woke up this morning and looked at you...there's no trying to get by for me anymore."

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#this has been sitting in my drafts for literal months #i know it isn't anythin special #but im genuinely proud of this one #i always pictured this chorus as Alex #hope you can see the vision too lol #and i hope y'all like it🫶#ive done this for so many other songs #firstprince as folklore #ts x rwrb #taylor swift #song association #rwrb #red white and royal blue #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #firstprince #casey mcquiston

16 notes · View notes

nichenarratives · 8 months

Text

Hurricane Heller 6

Entire work available on AO3 here.

6. Avoidant Behaviour

While he has great affection for his family, Mordecai would describe them as chaotic, the most recent year of his life an easy testimony to why. Immediately after their shared bar mitzvah, Esther actively bypassed her father's gentle nature, catapulting straight into her adolescence with the fire and brimstone expected of young, undisciplined men. Not a day passed without their mother's shouts reverberating off the thin walls, often returned just as violently by the teen, their arguments legendary three houses abreast either side.

Already intending to rent his own space since he took the managerial job, Esther's continually heightening hostilities only expedited the process. An entire apartment was more than he'd initially budgeted for, but it became increasingly obvious with every viewing that for his own sanitation needs - and to comply with kosher practice in the kitchen - he would need a private bathroom and kitchenette.

But no single room offered both, so he'd had to upscale.

With a few tweaks to the budget, within two weeks of taking the management job and - with a promise he would attend Sabbath shul - a cosignature from his mother, for the first time in his life, Mordecai had an empty canvas to paint with his own brush. He'd spent a day thoroughly cleaning every surface, scrubbing the floors and walls, tiles and even the baseboards. He'd then made a cup of Earl Grey and sat on the windowsill to watch the world go by below, his empty apartment immeasurably, impeccably silent.

Mordecai would come to find silence was a valuable asset, almost as valuable as time; he rarely had time to himself beforehand, a house full of sisters had made sure of that, and what he did have was often interrupted by an innocuous question or request that always led to having yet another thing requiring attention. He loves his sisters - just recalling Rose's smile brought a quirk to fine lips - but until he had it, he never realised how peaceful silence is.

Silence permitting his mind to work at optimal capacity, he turns his attention to streamlining lengthy processes at work he loathes. Unsurprisingly, that turns out to be jobs involving numbers but no mathematics, such as stocktakes - reams of digits that bring no joy - and orders, which tend to be done on the basis of low stock. Despite this obvious connection, neither process is linked through paperwork, an oversight of intense idiocy, but easily corrected with a combined ledger.

Each week brought forward new improvements: systems to prevent perishables going to waste; storehouse door logs to keep live updates on usage; overarching ledgers for usage, waste and damaged goods; profit margins and predictions based on prior years; noting favoured horses and increasing their odds to bait bigger bets. There was always something to improve, something to optimise, and his newfound oasis of peace made it almost laughably easy.

What isn't so easy is Sabbath services.

Every so often, he wakes bathed in cold sweat, a deafening bang echoing in his ears as he frantically paws the phantom brain splatter from his face, chest so tight he's sure he'll keel over and die on the spot. After each episode, he showers in freezing water until his skin is numb, scrubbing at blood that isn't on his hands, face and body, desperate to wash away an irremovable stain from his very soul.

Mordecai does his best to keep his promise, attending each Sabbath service for six weeks after moving out, but he's not comfortable within those holy walls anymore. His presence is an affront to Judaism, reading from the ailyah a sacrilege of which only he and HaShem are privy. He can never leave fast enough, leaving his mother to cover his haste with tales of his hard work and dedication, even if it will earn him a hit around the ear for poor manners later.

Haunted by a dead man's gaze and the sins he carries, his dedication to the congregation slowly wanes in the coming months, until he attends shul only for holiday celebrations. Even his mother stops threatening to retract her cosignature after a while; it was an empty threat from the beginning, one of desperation with her eldest drifting from HaShem, but his refusal to explain creates tension whenever he visits home.

Despite his sins and mother's disappointments, Sabbath is still Mordecai's favourite day of the week. As the only day the tracks close for business, he has an entire day to do as he pleases, a commodity Mordecai hasn't ever had before. At home, he would attend shul, entertain Esther and Rose while their mother prepared the evening meal, set the table and oftentimes, help clean up while Rose was put to bed.

By the time all was said and done, it was his turn to bathe, then straight to bed for an early rise on Monday. He had no free time and as such, it's confusing at first. The day seems to extend onwards for an eternity, the minutes crawling past as he awaits five o'clock, when he would return home to see his siblings and endure his mother's veiled criticisms, clean up as before, then bid them goodnight and leave.

As the Sundays passed, it slowly dawned on Mordecai that he didn't have to sit and wait for the evening meals, and so began his adventures into hobbies.

Hobbies that interest him aren't easy to identify. Most of his coworkers tend towards gambling or drinking away their hard earned wage, oftentimes both. Neither activity interests Mordecai, who actively squirrels away every spare penny. He first defects to reading, borrowing his father's old botany books and without disruption, devouring them from cover to cover within a few days. He learns a great deal on a number of species, some of which he invests in for decoration, then moves on to something more engaging; stocks.

The stock market is a veritable mathematical goldmine, the rise and fall of most of the market predictable to a point. Not willing to gamble large amounts of money - for that would be just as fruitless as betting on races - on fickle financiers, he instead plays with pocket change for the mental exercise, making small returns to bolster saving, or used to add to his growing miniature menagerie of botanicals.

Life was good, for the most part. He grew comfortable in his new routines, complacent even, and perhaps that's how the usually observant young man was easily blindsided by his mother's final attempt to get him back to the synagogue.

As was usual, Mordecai had foregone the discomfort of the Sabbath service for relaxation. His apartment was becoming comfortable, filled with second-hand yet fine furniture, soft fabrics and a litany of volumes on numerous subjects that piqued his curiosity. A simple breakfast, some fine tea and a tome on the inevitable development of crop rotation strategy alongside establishing towns had left him in a good mood as he donned his hat and headed for home that evening, ready to spend time with his family.

He'd entered the house with an uncustomary call of greeting and turned to remove his outdoor attire, turning his back to the living room for seconds at most. Hat and coat on allotted pegs, he'd just begun on his loafers when a misplaced voice greeted him; heavily accented and soft spoken, Mordecai knew who it was before he turned around, but it didn't make it any less confusing to see her in his childhood home.

His brows knit, a common response to most stimuli since he began dealing with crooks and grifters; it hides his emotions from view, a key component of a professional persona that's leaked into everyday life. "Nataliya," he greets in a flat tone, then realises how rude he must have sounded, apologizing even as his tone persists. "Forgive me, I didn't know we were expecting company-"

"You'd know if you attended shul," his mother pipes up from the kitchen. Dark ears fold back, but he doesn't reply, giving her plenty of time to elaborate. "Her parents are dining with work friends tonight. I offered to host young Nataliya for our evening meal, as it's been so long since you've seen each other. How many weeks is it now, bechur?"

Nataliya looks uncomfortable; she clasps fine fingers in front of her dress and looks away, head slightly bowed and eyes cast to the floor, obviously not realising dinner at the Heller household would be this tense when she accepted an invite. Removing his pince-nez, Mordecai pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh, massaging the corners of his eyes deeply. He doesn't want to argue with her; not again, not today, not in front of a guest.

"Eleven," he responds flatly, replacing his glasses with care. Mordecai sometimes wonders if making the effort to see his family on Sunday is worth the harassment, but he's always brought back to the same conclusion; everything he's done, from fixing races to taking a man's life and livelihood, was to ensure their futures. It'll be for naught if he loses them too. "Finding time has been difficult as of late. I apologise-"

His mother bustles out of the kitchen, her braid beginning to fray as the day passes, and ushers them towards the kitchen. "You can apologise to HaShem next Sabbath," she informs her son simply, leaving no room for refusals as he's sat at the head of the table, his designated place. All of her bluster burned out, she affectionately strokes his hair as she returns to the stove. "But you can apologise to our guest for ruining dinner now, can't you?"

Mordecai waits until she's not looking to return his hair to its prior state, then looks at Nataliya across the table. She toys with her braid, running her hands over the thick rope of dark hair repetitively until their eyes meet. Glancing up in time to see Mordecai readjusting his hair and offers a little smile, a tiny quirk of pink lips that still somehow reaches her eyes as a spark of humour plays in yellow sclera.

Reassured she isn't angry, he manages one back, hoping it makes her feel more comfortable. "I apologise for… ruining dinner," he forces out, even though he believes his mother is the guilty party for causing a scene. "Please forgive me."

"There's my little mensch," his mother praises with a peck to the top of his head, oven-mitt hands holding a steaming hot kugel. Mordecai tries his best not to physically react to the affection as across the table, Nataliya presses her lips into a fine line, chest heaving in suppressed laughter as mother sets the hot casserole dish. "I'll get the girls while you prepare for hamotzi."

Despite his best efforts, he feels his cheeks burning red hot with embarrassment as his mother leaves, sinking into his seat as Nataliya finally giggles aloud at his mother's antics. If only HaShem would let the ground swallow me whole…

8 notes · View notes