#like he doesn’t mind the commute but i’m the total opposite i HATE being in a fucking plane or hotel room or whatever like i just need to be
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i love having hong kongers & mainlanders in close contact like literally i’ve these 2 hongkongers in my group project for a class & then i live w 2 mainlanders so ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) i’m learning so much
#stream#like the genuine differences between even north & south china & further mainland vs taiwan & hong kong 😭😭😭#like yen je ? TOTAL ONE CHINA STAN & honestly ? king#arthur is literally like ‘bro idk i literally don’t give a fuck abt anything outside of beijing’ it’s so funny like he HATES traveling but#routinely. flys back to chine like he’s flown 15+hrs so many times like he spent 5 years in canada even ? 😭😭😭 ALSKALSKALKSALKSLAKS#BUT HE HATES TRAVEL#ITS SO FUNNY TO ME#like he doesn’t mind the commute but i’m the total opposite i HATE being in a fucking plane or hotel room or whatever like i just need to be#gone but if i’m fucking stuck on an airplane i will die#BUT ALSO I AINT DO NO 15HRS ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT#LIKE IDK I THINK MAYBE 11 WAS THE LONGEST BUT IM SURE IT WASNT EVEN#MAYBE 10 BUT 😭😭😭 anyway then the hongkongers are totally like ‘we don’t know mandarin & we want to break from china’ 😭😭😭#they’re so fun#the mainlanders: don’t smoke weed the hongkongers: do u have a number ?#ALSJAKSKAKJSAKJSLAJSLAKA GIRL AS SOON AS I HESRD HIS GUY JEPT FLAKING ON HIM I WAS LIEK LISTEN NOW …#I GOT U ONE#so fucking funny i love them#also i told my flat mates then when i see Li again i’m bringing his ass up like YALL ABT TO KNOW HIM TOO#it’s so funny to me like i know they don’t know eachother like i ask them all if they know eachother like not bc they met before but solely#BC I KNOW YALL ALL ON WECHAT it makes me laugh it’s like playing matchmaker but also Li literally told me he doesn’t know many chinese here#so i’m like well baby girl … i’ll have my 2 boys play w u xx#ALSKALSKALLSLAKSLAKSLA love him he’s so funny i met his flatmate & he’s ethiopian & a QAT FIEND ❤️😭 SCREAM we were bonding over withdrawl#symptoms upon getting to the uk ALSKALALALSLAKLSKALSLA SCREAMMMMM poor Li i was holding him hostage to me & this man’s’s tomfoolerys theyre#precious so his name is ra & he’s going back to pick up more from london or whatever like 😭😭 he even said he was going through so bad#withdrawls he just got up at 2am 1 day & got on a train to london & slept on his man’s floor to get the fix ALSLLAJALALLSKSLSJSLAJLAJLD#KINGGGGGGG GIRL I TURNED TO LI & WAS LIKE ‘& U JUST LET HIM ?’ 😭😭😭😭 i was DYINGGGG he’s so fucking FUNNY anyway he’s going to let me try qat#from his next pick up like mf u better not chew all that shit before u get back here 😭😭😭#it was so funny he was like ‘how do U know abt KHAT’ 😭😭😭#like literally my response from everyone but shoutout to my professor bc i truly don’t think she realizes how deep i’ve gotten into this now
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What Is and What Should Never Be: Part 3
Summary: As the Reader and Bucky adjust to the latest change in their lives, the age old question surfaces: when is the right time to tell your friends that you're having a baby? Or in this case, how long can you keep it a secret from the Avengers?
Pairings: Bucky Barnes x fem!enhanced! super-soldier! reader
(Reader can see pieces of the future in visions and understand every language)
Warnings: Language, fluff, maybe a tiny bit of angst, mentions of body image issues, pregnant.
Author's note: Fun factoid: I'm a mom in real life. I experienced pregnancy and childbirth. As such, I pulled from my personal experiences (and my wonderful husband's support) to write this. That's in no way me saying that my experiences are standard for every pregnant person. As always, the reader is unnamed for those of you who prefer to read this as a self-insert, but for some reason, I've named her Violet in my own mind.
*************************************************
“I want to keep this between us for as long as possible.”
He’s been away on a mission for the past week and a half, living on little to no sleep, so she feels bad for bringing this up now, while he’s trying to rest, but if she doesn’t get it out of the way, she’s afraid she’ll chicken out.
“Hm?” He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t move a muscle from where his body is casually draped around hers, both of them in bed even though it’s one o’clock in the afternoon.
“You know.” She places her hand on top of his. These days, if there’s any way at all he can manage it, he’s got his palm resting on her middle, even though there’s nothing there to feel except a slight bloating.
“Thought we were safe.” It’s said with a yawn, the words more slurred than spoken.
“We are.” Relatively. They’re at thirteen weeks now, outside the treacherous first trimester. Still… “I know we’ll have to tell the team eventually, but I’d rather that wait until it’s an absolute must.” She’s in the reserves, a last-resort Avenger, and thankfully she hasn’t been called up yet and had to lie about why she’s rejecting a mission. That luck will run out one day, but until it does…
“We’re always gonna be on guard, from here on out. The child of two super soldiers, one of them with…” She still doesn’t know quite what to call it. “…strange abilities…”
His eyes open, a look of immediate understanding forming on his face.
“We could retire.”
She’s thought about it, but she shakes her head.
“No. One of us has to stay in. We’ve got a better chance of keeping her safe from the bad guys if one of us is on a team with the good guys, and if the choices are you staying in or me-”
“I’m the better option.”
He is, as much as she hates it.
“Okay.” He nods. “But we’re on borrowed time here. It’s not as if we can hide the fact that one day, we’re gonna have a kid living with us. And even before then-” Time to lighten the mood.
“Buck, you’d better not be about to insinuate that I’m going to get fat.”
He snorts.
“God, no. Do I look stupid to you?” She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t answer that.”
“You know, your hair does stick up in the mornings-”
“Don’t answer it, Doll.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
“Sgt. Barnes!” Bucky stops in his tracks. He’s running a little late, yeah, but surely that’s not enough for Rhodes to come running after him, literally chase him down through the Avengers compound. “Hold up, Soldier. I need to have a word with you.” He thinks he knows what this is about, but still, he’s not going to say anything until he absolutely has to.
Rhodey stops in front of him, arms crossed, scowling.
“Barnes, would you happen to know why I got an email this morning from your wife, handing in her resignation?” It’s exactly what he thought.
“Yes.” It’s clear from Rhodes’ expression that he’s expecting Bucky to say more, but he’s not going to give in. She resigned. They talked about it, and not only is it her right to quit this job, it’s also a damn good decision all things considered.
“That’s it? ‘Yes’?”
“That’s right.”
Rhodey sighs.
“Barnes, I need a little more information here. Why in the hell would she suddenly quit, straight out of the blue?”
“It’s not my place to say. You’d have to ask her.”
He could say. Of course he could. But, she made some good points about keeping the baby a secret, and he’s in total agreement (in theory; in practice, he doesn’t think they’ll be able to pull it off for more than another month or so, considering who they work with).
“I’m not gonna get anything out of you, am I?” Rhodey’s doing his very best to stare him down, but it’s a lost cause.
“No, sir.”
“Alright.” Finally, he’s waved off. “You’re dismissed, Sergeant, but there’d better be a good explanation for all this.”
He thinks that’ll be the end of it. Unfortunately, when he meets up with Sam for a debrief, the questions start all over again.
“What’s up with you lately? You and the Mrs. on the rocks or something?” Or something. The opposite, really, but it’s definitely something.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on.” Sam narrows his eyes at him. “You never let your phone go past the first ring, even if it’s not a saved number. You can’t wait to get out of here at night and you’re late in the mornings. It’s clear your mind’s somewhere else.”
“I’ve had your back, same as always.”
“Sure.” Sam nods. “You’ve had my back, but your heart’s not in it. So what gives?”
This is one where he’s not sure he can just go with, “I’m not telling you” and get away with it. They’re partners, after all. Sam deserves some reassurances.
“I swear I’ll tell you eventually, but not right now. It’s nothing bad, though. Nothing that’ll affect the team.” He’s not sure of that last part, but at least it seems to reassure Sam somewhat.
“You’d better, or else I’ll kick your serum-ed up ass, metal arm or not.” Uh-huh. Sure. That seems likely.
The rest of the day is pretty quiet (well, except for his phone dinging with a text alert: “Just dipped a carrot in melted chocolate ice cream for some reason and ate it. I’m disgusted with myself. Also, it was really good.” which made him have to bite his tongue so hard he tasted blood so he wouldn’t laugh during a meeting). He thinks he’s survived it, gotten away with having a gigantic secret (that’s actually the size of a lemon currently according to one of the books he’s reading). That is, until he’s unlocking his car, and a hand comes down on his shoulder. Without thinking, he goes on the defensive, pinning the other person to the car opposite him, only realizing once he’s got one hand around her throat that it’s not an attack. It’s Wanda.
“Sorry.” He lets her go, briefly checking her over for injuries. None, although she looks a little ruffled.
“My fault. I should know by now not to sneak up on you.”
He nods and pulls his car door open.
“Congratulations, by the way.” And, he’s frozen to the spot. “About the baby.” How does she… she touched him. That means she probably got a good read on him.
When he turns to look at Wanda, she’s wearing a knowing smile.
“I knew it had to be something. Either your marriage is in trouble, or she’s pregnant.” She chuckles. “Well, if you two were having a fight, you would be walking around like a kicked puppy, so that leaves the other. It only took a touch to find out. They’re both at the forefront of your mind.”
What the hell does he say to that? It’s not like he can tell Wanda she’s wrong. She literally looked inside his mind. There’s no coming back from that.
“How many weeks is she?” He keeps his mouth shut, which apparently amuses the Scarlet Witch. “You know I’ll just find out for myself if you don’t tell me.” Fine. He knows when he’s beaten.
“Fourteen.” Or will be in another two days.
She frowns. “Why the big secret? You’re safe, aren’t you?”
“As safe as anyone can be in this line of work.” That seems to satisfy Wanda.
“Tell your better looking half that I’m sending my best wishes. Oh, and that if anyone tries to touch her or the malysh, I’ll kill them myself.” She’ll have to get in line.
“You’ll keep this to yourself, right?” She smirks.
“Of course I will. The perfect picture of discretion.” The funny thing is, he can’t tell if she’s joking or not.
___________________________________________________________________________________
The familiar chorus of Johnny Cash’s “Man In Black” sounds from her phone just as she’s about to head towards the fitting room. Normally, it’d make her smile for two reasons: one, it’s him calling her, and two, she always pictures the scowl on his face whenever he hears the song because he hates it and, “I’m not seeing why that song reminds you of me, Doll. There’s no similarities whatsoever.” (never mind that every single one of their friends has heard it once, and cracked up because it’s so damn on the nose, it’s hilarious), but right now… well, she wishes he could’ve held off another fifteen minutes.
“Hello-”
“Hey. Where are you?” She holds the phone away from her ear long enough to check the time. Five forty-five. Well, at least he waited a solid five minutes after he arrived home (yes, she knows the length of his commute down to the minute) to call and make sure she’s not dead in a ditch.
“I’m…” She’s not ready to tell him exactly what she’s up to. It’s too embarassing. “Running errands. Shopping.” It’s the truth; she’s just choosing to omit for what.
“Oh.” There’s a brief pause, then- “I got into a debate with Sam today, and I was wondering if you’d be the deciding vote. Who’s the better singer: Frank Sinatra or Bing Crosby?”
It’s their designated question, a signal for, “Are you being held against your will/is someone listening?” For a moment, she’s so frustrated (normal people don’t need a signal for “have you been kidnapped”) she considers shooting back, “Well, Sinatra was a wife beater and Crosby was a philanderer. That’s not even to mention the mob ties, so no matter what, they were both dicks. ” but swallows it down. No need to snap at him, or worse, scare him.
“Sinatra, but in my opinion, he’s overrated.” There’s an audible sigh of relief, and that melts some of her irritation. Some, not all. “I’m sorry. I should’ve texted, but I thought I’d be home before you noticed.”
The whole ‘overprotective’ thing has always existed (how could it not in their line of work, and in the past, it’s as often her sending a “you okay?” text as him), but in the past two months, it’s gone into overdrive. This is the fourth time this week she’s received a worried call, and it’s only Tuesday! It’s sweet how much he cares, but she’s starting to suspect that by the time nine months are up, she’ll be under constant surveilance.
“It’s okay. I’m being a little…” He trails off (well, at least he’s self-aware). “I could’ve stopped by the store and picked up whatever you needed on my way home, Doll. Saved you a trip.”
“Not this, you couldn’t have.” It slips out before she can think better of it. Dammit. Now she’s going to have to answer-
“What is it?” -that. Fuck.
“Can we talk about this later?”
“I guess, but I’m still confused. Are you sure you’re okay?” Ugh. Fine. It’s not like she needed that last shred of pride anyway.
“This is humiliating, but-” She takes a deep breath and spits it out all in one go, “-mystupidpantsdon’tfit.”
“What?” He has enhanced hearing. Not to mention he speaks several languages, and he couldn’t decipher that? She pinches the bridge of her nose to keep from losing her cool completely. None of this is his fault. Well, except the obvious.
“My pants. They’re too tight in the waist. I can’t breathe in them, so I decided to go and get something-” She examines one of the ugly pairs of nondescript yoga pants in her cart. “-more forgiving.”
There’s no real bump yet, but she’s at the awkward point where she’s too big for her normal clothes, and too small for maternity. Hence, workout wear. Workout wear and loose shirts that, despite their design, don’t fool anyone into thinking she’s still the same size.
“Okay, but why is that humiliating?” In that moment, she hates him almost as much as she loves him.
“It just is. I’ll see you at home in another forty-five, tops.”
She’s about to just hang up, when-
“Take your time. Just text me when you’re on your way so I know you’re safe.” Dammit. And, now she’s tearing up in the middle of a department store because no one has ever cared this much about her before, my god she’s lucky to have him, and he’ll be a great father.
“Will do. Love you.”
A trip to the dressing room confirms what she thought: there’s absolutely nothing flattering about anything that’ll fit her. She looks oddly reminiscent of Thor when they contacted him to try, once again, to defeat Thanos; too many days skipped at the gym, an over-indulgence in beer and pizza. Not pregnant. Just letting herself go. Still, she can breathe, sit, and as she finds out once she’s loading bags into the back of her car, bend over in her new clothes, so she bites the bullet and buys the items that, once this is over, she’ll never wear again.
She’s still in a bad mood when she gets home, and it’s not improved when she remembers how many papers she has to grade before tomorrow morning. The scent of a frozen lasagna (she had enhanced senses before, but now her nose is going bonkers) wafts from the kitchen, letting her know where he is, and since it’s a guarantee he will have heard the door open and close, she doesn’t bother to call out an “I’m home.” before heading up the stairs to see if her purchases look better in different lighting.
Short answer: no, they don’t. Long answer: “I look like an overgrown toddler.” As she mutters it to herself, she pulls on the hem of her oversized shirt. Nope, still not a great look.
“Where’s the glow?” She asks the woman in the mirror, who’s peering at her in mild disgust. “I was told there’s supposed to be a glow.” Of course there’s no answer. Completely discouraged, she peels off her clothes and replaces them with a pair of his sweatpants and a tshirt, then, finally feeling the effects of her long day, climbs into bed for a quick nap.
She has no idea how long she’s been out when she feels the mattress shift, signaling that she’s no longer alone. For all she knows, she could be dreaming it. But, as a cool metal hand brushes back a few tendrils from her cheek, she knows she’s having no such luck. He’s here. Time to play “I’m just fine”.
“Hey. Sorry to wake you up. Especially when you look so damn cute, curled up fast asleep wearing my clothes.”
Her eyes are still closed, but she rolls them.
“There must be-” A yawn cuts her off half-way through. “-something wrong with your vision, Barnes, because I wouldn’t exactly call this ‘cute’.”
“You’re right.” She blinks up at him, confused. “More like beautiful. My mistake.”
She knows better than to do it, but she scoffs.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She attempts to sit up, but it’s no good. He catches her shoulder and gently pushes her back down.
“It’s not nothing. Talk to me. What’s going on?”
She studies his expression, analyzing the slightly confused pout, the furrowed brow. No way he’s gonna let this one go. She’ll have to explain.
“I just….” What’s the best way to put she hates everything about herself physically? “...don’t really like how I look right now.” And now, he looks even more confused.
“Why not?” Honestly, how dense can he be?
“Let’s see: I’m bloated, I’ve gone up a cup size but instead of it being fun and sexy, it hurts, all of my clothes either don’t fit or they highlight that I’ve gained weight, and no matter how much I shave, it looks like a damn thicket!” Her frustration gets the better of her, and she’s nearly shouting by the last word. Feeling guilty, she rolls over so that she won’t have to see his face.
“Oh.” Oh? That’s it? What does it matter? It’s not like this is something you can kiss and make better. She’s grateful to have made it out of the first trimester, truly she is. And this baby that she never thought would exist, this little piece of both of them? She loves it with her whole heart. But right now, she really feels shitty.
“I hate to break it to you doll, but I think you might be the one with the vision problem, because that’s not at all what I see.” She opens her mouth to tell him she’s really not in the mood for platitudes, but then his fingers are in her hair, pulling it back from her face, and she decides to shut up.
“I haven’t noticed if it looks like a damn thicket anywhere on your body.” She rolls her eyes.
“Not noticed, my ass.”
“No, I always notice your ass-” She left herself open for that one. “-but if there’s any stray hairs, I haven’t noticed, and I don’t care. Not at all.” But she does. This is supposed to be a beautiful time in her life where she’s getting more in touch with her feminine side. Well, right now she doesn’t feel like a delicate fucking flower. She feels like a walrus, and it’s only going to get worse.
“This, though-” he tugs lightly at her hair. “-it’s gotten thicker. Whenever I wake up and you’re still out, I kinda have to resist the urge to just run my fingers through it, ‘cause it’s just begging to be touched.” He places a gentle kiss on her hairline, trailing down her cheek, her jaw, the side of her neck, and finally her collar bone. “It may not be fun, but it’s definitely still sexy that you’ve gone up a cup size. Even more than that, it’s incredible. You’re body’s going through so many changes to make sure that she gets whatever she needs. I can’t wait to see what else happens.” It is pretty incredible, when she thinks about it. But she still can’t help feeling… off.
They’re side by side now, his body curled around hers, and as per usual, his hand has found it’s way to her middle. “She’s growing, getting stronger every day. That’s thanks to you, Doll. You’re already taking care of her, and she’s not even here.” Her eyes close again as the soft words are spoken against the back of her head. “She’s lucky to have you as her mom. I’m lucky to have you. And it’s okay if you don’t like how you look right now. I’ll keep reminding you how amazing you are until you can see it on your own.” As she drifts off again, she can’t help that think how she’s pretty damn lucky too.
___________________________________________________________________________________
He can’t really explain it, not even to himself. When Bucky was a young man, fatherhood, or rather the months leading up to it weren’t talked about. Pregnancy in general wasn’t. A woman started getting bigger around the middle and after a few months, there was a baby. Of course he knew it was a little more complicated than that, but he never heard his dad or uncles talk about what they experienced as they waited for the day they’d become someone’s father.
Maybe that’s why he has such a hard time connecting to this whole experience in any other way. His wife is pregnant. They’re having a baby. He’s got that. Hell, they’ve even heard the heartbeat, and there’s a picture stashed in the back of his wallet from that first ultrasound. He loves this kid, who at this point, could fit into the palm of his hand, but since it’s not happening to him, he’s not the one physically going through this, in some ways it’s still distant.
However, the one thing he can do, the one thing that has made it feel more real, like he knows this someone he’s never seen before, is having his hand over where she’s currently residing. He doesn’t know where the exact location is (sure, he’s done googling, and there’s just common sense, but he’s not a doctor), but for a reason he can’t quite work out, it somehow feels like, in that way, he’s in tune with her. She’s tucked away safe already, but he can give her that extra barrier of warmth, and maybe in some untangible way that science can’t explain, love. It’s as close as he can get until she’s here in his arms, and for now, it’ll do.
That’s why, when he becomes half-way conscious, the early morning sun peeking in through the blinds, he doesn’t have to wonder what he’s touching. He already knows. However, this time, there is something different. Moving slowly, trying not to wake his sleeping wife (goodness knows she need the rest; she’s making an entire other person), he readjusts his palm. That’s when it hits him. There’s a certain roundness, a slight firmness, that wasn’t there yesterday. If he had to venture a guess, he’d say-
“Morning, sunshine.” As she says it, she yawns, stretching so that her shirt rides up and he gets a good look. He’s right. That’s exactly what’s going on.
“Not that I don’t enjoy you ogling me, but what’s got your attention?”
Taking a deep breath to try and keep his excitement down, he pulls her just a little bit closer and murmurs. “Doll, I think you’re showing.”
“What?” She’s still sleepy, he can tell from the way her eyelids flutter. “No, I’m just bloated.
“I’m serious. Go take a look in the mirror when you get up.”
“Which will be right now, because…” Feigning an over-dramatic sigh, she extracts herself from the tangle of limbs they’ve formed in their sleep. “… I have to pee for the first of at least thirty times today.”
He thinks about joking that at least it’s not morning sickness (for a few weeks there, she informed him she was going to start just sleeping in the bathroom since that’s where she spent most of her time), but decides that’d probably be a stupid decision. His research had forewarned him that heightened emotions would be a part of this, and so far it hasn’t been too extreme, but there was the one time he came home and found her crying over an ASPCA commercial (it took a solid half-hour for her to completely recover, and when their dog licked her hand later that night, she started tearing up again), so it’s probably best not to risk it.
The toilet flushes, quickly followed by the door reopening, and she appears. He studies her face for any sign of what she might be feeling right now, but comes up empty. Finally, he has to ask.
“So, what’s the verdict?”
She climbs back into bed, rearranging the blankets over her bare legs.
“The verdict is that it’s too damn early to be awake on a Saturday.” Okay, drop the subject. That’s okay. He’ll just work harder on convincing her that she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen until she believes it too.
“And, I think you’re right.” Her hand travels down to the small swell of her middle. “I think I’m showing.”
“Are you…” he’s not sure how to put it. “...do you feel okay about that, Doll?”
She nods, smiling.
“Yeah, I do. In all honesty, it’s kind of a relief.” He frowns, confused. “Well, now I feel a little less awkward. I look less like I ate something funky and now I have bad gas, and more like I’m pregnant.”
Despite his best efforts, he snickers at her description.
“Barnes, it’s rude to laugh at the mother of your child.”
“Really?” He does his best to feign confusion. “Well, is it okay if I kiss her?”
“Nice save.” She leans towards him, pushing a few tray hairs back from his forehead. “And yeah, I think that’s acceptable.” He doesn’t need to be told twice.
It’s a practiced routine at this point. Their lips meet, his arm circling her back, pulling her closer. Her hand travels up his back, tracing lazy patterns, as her heart begins to beat faster against his chest. Someone (he’s never quite sure who) lets out the first telling moan, and then he’s pressing her back against the pillows, hovering over her, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. Normally this would lead to her shedding it altogether and him following suit, but just as he rucks up the material past her waist, his phone goes off. From the ringtone, he knows it’s Sam. Can’t be ignored, then.
“I swear, he has radar.” She murmurs it against his lips as, with one final peck, he rolls over and sits up.
“That or he’s sitting outside with his binoculars waiting for the worst possible moment to call.” As he says it, he presses the phone to his ear. “What?”
“Good morning to you too.” He almost shoots back that it was gonna be, but swallows it down. “Meet me at the compound in thirty. We’ve got to go. Briefing once we’re in the air.”
“For how long-”
“I don’t know, man. A few days, at least.” It’s silent for a moment then- “If the missus wanted to join us on this one, we could use her.” He glances at the woman in question, now out of bed and going through their shared closet, packing his bag.
“Yeah, I don’t think so. See you soon.” Not waiting for a reply, he hangs up.
“You’re going someplace warm.” As she speaks, she adds a few short sleeved t-shirts to the black duffle bag he always carries when he has to go away. “And from what I saw, you’ll end up using knives as opposed to guns at least once.” Seems like this time around, her visions have decided to be helpful instead of random and vaguely annoying.
She glances back at him over her shoulder, offering him a small smile. “Get a move on, Buck. Sounded like Sam’s not in a mood to wait.” That he can agree with.
By the time he finishes brushing his teeth and making sure his hair won’t fool people into thinking he received an electric shock in his sleep, she’s already got his bag packed, weapons case by the front door, and a breakfast burrito heated up. It’s not the first time they’ve done this; said a hasty goodbye when one or the other of them had to answer the call, but this time as he holds her close and promises, once again, to come back in one piece, he can’t help but feel like he’s doing the exact opposite as what he should. It’s never a matter of wanting to go, wanting to fight. That’s never something anyone wants. But usually, he has a sense of peace about it, like in some small way, he’s making up for all the things he’s done in his past that he wishes he could forget. This time, as he drives himself to the compound, he can’t shake the feeling that the greatest good he’ll ever do in his life is in that townhouse, promising to wait for his return.
The briefing is short. It’s a dangerous situation, one that’ll require their presence for several days, if not a full week, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. After all he’s seen, he’ll never take it for granted again that a mission will be routine, run smoothly, but over all, he’s not unduly worried. Sam, however? The man hasn’t stopped frowning since they set foot on the quinjet, and there’s no sign that it’ll let up anytime soon.
Finally, he doesn’t have any other choice. If he doesn’t address the elephant in the room now, it’ll hang over the mission, and that won’t be good news for anyone.
“Say it.”
For a second, he thinks Sam is going to keep mum, but then, with a sigh, he asks,
“Man, what the hell is going on with you lately?” Oh. This again. “I know you said it wouldn’t affect the team, but we’re partners. If there’s something going on in your life that’ll impact how you handle this mission-” He starts to interrupt, but Sam is quicker. “-and don’t give me that bullshit that it won’t, I know a big fucking deal when I see it. I need to know.”
This is it. They’ve had a good run, but this is one secret he won’t be able to keep anymore.
“I get it. Couples split up. Divorces happen.” Wait- “But keeping it to yourself won’t help anything. Plus, since we all know her and work with her-”
“We’re not splitting up.” Never will, if he has anything to do with it.
“Okay, well, marriage troubles are part of things. Maybe you two could try therapy-”
“She’s pregnant, Sam.” So that’s how you make Sam Wilson go dead silent. He’ll have to remember that for future reference (although this seems like something you can only use one time).
“She’s-”
“Yeah.”
“You’re-”
“Not doing much. She’s the one with the hard job.”
Sam’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to get out, “You’re gonna have a baby.”
“Actually, she’s the one-”
“You know what I mean.”
He nods.
“Yeah. We are.”
“Damn.” Sam sinks into the seat next to him. “You’re gonna be a dad. That’s not something I was expecting to hear when I got up this morning.”
He chuckles.
“Wasn’t exactly something we were expecting to hear either, but there it is.” In another four and a half months or so, they’ll be parents.
“So, um-” Sam clears his throat. “-are you guys good? Happy about it and all that?”
“We’re good.” He nods. “Still getting used to it, but we’re good.”
“What about you? Are you happy about it?”
This is one he can answer without any hesitation or second guessing. It’s a simple fact, one he’ll admit every time.
“Yeah. I’m happy.”
#marvel#captain america#the winter soldier#bucky fic#bucky x y/n#bucky x reader#fanfiction#fluff#pregnancy
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m.yg x f.r |“She’s Just My Neighbour” | 01
Chpt. Summary: One gain is one loss is just how the world works and after you've gained something you've desired for so long, unfortunately, what you've already had for a longer period of time is taken away.
Call it fate or just bad luck.
Genre: fluff + angst
Length: 3.4k
A/N: Hey my Lovely Dolls! I'm so sorry this took such a long time to come out but I had, unfortunately, lost all of my planning for this entire series, which really discouraged me from writing it. I'm slowly getting the plot back together and am hoping to continue on with this at a good pace. Thank you all for being so patient and I'm so sorry for the short chapter, I'll make it up to you all in the next one - That's a promise!
Love you all so much!
Enjoy the read!
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It’s was a regular Sunday afternoon and you were out in your garden. You were a very big fan of flowers and so was your cat, it seemed. She loved laying down in the sunspots beside them, it was as though she had an exquisite sense of smell that attracted her to the mature scent of your roses. Aside from the flora, you also loved growing your own produce, it was all too satisfying to eat the very vegetables and fruit you’ve been able to grow yourself, there was a new found appreciate you had for them - unlike the ones from the shops. Being frugal was also convenient for you, seeing as the ‘local’ shops were an hour’s commute away and wasting gas for something that you could make on your own, was something that you felt wasn’t as productive for you.
“Hey, Duchess~” you coo a greeting as your Persian cat makes her way over to you. She’s always been a little more affectionate than most other cats so she takes a moment to rub up against your thighs as your knees dig into the dirt. “Pretty kitty~” you coo and giggle as she leaves your side after having had enough of your gentle pets and scratches. She doesn’t go far, settling in the sunspot beside your ankles as her soft, waving tail tickles the small stretch of skin your old, ankle-cropped jeans couldn’t cover. Smiling down at her, you sigh in content before going back to tend to your flowers.
Not many more minutes drag by before you’re getting up to have a stretch, throat parched and eager for a cold glass of water. Bringing your gaze down, you find Duchess already staring up at you but still curled up and contentedly flaunting her cotton-white tail up and down. “Are you going to be okay out here, kitty?” you muse, reaching down and giving the soft tuffet of fur atop her head a rub. Flashing a brief smile, you make your way into your house and wash your hands before handling ice into a tall glass cup. Eager to get back to working on your flowerbeds, you walk out after inhaling half of your glass and was about to get back to work when two voices cut through the quaint silence in the air.
“So here it is.” came a familiar voice. It was Jisoo - the real estate agent that usually handled the people that were interested in accommodating the other half of your semi-detached house. “The other half is already accommodated but the half you will potentially be living in has been kept in good shape.” a deep, gruff grunt of acknowledgement directed your eyes to a male with an unreadable face. Aside from that, he was really handsome, true, his hair was very dishevelled and his clothes appeared to have been put on with not much care. His jeans were faded and ripped at the knees while his black, oversized hoodie draped all the way down to his mid-thigh. Piercing, half-lidded brown eyes met your own as you hurriedly tried to dust down your worn and dirt-crusted jeans, inwardly wincing at your ugly green pleaded button up shirt.
As you opened your mouth, about to greet the two, your mind reeling and hoping that if you couldn’t make the best first impression appearance-wise, then you can certainly compensate with your personality - which is what counted - the unnamed male was already making his way towards you.
“Is it busy around here?” he asked with a voice deeper than the ocean and rougher than the most coarse fabric you’ve ever touched.
“N-no-” you cough, ridding of your timid voice, “It’s actually really peaceful-”
“Are you loud?”
“Wha-?!” you splutter, unable to comprehend his rapid-fire questions but also feeling quite weary of his enquires.
He rolled his eyes and you pretended not to notice, “Will you be loud?”
“Umm…no. I don’t even own a speaker-”
“Would you mind in I blast my music?” so he liked music - it’ll be wise for you to play towards his interests.
“Of course not-”
“Good…” and he ends the interrogative conversation there, turning on his heel to walk back to Jisoo, who flashed her usual smile.
“That’s (y/n), she’s a great person and am sure will make you feel right at home-” the two of you briefly meet eyes and you give her a thankful smile. She was a good friend of yours as you had plenty of time to talk with her as she gave multiple others a tour of the living space the house provided.
“Yeah, yeah. Nice to meet you, I’m Min Yoongi,” he goes to shake your hand but already pulls his hand away before you could reach for his in the middle of bowing, “I think I’m done for today.” he shrugs having already turned around to face Jisoo, causing both you and the estate agent to blink in surprise. He was definitely someone who knew what he wanted and although he was quite rude, your heart stuttered just by his entire aesthetic.
“B-but Mr.Min, you haven’t even looked through the house.” she tried to explain but was still speechless at the fact that he had booked this appointment, and yet, wasn’t willing to spend all of his allocated time.
“It’s alright. That woman, (y/n), had been able to answer all of the questions I needed answered.” you see Jisoo attempt to coerce him into, at least, stepping into the house. “and besides, I could tell from all the pictures on your website that the interior is well kept. There is no furniture left, is there?” he asks, stepping closer to the car he arrived in.
“N-no, it’s completely barren in there,” Jisoo confirms. Never before has she met a client that was so sure of themselves. It wasn’t all that bad but it was so unlike the others that it was only just beginning to sink in how refreshing it was to direct someone who knew what they wanted.
“Alright then.” with that being said, they were already leaving. With such a brief and expeditious visit, you were reluctant to hope that he would end up choosing to buy the space. Sighing in discontent, you stared down at Duchess, who stood up at your sudden shift in mood, that was able to bring you some form of comfort, knowing that she knew you well enough to tell when you were the littlest bit upset. It wasn’t a surprising fact though, you had gotten Duchess when you had turned sixteen and you were already twenty-four, making her eight years old already. For an old cat, she looked as adorable as you had first gotten her as a three-month-old kitten.
“I’ll be okay, kitty,” you assure with kind eyes, crouching down to pick her up in your arms where her now non-moving tail hangs off your makeshift cradle, as if to mimic your downcast mood, “I have you looking out for me, and that’s all I need.” with a giggle, you decide to abandon your work for the day, no longer in the mood to dig around in the dirt for the benefit of your flowers. “An early, mini dinner sounds like a good plan right about now, don’t you think Duchess?” you coo, attempting to distract yourself.
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It had been a week and the exchange between you and the handsome but also very blunt man had been long forgotten, and you only have Duchess to thank for being your one distraction. Your friends, who live in the city, have also made their regular calls with the usual gaggle of gossip about incompetent coworkers and the like, also aided in your lapse of memory. Only the concise interaction was forgotten, however, and unfortunate for you, you were able to remember his gorgeous face and times where you’re left in the silence to contemplate your thoughts had you biting your lower lip at his hunky appearance. Having a love interest wasn’t a big fantasy of yours and so you hadn’t determined an ‘ideal type’ of guy for yourself, although, if you had to imagine one, he would be the perfect example. It comes totally unexpected seeing as your appearance is the exact opposite of his aesthetic. He seems to prefer dark colours in a very casual and comfortable style. You, on the other hand, leaned more towards pastels and nudes with the occasional patterned shirt or jumper, you were proud, though, that you are also someone who appreciated a casual comfortable look.
Sighing into your glass teacup, you took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage. This morning was very busy with you talking to clients on the phone whilst making spontaneous designs onto your desktop, all this was then followed by answering multiple emails of past and potential clients and that work carried onto confirming details on designs and setups. You were glad that you had something to do and that your small private business was thriving and getting popular every day but you would have better preferred being out in the garden. It’s an ironic thought, however, seeing as you used to hate digging your knees into the dirt and having to sweat under the blistering gaze of the sun but over time, you had come to appreciate the benefits it brought you and the therapeutic sensation it brought about amidst your hectic occupational commitments.
After the workload you had to mentally force yourself through this morning, however, you were too tired to be out tending to your flowers and cleared up work on your calendar to have time for them tomorrow. For now, you’re settling down with some spicy tea and a warm book, your legs curled underneath a woolly blanket as Duchess purrs in your lap. At some points, she’d weakly look up at you with pleading eyes, which you could never say no to and would reach out to rub behind her ears and stroke down her back. You don’t know if it’s your worry over her old age that is making you realise that she’s seeming a lot weaker recently but you’ve seen her have very lazy times, especially when you know she feels lonely.
As you contemplate phoning into the vets or simply paying more attention to Duchess, you hear the robust noise of a large vehicle. Glancing down at Duchess, you find her already staring up at you, “Who could that be Duchess?”
Inhaling a gasp, your feet almost push off the carpet and fly to the door and sprint its way to the movers so that you could help with anything but looking down at your attire and fluffy socks, you shake your head with a laugh. You could be so silly sometimes. “We’re getting a new neighbour Duchess!” you cheer down at her before taking another glance out of the window from behind your curtains and instantly flush a brilliant red when you make immediate eye contact with your fantasy man from last week. “Yoongi…” you muttered under your breath at which he raised his brow at, clearly having read your lips. Squeaking, you turn away, your face becoming hotter than your steaming cup of tea. The outfit he had on today had your knees turning weak as his smouldering eyes pushed your knees to quake beneath you.
He was in all black: black belt, turtleneck, jeans, shoes, cap, mask and the killer black leather jacket. You begin to wonder what type of job he has, was he a model of some sort? Why would he move all the way out here? He says he likes music so could he be a musician of some sort? He certainly has a similar eccentric air to artists of a particular craft, you just have yet to uncover his speciality.
“It’s Yoongi, Duchess…” you whisper down at her, quickly turning to look past your curtains again in hopes of catching another eyeful of him, only to sigh in disappointment when it appears as though he was beginning to help the movers with the boxes. That was sweet of him but your greed overrode that appreciation, wanting to desperately drink more of him in. Willing yourself to turn away from the window, you looked down at Duchess who was beginning to fall asleep curled around your feet. This was a really cute habit of hers and it always made you giggle at how adorable she could be. “Can you believe he’s going to be our new neighbour?” you watched as the overgrown white fluff ball yawned and began grooming herself, “Why don’t we making him some cookies so that he feels truly welcomed around here? I hope he likes chocolate chip.”
Humming happily to yourself, you set to work. You wanted to hurry so that you can get it to him on time before he starts getting tired from all the moving around of boxes. From first-hand experience, you know how tiring moving can be and you always end up napping whenever you’re tired, so you don’t want to be the reason why he has to wake up from a nap. Thankfully, the window from your kitchen faces the front yard and you’re able to see the gradual process of the movers as well as Yoongi's and, as much as you’d like to ogle the man, you don’t want anything to go wrong with the cookies you’re preparing for him. A good first impression as his neighbour is what you’re determined to convey to him.
To you, it’s fairly easy to bake cookies because you’ve made them multiple times seeing as they’re your favourite snacks, and so, you’re able to get them into the oven in no time flat and patiently wait for them to cook through to perfection. There’s still the added few minutes that you have to allow for them to cool but you aren’t worried about time, from the looks of things, you’ll be able to deliver them with perfect timing.
It seemed to take forever for the cookies to come out the oven and cool down enough for you to take over to your new neighbour, however, now that you were standing right in front of his door with the cookies wrapped up in food-safe decorated paper, forming a cute little pouch of goodies that you tied off with a rustic length of string, your nerves were acting up. Some minutes dragged by with you just standing there, the wrapped cookies in one hand as the other was lifted up and curled into a fist, ready to rap against the front door.
You’ve been so lonely and had been waiting so long for this moment, for someone to start living beside you so that you can have conversations over the garden fence, exchange words of advice and greet each other a good morning for when you both start your days. There was a lot of pressure on you to make a good first impression. It was a sad fact, though, that you were in desperate hopes for this happening when the normal average single woman your age would be hoping for a love story to unfold much like the romanticised ones in movie theatres.
Shaking your head to rid yourself of your delaying thoughts, you inhaled deeply and quickly knocked on the door during exhalation. Now that you had notified him of your presence, you weren’t only left to your distressing thoughts but also to a sudden need to fidget with your hands and feet and mouth. Your teeth were anxiously gnawing at your bottom lip as your hands twirled the excess string extending from their tie on the pouch and your feet shuffled beneath you.
Was it your poor perception of time or did the wait you were forced to endure outside his door last longer than it did when waiting for your cookies to cool?
Eventually, however, you were able to hear the pounding of feet down the staircase through the wooden door, which only added to your already trembling nerves, and before you know it - faster than it took for your cookies to cool - you were face to face with a glum and exhausted looking Yoongi. Completely disregarding his appearance because, admittedly, he’ll always look handsome to you no matter the circumstances, you held out the cookies you had so prettily wrapped.
“U-umm, I wanted to drop by and say hello. I also made you some chocolate chip cookies, I-I hope you like them-” you began and was about to say more if it weren’t for the grunt he gave in thanks before snatching your cookies away and closing the door in your face.
This left you stunned.
Did that really just happen?
In your head, the fun fantasy of all the neighbourly things you were going to do with your new neighbour was slowly shattering and falling to pieces at your stagnant feet, no longer shuffling in anxiousness but remaining still in disappointment and crushed hopes.
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Did you, perhaps, have really high expectations from simply having a neighbour around? You often wondered to yourself nowadays, seeing as all of your little daydreams about finally having someone living in the house right beside yours wasn’t at all what you had expected it to be.
You expected - wanted - morning interactions over the small picket fence separating your two front lawns, you wanted casual conversations about things that didn’t matter but things you were still interested in, all in all, you ultimately just wanted someone to cure your lonely life away from the city. Yoongi, however, had other plans and seemed perfectly content with being anti-social and not having to face you or greet you 'good morning' like you always wanted.
Sighing heavily, you tried to continue with handling your garden chores for the week but it was really hard to get on with it due to all of your heavy, lingering thoughts. It wasn’t until the afternoon music from Yoongi’s house started playing through his walls that you were able to muster up a small smile. If you couldn’t have what you wanted from your fantasy neighbour, at least you had the music Yoongi was constantly playing in the afternoon to comfort yourself with. It wasn’t much but it was something, in fact, it was the only thing you had to remind you that there was someone living right beside you. Thinking about it, that is also very agonising to think about and you couldn’t help but huff out a bittersweet smile.
You have hope, however, as you stare down at your elderly cat who was, once again, sleeping in a sunspot beside your feet, you have hope that he’ll come out of his shell and see you as someone that he knows he can greet every morning and be confident that he’ll receive a response from instantaneously.
Sometimes, you’d wonder if you were being too unrealistic, after all, you can’t expect everyone to meet all of your expectations just because they have a certain role in your life as your neighbour. All you need is a cure for your loneliness and you’ve somehow placed all the responsibilities of that onto your neighbour even before you had one and now that you had one, you were utterly disappointed that it wasn’t at all what you had expected.
You took a second to momentarily immerse yourself in the music Yoongi was blasting through the powerful speakers you had seen him bring into his house from the moving van, “At least I have you, Duchess…” reaching out to your sleeping cat, you gently stroke down the fur of her back and frown at the realisation of how fragile her old age has made her.
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It’s been several hours since you’ve last seen Duchess and you were beginning to worry. You allow her to have the freedom to roam but she was always back before it got too dark because she loves having her dinner, however, today, despite all of your callings, you were getting no response.
It was odd, very odd, especially for her. And you were beginning to really worry and stress for her safety.
“Duchess, where are you?!” you were almost sobbing, fearing the worst of the worst and when you had finally turned your gaze towards the road, your heart and entire world shattered before you at the sight of your loyal companion laying dormant beside the pavement, splashes of bloodbloodblood red staining her usually pristine white fur.
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Cheer Up Emo Fic for Charlie
For @coppercrane2. Also written during the traveling time. Implied R/J and a certain cameo.
**
That word would get out about his impromptu trip to New York City he totally expected. For all it was a huge and fairly anonymous college campus, the faculty in the science departments tended to be a tight-knit group, sharing war stories about uppity pre-meds and abysmally disaffected senior-year burnouts alike. But he had not expected one of his work friends to make it a point to pick him up from LAX with the most obnoxious, knowing smirk ever. Charlotte Rhys-Jones was a genius in the zoology department and a reputed holy terror to her PhD students, but she typically left Jude out of it.
Not today, though.
“Why are you looking at me like that? I promise you, I did not get up to any trouble while in New York. I even managed to finish all those lab reports, although I’d really prefer that students stop taking my class to fulfill a science credit requirement. A few of those poor kids are really playing into the stereotypes about jocks and their academic prowess.
“Well, definitely don’t send them my way, either! Remember the shit that went down three years ago with the football players and the penguins? Not that they’d try that again, I don’t think. Penguins are fucking evil and even the meatheads know that by now.” Charlotte eyes him beadily over the rim of her glasses. “So. The girl. Tell Charlie all. I took the liberty of checking out her LinkedIn. She’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
“YOU are also evil, and a stalker, and scarier than even your penguins. But yeah, she’s pretty.” Beautiful, if he were to be completely honest. “Does it matter? She kind of lives on the opposite coast to us and doesn’t have any reason to move. I dropped off her bag, she returned me mine, and we wrapped things up neatly with a drink at a bar before I flew back here.”
“Uh-huh.” Charlotte drags the last part of that word into almost three syllables.
“She texted me to thank me for bringing her bag back and to say she was glad I made it back here safely. Why am I getting the third degree? I feel vaguely like a a seventeen-year-old kid explaining to the parents of his prom date that he’ll have their daughter home promptly at curfew. I’m pretty sure that both Raven and I are past that age in our lives.”
“Friendly enough to be on a first-name basis with her, are we now? I suppose it would be odd if she were to call you Professor Huntley. She’s a step up from the sorority chick co-eds that you encounter here and there between the actual students who mean to learn a thing or two from your classes.”
“She’s definitely not like the students. Far too decisive and self-sufficient to be any of our students, actually.” Jude isn’t quite sure of Raven’s exact age, but pegs her for mid-twenties, perhaps a few years younger than himself. At that age, he’d been a hapless grad student still, at the mercy of his academic advisors and the powers that be in charge of his student loans. Her... competence, for lack of a better term, is slightly intimidating. And yet...
“Do you intend on keeping in touch with the lovely and self-sufficient Miss Fletcher of Elite Models, New York City?” Charlotte is not one to beat about the bush. “It would do you very well to make friends every once in a while. Have someone to talk to when you need a sounding board or some advice.”
“Don’t I have you for that, Charlie?”
“Sure, but our conversations have an unfortunate tendency to degenerate into rants about rude students, idiotic deans, evil penguins, or all of the above. You could stand to discuss a few new topics. Keep your mind sharp and all that. Plus, I’m not likely to inspire you to travel cross-country with a goofy smile on your face. You also attempted to deflect my question with another question as opposed to actually answering it, and that says it all, doesn’t it?”
“Have you ever considered being a law school professor instead? I think you’d be phenomenal.”
“I’m sure I would be, but then I’d be trading penguins for lawyers-to-be. At least the first category has the decency to be quietly evil as opposed to the obnoxious variety of evil that never shuts up and enjoys arguing with you whenever you say anything at all. You should invite your Raven out for a drink, maybe some tacos, next time she’s in LA. Return the favour, you know.”
Charlie continues on this vein until she drops Jude off at his apartment, and perhaps it’s her intention that he turn his thoughts towards Raven, thousands of miles away. It’d be pretty late now, in New York City, but he texts her before he can talk himself out of it.
“I’m glad you don’t hate me for the bag mishap. Margaritas next time you’re here in LA, my treat?”
To his surprise, she texts back within minutes. “That’d be great. A margarita sounds amazing right now. Been in meetings all day with the people at Vogue. Anna Wintour’s minions eat and drink what she does and it all sucks!!!!!”
He finds himself laughing, charmed by her refreshing honesty, and texts her back to inquire about her meetings with the designers in negotiations for working with Morgan Austen, asking about her day. She replies, asks him about his, and before he knows it, it’s full dark outside, which means that on the East Coast, it must be well after midnight.
“Am I keeping you up? If I am, I’m sorry. Go to sleep.”
He doesn’t expect her to respond back, but her text comes through a minute later.
“I didn’t mind. it’s late though. Talk to you tomorrow?”
He tells himself it’s lame to text her a wave and a smiley face emoji, but does it anyway. There isn’t exactly a precedent for how to deal with the likes of Raven Fletcher, after all, and he eventually turns in for the night, fairly sure it’d be the end of it.
But he wakes up in the middle of the night to a text notification. Morning rush-hour, Eastern Standard Time. Raven texted him a pithy comment about her morning commute on the subway.
It’s nothing, really. But he texts her back, bleary-eyed and sleepy. And turns up on campus with a bit of lightness to his step and a smile on his face.
Charlie takes one long look at him and walks away, smirking and humming something that sounds suspiciousy like the Wedding March under her breath. She is, of course, teasing him on the basis of their long professional friendship.
Jude, however, texts Raven again during lunch, laughs at her witticisms about some designer or another’s outlandish winter-season line, shares an anecdote about a small lab mishap. Neither of them, he knows, has more than the faintest inkling of what the other person is talking about. He really could care less about fashion.
But talking to Raven, about any topic at all, was wonderful. Charlie would call him smitten, probably.
He couldn’t even be mad about it.
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The Motivations of Jacob Marley - House fanfic
"Scrooge and Marley." Wilson looks up to see just what, exactly, House is thinking.
"What about them?" They had just watched another insipid version of A Christmas Carol on the television, and the beer was running out. It was almost time for Wilson to leave. Or take up residence on the couch-whichever seemed like a better idea for all other passengers on the road at the time.
"They're totally gay for one another."
"Is it possible for you to get through one movie without coming up with ulterior motives for why a character does something?"
"Why else would Marley come back from the grave to tell Scrooge to fix himself? And why else would Scrooge listen?"
"Maybe because Marley feels guilty that his friend is heading towards the same path he did, and maybe because Scrooge actually wants to change."
"Too logical. This was a Victorian era story. Of course they were gay for one another." Wilson merely rolls his eyes. He's used to this. The constant comments that the big buxom blondes that are always the first to die go first because they want to sleep with the big bad serial killer. That the dramatic moment is really something else entirely. The way that every joke in a movie was spoiled. But he kind of enjoyed it.
The thought stays with him though, as he gathers up his coat, and decides that he's sober enough to drive back to the hotel. And the thought stays with House, too, as he hobbles to his bedroom, and pulls off his shirt, leaving him in only a pair of sweats, where he collapses into his bed. The thought stays with them through the morning.
It's something that rolls around in their mind. The motivations of Jacob Marley. And for both of them, they're trying to figure out which one is the Scrooge, and which one is the Marley. The answer seems obvious at first, that Wilson's always the one to help him, and he's the misanthropic bastard, but it's not that simple. House ponders if he was in the same spot as Marley, and if Wilson was throwing his life away, would he come back to save him?
And Wilson ponders what he would do. He tells himself that he couldn't be Scrooge, that he'd never allow himself to become that jaded, but forty years on the earth had taught him better. The world was not a good place. The world breaks everyone, and those that it cannot break it kills. What would happen to him if the one thing that had always served as his own moral high-water point was suddenly pulled away from him? He had always told himself that he'd never allow himself to become as jaded as House, but what would happen to him when House was gone?
It's a thought that's paused on for no more than a second, because he doesn't want to think about it. No, he goes on pretending that he was going to be the Marley, still maintaining his position as House's watchdog. And House tells himself that he'd be Scrooge, not because he wants to know what it's like without Wilson, but because he doesn't want to see his friend become Scrooge. But he flips when he realizes just what an awful afterlife Marley has. No, House would prefer to be Marley. Scrooge changes, Scrooge becomes a good man in the end. Marley never changes, Marley never gets better-and House refuses to let that happen to his friend.
The gay comment has completely gone unnoticed.
Scrooge and Marley go unnoticed too, for the rest of the week. Each of them have made up their minds on which roles they'd play. The green and red keeps growing around the hospital, and the light dusting of snow becomes deeper and thicker. All the roads leading in and out of the narrow streets of Princeton proper become that much more treacherous to drive down Wilson finds himself hating the commute from the suite hotel, even though if he really wanted to, he could walk it, it's less than three miles. Just hop across route 1, and walk up Princeton-Plainsboro road.
But it just seems closer to go the opposite direction, down Scudders Mill Road to House's apartment. He doesn't say this though. He wouldn't. He never wants to say it, because it makes him look needy. And wasn't he the one who sought out needy people so that he could be me the one to help them? He refused to impose on his friend. His early morning routine, he knew, wore on House, the way he'd hog the bathroom worse than his first wife, making sure that he was always immaculate when he went to work.
He'd never admit that he's lonely, without someone to talk to in the evenings. Sure, there's poker nights, movie nights, the occasional date with someone that he runs into over the course of a day. Some other woman to see if it makes him less lonely. But he knows that none of them will. He knows it, and yet he keeps trying futilely, searching vainly to find the next Mrs. Wilson and hopes that it will be the one that sticks.
And House won't admit that he needs a caretaker. Someone to look after him. For a moment, he wonders if maybe Wilson is more Cratchit than Scrooge, but scratches the idea out of his mind. And stops drawing the comparisons to Scrooge and himself. Just because he'd had his own Belle, someone that he had loved and pushed away because he let himself get in the way of a relationship didn't mean that he was Scrooge. How was he supposed to know if Marley hadn't had anybody in his life?
But the thoughts are buried until he gets a patient unceremoniously dumped on him-a kid from the cast of the local theater's yearly production of A Christmas Carol. He swore that every year someone would come in from the theater, and that the production was cursed, but he kept his thoughts to himself. After all, many of the same people that donated there donated to the Hospital as well. And he wasn't going to risk extra clinic hours for pissing off donors. Not unless they actually did something to him first.
He hasn't even remembered the comment about Scrooge and Marley until the patient had been there for three days. "Stop being such a Scrooge." She'd said, when he'd told off one of the nurses.
"Bah, humbug."
"Do you hate Christmas?" He doesn't answer, not for a while.
"No."
"You don't have anyone to share Christmas with." It's a simple statement-the truth.
"No." He couldn't believe he was talking to an eleven year old about his personal life, or lack thereof.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm such a Scrooge, as you decided to dub me." She giggles, but stops short when she realizes he's only half-joking.
"Even Scrooge had Marley to at least talk to on Christmas." The comment stirs up his thoughts again, but he tries to push them away. Yes, Scrooge had Marley to talk to on Christmas.
Although he didn't quite feel comfortable on Christmas, not anymore. It'd only been a few Christmas's prior that saw him nearly die, and plenty more that had been brutally lonely. Wilson had always been busy with one of the wives, always ceding to their celebrations over his own, trading in a menorah for a tree, not wanting to stir up any troubles. Good old Wilson, always letting himself be walked all over.
"Yeah, but Marley's the one to get him into the mess in the first place. Just think, what if they'd never been partners." The girl thought about that for a moment, toying with the idea.
"Then Scrooge would have been even more lost and alone."
"Do you think he'd still have Belle?" He couldn't believe he was talking literature with a child. A child who was playing (one of) the ghosts of Christmas past, and thus was intimately familiar with the storyline, but a child nonetheless.
"I don't think Belle was ever meant for him. She wasn't willing to look past the fact that he had other things in his life than her. He had a friend, he had work, and Belle just wanted him to herself. Selfishly."
"Isn't that what most girls want?" When the child pouted, he softened. Just slightly. He hated making sick kids feel bad, especially over things they couldn't control, like their gender, or their health issues. Bad haircuts and awful outfits though, and the inability to tell stuffed dogs from stuffed bears-that was fair game. "So why do you think Marley comes back on Christmas Eve to warn Scrooge?"
"To let him know he's not alone. To let him know that he loves him too much to let him be miserable, and that he deserves to be happy as a good man. That Scrooge is too good inside to let it be wasted. Because deep down, Marley's good too."
House smirks, and walks out of the room, looking for the head of Oncology. He could leave the team to figure out what was going on with the kid, they were smart people. They all had MD's, they were capable of keeping her alive. Right now he had a far more pressing need-to gloat. "So an eleven year old confirmed my suspicions."
"And what were those?"
"Scrooge and Marley were totally gay for one another."
"House, it's been a week and a half since you saw the movie. Besides, what does an eleven year old know about love?"
"Not just any eleven year old, this one's the Ghost of Christmas Past."
"And next thing you know, you're going to claim to see the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, and your name written in a headstone with 'doom' next to it."
"No, really, she's playing the ghost of Christmas past in the local production of it."
"And she said that Scrooge and Marley are gay?"
"She said that they totally loved each other. Totally." He had the mock valley-girl accent going, and Wilson couldn't help but grin. "And just because I'm right, you're buying the beer tonight. I'll pick out something to watch."
With that, House walked out, leaving Wilson to wonder just why he always put up with the man. But at the same time, rethinking everything. It was totally possible for two men to platonically love each other, wasn't it? Then again, platonic love had been named after a man who most historians believed slept with Socrates. He knew he was willing to play Marley to House's Scrooge, but what did that make him?
He sighed, and went to go check on his patients, before finding himself drawn to House's patient. It was very easy to make it seem as though he was just making sure that the team was doing all right, seeing as he had seen no hide nor hair of House since he'd come in gloating earlier.
"Who are you?" The voice is slightly quiet, and slightly scared, and Wilson fixes his soft eyes to her. This was his element, comforting people.
"I'm Doctor Wilson."
"Why are you here?" It's slightly interrogatory, and Wilson can see why House actually had a conversation with her.
"Just checking in on you."
"I have four other doctors."
"Well, now you have five."
"What's your specialty?" She asks, and he pauses, unsure if telling her will make her even more afraid.
"Cancer. But I'm not here for that-I'm just here as a favor to a friend."
"Doctor House. He said he doesn't trust his 'minions'. And I guess you're not a minion" She's smart, for a sixth grader.
"Doesn't stop him from treating me like one." He flips through the chart, idly noting what had already been tried, and what had already failed.
"Why?"
"Cause he's House, he treats everyone like his minion, even his boss. And his friends. And his minions."
"He's not really mean. He's like Scrooge. Or the Grinch. He's just misunderstood." Wilson can't help the chuckle.
"You don't know House very well." But he has to admit, the girl has a point. "He's the Grinch all right though, heart three sizes too small."
"He just needs a Marley to remind him that there's good in the world, that's all." He could swear that he saw a smirk that his friend would be envious of cross her face as he walked out. But he ignored it, he would not be manipulated by a child who hadn't even made it into high school yet.
Doctor house gets the page, and finds that one of the nurses had paged him. They merely pointed to his patient's room, and he rolled his eyes when he found her in the same state she was in the last time she had left her. "Who's Dr. Wilson?" She asks, innocent.
"Another doctor. Why, was he here?"
"He said he was checking in on your minions for you." He couldn't help the faint smile. So Wilson didn't trust the team yet either. Or he had been looking for dirt on House, but either of those scenarios were good. It meant that he'd be justified the next time he pranked Wilson, because it would be revenge for this.
"Minion is an awfully advanced word for an eleven year old."
"I read a lot. He called you the Grinch." House smirked. He was sure he could kidnap Wilson's dog-well, his ex-wife's dog, to play a decent Max, as he would never submit Steve to the humiliation of wearing reindeer horns.
"And why would he ever do that?"
"Because you're mean."
"And you're very observant. I think even Coma Guy has picked up on the fact that I'm mean, and he's in a coma."
"You are the Grinch. You just need a Cindy Lou to point out that you're just the way you are cause everyone expects you to be that way." The girl's arms cross on her chest, as though she's clearly saying that she's right, and that's the end of the discussion.
He simply checks her chart, notes that there's no change, and leaves. But not before calling out "So long as no one starts calling me Hermie the Elf."
"Merry Christmas Scrooge!" He didn't know how a girl in a hospital bed could possibly be so chipper, but so was the naivety of youth. He didn't realize he was mistaking the smirk for a smile. He didn't think it possible to be manipulated by someone who was not all that far removed from wearing diapers.
He was Marley. He was the Grinch. He was a man who was bound to look like he was permanently seasick, had a heart three sizes too small, and would wear chains forged out of vicodin bottles-after all, his vice was pills not money. His money simply sat in a bank account, occasionally withdrawn to buy something flashy and exotic, but more often than not, just sitting, ignored.
But he'd be damned if he ever let his best friend succumb to his same fate. He'd be damned if he'd let Wilson become anything like he was. And the realization of that thought scared him, and it scared him shitless. He didn't want to care about someone-caring was a weakness. It mean that someone could get close enough to hurt him. And then, he mused, that Wilson was already there. They'd been friends for what seemed like their whole lives-Even though it hadn't actually been that long. They hadn't met til Wilson was in med school. But that had still bee a very long time ago.
And even if it meant separating himself from Wilson's life, if things ever started to get that bad, he would. It'd hurt like hell, but he'd do it. It was then that he realized that he needed to sit down. He had just admitted that he cared enough about his friend to not only do something that was not in his own best interests, but Wilson's, but to do something that would cause him emotional discomfort-the one thing he tried to avoid most-for his friend. And he snorted to himself at the realization. Love was a silly emotion, it was purely a chemical response to promote reproduction.
It certainly wasn't love. He certainly wasn't gay for Wilson. And it certainly didn't make any sense. Which was why he cleared off the entire selection of holiday movies from Movie Gallery. It was a safe selection of movies, all things they could poke fun of over beers.
So it was only when they had made it through Miracle on 34th Street, It's A Wonderful Life (with House pointedly ignoring Wilson's sniffles), and put on something happy that House realized that he felt different. As though he was happier to be home, more content with himself. He put it down to the beer talking, and popped in something funny.
And they watched some cheesy romantic comedy, pointing out how extremely lucky one of the characters was to hop on a plane and come back with Carmen Electra simply because he had a silly British accent. And laughed over the body doubles, who were so incredibly shy about one another, despite spending entire days naked in front of each other. "You know, I think the pop star got off the worst, decides he's in love with his manager only when he's old and washed up."
"He definitely got the worst of that deal. Wound up with an old fat guy too."
"Does it really matter though? I suppose if they'd spent most of their lives being friends, they've long since learned to ignore looks."
"Did I just hear Dr. Wilson, serial cheater, admit that looks don't matter?"
"I'm just saying, if I were to realize that I was in love with someone I'd know for twenty-plus years, I'd have long since found other positive points than their looks." Wilson was suddenly very aware of how close they were on the couch, and was greatful for the moment that House got up, and changed films.
"So, what do you want to watch next?"
"Whatever you do."
"I've had enough of maudlin holiday films."
"So put on the TV, Scrooge." It's meant as a joke, but he sees something cross House's face that he can't figure out. The look remains after House sits down. "What is it?" He asks, curious to know what the quip could have done.
"It's nothing."
"I thought you took pride in being called the miser and hater of all things Christmas. Not giving little Oliver extra gruel and leaving poor Tiny Tim in the cold."
"The difference is, I would have cured Tiny Tim, and then left him in the cold. Tiny Tim just didn't have a good enough doctor, that's all."
"But that gets rid of half the fun of the movie!" House simply shrugged.
"Besides, I'm not Scrooge."
"Oh, really?" Wilson gets up, and comes back with two more bottles of Coors.
"Really."
"If you're not Scrooge, who are you then."
"I'm Marley. You're Scrooge."
"You're the mean one."
"Yeah, but you're the one that turns around at the end, who still has a good soul, and all that jazz. Starts giving to the poor, and being a fine upstanding citizen. I'm the one that's the horrible person and gets punished for it for all eternity."
"House-" There's a pause, and both of them recognize it. And both of them ignore it. "You're not horrible. And you're not going to be punished for all eternity."
"Why not."
"I-" The sentence gets choked off. He doesn't want to admit it. House's expression softens slightly.
"You what?" This has turned into a quest to find an answer. It's no longer about making fun of cheesy movies, it's about pushing things until they break just to get an answer.
"I talked to your patient, the other day."
"Really, how fascinating can an eleven year old be?"
"She-" Another pause, "She said you just needed a Marley, that you're not actually all that mean. You just need someone to straighten you out." He sees House smirk, and chuckle. He looks at his watch, it's getting late. "And I should get going."
He doesn't say that it's because he can feel the heat emanating off of House's body, and it's scaring him. He doesn't say that it's because he's never felt this before, and he hates unknown emotions. He doesn't say that he's afraid of what a haphazard comment made a week prior would have on his friendship, because he's not sure of what effect he wanted it to have on his friendship.
So he goes home, and ignores it until Christmas eve. Both of them ignore it. House had felt it, and reacted much the same way. So afraid of the emotion, that he simply blocks it out of his mind. But Christmas eve, he's lonely. And while House will never admit to being lonely, he is.
He's spending time with his patient-who is now well on the way to recovery, but she's better than no one. Her parents will be in to see her soon. They don't get off work until late. He just doesn't want to go home. His patient's parents show up though, and he has no choice to go home. So he sits on the couch, makes the perfunctory calls to his family, wishes them a merry Christmas, and sits on the couch with a glass of whiskey.
It's then that the door opens, and he looks up to see Wilson there. "What're you doing here?" And Wilson still can't shake a memory of Christmas past, where he walked through that same door to see a House at rock bottom, wondering what his life would be like now, and hating himself for wondering.
"I had a realization."
"About?"
"Christmas."
"My my, Jimmy the Jew, soon to be a convert?"
"I realized that it was a time to spend with the people you love."
"And?"
"I realized that as fate would have it, that I've managed to get through forty something years, three wives, and all that time, it was spent with an arrogant, misanthropic jerk. And I came to the realization that, as much as it grieves me to say it, that perhaps the person I love most is...you." The words are hard to say, even though he's copied them nearly wholesale from a movie they were watching.
"All the eggnog, it's gone to your head." But even the sarcasm isn't quite all there, because even House knows that maybe Wilson has a point.
"I could be with any woman I wanted right now, and yet, I'd rather spend Christmas here. Because, despite all of...everything, we've still made it through. Intact. And for the most part, having a very good life."
There's a long silence between them, Wilson waits with bated breath for the rejection that he thinks is imminent, and House ponders what it is that Wilson's said. He knew what the emotion he was feeling was, he knew it had a name, and he knew that he didn't like it. But at the same time, it was one that felt so very, very right. "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to get me a beer?" And in that moment, both of them know that Christmas isn't going to be quite so lonely, and that they both have a little less reason to hate the world.
And they both realize that it doesn't matter which one is Scrooge and which one is Marley, or what Marley's motivations were, because they're both Scrooge and both Marley, and both of them are saving each other before it comes down to actually needing to.
#fanfic#writing#house md#house/wilson#hilson#greg house#james wilson#originally a snarky fic#I'm dredging through my archives
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Blue + Yellow (2/2)
so i’m never drinking again (meaning i’m not going to drink until a few days from now), but i did some stuff around my apartment & recovered before looking this over. it’s in decent enough shape i figured i’d post it on my night in. so here's the second/final part of b+y, a soulmate clexa au. thanks for the likes & reblogs <3
(i also have some ranya companion bits & other cute shit in my head from this. hit me up in the asks or message me if you wanna know anything.)
(Part 1 / 2)
Blue + Yellow
Part 2 / 2
Once you’re old enough to be trusted on a computer, your parents let you use your dad’s old laptop (with safety settings programmed in, courtesy of your dad being a computer engineer and generally a protective father). You spend hours reading stories online about people seeing color. The romantics talk about how life burst into color as soon as they set eyes on their soulmates. The realists are more prevalent, like you, and they tell of their search for their soulmate, having seen color gradually after a few days. Some even reject the idea of soulmates completely, finding different kinds of love with other like-minded people.
Your heart breaks when you read about the people who never see their soulmates again—whether a war-torn nation dividing them, or travelers who board a plane back home only to start seeing color as they leave, or sometimes death. But you feel reassured when you read about those who have lost a soulmate and find love again with someone else. Still, your heart aches at the idea of giving up on finding Lexa, even more when you wonder if she’s given up on you.
Your parents did all they could when you told them about Lexa those years ago, a few days after coloring with Lexa in the park, but they couldn’t get much information because of child protection and privacy reasons, especially because Lexa had been in foster care with her half-sister before moving. With a different last name in a city of millions, you know you’ll never be able to find Lexa, but that doesn’t stop you from searching Facebook and social media most nights.
Once puberty hits, everyone talks about seeing in color. You never hide the fact that you have been able to see colors since you were five, but you don’t like talking about it much. It’s often something you keep to yourself and your paints. Most kids in your small town know it’s unlikely and often hope they don’t meet their soulmate here, but that doesn’t prevent their hormones from kicking into full gear.
When a new student arrives in the spring of seventh grade, you’re not surprised when you hear Octavia (amongst several others) has a crush. You’re also not shocked to hear that Bellamy confronts him after baseball try-outs that same day, telling the new kid, Lincoln, to stay away from his sister. You decide you like Lincoln when you hear he dodged Bellamy’s first swing and in turn gave the Blake boy a bloody nose. Neither of them get into trouble since it happened far enough from school grounds, but Octavia does get in trouble for giving her brother a fat lip as soon as he gets home for starting a fight with Lincoln.
After punching Bellamy, Octavia calls you.
“I can see colors like you now,” Octavia says excitedly. “Just... wow, Clarke. You never told me how beautiful it is.”
She ends up rushing off the phone when her mom gets home and sees a beat up Bellamy holding bags of frozen corn to his nose and mouth.
Although Octavia is grounded for the first month of their relationship, there isn’t anything or anyone who can stop Lincoln and Octavia from falling in love because both puberty-stricken thirteen and twelve-year-olds knew as soon as they saw each other in fourth period English. It really is beautiful, seeing the world in color, but you don’t have the heart to tell Octavia that the colors you see haven’t been as bright since you were just a kid in a park.
Your mom never asks, but you know she’s thinking it when you tell her your top choices for college—Columbia, New School, NYU, Fordham, CUNY. You don’t talk to your mother often, not since your dad died two years ago, so you think she might not want to scare you away from opening up by asking questions.
“I like the idea of being somewhere I don’t have to drive to get to the best art in the city... or the world for that matter,” you say one night over dinner.
She nods in understanding. It is true that the city has that benefit, but you’re not sure if you’re rationalizing it more to yourself or your mother.
You drove enough to get your license, but you hate it. You’ve grown more comfortable riding in passenger seats because Octavia luckily loves to drive, and she talks and plays music loud enough to stop you from thinking too much. But it’s still too easy to get in your head when you drive on your own. You still tremble in your seat at large intersections, and your hands sweat as they hold the wheel because you don’t think you’ll ever forget the sound of metal being crushed and the silence that comes after.
“So wait,” your roommate slurs with a chuckle, “you’re telling me... you decided to come here... because you think your soulmate might still be here?”
“Way to make me sound like a total sucker, but yeah, pretty much,” you confess before downing another shot.
You just had the entire art department rip into your sophomore year portfolio, so you decided to put some distance between you and the art world and get drunk with Raven—a computer engineering student who transferred from UMass back to her home, New York City born and bred.
“You’re not like a sucker. Pretty sure you just are one, but I’m a bitter asshole,” Raven says with a smirk.
You smile and clink your beer bottle with hers before taking a sip.
Raven has good reason and you’re sure you would be much angrier with the world if in her shoes. She met her soulmate when she was fourteen, and they fixed cars and built things with their hands together. Then they were sixteen, riding on a motorcycle they had fixed up together, a car didn’t see them, and Raven just remembers waking up in the hospital with a shattered leg. “I can still see colors,” she said that night the whole story spilled out of her, “but it’s all... faded, I guess. Colors are pretty dull in my eyes.”
“Do you think it’s stupid?” you ask Raven. “That I thought I could find her again?”
Raven shrugs. “Don’t put your life on hold for someone who isn’t here right now,” she says. “If you really are soulmates, things will work themselves out. Until then, have fun, make art like you weird liberal arts kids do. Do whatever. Doesn’t mean you have to fall in love.”
“Makes sense,” you agree as Raven pours you both a shot and opens a couple more beers.
“Of course. I know what I’m talking about; I’m in the sciences.”
You kiss a boy who also sees color, but nothing about him feels special or makes your heart race. You both know you’re welcome distractions for each other, but he knows his soulmate is never coming back and you might always be looking for yours.
You kiss a lot of people and sleep with a few others too. Some can see color, some can’t, and some you don’t bother asking. It’s fun and nothing close to love, so it fills the gaps between those times you think about a little girl who brought green into your life and then everything else. You wonder what she looks like now, if she’s cut her hair, or if she’s somewhere thinking about you.
You fall for a girl with long, light brown hair. She has the opposite curse—born colorblind like everyone else but informed by doctors that she will never see colors. She has to learn to love the hard way—heart first. When you’re lying next to her in bed, and she hums as you trace her jawline, you wish you could love her the way she deserves.
You think she’s always known and that’s why she never said “I love you” because the response would be a lie or an apology.
She’s standing in front of you now, smiling that sad, knowing smile. “You showed me color in a different way,” she says before kissing you softly for the last time. She leaves you in your studio with your hands covered in verdigris.
You don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep or your eyes playing tricks on you again, but you swear you see a flash of green eyes and dark hair on your morning commute. You don’t know if it’s because you’ve been busy and single for the past couple of months, but you feel your heart swell, your blood flowing through your veins to your fingertips. You just know that when you get to your studio, your paintings look a little brighter and your hands find the paint on their own, blending the perfect shades for your last piece of your senior presentation.
Your advisor introduces you to more of her curator friends and they praise your work as you stand in the gallery beside one of your paintings of an eclipse, half the canvas is a haunting cerulean, the other half painted bright shades of yellow.
“I assume you gave Ms. Griffin the A she deserves?” jokes one of her colleagues.
Dr. Miles grins and hugs your shoulders. “I wouldn’t dream of giving her anything lower than that,” she says with pride.
Dr. Miles had been so impressed by your senior project, she invited some friends from MoMA to your show at the campus art center. You were already elated to have your work being viewed by such important people, but when Dr. Miles called you during senior week to ask if you’d like to feature your work at a gallery in affiliation with PS1, you almost burst. You could hardly process what you were hearing and when you did, after hanging up your phone, you screamed and jumped around your apartment, much to Raven’s hungover chagrin.
Since it was rather last minute, Dr. Miles managed to sort out most of the details while you prepared for graduation. Still in your apartment until the end of May, you were able to help move your work to the small gallery space in the Lower East Side on Rivington with some help from Raven. It didn’t feel real until you saw your name in the brochure for New York City Museums’ Summer Tour.
You excuse yourself to greet your mother and her boyfriend, Marcus Kane. They’re beaming as they look at all your work on display, but mostly they look happy together. You smile because your mother’s found a kind of happiness you haven’t seen since your father passed away. Of all people, you’re glad the first person to put paint in your hands is now the person adding color to your mother’s life again.
You give them both a hug and kiss on the cheek, asking how they like the city since they stuck around after your graduation. Someone offers them wine, and Marcus happily takes a glass and mouths to you, “Fancy,” and wiggles his eyebrows, making you laugh.
“Wow, your work is selling quick,” Marcus notes, sipping from his wine.
You’re surprised when you take in how many red dots are stickered next to several of your paintings.
“You’re taking us out to dinner when you visit,” your mom teases.
“I like lobster,” Marcus adds before wandering off to look at more of your work.
You find him a bit later in front of your favorite piece. It’s mixed media, with various New York debris scattered around the edges with the blur of a subway train speeding through the center, featuring green eyes that stand out from the grey. You didn’t put a price on it; you want to hold onto this one.
You’re taking inventory of all the sold pieces and confirming contact information with buyers as Raven continues texting you from across the street as she waits for you to wrap up. She keeps sending you ridiculous ideas of how to spend your newfound relative wealth.
You’re in the back office when you hear the door open.
“Raven, I gave you the passcode to help me move my stuff here, not so you can treat it like an extension of our apartment,” you say as you round the corner, flipping through the contact paperwork. “I’ll just be ten more min—”
You forget how to speak as you blindly set down the stack of paper on the desk, unable to look away from the figure in front of the door.
“Sorry. Your friend told me the passcode... I’d have come earlier, but I had to take the train in from Connecticut.”
You remember everything: the laughing leaves, the charcoal skirt, her brown hair, and those eyes.
“My sister only told me a couple of hours ago there was this art gallery I had to see,” she says, offering a small smile as she takes a couple tentative steps toward you. She picks up one of the small pamphlets about yourself and the exhibit. “Blue + Yellow,” she reads, “Still your favorite color?”
You nod, still struggling to find the right words to say. Maybe it’s because you never let yourself plan this part out; all your energy went solely into making her appear again. Now she’s here, right in front of you.
“Clarke Griffin,” Lexa says like she’s trying it out, putting the pamphlet in her pocket. “Clarke, with an e, Griffin...” She lets out a small laugh. “That would have made things easier.”
You let out a laugh of your own. “And you’re Lexa...”
“Woods. Well, now anyway, once my parents adopted me,” she explains.
"Woods,” you repeat. “Suits you. Woods, forests... like pines.”
Lexa’s smile broadens at that and you wonder if she’s played your last conversation as children over and over in her head like you have, as if sifting through memories for clues to find each other again.
“Is it stupid of me to have dreamed of meeting you again here?” you ask.
Lexa shakes her head. “Only if it’s stupid of me to have read every art section of every New York magazine for the past five years,” she admits, blushing lightly and looking away from Clarke. She notices your unsold mixed media piece and stands in front of it. “It must have been you,” she says, almost to herself as she deciphers the subway and her own eyes gazing out, “but I also thought I saw you walk by me or waiting on the opposite subway platform for years.”
“If it’s any consolation,” you say, standing beside her, looking at it as if from her perspective, “I thought that too. I painted this after I thought I saw you in March. Everything was grey in the rain, but then I saw you... Or thought I did.”
You watch her take in the painting, a look of awe. “Yeah, it must have been you then,” she says, lifting her hand to her chest as if she felt you too. Her eyes trace the grey-blue edges filled with bits of New York—a MetroCard, a crushed coffee cup, a newspaper, and a faded piece of paper with a simple cartoon boat with half the sky colored blue. “It’s always been you,” she says, reaching out as if to touch it but stopping herself.
She turns toward you. “Sorry, this is... a lot.”
You nod dumbly. Lexa smiles and takes your hands in hers. Your artwork breathes with you, seemingly radiating colors off the canvases. They’re singing as they all come back to you in full.
“I spent all my time hoping to find you again... I didn’t put much thought into what I’d say,” Lexa admits with an embarrassed half-smile.
“We have time,” you give her hand a squeeze. “You being here is... We don’t need to talk at all.”
Lexa closes the small distance between you and presses her lips to yours. Every stroke of your paintbrush for seventeen years has been a wish for this moment, and if magic exists, you’re sure it’s in art because Lexa is wrapping her arms around you, holding you, and you’re kissing her back. Like neon buzzing butterflies in your stomach, all the light and color makes its home in you and you’re in love exactly as it was supposed to be.
When you part, you’re looking into those green eyes and you don’t want to look away or wake up if this is all a dream. Lexa blushes under your gaze and you let out a laugh like a breath you’ve been holding in. “Hi,” you sigh.
“Hi,” she says quietly in return, her eyes shimmering like those leaves in the wind. “Would you like to get dinner with me?”
“Now?”
“Yes. Right now.”
“I’d like that. I just, uh,” you keep Lexa’s hand in yours, pulling her with you to grab your phone and keys from the back office, unwilling to let her go now that she’s here. You laugh when you see Raven texted you about a dozen messages, concluding with, you’re welcome. have fun. i’m going to meet with octavia and lincoln to help those poor souls around the city. you owe me several rounds. xox.
You walk out of the building hand-in-hand, and the city’s fast pace and noise welcomes you back to reality. It doesn’t feel jarring with Lexa still beside you, and you sigh contentedly. The city doesn’t feel lonely, seeing it the way you do now.
“I painted a sunset for you... well, several, actually,” you tell her as you walk down the street toward one of the restaurants Lexa likes nearby.
“Any paintings of your hair and eyes?” she asks, smiling at you and almost walking herself into the streetlight pole because she can’t take her eyes off you.
You laugh and kiss her cheek as you wait for the crosswalk sign. “I’m not a fan of self-portraits,” you say, “but you don’t need a painting of me now; you have me right here.”
“You’re right,” Lexa says, and that same look of awe washes over her again because she touches your hair, tucks it behind your ear, and leans down to kiss the corner of your lips. “I’ve missed you... That’s what it feels like.”
Like coming home, you think.
“I’ve missed you too.”
So you ignore the walk sign and kiss her again, under the golden glow of the streetlight to start making up for all that that time spent apart.
fin.
#clexa fic#clexa#clexa au#ccf fic#ccf drabble#fic: blue plus yellow#fic: bpy#closetcasefabray#ccf#clexafic#soulmates au
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Travel and Dancing 2
(This note is again a big amounts of thoughts, written more on the personal side, condensed and more for my sake then anything else. Hopefully it is of interest for some of you, maybe it makes you think, inspires you, disgusts you, as long as you feel something, it served a purpose
-All the names mention below are totally...)
Wow. This year is amazing, a few months, sometimes a few days feel like a lifetime. I don't even know where to begin...
I had a wonderful idea while I was in Europe and I told Stephen: there are three things I didn't do in the States yet and that are on my bucket list: visit Portland, Oregon, visit New Orleans and make a road trip on the east side. So because he is such an amazing man, he said yes (more then once now ;-) ) and we started planning a road trip between events and gigs in the east. At some really advanced point in the organization, I had a revelation. So, I asked Stephen if it was the right time to tell him I didn't drive standard... and that's how we started a month and a half road trip with Stephen behind the wheel. (I would insert here the biggest smiley face with the teeth of the girl cut with her hand in the cookie jar)
Was it a road trip like I am use too? Total freedom, nowhere to go, nowhere to be, sleeping in the car, cooking peas on the sidewalk... not really. That's why it makes me laugh when I talk with people about what we do and they tell me: wow, you're so lucky, you're so free! We are never free we do what we have to do, it is still called work: we have to get up, be there, teach, train, judge, perform, social dance, so maybe 3 days of being 12 to 18 hours on your feet, then two entire days in the airport (if you're lucky enough to travel further) taking the plane, waiting in the layovers, checking in, going through security, having flights delayed, waiting, waiting, waiting, commuting. Then you have two days to train for your stuff, do business, answer mail, take care of laundry and whatever responsibility you've got and then, hopefully, rest.
Do I feel free? Heck yeah! I feel free because I chose that lifestyle, because it is what I want to do, it is what I always wanted to do, what I love, what I breathe. A lifestyle never makes you free, you are free because you make a choice.
My sister (to not mention any name :-) ) once told me that she didn't care that much about what she did for work, she wanted something that doesn't make her feel bad obviously, but that allowed her to have a family and take care of them. That is what she is doing right now.
My best friend hates traveling, it stresses her, it's too much organization and most of all: she likes to be home! She likes to cook and have her things well done and organized. That is what she is doing right now.
I'm happy for them, they are happy for me, they would never take my life and I bet they feel free. So yes, if you are not materialistic, you deal well with last minute things and not knowing where you are gonna sleep tonight, you like meeting people, you don't feel the need to have roots anywhere, you don't like to repeat the same things daily, you can handle some jetlag, craziness, extreme opposites, putting a smile on to teach even if you have your period and you want to die from cramps (I don't know why that's the example that comes to my mind! Loll), then yes, you'd love this job! It is amazing!! I wouldn't want to do anything else in the world. I think that's how you know you're in the right place: you can deal with the not-so-good because the general picture is exactly how you drew it and maybe even a little better!
So March... Florida, Madjam, Chicago Classic, Peach State, Huntsville and so many more. I won't relate the events here cause most of you know how it works (believe me, even those who don't dance know what a sugar push is and that Tatiana is hot!) and if you don't, I'll be happy to tell you in another circumstance! What I'll tell you is that I was with this man, a certain Mr.White... we don't even know how it happened.. It just happened. I think people around us knew before we knew. We had spent 3 weeks together in the States, this guy was crazy enough to buy a ticket for Italy and come spend another 3 weeks together without the both of us knowing what was gonna happen. We're we scared? A little bit. We talked about it, if anything went wrong, we'd stay in good terms and we felt pretty confident about that, but mostly, I think we just felt like it was gonna work. And it worked. We had an amazing time in Europe, worked a crazy weekend in Israel, but the rest was mostly fun, relax (by my definition of running around everywhere, visiting, training, etc until I has to stop because I'm sick...) and it was new. We wanted to bet on it again, so we organized this crazy road trip.
This time around was different: more work, more stress, not knowing exactly where we'd stay at every point, getting to know each other more...
Getting to know each other... learning how to communicate efficiently, learning the other person's limit, knowing when to stop (I know it, I just don't do it. -insert an angelic smile-), knowing when it is that time of the month... That was the most interesting part of it all. I think relationships are the best laboratory for self-growth, even the bad ones... they teach you a lot...
This time around (and I only talk on my behalf, cause that's the only thing I can do) I'm learning how to let myself be loved. I'm learning how to love. I'm learning how to care. I'm learning how it feels to care so much that you never feel like you're making an effort, it's just what you want to do. I'm learning that an argument doesn't change the love. I'm learning to weight my words before I say them, because I know that certain things you cannot take back. I'm learning to be vulnerable and let it show and to trust someone with it. I'm learning that I don't need to win, because in the end, I'm not really winning. I'm learning to trust. I'm learning that a man can be good (pretty close to amazing actually). I'm learning that it's ok to be a woman, it doesn't make me weak, it only makes me stronger in such a beautiful way. I'm learning to accept help and support. I'm learning about unconditional love.
There would be so much to say, but I just wish everybody to feel that one time in their life and not only on the receiving side. I hope I can be half as wonderful of a woman as my man is a man.
Oh Hi! You're still there! Sorry, I was off in butterfly land (which is a thing Stephen and I figured out. He told me one time: I understand, I have to talk to you with butterfly and bubbles and rainbows! Yes. That's exactly it! And I talk to him with diagrams.)
So was it a good road trip? Oh yes! It was intense, but in a good way. Then I was a little sad I had to go back to Canada to work for 10 days, not so much because it's a long time, but because it feels each time like another phase of our lives is over and it will never come back. I saw friends that warmed my heart and I could be there for my best friend's birthday!
Another surprise I had just before I left, is that my sister (with help of me pushing on the bump that was on her belly, which we thought were the feet, but since she was placed the wrong way, was the head - maybe that's why she cried when she saw me) gave birth! A beautiful little baby girl! Literally just in time for me to see her 5 minutes! It was wonderful to see her and especially wonderful to see my sister so happy and peaceful.
Then it was Norway. Oh my! I love going to Europe. People are so welcoming, warm, receptive, it's always a good time (you can sing that last line). The thing that amaze me the most in my work is how people that don't know us, that know only our names or that know us a bit welcome us to their home, their life, their city and their heart for a day, a week, a month without asking anything in return. Some are friends already, but they are all afterwards! I know I've mentioned it before, but I can not finish to be grateful to those people. The people who get out of their way to drive us around, the people who cook for us, the people who take a full year to organize an event, the people who go around to promote it, the people who come and take the lessons and are so willing to learn and work and progress and make me feel like it's worth it and purposeful in some obscure and beautiful way.
Wcs is such an amazing community, I see lots of good in it. I choose to see the good in it, I don't see the point in highlighting the bad. I want to put the spotlight on the beautiful, the good and the joyful. It WILL overpower the rest.
Sweden, Swing Diego and Toronto for Vision Dance Encounteer a charity event for the blinds crossed over with zouk. Laura and Darius are putting up a program to teach people with a vision condition to dance zouk. I find it extraordinary, I wish the idea expands worldwide and with people with other conditions also, it gives dance and teaching a new purpose, especially for couple dancing where the sense of touch and the connection with the other is so predominant.
Then we went to Montreal, we needed the time to train and I wanted to show Stephen my city and make him meet my family and friends. I don't know if he was more scared before or after... I knew I was gonna be away from there for a long time, so I'm glad we took the occasion to do that. Even saw the new Cirque du Soleil show. It was magical!
Then Michigan Classic. I'm gonna say something here I probably shouldn't say, but I doubt many will get to this part. There is a little step, if you haven't noticed, between All-star and Champions. There is no point system to get there. The original way (from what I understood) was that if you were a US Open champion, then you were in. Not many new people have done that in the last 10 years in Classic or Showcase; now there are a lot of things involved which I can not even start to describe that can get you there. My point being, it is hard to know your place at some point and I never want to push it more then I should, I want to deserve it. But at MIC they had a definition for it: if you made 40% or more of your income through dancing you could put yourself in. I was so happy that for once, I could register and not feel like an intruder. Made 3rd place. First invitational points. Not Champion, but still; people who know me know how big it is for me and how far I've come. And I know I'm not suppose to talk about it or I should act cool about it: I am not cool! I am happy! I am proud and i wanted to say it once. I've been in wcs for a little more then two and a half year. It's the first time of my life I am so sure of my direction and so focused: I see the pay off now. I could still never apply it to something I don't love... I don't have that kind of discipline.
New York!! An old idea of mine: I wanted to return at Broadway Dance Center where I had already done the ISVP program. We trained every day for the month of June: at the gym, by ourselves, at BDC, with a choreographer, with the wonderful John Festa. It was wonderful and tiresome! My best memory is probably Raine's Law room where Stephen had been trying to drag me for the month saying it was an old speak-easy from the prohibition era. My brain having no idea what that all meant, pictured a crazy dark disco in a basement with electro-swing and every time Stephen suggested we go, I would say no cause I was to tired... but on our last night in the city I said yes, cause I knew he really wanted to go. OMG! When I saw it, I said: Why didn't you bring me here before??? :-p
I won't say more, you just need to go see it. The Rum House is a most too. A musical, any... but really Les Miserables was just out of this world, the best of the ones I saw! Zouk is developing there too, wcs is having a new breath, the place is as amazing as it's always been and really a city to experiment in a lifetime.
Liberty swing.
Phoenix 4th of July... wow! I needed that. A working vacation with friends, old and new ones, by the pool, with the sun and sandstorm, a little bit of drama (oh.. What would we do without it...) and a 5th place in Champion strictly with my love. Oh sorry, I'm not suppose to be happy about it, it is badly seen. Well to bad. I am. Despite the bad words some people let out of their mouths sometimes. I'm happy because Stephen had to calm my ass down, cause I couldn't dance and we've been working so hard together to find something special and I was scared of disappointing him... (yes, I'm scared... so many times, so often, but they say courage is not about having no fears, it's about surpassing them...) we social danced, we did our dance, calm and relax and I had a good time. That is why I am happy. So many good memories from that weekend, just a lot of friendly, happy people and joyful moments.
Ancaster's intensive with the Auclair: I have been telling Stephen forever (since the beginning of history, since the Big Bang) that I wanted to put up an intensive; that week just reinforced my intention. That is the set-up to learn in, the workshops you attend at an event are sincerely more for entertainment purpose, UNLESS, you are really skilled at picking up information in a really short amount of time and applying it subsequently. It is a really rare skill. That is how I learned my wcs, that is how I had a break through that allowed me to go from Newcomer to All-Star in two years: Royston's intensive. I'll say it out and loud and people also have a running gag going around about me asking questions the entire weekend, well guess what? I'm glad I did! If you have the chance to participate in one ever, from whichever pro of your choice, you'll be really grateful and you'll see the improvement.
So after 5 crazy days in Ancaster, we flew directly to Umeå, Sweden and started teaching. That was absolutely the most beautiful set up I've never seen for an event: we were teaching in a barn, with huge open doors, the sun would not set, the rain would echo on the ceiling, the staff cooked delicious food every day, three meals a day for EVERYBODY, the people were motivated and welcoming, the house we lived in was so cozy we felt like a little family, the organization was impeccable. I wanted to teach a class outside in the grass with a really contemporary solo concept and I didn't know how people would receive it, but they all dove in with open heart and took everything even a step further that what I could have imagined. The people took us to the city to visit, we talked in the park, we did a crazy game night, spent a day at the beach. It was just memorable, I want to do it all over again.
Last but not least, New Orleans. Bourbon street, a shoulder that goes out of the socket changing plans, booze, food, crazy people and crazy dinner show and Mardi Gras parade and... an overwhelming support from everybody. And I really mean it: I am not use to getting help, forget asking and letting myself be helped. I freaked out, I was stressed, I was jetlaged, my shoulder hurt, we were running around all weekend and people were there, going out of their way to help us with our ceremony. No, we didn't have anything planed, we just knew we were getting married. Yet in some way, in three days, we ended up having a ballroom, a DJ, a photographer, a videographer, a dress, makeup and hair, flowers, gifts and rings... and most of all: some really good friends and family around us to support us. I don't even know how to say thank you, sometimes I feel like words are useless, they can not express the entirety of the feeling. I hope you see it through my smile.
I hope I always have something to smile about, I hope I can share my smile and make others feel better, inspire, share joy, passion and love so it multiplies exponentially. I hope I always have the strength to go through the hard times and that I build the strength to ask for help when needed, I hope I can make a positive footprint in the world, I hope I die knowing that there's a link that never dies through love and that's how people die peacefully (truly, I hope I never die, but that's another topic). Finally, I hope I always remember how lucky I am and I hope I can show my love everyday to my new husband so that he never doubts it.
Love, freedom, power and more, thank you for being...
August 2 2014
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chapter 6: orchids, stars, and polar bear turds
Friday, June 29th, 1990
Okay, okay, suck it up, you coward, you can’t hide in this bathroom all day eavesdropping. You know he’s stalling and waiting for you to come back to your desk… I mean, no one in their right mind actually just comes by to talk to Greta. I’ve been ducking him all week, but it’s starting to become obvious. Ugh, you’re such a fucking chicken. You can do this. Go. Go. GO!
I open the restroom door and walk around the corner and see Jake engaged in polite conversation with my bridge troll of a supervisor. He’s been listening intently as she drones on about her commute, smiling and adding his own quips about the traffic on I-5, offering the occasional helpful suggestion for an alternate route or a book on tape she might try to help pass the time. I’m dying inside just having listened to her diatribe for a couple minutes, but if he’s feeling the same desperation, none of it shows on his face.
All the same, he grins and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees me, so maybe he is actually grateful to have an escape from Greta. “Lucy! I’ve been looking for you!”
I try for a smile, but I’m sure it’s more of a wince. We both know I’ve been dodging him ever since the Strawberry Incident. It was so sweet of him. So sweet, and so poorly timed. He’s everything I always thought I wanted in a guy – hey, Mom and Dad, here’s that charming, handsome doctor son-in-law you ordered! – except that he’s kind of… too perfect? Is that possible? Can someone be too perfect to be interesting?
“Hey, Jake.” Greta grunts at me and scuttles off, sensing that her attentive audience has evaporated.
“You’re a hard woman to find,” he beams. “I’ve been wondering if you saw my package.”
I bite the inside of my cheeks and internally curse Cora for being such a bad influence on me. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s said anything funny, so I get a grip, although once the giggles pass, my heart’s still in cornered panicked rabbit mode. “Yeah, uh, the strawberries? Yeah, thanks! We loved them.”
“We?” His smile falters for a nanosecond.
“Oh yeah, a couple of the nurses and I, even Greta. They were delicious.”
He chuckles. “You’re sweet to share them. I was just, uh, thinking of you. I do that a lot, actually…”
Here it comes. Can’t dodge it forever. God, I want to puke.
He goes on. “I was actually thinking we might go out sometime, maybe get some dinner?”
“Oh, uh, Jake, you’re… that’s so sweet of you, really…uhm, I would, but I’m sort of… I’m seeing someone…?” It feels so odd rolling off my tongue, but even after just one week of knowing Jeff, it’s hard to deny that something significant has changed. First, he tracked down my apartment, then I stopped by the Raison d’Etre to spend some time with him after one of his shifts, and tomorrow we have an actual, scheduled, non-stalker-y date. I haven’t had much room in my head for anything else.
I brace for the awkwardness, or maybe even the defensive mockery or insult that usually comes with turning down a guy in my experience. But Jake just blinks before hitching his good-natured smile back into place, and I’m flooded with relief tinged with guilt. Why does he have to be so fucking nice?
“That’s great! I didn’t know that! Of course, girl like you, you must be swatting us away.”
I open my mouth to explain why he’s so wrong, how atypical any of this suitor stuff is for me, but he continues, “well, uh, he’s a very lucky man. Though I’m sure he knows that. What’s his name?”
I bite my lips in to keep from smiling rudely, hanging on to his name as long as I can, wanting to keep it for mine.
***
Saturday, June 30th, 1990
“Epi-what nows?”
“Epiphytes,” she giggles, tugging me by the hand through the greenhouse. She’s been geeking out over all kinds of flowers and plants for the last two hours, but if possible she’s even more worked up about the ones in this part of the exhibit. We stop in front of this giant cylinder covered with tufts of spiky little plants. “See?”
“I see ‘em, yup…there, uh, there they are, alright,” I nod approvingly, not having the slightest clue why we’re staring at these things but not wanting that excited look on her face to go away.
“Air plants, Jeff, look. See how they don’t have any roots? They’re not planted in any soil?”
“Son of a bitch, you’re right,” I take a step closer and squint at the plants she’s pointing at and realize they’re just hanging onto this column through sheer force of will or something. The more I look at the wall, the more variety I see, like noticing more and more stars the longer you let your eyes focus on the night sky, and I’m starting to understand, if maybe dimly, why she’s staring so raptly at them with that smile dancing on her lips. She turns to me and blushes, her hair a little wilder than usual thanks to the humidity in here.
“I know, it’s weird, I’m really into plants,” she cringes, “you probably hate it, right? We can go if you –”
“No no, how the fuck does this even work?” At first, I was kind of hesitant about a date at the conservatory – I mean it’s free and all, so it’s got that going for it, but who wants to stare at flowers all day? But I’m starting to see the appeal of staring at Lucy when she’s staring at flowers, and now I just genuinely want to understand what the fuck I’m looking at.
“They just grow on all different kinds of surfaces, and they take their moisture and nutrients from the air instead of from extensive root systems in soils. Like, uhm, mosses and stuff? Spanish moss is a good one. But also orchids, and all these bromeliads in here.” I remember the window full of orchids in her place and begin to understand why she wanted to come here. I follow her gaze back up the display wall as she continues in a hushed, reverent voice. “I just think it’s beautiful, the way they fall all over a tree or another plant, not doing any damage like a strangling, needy vine would… just, just a soft blanket all over… just breathing together.”
She falls silent and we both stare at the plants, and I’m trying not to think too hard about how romantic fuckin’ epiphytes turned out to be when I feel her take hold of my hand and lean lightly against my arm.
***
“Our feast, m’lady,” Jeff turns around holding a giant brown paper bag, having just tipped the delivery guy and nudging the front door closed.
“And what’s the damage?” I grab my backpack and reach in for my wallet, but he takes the bag out of my hands and sets it down, sliding his arms around my waist.
“Nah, forget it, you’re a cheap date,” he mumbles, planting a light kiss on my lips.
“Sure know how to woo a girl,” I grin against his mouth.
“You’re one to talk, Miss ‘I’m really into plants,’” he tickles my ribs and I break away, dodging for safety in the kitchen and sticking my tongue out at him. “You save all the best stuff for the third date, huh?”
“Oh yeah, I’m the mistress of seduction alright. The castration and branding stories were just the bait to reel you in before we started the real foreplay. Chopsticks?”
“Drawer next to the sink. Gotta hand it to you, though, it’s not the worst date I’ve ever been on.”
“Well, this sounds like a promising game…” I hunt around in his kitchen cabinets until I’ve got a couple of plates.
“Shit,” he laughs. “You know I’m just kidding, Luce, right? I had a great time.”
“You’re not getting off the hook that easy, bud. I mean it, what is the worst date you’ve ever had?”
He glances mischievously up at me while dishing out his low mein. “I dunno, I sort of want to hear about yours, you seem too eager for someone who doesn’t have a good horror story up her sleeve…”
“Nuh uh, I asked you first.”
He screws his face up thoughtfully as we sit on the couch with our dinner. “I don’t know, I haven’t had a lot of really awful ones, I guess… there was a blind date in college once that was pretty fuckin’ awkward.”
“Details, please,” I sit opposite him on his couch with my legs folded, awkwardly managing my rice with my chopsticks.
“Okay, so I got home to Big Sandy after a semester away and one of my mom’s friends wanted to try to set me up with her daughter, so my mom went along with it. I don’t think this girl’s mom had any idea who I was or what I looked like or anything, she just knew me as, like, the mayor’s kid…”
“Your dad’s the mayor?”
“And the barber,” he nods with a mouthful of food, “I don’t think I can impress upon you just how tiny this shit town of mine is… anyway, so I had to be pretty well behaved, and pretty clean cut, right?”
“Gonna need some evidence of this ‘clean-cut’ concept when story time’s over,” I tug on a piece of his hair.
“I mean, relatively speaking. Well, I come back from Missoula, having made a bunch of friends who were into punk rock, and I looked the part, you know… or more than I did when I moved away. And this girl’s, like, Polly Purebred, never left home, just completely sheltered and totally freaked out. I probably looked like Sid Vicious to her or something,” he chuckles. “So it wasn’t the end of the world, but she was pretty terrified the whole time, so I found excuses to cut it short and take her home.”
“Very decent of you for a depraved monster.”
“I thought so. And very much my last blind date, too. Your turn!”
“Ah, fuck,” I groan… “I don’t even know which one to go with. Yours was so tame, mine are all going to sound insane.”
His eyes light up as he sets his empty bowl down and rubs his hands together. “Go on…”
“Okayyy… well, it doesn’t really count as a date, but my two most serious boyfriends both came out to me while breaking up with me…”
“Jesus!”
“No, that was the other guy.”
“You dated Jesus?”
“Not quite, but I did go on a date with someone who tried to convert me. Brought all his “so you’re going to hell” pamphlets and shit.”
“Okay, no, that’s got to be your worst one.”
“Don’t you want to hear about the puker?”
He blinks like a deer in headlights. “The…”
“The guy who took me out to dinner and turned increasingly green throughout the meal, and I kept asking if he was okay, until the waiter sets this big piece of salmon down in front of him and he pukes all over it.”
“That’s fucking disgusting!”
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you the rest…” I wince even thinking about the memory of it, but he’s watching with wide eyes. “…that he… drained it off and then…”
“No he did not. He did not fucking eat the fish. Nope. We’re done here, get the fuck out!” he takes my bowl from my hands and pulls me off the couch, gently shoving me towards the door, but we’re both howling with laughter.
“You’re, like… damaged,” he teases, brushing my hair out of my face.
“Nah, just the usual run-of-the-mill lowered expectations. You’ve got it easy,” I bite my lip and he drops his gaze to my mouth.
“Well, you deserve a lot better than puking and proselytizing…” he places a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose, and I close my eyes to hang onto the sensation of it, the way time is slowing down.
“Sweet talker.” He brushes the backs of his fingers against my cheek as his mouth moves down to mine for a soft, sweet kiss. Well, it started that way, anyway… as soon as I parted my lips, he wound his fingers into my hair and wrapped his other arm around my waist, pulling me into him, and now I’m kissing him back feverishly, winding my arms around his neck, trying to get as close as I can. He shuffles me carefully backward until we find the couch, where we lay down gently and I lose track of everything except the sweetness of being all tangled up together.
*
What the hell time is it? I crane my neck to look around his apartment for a clock, being careful not to disturb him, but I’m distracted by how gorgeous he looks when he’s asleep. His mouth’s open just slightly and he’s snoring softly underneath me on the couch, one arm still wrapped around my shoulders. We’d been making out like a pair of horny teenagers for who knows how long, before deciding together that we were in no great rush, and enjoying an endless twilight of soft kisses, cuddles, talking, and laughing. Until I guess we fell asleep, and now it’s… 1:17? Holy shit.
Jeff’s arm tightens around me and he stretches his other arm out to the side, letting out a contented rumbling noise.
“Sorry to wake you,” I nuzzle into his neck, planting a few little kisses and breathing him in as he gathers me up into a hug.
“Sorry? Wake me like this a little more often, would you?” he mumbles against my temple.
“It’s late, I should get back downstairs and let you go to bed.” I’m saying it, but not really believing it, and all it takes is one whispered “stay?” into my ear before I settle back into his arms, with no intention of going anywhere.
***
Thursday, July 19th, 1990
“I’ve fucking missed you! I’m so glad you’re coming home tomorrow. Do you have any idea what a sausage fest my life is now?”
“You say that like it’s bad.”
“Oh shut up, Cor. You had something to do with that, you know.”
Guilty, I think to myself as I laugh at her through the phone. Lucy and I didn’t have a lot of guy friends until a couple of months ago when all these musician types crashed into our lives. Not that I don’t get along well with men. I actually tend to get along with them better than most women, and all my friends in high school were guys, on account of being the only girl in all the science and math clubs. Guys somehow make more sense to my brain. More straightforward, or easier to joke around with, or something. Or maybe it’s having a brother that makes them seem more approachable? Not that my brother is in any way typical of the species, whatever the fuck the stereotype even means. But a crowd of guy friends is something I’ve not had for a long time. I guess since I started college, started dating Alex. Ever since then it’s been one or two close girlfriends. Mad back home, Lucy here in Seattle. Quality friends over quantity, a thought that makes me grin at getting to see Luce tomorrow.
“Yeah, well, I’ll dilute the testosterone a bit when I get back.” I hesitate for a half second, knowing I’m about to embarrass the shit out of my dear, sweet friend, but also just genuinely curious since we’ve been playing phone tag ever since I made it to Alaska three weeks ago and it’s the first time we’ve actually managed to catch up. “And speaking of sausage, how’s it going with Jeff?”
“Damn it Cora!” she laughs. “It’s been going really well. Like, really well.”
“Nuh-uh, not good enough. I need more information. What date are y’all on now?”
“Uhm, I’ve sort of lost track, there were a few days where it was like, distinct dates happening, but for a couple weeks now we’ve seen each other almost every day.”
I wolf-whistle. “Busy three weeks.”
“Oh, hush. I’m a lady, you dumb bitch.” I try and fail to stifle a snort, but even she’s laughing.
“The most refined, clearly. So maybe not that much of a sausage fest, then?”
“We are taking things slow,” she says resolutely. “I mean, well, we’ve done… stuff, but like, we haven't… not yet…”
“You’re adorable, you know you can’t even say it? Haven’t had sex yet?”
“Not yet. We’re not in a rush.”
“Fair. You don’t owe anyone shit, you know, least of all a guy for taking you out.” I don’t even know why I’m lecturing her, except that she has dated a line of assholes as long as my arm.
“I know, Mom. We’re just in that… that dream-like beginning part, you know? Where it’s all new, and time slows down every time you touch, where everything’s about wanting and not having? The part you just don’t ever want to end?”
“Yeah, totally.” Except I don’t really know, but she sounds so lost in her happiness that I should keep that to myself. New topic.
“So are you guys going to the party thing tomorrow night? Stone and Chris’s thing?”
“Yeah, we’ll be there. Are you going?”
“Mmhmm. I think I talked Alex into it.”
“Whoa! So let it be written, the history books shall show that on this day, July 19th, Alex Henderson agreed to hang out with his girlfriend’s friends.”
“Yeah, yeah, wise-ass. Should be interesting.”
“It’ll be fiiiine!” she sing-songs.
“You have approximately zero data points on which to base that conclusion.” I’m imagining Stone and Chris talking to Alex and I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe at the thought. Guess I’ll find out soon enough.
“I’ll be optimistic for both of us, then.”
“Bless your heart. Speaking of the hermit, I should probably give him a call.”
We say our goodbyes, hang up, and I dial home, but I get the machine. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand and try not to sound too perplexed as I leave him a message: “Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice one more time before I get to see you tomorrow, but maybe you crashed early? You’re turning into such an old man on me, love. Well, if you get this, give me a call back, I’ll be up for a while. And if not, well, I can’t wait to come home to you tomorrow. Love you.”
I’m checking every corner of my shitty motel room one last time to make sure I’ve packed everything when the phone rings about 5 minutes later. Figures, Alex probably crashed on the couch but woke up when he heard my message.
“Hey, gorgeous,” I murmur, “did I wake you up?”
“Gorgeous, huh? Finally seen the light? And no, you didn’t wake me up, I called you, genius. You eat paint chips as a kid, Red?”
“STONE! Fuck you dude,” but I’m laughing my ass off. “What do you want?”
“Child, you cut me to the quick. I’m supposed to want something if I call?”
“Well, A, you’re only two years older than me so cut the ‘child’ shit, and B, it’s you, so…”
“Okay okay, I give, you’re impossible,” he chuckles, “just wanted to say hi. Been a few days.”
Before I left, I’d told him to call me and annoy me every so often to keep me sane on this trip, and he’s been holding up his end of the bargain admirably.
“Yeah,” I grin. “So what’s new?”
I listen quietly while he rambles about the songs he’s writing with Mike, bitches about work, unpacks a tense but seemingly productive dinner he had with Jeff the other night to come to an agreement about working together in a new band. He asks about how the sampling trip is going, prods me for the nth time to make sure I’m coming to his birthday thing tomorrow. We take turns giving each other shit, as usual. After a while, the conversation falls into a comfortable silence and a quick glance at the clock shows that we’ve already been talking for almost an hour, although it’s only seemed like a few minutes have gone by. Somehow, Stone became one of those people to me faster than almost anyone else I’ve ever known. One of the ones you can talk about everything and nothing with, who gets the jokes and gives them back, who it’s easy to be easy with. After a while, he speaks back up.
“So, what are you getting me for my birthday?”
“Haha, presumptuous much? Just where and when am I supposed to be doing birthday shopping? Do you forget I’ve been marooned above the Arctic Circle digging in dirt for three weeks?” I’m giving him maximum sass, which is no less than he deserves, but I feel a spasm of guilt. In truth, I already found Chris a present, but I still have no idea what to get for Stone.
“No excuse for poor planning, Red.”
“Okay. Fossilized polar bear turd it is.”
“Nice talk.”
“You knew what you were signing up for.”
He clucks his tongue and sighs, but the conversation sags without his usual immediate zinger. “Yeah,” is all he says after a moment. I shake my head at the phone. He’s weirder than usual tonight.
“Alright, I’ll play. What do you want for your birthday?”
“I was just kidding, Cora, don’t get me anything. Just come hang out.”
“I can handle that. But that wasn’t my question.”
“I mean it. I just want to have a fun night with my friends. It’s… it’s been kind of a year, you know?”
Andy. I nod stupidly for a moment before remembering he can’t see me. “Yeah, yeah.” Once again, we fall quiet for who knows how long before he breaks the silence.
“So is Alex picking you up at the airport tomorrow?”
He hasn’t been giving Alex derogatory hillbilly names recently. I’m not even sure when that stopped, but I didn’t notice, and for whatever reason, I kind of miss it.
“No, my car’s there, I’ll drive myself home.”
“WHAT?? Where’s the romance in that? Come on, Jethro, step it up, buddy.” Oh, well there it is.
“And you are the expert on romance since when?”
“You don’t even know, Red,” he purrs. “Hey! Stop laughing! I’m serious!”
“Sure you are. Hate to inform you, Stoner, but Friday’s a work day for most productive members of society. My flight lands at like 2. I don’t expect the world to stop turning for me.”
“Yeah, but asking your boyfriend to meet you at the airport’s not asking the world to stop turning. It’s asking for something people are just supposed to do for one another. I’d think he’d want to.”
“I didn’t ask him!” I’m not even sure why I’m yelling. Are we fighting?
“Okay, okay. Easy. I didn’t mean anything by it.” There’s a bit of a pause, a strained one this time, and I’m not really sure what to say to fill it, but Stone speaks up after a moment.
“You know… if you ever need a ride to the airport, some of us unproductive members of society would be happy to oblige. You dropped everything to drive our asses all over the place when you barely even knew us. I’m just saying, I’m happy to return the favor anytime.”
“I…”
“Don’t make it weird, Cora. Just… just ask. Anytime.”
“Thanks, Stone,” is all I can manage to say as I turn the offer over in my mind. I’m genuinely touched, and also a little confused, before he breezes on like nothing happened.
“So we might have a line on a potential singer…”
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ahahaha you should share some stories and thoughts about being italian :)
Dear nonny, thank you for this ask. It’s hard to come up with a good way to answer your request.
But I can share a brand new episode no older than this afternoon.
Today I was in Florence with my parents to eat one last pizza at my favorite restaurant before I leave for Norway, and after eating we went for a walk in the city centre. We were just walking down the street where the pizzeria is when suddenly we hear shouting from behind our backs. We stop to check what was happening and suddenly a man dashes by us, running down the street shouting ‘OH THE PAIN! TAKING IT UP THE ARSE HURTS! IT’S NOT A SUPPOSITORY! *SWEARING AGAINST THE VIRGIN MARY*’. He just kept screaming until he got to the end of the street and disappeared into the distance. Another normal day in sunny Tuscany. That’s actually not an uncommon sight, I stumbled many times in your innocuous friendly deranged man screaming down the street in various places, especially small towns.
Fun fact (I guess): In Italy, and especially here in Tuscany, we have normal swearwords, called ‘parolacce’ lit. bad words, and insults towards God, the Virgin Mary and the saints, called ‘bestemmie’, which I haven’t the faintest idea how to translate into English. Many people in my region use them as simple interjections when they speak, like above mentioned lubeless man.
Other random stuff that’s coming to my mind:
Beside pineapple pizza I also consider a heresy pizza with chicken wings and/or roasted beef on top, which I was told it’s a thing by the Americans in my programme. Like the post I reblogged before, if you support any of these three in any way you should go to church and confess your sins to the god of pizza. And repent. Right now. And eat a Margherita afterwards.
I’m so sorry and ashamed for Berlusconi and bunga bunga. That happened, yep. And various other things as well. The Italian ruling class would be hilarious if they weren’t actually leading the country through a slow and painful decline.
Mafia is only one of the criminal organisations on the Italian territory. There are four in total and they have different names and different place of origin.
I’m always whining and complaining about Italy 24/7, but that’s not because I hate my country. Quite the opposite, I’m proud to be Italian, and that’s why I’m constantly disappointed and angry about the situation of present day Italy and its cultural decline.
Most of us eat pasta every day as a main course, usually for lunch, which I was told by my international friends is kind of weird because ‘how can you eat pasta every day?’. The answer I guess is that we have so many types of pasta and sauces that it doesn’t feel like eating the same thing every day at all. I was surprised the first time I learnt that abroad pasta is usually eaten as dressing for salad or other types of food.
It doesn’t matter if you don’t like football or don’t follow it - I couldn’t care less myself -, almost everyone gets hyped for the European and World football championships and we follow the matches of the Italian team. The colour associated with our team, light blue (’azzurro’), comes from the time of the Savoy monarchy, when a light blue sash was worn by I don’t know which official.
If they told you that Italians drive like crazy you were told the truth. People tend to freely interpret the street law code, and in big towns and cities there are cars everywhere, and I usually spend my car rides mentally insulting other drivers. I would never drive in Rome, Naples and other big cities, it’s just too crazy for me and there are cars pretty much parked vertically on walls.
Public transports are often unreliable, especially if you’re a commuter and have to combine bus + regional train like I did in my undergrads. Needless to say, now I take the car to go just anywhere.
I know I won’t be coming back to Italy after graduating, because here I have no present and no future, but I wish things were different, because what I love and miss the most of Italy is the chance you have to walk through centuries of art, history, archaeology and architecture by simply going to a neighbouring town/city. I’m a person who lives in the past, and I feel the need to be surrounded by ruins and relics from centuries long gone.
Ok I will stop here because I’ve rambled more than I meant to. I’m sorry this is so random, I’m really bad at addressing open questions. As always my ask box is open, and if you nonnie - or anybody else - would like to know something specific feel free to ask. :)
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