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krummholz-go · 5 months

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The Final 15 - Aziraphale’s Perspective

I see a lot of empathy for Crowley’s experience during the final 15 minutes of season 2 and it makes sense that we feel deeply for him. What he is experiencing is very human - acknowledging the depth of his own feelings, plucking up the courage to say something, having it come out all wrong, feeling utterly rejected, and then walking away in a mix of pain and anger. Who among us hasn’t been there?

But Aziraphale is experiencing something more complicated, something fewer of us have analogs for. Aziraphale has internally acknowledged his feelings for Crowley for some period of time, probably at least since 1941. Michael Sheen confirms this mental state in a NYCC 2018 interview:

“I decided early on that Aziraphale just loves Crowley. And that’s difficult for him because they are on opposite sides and he doesn’t agree with him on stuff. But it does really help as an actor to go, ‘My objective in this scene is to not show you how much I love you and just gaze longingly at you.’”

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale’s struggle isn’t acknowledging his feelings. His struggle appears to be two-fold: 1) believing that Crowley could ever love him back and 2) even if Crowley did love him, believing a future for the two of them together could exist within the restrictions of his larger world view.

Can Crowley love?

Angels are, traditionally, beings of love. We see Aziraphale embody this time and again, showing kindness and support to almost everyone he meets, including the amnesiac Gabriel who has treated him abominably in the past. He is attuned to love, remarking on how the area around Tadfield “feels loved” twice in Season 1. As for how Aziraphale personally understands and expresses love, he shows his love to others through verbal affirmation and, to a lesser extent, physical touch. There are many examples of Aziraphale expressing his love for Crowley through positive verbal affirmation, typically by praising him for instances where he has been kind, nice, or good. And on the rare occasions when Aziraphale receives verbal praise, he absolutely interprets it as an expression of love, blossoming with happiness.

But from Aziraphale’s perspective, it may be unclear if Crowley can feel love in the same way. Can demons love? Did he lose that capability when he fell? Crowley can’t feel the aura of love in Tadfield that Aziraphale remarks on, and his reactions to Aziraphale’s praise are always to shrug it off, tell Aziraphale to “shut up,” or in the most extreme case to physically slam him against a wall and get in his face about it. In this last instance he tells Aziraphale, “I’m a demon, I’m not nice. I'm never nice. Nice is a four-letter word.” A four-letter word, like love, that is not in Crowley’s self-defined vocabulary.

If Crowley can feel love, does he love Aziraphale?

Even if Aziraphale believes Crowley is capable of feeling love, he does not always recognize how Crowley expresses it in the moment. Crowley shows his love for Aziraphale through actions, but Aziraphale often misconstrues Crowley’s motivations. In 1793 when Crowley rescues him from the Bastille, Aziraphale initially assumes Crowley is only there because he is responsible for the Reign of Terror. Similarly, in 1941, Aziraphale’s reaction to Crowley’s appearance is to assume he’s just part of the Nazi gang, saying,“I should have known. Of course. These people are working for you!”

Crowley doesn’t help matters in this regard because he is constantly muting and undercutting his signals to Aziraphale. Every time Crowley expresses his love for Aziraphale through actions - rescuing him, saving his books, even taking him to lunch - he does so in a nonchalant, dismissive manner, indicating he ascribes little value or importance to the actions he has performed. “I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed,” he says when he appears in 1941. And when Aziraphale positively glows with happiness about his books being saved, Crowley tells him to “shut up."On top of these confusing signals, Crowley is almost pathologically incapable of expressing his feelings in the verbal love language that Aziraphale can understand. This is heartbreakingly demonstrated in this scene after the bookshop fire:

Crowley can’t even say “I lost you.” Instead he speaks of Aziraphale in the third person while sitting in front of him, saying, “I lost my best friend.” The little hitch on Aziraphale’s face when he hears this is just devastating. Who is Crowley talking about? The last conversation they had before this scene was when Aziraphale called while Hastur was in Crowley’s apartment and Crowley said, “Not a good time - got an old friend here.” Aziraphale is left to wonder - is that who Crowley means when he says "best friend?" Crowley is everything to Aziraphale, but what is he to Crowley?

How Would It Even Work?

Even when Aziraphale does get flashes of the possibility that Crowley may care for him he immediately runs up against his second mental block - there is no world he can imagine where they could be together. When Crowley first suggests running off together in the bandstand scene in S1E3, Aziraphale collapses under the thought: “Friends? We aren’t friends. We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you.”

While he is obviously in denial, Aziraphale is also under tremendous stress in this moment and is desperately trying to hold onto some stability by falling back onto his world view and ideology. In this state he backpedals all the way to “I don’t even like you.” In his understanding of the way the universe is supposed to work, he and Crowley are hereditary enemies and should not even be friends, much less in love. Aziraphale expresses this core belief throughout the series. What kind of existence could they ever have together in reality?

The Final 15

With this as a background, we can better understand what Aziraphale experiences in the final 15 minutes. Even before the Metatron enters the scene, Aziraphale begins to have his fundamental beliefs challenged which puts him off his footing. The revelation that Gabriel and Beelzebub are in love is deeply impactful. When Beelzebub says “I just found something that mattered more to me than choosing sides” and takes Gabriel’s hand, Aziraphale immediately reaches out to make contact with Crowley, a look of incredulity on his face. Here is proof that demons can feel love and that an angel and a demon can carve out a space together. The road may be difficult, but it is not impossible.

Before Aziraphale can digest this revelation the stakes are ratcheted up: Michael threatens to erase Aziraphale from the Book of Life due to his part in hiding Gabriel. The future that Aziraphale has just barely glimpsed is already under siege. It is at this point that The Metatron enters, offering Aziraphale not just survival and protection, but a version of everything he has ever wanted.

If Crowley is reinstated as an angel, Aziraphale will no longer have to wonder whether Crowley is capable of feeling love. And if they are both angels, there will be no conflict inherent in having a life together. In one fell swoop, the Metatron entices Aziraphale with a future where there are no remaining blockers to an eternal, loving existence with Crowley. It will be “like the old times, only even nicer” because they now have millennia of their shared history to build on together. Of course this logic is horribly flawed and does not take into account at all what Crowley wants, but in the moment it must feel like an enormous gift to Aziraphale.

Unfortunately, not only is Crowley’s reaction to this “incredibly good news” not what Aziraphale expects, the conversation quickly takes a baffling turn for him. Crowley shuts down the talk about returning to heaven and attempts to say what he wants to say. Sadly he once again utterly fails to speak in a way that Aziraphale can understand.

The audience knows what Crowley is trying to say because we have the context of his earlier conversation with Maggie and Nina. But Aziraphale lacks that and thus can’t understand where this is coming from or what it means. Rather than expressing his feelings as Beelzebub and Gabriel did, Crowley recites facts: we’ve known each other a long time, we’ve been on this planet a long time, I could always rely on you, you could always rely on me. He can’t even say the word “couple” when he describes them, referring to them more as colleagues with words like “team” and “group.” And the one time he does try to express his feelings and desires he is physically unable to get out the words: “And I would like to spend—.” He then retreats into his old plea to turn away from heaven and hell and run off together. Nowhere in Crowley’s confession does Aziraphale hear “I love you” or even “I want to be with you.” What he hears instead is what he’s heard multiple times before - Crowley wants to abandon both heaven and hell and default to just the two of them. From Aziraphale’s perspective this will not solve anything for them. They will still be an angel and a demon, at some level fundamentally separated by their very natures.

Having failed in his speech, Crowley then does two things in rapid succession that must be excruciatingly painful for Aziraphale. First, he does the opposite of verbal affirmation by calling Aziraphale an idiot. We have seen Aziraphale become physically radiant in the rare instances where Crowley has praised him, so a direct insult like this must feel poisonous. Then Crowley makes a last desperate attempt to communicate through Aziraphale’s other love language - physical touch - by initiating the kiss. But without context or understanding of what is behind it, Aziraphale can initially only experience it as forceful, angry, and shocking. With more time to parse it I think Aziraphale will come to understand Crowley’s meaning, but in the moment it must feel manipulative and borderline cruel.

The Results

In a very compressed time frame, Aziraphale has to move quickly and radically through multiple mental and emotional states. For 6000 years he has believed he and Crowley cannot be together. Suddenly, with the revelation of Gabriel and Beezlebub, that foundational belief is challenged. Before he can work through what that could mean for him and Crowley, the Metatron offers an even cleaner solution - they can be protected from retribution and be on the same side again. When Crowley rejects reinstatement wholesale, it makes Aziraphale feel that he and his loving offer of a life together have been personally rejected. Then that rejection is further confused through the shocking experience of the kiss which Aziraphale does not have adequate context for or time to understand and integrate. In his emotional turmoil, Aziraphale falls back on his default crutch for dealing with sadness and anger - forgiveness - which further cuts him off from Crowley. Taken all together, this is a tumultuous rollercoaster of whiplash emotions that pull at every part of Aziraphale's self- and world-views.

Compared to what Crowley is going through, I think Aziraphale is going to have the tougher road in Season 3. Crowley may still need to better reconcile and integrate his feelings for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale has 6000 years of foundational ideology to challenge and evolve to reach a place where he and Crowley can be together as their authentic selves.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #good omens meta #good omens 2 #gomens #essay #final 15 #crowly x aziraphale #good omens s2 #good omens season 2

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magewritesstories · 2 months

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[ ʏᴜᴛᴀ ᴏᴋᴋᴏᴛꜱᴜ ] ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴏʏ

summary: yuta is jealous of his replacement—your stuffed animal cw: fluff, established relationship, comical jealousy note: i had to write something for my fav anxious boy word count: 652 jujutsu kaisen masterlist // main masterlist

YUTA OKKOTSU NEVER HAD ANYTHING AGAINST DINOSAURS UNTIL TODAY.

Sure, they were cool in the weird way you would find deep sea creatures cool, but he didn't have a particularly strong opinion about them.

Until today.

In all honesty, it's a trap of his own making. He was the one that had won you that plushie at the night festival after all, but that didn't make it any less annoying.

Yuta had come back from his latest way-too-long way-too-far overseas mission and had been dead tired. So, when you suggested to simply cuddle as he caught up to some much-needed rest, the black-haired boy happily agreed.

Except he was wide awake right now, and all your attention and affection seemed to be directed towards the dark green dinosaur plushie in your arms instead of him.

The two of you were about as physically close as you could get—your back against his chest, legs tangled together, and his face buried in the crook of your neck, with one arm lazily thrown over your waist.

And it still wasn't enough.

You were leisurely scrolling through your phone, the sound muted to make sure it didn't disturb Yuta (a nice sentiment even if he wasn't actually sleeping), and your free arm wrapped around the stuffed animal.

You'd grown pretty fond of it, jokingly naming him Yuta Jr. with the thought that he was supposed to be your boyfriend's replacement as he went on overseas missions that he got assigned more often than either of you liked.

Yuta knew this. In fact, he'd laughed as he felt his ears go red when you'd hugged the animal to your chest and claimed it was your child.

He'd seen the dinosaur in the background of your many, many video calls and selfies.

Back then he thought it was endearing. Back then he was happy that you kept something that reminded you of him so close.

Now he just wanted to chuck the thing across the room.

Maybe even throw it away if he could formulate a plan where you didn't notice its absence.

Now, Yuta isn't stupid, he knows that being jealous of a stuffed animal of all things is childish but that logic doesn't seem to quell the annoyed feeling in his chest.

He's been trying to find a way to get rid of the damned thing for twenty minutes.

Yes, he has been pretending to sleep for twenty minutes now. It's pathetic—he's all too well aware of the fact—but it just gives him even more reason to be discreet about his jealousy.

How was he supposed to look you in the eye and tell you he was jealous of a stuffed animal (that he'd won for you) when the two of you had spent months apart without concern?

Eventually, he just lifts his head, midnight black locks brushing against your face. "What're you watching?"

You turn slightly, placing a quick peck on his cheek. "Tik Tok," You reply plainly, "You done sleeping?"

Yuta lets out a soft hum, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, this time to place soft kisses on the sensitive skin.

You let out a quiet giggle at the feeling, turning a little towards him. The boy grins against your skin, turning you until you're completely under him.

He grins at his small victory, prying the plushie out of your arms and letting his entire body weight on top of you.

You laugh at the way the tiny dinosaur goes flying across your dorm.

"Much better," Yuta mumbles, burying his face in your chest and wrapping his arms around your waist.

You raise a brow at the slightly annoyed tone in your boyfriend's voice, an amused smile making its way onto your face.

"Yuta?" You only get a hum in response, "Were you jealous of the plushie?"

A beat of silence. "No..."

Another small silence, then a sigh. "...Yes."

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #yuta okkotsu #jjk yuuta okkotsu #okkutsu yuuta #yuuta okkotsu x reader #yuuta okkotsu #okkotsu yuuta #yuuta x reader #jjk yuuta #yuuta x you #yuta okkotsu x reader #okkotsu yuta x reader #yuuta okkotsu x you #yuuta okkotsu x y/n #jjk x reader

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rosewaterandivy · 6 months

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i. incandescent glow

summary: have you ever been so alone you spend the day confusing a man in a coma?

pairing: assumed e.m x reader, eventual s.h x reader

warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI; mutual pining, yearning, miscommunication, poorly-wired idiot signals, vague nineties vibes, asshole-ish rockstar eddie, best friend & store manager steve, drug abuse, comas and hospitals, found family, hop and wayne knocking sense into people, eventual smut, schmaltzy rom-com goodness, mention of thanksgiving, christmas, and new year's holidays

w.c.: 8.2k

a/n: when I say that writing this kicked my ass, I'm tellin' you I had a rough time. @bettyfrommars this flannel-wearing Steve is for you especially! Please enjoy & I hope y'all like it 🥹

series m.list | playlist | currently spinning:

Steve hadn’t planned for his life to amount to this, he’d simply blinked and found himself in a new decade, still rewinding tapes at Family Video. Granted, he’s district manager now and has several stores in the area he’s responsible for.

Meanwhile, Eddie got the hell outta dodge and Corroded Coffin actually made something of themselves. Two albums under their belt and a forth-coming world tour after the holidays, and, more recently, a cover on the Rolling Stone. Ed had called him up once it was all finalized, “Can you fuckin’ believe it man?!”

And, Steve loves Eddie, so he could actually believe it. He tries and fails to keep his jealousy at bay, Ed is one of his best friends for christ sakes. Steve is happy for him, he really is, despite the revolving doors at rehab centers dotting the west coast, late night calls from strangers because Munson passed out in someone’s bathroom again.

He is, after all, Eddie’s emergency contact. Gareth approached him after the second stint at rehab and suggested it, thought it would be the best all things considered. Steve readily agreed and signed the forms, kept his pager on him, and dutifully smoothed things over when Eddie’s benders got a bit too much.

So, he’s rewinding tapes when his pager goes off. He glances at the number and drags the phone across the counter. Nestling the handset between his shoulder and cheek, he punches in the numbers and shoves the tape in a plastic case to be shelved later.

“Hello, this is Hawkins Memorial Hospital. How may I direct your call?” a kind, if perfunctory voice recites. He can hear the hustle and bustle of the hospital waiting room, muted conversations and the ringing of phones.

“Hi, this is Steve Harrington. I received a page from this number regarding Eddie Munson.” Steve eyes the clock, he’s on closing shift by himself already having sent he employees home to celebrate with their families.

“Yes, one moment please.” The receptionist places him on hold, allowing Steve to rewind a couple more tapes and sort them for shelving. “Mr. Harrington?” the line roars back to life, no longer the receptionist, but the doctor in charge of Eddie’s care instead. “Mr. Munson came into the hospital unresponsive but breathing, he was revived by a…” He rattles off a name that Steve has never heard before. “His, fiancée, as I understand it.”

Steve feels the floor sway under his feet.

Eddie.

With a fiancée?

“She’s here now and in a bit of shock, as you can expect. Since you’re his emergency contact, we wanted to alert you of his current state as well as get any contact information for family and friends that need to be made aware.”

“Oh, uh, sure.”

The doctor continues to relay that they’ve elected to place Eddie under a medically induced coma for the time being, to allow his body to flush the drugs from his system before assessing for any further damage.

Steve is transferred to a medical assistant who takes down Wayne and Hopper’s information. He figures between the two men the job will get done, but let’s be real, it’ll be Joyce that activates the phone tree and calls the kids, and he plans to swing by the hospital later that evening once he’s closed up.

Grabbing the stack of tapes and begins to shelve them with a shake of his head. It would be just like Eddie to get engaged and not be fucked to tell anyone. Returning to the counter, he fiddles with the cuffs of his flannel shirt— Robin got it for him the last time she swung through town, insisted that Steve’s wardrobe needed some serious upgrading and all but thrust it upon him.

“It brings out your eyes,” She said, leaning against the wall outside the dressing room. Her worn boots kicked against one another, half of her reflected in the mirror while Steve assessed.

“It’s brown.”

“And gold!” She turns him around to press down the collar and pop the first two buttons of the shirt open. “It’s color theory man, just trust me on this, okay?”

Which is how Steve found himself the new owner of several flannel shirts of varying hues. And boots. When he complained it was all too lumberjack-like, Robin shushed him and continued to flirt with the cute check-out girl.

But that had been months ago. It was coming on Thanksgiving now and his two best friends had been too busy traveling or showing art pieces to even call. He doesn’t mind, not really— well, he tries not to. Steve gets it, people are busy, things to do and people to see.

The remainder of his shift goes by slowly. Kids home from school, families coming in by the dozen. Steve manages to complete a few menial tasks in between customers, throws on Planes, Trains and Automobiles just to have something on in the background.

He’s helping a regular when his pager beeps again, this time flashing Robin’s number. The door dings as they leave and Steve’s already wedged the phone to balance against his shoulder once more as he leans and elbow on the counter.

“Eddie has a fiancée?!” is the thing she screeches down the line. “When the fuck did that happen? Harrington, you’re supposed to keep me aware of these things!”

He signs and scrubs a hand down his face, “I’m his emergency contact, not his guardian.”

“Have you met her? What’s she like?”

“I don’t—”

“I got the first flight out of the city. Which means I had to go to LaGuardia blech,” She makes a gagging sound down the line. “Jonathan’s picking me up now from Indy. Oh my god, is she pretty?” Robin pings between her travel plans and hypothesizing about Eddie’s girl, “I bet she’s a total knock-out, knowing him. How did they meet? D’ya think she’d pose for me?”

“Slow down there, killer.” Steve laughs, “Might want to meet the girl first before propositioning her.”

She huffs a laugh, “You’re right, of course. She’d probably think I’m insane or something. What would I do without you Stevie?”

“Probably scare off more chicks than you already do.”

“Oh, go fuck yourself Harrington.” Robin’s laugh is loud and warm, soothing something in his gut. “I’ll see you tonight, dingus.”

“Sure, stay safe. Call me later, bye.” He places the phone back in its cradle and has half a mind to check the room behind the curtain, just in case some teenagers slipped past without him noticing, but then the phone rings.

“Thank you for calling Family Video, this is Steve. How may I help you?”

“Uh, hi.” A voice says down the line, small and tight. You introduce yourself, quickly followed by, “I’m at the hospital, with, uh Eddie?”

“Oh! Hi, how’s he doing?”

“Good, still in the coma.”

Steve can hear some voices filtering through the mic, loud and familiar.

“So, Hop and Wayne made it? That’s good.”

“Yeah, yeah, Joyce too. The kids are here too, I guess? It’s all a bit overwhelming.”

He huffs a laugh, “Yeah, I can only imagine.” He occupies himself with the slinky on the counter, much preferring to hear your voice than deal with the families that just walked in, ten minutes to close. “You holding up okay?”

An intake of breath, “Mmhm.”

It’s a feeling he knows well.

You’re overwhelmed by all these people you’d never met, on top of the fact that your fiancee is in a coma. Steve feels like shit, having you handle all of that by yourself. If he hadn’t stupidly sent the mid-shift employees home early, he would have been there to help you navigate it all.

“Joyce wants to know if you’re coming by after work. If we should wait for you,” You say after a beat or two of silence, “Or if you’ll just meet us at the house for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

Steve rolls his neck in an effort to relieve the built-up tension there, bones popping, he rubs a hand at the nape of his neck. “Could you put her on real quick?”

He listens as the phone changes hands and Joyce’s comforting voice intones, “Steve?”

“She’s freaking out.”

“What?”

He sighs, “The fiancée, she sounds like she’s in a bad way.” He checks out the straggling customers, “Don’t wait on my account. I’ll see Ed after I’m done here.”

“Okay, Steve.”

“Does she have a place to stay? I know Rob is crashing with you and Hop—”

Joyce laughs, “We’ll have a full house I suppose. I can put Jonathan on the couch or something, don’t worry about it Steve.”

“Right. Okay.” He gives the final customer a smile and wave as they wish him a happy holiday. “I’ll see you later.”

Hanging up the phone, Steve walks to the door to turn the lock and flip the sign to ‘closed.’ He lingers against the door, resting his forearms against the bar, watching as the snow falls against the dark sky. Wonders how it is that just from the sound of your voice, he felt himself falling not unlike snowflakes outside.

Earlier that day

Turns out, landing the Corroded Coffin interview was not the boon to your career you thought it would be.

Maybe you’d set yourself up for failure. And it didn’t help that you had one big, fat embarrassing crush on a member of the band. Generally, being a fan of the artist coupled with the tendency to romanticize things in your mind only led to disaster.

Or, in your case, attempting to revive the frontman of the aforementioned band on the bathroom floor.

Eddie Munson was unresponsive at your feet, a panoply of pills and baggies scattered across the floor. Having no time to think, you launch into action— checked for breathing and finding none began CPR followed by chest compressions, all while yelling for help.

Gareth is the one to find you, compressing Eddie’s chest with your two hands in between administering two breaths after every 30 counts.

“Call an ambulance!”

You can’t even bring yourself to feel sorry about your tone, harried and frantic, as he stumbles out to call 911. Thankfully, the paramedics are quick. One paramedic asks, “You’re his fiancée?”

Dumbly, you nod, too in shock to register what’s been said. Someone guides you down the steps and into the front of the ambulance strapping you in with a seatbelt. He can’t just die, you reason, not when Corroded is just taking off— a world tour in the new year and a cover story with Rolling Stone.

Your editor would have your head if something were to go wrong. Munson was notoriously picky with interviews and reporters, it was a miracle they’d approved you for the job. Rumor has it that he’d have much preferred Nancy Wheeler, but the board wasn’t keen to bring in a free-lance reporter for the job.

Somehow, this would be your fault.

Arriving at the hospital isn’t any better. Gareth and the other band members stayed behind to call management and see what was to be done about Eddie, and made you promise to call them once you’d arrived at Hawkins Memorial.

Nevermind that you’re alone in a town you’d never stepped foot in before today. And all at Eddie Munson’s behest.

They rushed him off past the swinging double-doors, out of your reach. Stepping to the front desk, you ask the receptionist where the nearest pay-phone is, and she offers you one of the hospital phones instead.

Dialing the number hastily scribbled onto your hand, your fingers brush along the plastic keys listening for the trill of the ring down the line.

“Hi, Gareth? We made it to the hospital, they took him back with a team of doctors and nurses.”

“You didn’t go back with him?”

“It’s family only, I think?” You scratch the back of your neck nervously. “It’s not a big deal, I can stay in the lobby until you get here.”

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a while…”

He goes on to explain that their team has to meet and discuss next steps. The band can’t leave until they’ve done so and their manager asked them to stay put.

“That’s shitty.”

He hums his agreement.

“And I’m just supposed to stay here by myself? I don’t—”

“That’d be great, that is, if you don’t mind,” Gareth interrupts. “They’ll call his emergency contact soon enough. But we’d really appreciate having someone we know there until then.”

“Oh, okay.”

He thanks you for being so cool with all of this and says his goodbyes. With a short smile, you hand the phone back to the receptionist. Heaving a sigh, you drop your head into your hands and lament, “I was gonna marry him.”

Unbeknownst to you, Eddie’s attending nurse overhears you and recalls how the paramedic who brought him in said something about a fiancee. Turning toward you, she places a delicate hand on your back. You jump with a start and look up.

“You’re the fiancée, right?”

“Wh–”

“It’s okay honey, he’s doing fine. I’ll take you back there now.”

Allowing yourself to be guided by the kind nurse as she prattles on about something or other, you wonder how to get yourself out of this. No one was going to buy that Eddie Munson has a secret fiancee. If he was awake, he’d probably laugh you out of the room himself.

But, as it was, they’d placed him in a medically induced coma to let the drugs work their way out of his system. A small miracle, that. The doctor briefs you on his status, all of which flies directly out of your brain, too focused on how small he looks in the bed. Tubes dripping fluids and machines whirring or beeping every so often. Tattoos a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin, a sharp relief against a marble canvas.

A medical assistant approaches you and asks about an emergency contact or the contact information of family and friends.

“I don’t–”

The dazed look in your eye must give something away because the assistant attempts to pat your back comfortingly before saying they’ll check his personal effects.

The nurse, impossibly kind, rests a hand on your shoulder, “Let him hear your voice, honey.”

Her shoes squeak along the tile floor as she leaves. There’s a brief reprieve where you’re left alone with Eddie in the hospital room. The nurse and medical assistant flit in and out occasionally, making notes in his chart here and there. But you’re transfixed by the man in front of you— beautiful and impossibly out of reach. He was even before the interview, you rationalize, but now he’s even more so. It’s bittersweet, almost, makes you want to reach out and hold the hand at his side, silver rings glinting in the fluorescent lights.

“Hi,” You greet. “I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing here, huh?” You take the seat closest to him. “Well, I didn’t really get a chance to introduce myself, so here it goes.” Taking a sip from the coffee the nurse left to fortify you, you recite your full name. “And I think you should know your family thinks we’re engaged. Never been engaged before, so this is all very sudden for me.” You huff a laugh and roll your eyes, “Um, what I really came here to tell you was, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“I don’t know what to do,” You continue, a quasi-one sided conversation and therapy session all in one neat package. “I’m just a reporter for the Rolling Stone. And if you were awake, or hell, even if Gareth were here, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Oh, god not that I’m blaming you.” Your hand finds his arm briefly before you jerk back as if stung, “Shit, sorry.”

“This is not how I pictured my life going, to be honest with you. I thought when I did get engaged, I’d at least have the luxury of knowing my fiancé, or y’know them being conscious at least.” You sigh and take another sip of shitty coffee, “Don’t get me wrong, I love my life— I’ve got a great job and apartment, I get to travel and write for a living. It’s definitely not a bad gig.”

“It’s just, I never met anyone I could truly be myself with, y’know? Laugh with, and I mean ugly laugh with a snort and witch cackle. D’ya ever believe in love at first sight? No, probably not, you’re too rock and roll for that. Or have you even seen someone, and you knew that if only that person really knew you, they would…”

Thinking back to your Corroded Coffin research and tabloid perusals, you sigh. “Of course, they would dump the perfect model that they were with and realize that you were the one they wanted to grow old with.” You shake your head, realizing how ridiculous you sound, talking to a man in a coma who probably can’t even hear you. Your voice falls to a hush, “You ever fall in love with someone you’ve never even talked to? Have you ever been so alone you spend the day confusing a man in a coma?”

“No? Me neither.”

There’s the sound of shuffling of feet echoing from the hallway, followed by a relived: “Oh, there he is.”

A voice startles you from the doorway, deep and masculine, albeit out of breath. A tall, broad man steps into the room quickly followed by a shorter woman and a lankier man. The first addresses you, “You must be the fiancée, I’m Jim Hopper.” He holds out his hand in greeting.

You shake his hand, palm engulfed in his larger one.

“This is my wife, Joyce, and that there is Eddie’s uncle Wayne.”

“He’s so pale,” She laments, crossing the room to his bedside. “Oh, my god.”

You nod to each of them, dropping your hand from Hopper’s. He studies you and you feel like squirming under his gaze, he’s still in uniform but sets his hat on a nearby chair. Great, just what you needed, a police chief to sniff you out.

Grabbing your things, you ready yourself to leave. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I should—”

“Nonsense,” Joyce says from opposite of you, she brushes a few strands of hair away from Eddie’s face. “The kids’ll be here soon and they’ll want to meet you.”

Wayne claps a hand to your shoulder, warmly giving it a squeeze.

“The doctor said you found him and gave him CPR until the paramedics arrived?”

“Oh, um, yeah.”

“They say the only reason he was breathing when they brought him in was because of you.” His voice is hoarse, he coughs into his fist and clears his throat. “Thank you, for that.”

“It’s what anyone would’ve done.”

He squeezes your shoulder once more, “Not necessarily,” and moves off to sit in one of the chairs.

“The doctor should be back soon,” You say, sitting beside Wayne. “He said the vital signs and brainwaves were looking good.”

Joyce nods and shoots you a smile, making idle chit-chat while the rest of you wait for the kids to arrive. There was some concern over Wayne and his heart condition, doesn’t take to shocking news too well, as you understand it. But who are these kids, Eddie’s kids? You didn’t recall coming across any mention of a previous wife or children in your research, but there are stranger things for rockstars to get up to than having a secret family you suppose.

It’s only when Wayne nudges you with his foot that you realize Joyce has been calling your name, “Where are you staying?”

“Oh, a hotel for the night.” You say softly, “I have to get back to New York soon.”

“Well, I won’t hear of it.” Joyce says looking to Hopper, “She’ll stay with us, won’t she Jim?”

He looks back at his wife and seeing her steely resolve, he knows better than to argue with her. “Sure, you’ll spend the holiday with us.”

Damn.

“Oh, we should see if we need to wait for Steve,” Joyce notes, just as a gaggle of people walk in. “Hi kids!” She stands quickly to greet them, their names coming too fast for you to keep up. A man and woman about your age bring up the rear, Joyce hugging them in turn.

Quietly, you step out to collect yourself. After taking a few breaths, you spot the medical assistant from earlier and flag him down for the emergency contact information. He scribbles a name and several phone numbers on a scrap of paper, “I would try this one first,” He points to the middle number, “It’s the work line, I think.”

“Great, thank you!”

Entering the room again, Wayne introduces you as Eddie’s fiancee and rescuer, to whoops and hollers. The younger woman lets out a wolf-whistle and drops you a wink, causing the heat to skitter underneath your skin. Making toward the phone, you dial the number and read the name on the paper.

Steve Harrington.

“Thank you for calling Family Video, this is Steve. How may I help you?”

The rich baritone of his voice, strong and deep, brings a quiver to your knees. Stumbling your way through an introduction, you make disastrous small-talk and wave Joyce over. She takes the phone with a smile, pushing you lightly toward the assembled group where the young woman, Robin, takes you under her wing.

“Fiancée, huh?” She asks with a quirked brow, to your noncommittal shrug. “Hmm.” Her eyes sweep toward Eddie, “I think you can do better,” She jokes with a wink.

Wayne drives you from the hospital to the house, graciously stopping by a grocery store along the way because you didn’t want to show up empty-handed. You make quick work of the deserted aisles, grabbing the necessary ingredients for pumpkin and pecan pie. He helps you to load the bags in the back of the truck and softly croons along to Woody Guthrie as he drives along the icy streets.

A comfortable silence sits between you. Wayne Munson is a man of few words, which is fine by you. The less opportunity for talking yourself into a hole, the better. He comes to a stop in front of a two-storey house festooned with Christmas lights. He carries your bags from the truck into the house, promising Joyce that he’ll be back tomorrow for Thanksgiving. Joyce rolls her eyes fondly and turns back toward the kitchen, leaving the pair of you in the entryway.

You rock back on your heels uncomfortably. Before you can make your escape, Wayne’s hand falls to your shoulder again kneading gently. You glance up to find his watery eyes and quiet smile; he pulls you in for a brief hug. “Thank you sweetheart,” He sighs, followed by a sniff, “I don’t know where he’d be without you, or where we’d be for that matter.” Giving you a final squeeze, he releases you and calls out a goodbye to Hopper and Joyce, shutting the front door behind him.

“Hey kid,” Hopper says, leaning against the bannister. “Join me outside for a minute?” He shrugs into his coat and nods toward the front porch. “Lemme grab my smokes, I’ll meet you out there.”

Well, shit.

It takes everything in you to not give in and pace along the icy boards of the porch as you wait. He’s figured you out, you know he has, and now he’s going to kick you out and you’ll have to call a cab and get back to the hotel before booking it to the airport first thing tomorrow.

“I know you and Munson aren’t involved, kid.” Hopper shuts the front door with a soft click, “Heard you back at the hospital talking to him.”

Your blood goes cold and you know there’s no way you can spin yourself out of this one. “I know, I know and I’m so sorry. It just all happened so fast and Wayne has that heart thing—” Your voice is choked and tight as you try to explain.

“Hey, slow down, take a breath. This isn’t the end of the world.”

“I’ll tell them, I just—”

He shakes his head and lets out a sigh, “Let me level with you,” He brushes off the snow and ice from the top step and invites you to sit down beside him. “God knows what that boy did to earn your attention, cause I certainly can’t make heads or tails of it.” He lights up a cigarette and offers one to you, “No? Can’t say I blame you, it’s a bad habit.” He takes a long drag in thought, leaving you to stew in your guilt. “What I’m trying to say is this: whatever you did, it brought him back. Eddie’s here and breathing because of you, so, in a way, we have him back because of you.”

You stay silent, knowing that whatever Hopper just shared with you is important. The guilt doesn’t leave you, not entirely, but this gruff lawman confiding in you does lodge something loose from the knot in your chest. And when he throws his arm over your shoulders to draw you to his side, you can’t help the watery smile that makes its way across your face.

He smells like your dad, the same blend of tobacco, leather, and spice. It’s been far too long since you’ve indulged in the memory of him, so you allow yourself the weakness, just this once.

And you let Hopper lead you back inside his loud and warmly lit home where Joyce greets you with a plate for dinner and promises to help you bake the pies for tomorrow.

Steve is dead on his feet when he arrives at Hop and Joyce’s house. He’d swung by the hospital to check on Eddie and talked with the doctor and nurses. It was all pretty standard— let him dry out and then assess for further damage. His vitals were good and there didn’t appear to be a need for concern at this point. The doctor, of course, recommended a stay in rehab after being discharged from the hospital, which was already suggested by Corroded’s management team.

“You fucking idiot.”

That’s the first thing Steve says to Eddie, quickly followed by:

“When you wake up, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

He doesn’t linger, knowing he’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day until Eddie wakes up. But it’s gone midnight by the time he turns the key at Hop’s place, kicking his boots at the door to rid them of the snow and ice, before toeing them off at the door. They thunk across the hardwood as he carelessly kicks them off, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it on the hooks by the door.

“Sshh, dingus, you’re gonna wake her up!” Robin hisses as her socked feet light down the stairs.

Steve smiles, relieved to see her, before asking, “Wake up who?”

Robin rolls her eyes and gestures to your sleeping form on the sofa. Steve studies you from a few steps up, one hand resting on the wooden bannister while the other pauses mid-air as he unravels his scarf. “Eddie’s fiancée, of course.”

“So, that’s her?”

You’ve turned your back to them, and you’ve curled in ever so slightly on the sofa. One of Joyce’s many blankets covers you, but your socked feet stick out from underneath one corner— dancing penguins.

At least, that’s what Steve thinks are on your socks. But, he may need to get his eyes checked again.

“What, you haven’t met her?” Robin takes in Steve’s shocked expression, before it softens into something akin to how he goes all moon-eyed at the babes who frequented Scoops Ahoy or Family Video when they were teens as his eyes fall to you once more. “She’s great, you’ll love her. Now c’mon, let’s get you some food.”

“Cereal?”

She snorts at that, “Not my cereal. You took the toy surprise last time!”

Safely ensconced in the kitchen, Robin and Steve catch up in between bites of sugary cereal. She regales him with how valiantly Jonathan tried to get you to take his room upstairs for your stay and how stubbornly you’d refused, insisting you’d be fine on the couch.

“I was right,” Robin says, some milk dribbling from her mouth as she chews. “Total knock-out and smart. Dunno how Munson managed it.”

“Oh y’know, the Munson charm probably.”

She hums in thought, setting her empty bowl in the sink. “Why d’you think he didn’t tell us?”

“Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise?”

“Fuck, what if he knocked her up?!”

Steve’s eyes blow wide at that thought. “Uh,” He says, astutely, “I don’t think that’s the case.”

“Yeah,” Robin hops down from her perch on the counter. “But how do we know?”

“You could ask her.”

She punches him in the arm, “You don’t just ask women if they’re pregnant Steve, geeze.”

He shrugs and slurps the sugary milk from the bowl before setting it alongside Robin’s. He licks his lips and crosses his arms in thought. Steve hadn’t considered the rather obvious conclusion that his rockstar best friend had inadvertently knocked someone up. Considering the groupies and types that flocked to Eddie, it was a long time coming.

If that’s what the case may be.

As it stands, it’s nearly two in the morning and Steve is exhausted. Thankfully, Family Video is closed for the holiday tomorrow, but he knows that in a few hours everyone is going to tramping around the house and generally being a nuisance. And he really doesn’t wanna drive clear across town to his place.

Steve pauses on the stairs, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. Robin clears the landing and calls to him from the guest room, “C’mon dingus, I haven’t got all night.”

With a shake of his head, he climbs the stairs mindful not to linger too long on the creaky boards. He settles in sharing a bed with Robin, her icicle feet darting under his calves as he fusses with the blankets. His head hits the pillow, and he’s out like a light.

All you can think as you blearily blink yourself awake, is how everything is so loud. Even when they try to be quiet, scampering across the hall past the living room where you clung to the last vestiges of sleep - it was loud. Strained whispers about breakfast and hospital visits, the opening and closing of doors, Hopper hissing at the kids to “Keep your mouths shut,” and to “Stop chasing each other across the house!”

A man, whom you can only assume is Steve, stumbles down the stairs, sweats swung low on his hips sporting a threadbare t-shirt and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. You’ve never seen a human being with bedhead like that - strands sticking up every which way and the sheer volume it had, my god. Hand falling from his eye, his glasses slot back into place, a pair of simple round frames decked in silver. He stops short at the landing, one hand grasping the wood of the bannister, watching as you set the phone back in its cradle.

“Leaving so soon?”

And that voice - all husky and low from sleep, with a slight rasp to it. It’s amazing you’re not reduced to a puddle on the floor at this point. He stretches slowly, like an animal would, a hushed groan falling from his lips. You swallow the lump in your throat and drag your eyes from the sliver of skin exposed at his hip.

“No, just talking to Wayne.” You offer meekly, voice rusty from disuse, “He’s on his way over for an early morning hospital run.”

“Mmm,” Steve nods, “That’s not a bad idea.” He turns the corner from the stairs and stands beside you in the entryway. “I don’t think we’ve officially met,” He says, offering his hand to shake. “I’m Steve.”

“Nice to meet you.” You shake hands and introduce yourself. His hand is large and warm, the contact of your skin against his sending a shiver down your spine.

“That’s a pretty name,” He smiles at you, beginning to wake up a bit more. “So, you’re the fiancée.”

“Yup.”

“Huh.” He looks you up and down, clucks his tongue and departs, making his way toward the kitchen.

Once there, all hell breaks loose. Joyce and Hop are manning the stove and counter, flipping pancakes and shovelling eggs onto plates and all but throwing them at the kids. Wedged into the breakfast nook are Dustin, Lucas, and Mike while El, Max, Robin, and Jonathan commandeer the table in the kitchen.

“Mornin’ family.” Steve greets, bee-lining for the coffeemaker. Blessedly, there’s a fresh pot brewing in the percolator while he scavenges for a mug.

Mumbled versions of “Morning Steve,” sound out from the peanut gallery between bites of food and sips of coffee or orange juice. Joyce sets a plate in front of him on the counter and ruffles his hair, “Morning kiddo.”

Hop sighs from the stove, turning the dial of the burner to ‘Off’ before intoning, “The kitchen is officially closed, you gremlins.”

Steve chuckles as he removes the coffeepot and gives a generous pour into the ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug El made many moons ago. He’s not sure of your preferred cream-to-sugar ratio, so he decides to go without and trots out of the kitchen.

He sees the front door close at the end of the hall and quickens his step not wanting to miss you. Spying a pair of slides from god knows who, he slips them on and pulls the door open. Wayne’s old pickup is idling in the driveway as you step into the cab, feet unsteady and the newly formed ice of the drive. Wayne nods to Steve in greeting as he walks toward the house, while Steve waves in return.

“Careful,” He says as a hand comes to rest at your back.

Tossing a ‘thanks’ over your shoulder, you settle into the seat with a click of the seatbelt. “Did you need something?” You ask, breath forming puffs of vapor in the morning light.

“Well, uh,” Steve begins, ducking his head and gesturing to the mug in his hand. “The coffee’s not too great over there at the hospital.” He hands you the mug through the open door.

“Oh, thank you.”

He leans against the car, face level with yours. One fist at the roof of the cab while his opposite arm braces against the open door. A lock of hair falls into his face, and he’s so attractive that it’s stupid. “So, uh, y-you’re comin’ back, right? You’ll come back?”

You glance to him, unsure of why he’s so concerned with your whereabouts. “Yeah, we’re just checking in. We’ll be back soon.”

Steve nods at your confirmation, pushing off of the truck to stand at his full height. His hands slide to his hips, fingers just beneath the band of the sweatpants as he slowly arches his back, hips bobbing toward you. And you don’t know whether to maintain eye contact with him or focus on the looming proximity of his crotch.

“Oh boy,” He exhales, looking off into the distance. “What a day.”

Your eyes dart away when he looks to you once more, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Well, thank you.” You hold the mug up and take a tentative sip, “Good goddamn,” You whisper in disbelief.

“It’s good, right?” You nod and take another sip as he smiles, “I had a dream about you last night.” He tugs at the band of his sweats while your eyes cut to his.

“What?”

“Yeah,” He leans against the truck again, face closer to yours and arms resting against the roof of the cab. “I ended up havin’ a dream about you.”

“W-what was I doing?” You stammer out, as the sound of crushed snow and ice underfoot signals Wayne’s return.

“Well–” Steve starts to say before he’s cut off by Wayne’s, “Y’ready, sweetheart?”

You nod and clear your throat uncomfortably.

“You comin’?” Wayne asks Steve before he closes the passenger door.

“Later.” He turns to leave as Wayne settles into the driver’s seat but before you can pull out of the driveway, “Oh, y’know, you gotta make sure to bring back the mug because it’s Hop’s favorite.”

You stare back at him blankly.

“Or he’ll kill ya.”

“Okay,” You breathe watching as he makes his way back to the house, Adidas slides flopping through the snow.

Returning from the hospital an hour or so later, with plans to bring a few plates over for Eddie’s attending doctor and nurses, you nearly breeze past Steve sitting on the staircase with a mug of coffee and paper in hand.

“Hey,” You greet, toeing off your boots and shrugging out of your coat. “Wayne’s coming back for later, just had to grab some things from his place.”

He’s changed out of his sweats and done something to tame his hair. You can hear Joyce frantically corralling the kids in the kitchen, something about Mass and how she refuses to be late again. Steve shakes his head and drinks his coffee, ready and waiting to cart Robin, Dustin, and Max over to Our Lady of Perpetual Mercy for the Thanksgiving Mass.

But it would seem that no one warned you about Mass last night, which would explain the deer in headlights look you’re sporting now. Steve stands from his perch on the stairs, turning to yell at Robin, “Our Lady may have perpetual mercy, but I don’t and you’re really pushing it today Rob!”

When he turns back, you’re no longer in the entryway. The kitchen door swings as if someone just passed through, and he can hear your voice over the chatter from the kids. Joyce is rattling off instructions and times for food to be cooked and you’re diligently taking notes on the whiteboard attached to the fridge. Your handwriting is neat, and a bit slanted, giving it an effortless look. Capping the marker, you let it swing from the string on the fridge.

“Think that about does it,” You assure Joyce, gesturing to the lone velcro roller in her hair. “I’ll have everything ready by the time you get back.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” She asks, unraveling the roller and setting it on the windowsill above the sink. “I’m sure Robin has something you could borrow.”

Steve catches your eye roll and snorts into his mug. Your eyes cut to him, silently admonishing his outburst. He shakes his head and sets the mug on the counter, seeing Hop’s mug he loaned you earlier already on the drying rack.

“I don’t want to be a bother,” You kindly brush her off, “Besides, you’ll want to get going soon and I would just hold you up.”

“And the hotel is dropping off your luggage later?”

You nod, tying on an apron and moving to wash your hands. “Yeah, I spoke with the concierge this morning.”

“I wish you’d just sleep in Jonathan’s old room,” Joyce tuts, “He can go on the couch, he’s used to it.”

“Mom, I already offered—”

You laugh and raise your hand, “It’s fine Joyce, I’m already an imposition as it is. The last thing I’d want to do is put him out.”

Steve watches as you blend in with the family, how easily you soothe Joyce and her worries, banter with the kids, and crack jokes with Hop. It’s easy to see why Eddie could fall for someone like you. He just wishes he could find someone like that— easy going and kind, someone who fits in like a missing puzzle piece.

But maybe it’s too perfect.

Now there’s some food for thought.

A loud honk from Hop’s Bronco jars him from his musings. Steve claps his hands together, rallying the troops, “Okay, who’s with me?” Dustin, Lucas, and Max jump up from the table and gather their coats, scurrying out to the beemer. Robin takes the stairs two at a time, struggling to shrug into her coat. “Look alive, sunshine!”

Goodbyes ring out as you follow them to the porch, watching as they clamber into their cars. You wave as they pull out of the drive, Joyce rolling down the window for a final reminder about the dinner rolls. With good humor, you nod and give her a thumbs up as the Bronco drives onto the street.

The church parking lot is packed by the time they arrive. Steve drops off Robin and the kids before peeling out to find a parking spot, while Hop leaves the Bronco in the drop-off lane in front. Mass has already begun when Steve enters the chapel, quickly he slips in alongside Hop and Joyce at the family pew.

“We pray that the Lord’s healing presence will be felt by those who are sick and by their families. Especially Robert Newby, Barbara Holland, and Edward Munson. We pray to the Lord,” The priest intones from the lectern.

“Lord hear our prayer.”

Steve stands in between Hopper and Robin, waiting for the priest to move it along.

“O, God, you call us to live as one family. Save us from…”

Finally, they sit. Half-paying attention to the priest, Steve turns to Hop and asks, “So, who’s this fiancée?”

“She’s Eddie’s girl, she’s family now.”

“You’d think if Eddie were getting married, he would have announced it in the Times.”

Hop turns to him, “We read the Indianapolis Star.”

And the congregants say, “Amen.”

“If she’s family, why isn’t she at Mass with us?”

Hop snorts, “That’s rich, comin’ from you, kid.”

“I like Mass better in Latin,” Wayne pipes up from his seat next to Joyce, “It’s nicer when you don’t know what they’re sayin’.”

“D’ya think about what I said the other night?”

“Nope.”

“Steve, come on.” Hop stands with the rest of the congregation, “You’ve got the instinct for it, and gettin’ through the Academy is a breeze.”

“I told you,” Steve says following suit, “I don’t wanna be a cop for chrissakes.”

“Stop swearing,” Joyce hisses, “We’re in Mass.”

“But there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Well, you can talk about it later,” Joyce reminds them.

“Talk about it now,” Robin says leaning toward Steve conspiratorially, “He can’t kill you in church.”

“Will you please pipe down?” An exasperated parishioner asks from the pew behind them.

Hop scoffs and slowly turns around, “Hey, be nice, pal. We’re in church.”

“You’re disrupting the Mass!” He hisses back.

“Yeah? And who made you the Pope?”

“Jim!” Joyce hisses, nudging with an elbow.

“Now how did Argyle get to be a lector?” Wayne asks, “He took over Ed’s gig with Reefer Rick after he moved to LA with the band.”

Steve and Hopper snort, Robin tries and fails to repress her laughter. Down past Wayne, Dustin and Mike are a few seconds from a slap fight while Max and El whisper in between fits of giggles. Joyce sighs deeply.

And the congregation says, “Amen.”

Cooking Thanksgiving lunch goes off without a hitch. Everything was ready, as you promised, by the time they’d returned from Mass and you’d caught the tail end of Joyce’s scolding: “We will try to behave as a civilized family might—”

The kitchen door swung open to reveal Hopper and Joyce both stopping short at the sight of you washing dishes.

“H-how did you—” Joyce’s mouth opens and closes, struck dumb at the sight of gleaming dishes in the drying rack and the dishwasher already running.

“Oh, hi,” You toss over your shoulder, “The dining room table is set, I was just cleaning up in here.”

Steve and Robin file in soon after, bickering about something or other. They’re talking fast and cutting each other off, but it doesn’t deter their conversation.

“Why do you keep singling me out?” Steve balks, throwing his coat on the back of a nearby chair.

“Well, if you hadn’t been pestering Hop throughout Mass we might’ve—”

“And I can’t even defend myself?”

“Forget it,” Hop cuts in with a warning tone, “And I know you gave her my mug, Harrington.”

“Oh, did you need it?” Your hand flies to the cabinet above the coffeemaker, a fresh pot already brewed. “It’s all washed and ready to go.”

Dustin enters shortly after, “Let’s just vote Steve off the island,” and thumps him on the chest in passing.

“Yeah,” Hop agrees.

Steve sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “Well, I’m ashamed of all of you.”

“Oh, there’s some news,” Max mutters sarcastically, leaning against the fridge.

Steve’s eyes fall to Lucas, “Even you Sinclair.”

Lucas throws up his hands in exasperation, “I didn’t even do anything!”

“Okay, enough.” Joyce says cutting through the nonsense. “It’s Thanksgiving, we’re going to eat lunch without any of this bickering. And then, with any luck, you lot will pass out watching the game and I can finally get some goddamn peace.”

Everyone has the decency to look mildly embarrassed, that is until:

“No swearing.”

Steve punches Robin in the arm, “Can it.”

The room descends into guffaws and fits of laughter shortly thereafter. Joyce eventually herds everyone into the dining room, Robin pours the drinks while Hop carves the turkey. Everyone helps themselves to the various sides— dinner rolls, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, stuffing, and roasted veggies. Wayne arrives with cornbread fresh from the oven and some vanilla ice cream to go with the pies for dessert.

The candles are lit casting a warm glow around the room, illuminating smiling faces. And it’s nice. Nice to belong, if only temporarily, to a big family that loves hard. Growing up, it had been only you and your dad. And after his death, that left only you. You had missed it, all of it— the inside jokes, sibling taunts, half-assed scolding followed by a cheeky wink, and that effortless touch.

It was second nature, how freely they expressed their affection for one another. Steve roping Dustin into a half-nelson for a noogie, Jonathan and Will kicking eachother under the table, El and Max communicating in half-formed sentences and wild gesticulations, Joyce, Hop, and Wayne sharing long-suffering sighs.

“Hey,” Robin says, nudging you with her elbow after refilling your wine glass. “I’m thankful for you.” Her voice is soft, like she’s sharing a secret. Cheeks tinged with a flush from the wine, she smiles at you and raises her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast,” She announced to the group, “To our newest addition and guardian angel, cheers!”

The sentiment is echoed across the table, calls of your name and ‘here, here.’ And it’s so kind that your heart could burst. You sip your wine and swallow around the lump in your throat. Going back to your meal, you can’t help but feel like you’re being watched, observed. Glancing up, you catch Steve looking at you from across the table.

The flicker of golden light against his face does little to ease the knot in your chest. His hair is slightly disheveled, a lock falling across his face wrought loose from his fingers combing through it. His eyes appear more green than hazel in the light, studying you from behind wire frames. Your pulse kicks up under his scrutiny, and he looks at you as if you’ll unravel right then and there.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was the years of tropical vacations instead of celebrating holidays with friends and family that made you forget that, actually, families are complicated and any recollection of pleasant holiday celebrations spent with your dad were a figment of your own nostalgia-tinted imagination and the promise of skiing the next day.

For a moment, shame creeps upon you like a thief in the night. You tear yourself from Steve's gaze, not noticing the concerned furrow of his brows as you hastily stand and offer to clear some plates from the table. Sweeping out of the room and nudging the kitchen door open with your hip. He absentmindedly swirls the remaining wine in his glass and blows out a puff of air.

Ever the detective, it takes Hopper all of two seconds to ascertain that Steve did something to hasten your departure from the table. Seeing as the punk is pointedly not looking his way, Hopper lobs a dinner role at Steve, grazing his cheek only to land on his plate sending the cutlery clattering. He jerks upright, setting the glass on the table, “What the–”

“That’s enough,” Hop warns with cool detachment and a knowing look in his eye. He nods toward the kitchen, “Now, go make nice.”

Everything is still mostly out of your control in the kitchen, precisely because you don’t know where anything should go and having a knot in your chest as hard as a rock does little to help matters. But Steve silently rescues you by beginning to unload the dishwasher and Robin starts a thirty minute tale of increasing ridiculousness and by the time the attention turns back to you, you are slightly less hysteric and better able to answer El’s kind questions.

You swallow a twist of guilt and a bigger twist of gratitude. You feel some anxiety brimming in your stomach and nod, giving El a strained smile.

Something knocks against your shoulder. The warm scent of cedar and musk invading your senses— Steve.

“Your shoulders are up near your ears,” he observes.

You sigh at that, trying to roll out the tension, but not quite managing to. Par for the course, with your indeterminate stay in Hawkins looming in the air and stretching far across the foreseeable future.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #fic: tbsg #Spotify

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lovesclinic · 6 months

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𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬!┊synopsis: press needs you to read him to sleep, and he actually seems, shy?

reader x press

the phone ringing lights up the dark room, press?

"hey Y/N."

well shit his voice even sounds hot at like 3 AM, no fair.

"what do you want press,"

sighing tiredly, she muted herself, waiting for press' response.

the girl groaned and jumped up to sit on the bathroom bench, right next to the sink, her back leaning against the mirror with a posture that would send her mother into a fit.

a soft chuckle filled with sleep could be heard on the other side of the line as she clicked to unmute.

"can't sleep." while press' usual gruff tone was still missing, his short sentences were very much present.

a beat passed while she waited for press to say anything else.

why is his sleeping patterns my problem?

"abby said somethin' about your magic stories making her sleep or whatever, so jus, just do that."

press was stuttering and repeating himself, almost in a flustered manner.

had she made the infamous matt press, nervous?

"so you want me, to tell you a story, to sleep?" she asked incredulously,

were brodie and max listening on the other side, filming and snickering at her embarrassment?

but it was almost three in the morning, and besides press and herself, everyone had gotten high out of their minds.

what story would she even read to him?

"uh, yeah sure, just a short one though," surprised at her own words, she agreed without much need of persuasion from his side.

"ok." press almost whispered, she could hear him shuffling around on wherever he was.

was press still at brodies? or had he gone home?

on the other side of the line, press was settling in to his bed, all alone.

if the boy were to walk into the hallway, he'd still be alone.

stroll down stairs, through the living room, the kitchen, he would still be alone.

so while it was a selfish act for press to call ana, he needed to not be alone.

and no other contact in his phone could make make press forget that he's alone, and sad, like ana can.

"doesn't even have to be your story, just talk, read a book from abby's room,"

press mumbled as he laid so that the bottom of the phone where the speaker was, was placed right beside his ear, laying on his side, facing the phone.

ana was too caught up in what to read him and how his voice sounded when it was raspy and strained with sleep.

so caught up she didn't stop to think about how he had known she was at abby's house and not her own.

press had been woken up by the absence of ana's warmth curled up in his lap, followed by a thump or two, and a distant laugh, light and amused coming from the stairs.

press heard the two voices of ana and abby leaving together, and in his sleepy haze, press wished he had been able to say goodbye.

"i'll just grab a book from abby's desk, one second," placing the phone on the bench at the lowest volume possible so not to wake up abby.

she creaked open the bathroom door, tiptoeing to abby's desk, picking up the first book she could see before locking herself back in the bathroom.

she really hoped that abby didn't have to pee anytime soon.

she looked at the book she had picked up, realising now with the light helping her see, that she had picked up animal farm, the school book they were studying in english.

"is it okay that it's animal farm?" she didn't really know why she was asking his opinion, seeing as they weren't friends, really they would fit more in the enemy category before tonight.

"anything just start reading, please." Press mumbled, in that in between state of awake and asleep.

flipping to a page somewhere in the middle, ana began to read from chapter 5,

"All that year the animals worked like slaves. But they were happy in their work;" she read,

"but any animal who absented himself from it would have his rations reduced by half. Even so, it was found necessary to leave certain tasks-" and read.

she read until she could hear snores from through the phone.

she read for a bit longer after that too, not quite wanting to hang up just yet.

as the time spent on the phone call rounded to almost an hour and a half, ana knew she should've hung up by now, any friend, or enemy would have.

"good night press." she clicked the large red button, the beep sounding out twice signalling her ending the call.

she was exhausted.

she hardly ever stayed up this late for anything other than studying, and never because some boy had asked her to read to him.

she carefully slid back into bed with abby, wrapping an arm around and cuddling to her warm body as if she had been there for the whole night.

however, she was met with the rigid freezing up of abby's body, as she suddenly turned around to face ana in a a flash, awake brown eyes narrowing at her.

"why were you in the bathroom for so long?" abby asked in a sharpened tone, raising a hand to rub her own eyebrows, as if to ward off a headache.

she quickly raised the book still in her hand in response,

"reading."

technically not a lie, ana was reading, just not only for her own enjoyment.

abby nodded, all tightness gone as she now leaned into her embrace, the scent of her soothing vanilla scented hair products filling the her senses.

"nerd." abby muttered, seemingly already deep in sleep, soon followed by her.

#matt press #press ginny and georgia #ginny miller #ginny and georgia #matt press x reader #grumpy x sunshine #oneshot #writerscommunity #x sunshine reader #angel energy #books #feminine #positive #coquette #soft girl #coquettegirl

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pettydollie · 4 months

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a/n: in honor of my bday today (20 years :,)) !! i hope u guys enjoy wc: 651

"matt, turn off the lights!" chris hisses, whispering. all of your friends stood in your kitchen, getting ready to surprise you on your birthday. pink decorations and balloons are all around the house for your special day. nate, standing next to chris, giggled. "ooou, chris we can't, your girlfriend's coming" he teases jokingly

"shh, shut up!!" nick covers his mouth with his finger. you unlock the front door, coming home from errands, unsuspecting of the crowd in your home. as soon as you step inside, your friends jump up in unison. "surprise!!" they shout, cheering.

you stand still for a moment, your mouth slightly open. chris practically sprints over to where you're standing, grabbing the bags from your hands (after giving you a kiss on your cheek, of course).

"thank youu!" you smile toothily, although slightly regretting your choice of clothing. you were wearing a brown fresh love hoodie and jeans, hardly any jewelry on.

you walk in, closing the door. you greet everyone kindly, giving kisses and hugs as you receive happy birthday wishes and presents. you look at the counter, seeing a hello kitty cake all pretty and decorated just for you. you gasp quietly.

nick hugs you from behind, "mom baked it for you. it's red velvet." you turn around, squeezing him back. matt comes over, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and presses a kiss into your hair.

"can we have cake now?" you giggle once nate immediately nodded, agreeing with you. everyone comes together as you stand behind the counter, behind your adorable cake. chris grabs a lighter, igniting the candles.

"happy birth-" they began, but you cut them off quickly. "wait, don't record! i need to fix my hair." you turn around as people put their phones down and chuckle, letting you do your thing.

after they successfully sang happy birthday, you waved your hands over for your boyfriend to take a picture with you first. he happily obliges like a lovesick puppy and stands at your side, an arm around your waist as nick holds his phone for a picture.

but before the picture is captured, he swipes a bit of buttercream frosting with his finger and boops it on your nose. you scrunch your nose, laughing as nick took the photo with you looking into chris' eyes.

"my turn!" nick slams the phone down onto the table and runs next to you. after the photos were taken, you grabbed a kitchen knife and sliced the first piece of cake. "it looks so good." you gush.

you hand out slices to your friends, while chatting to them joyfully. once mostly everyone had finished, chris stood up off the chair he was sat on and ushered you (in larray's deaf blind mute vid with the triplets, at 16:30 when chris and larray are telling matt to call nick a sissy) towards a big box with holes at the bottom.

"oo" you walk over, confused on what to do since there was no way to unwrap it. "pick it up from the bottom." matt tells you, recording on his phone. you do so and gasp loudly "oh my goshhh, shut up!!!"

an adorable brown puppy sits under the box, looking up at you with big, gorgeous eyes. she has a plain pink collar already wrapped around her neck. you cover your mouth with your hand while the other pets her soft fur.

"do you like it?" chris asks, awaiting your response. "yes!! thank you!" you grin, picking the puppy up into your hands and cuddling her sweetly. you rise up and kiss chris softly. "i love you, thank you so much." you pouted slightly, feeling incredibly happy. "love you more, baby." he smiled brightly.

"eugh, your lips are chapped." nick icked, while pointing at chris who rolls his eyes, annoyed. "you should use Space Camp." he pulls a watermelon flavored lip balm out his pocket.

what should the puppy's name be?? lmk! also sorry for crappy ending </3

#chris sturniolo #reader #chris sturniolo x reader #chris x you #chris x reader #chris fluff #chris #christopher sturniolo x reader #sturniolo triplets #birthday #birthday fic #𝓬𝓱𝓻𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓸

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yomogi-mogi-mochi · 1 year

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Ineffable Bloom

Pairings: Azul/Siren MC

Summary: Despite your status as siren, there are not many words that reach those around you anymore, voice now muted and marred from the surgeries you have endured to remove the carnations that once suffocated your throat. But you don't mind it, serving quietly as the gardener of Night Raven College, making do with a notepad and pen when necessary. You are pleased to find your childhood friend, Azul, now attends the school, who spontaneously hires you for the flower arrangements he decides to decorate in his lounge with. There's little hope you bear with the silent poetry you weave with each meticulously placed flower, only an ache which tumbles over you like the ceaseless seas. However, Azul is not deaf to this song you have sealed in your bouquets, having cherished the morsels of sweetness in your childhoods where you shared the silent language of each flower.

Notes: Sorry this took ages lmao. Been in a “creating anything is obsolete” phase my/spring allergies are starting so I am. Dying. Part of the twst myth series, here is the post with some basics. I just reached 1000 likes on tumblr which might not be much to some but wowwww thank you guys for your support!!

GN terms for MC

CW: Emotional abuse and toxic parenting when we get into MC’s backstory

AO3 Link Here.

Masterlist

——————————————————

“Would you like to add a ribbon to this? I’ll add it for free since I have some extra?” You placed the last slender stalk of green hydrangea into the bouquet and move your hands in practiced shapes and swerves, forming each phrase with careful deliberation.

Jack struggles a bit in forming as keen language with his hands, but you appreciate that he has taken the time to respond in your vernacular. Writing does get a little tiring after a bit. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think Trey would appreciate that.” He pauses, looking to Ruggie, who sways around the room with his hands behind his head in boredom, dipping his gaze to the lilies standing tall in a bucket on the ground. “Right, Ruggie?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever is fine.”

The wolf huffs a bit before crossing his arms. “You know, you should be grateful (Name) is doing this so last minute since you forgot to place the order a week ago like we all agreed on.”

“Ugh get of my back‒ Leona had me running around more than usual last week…” His eyebrows raise a bit when he brings his attention to the dandelions drying above him, a slight movement you take notice to when wrapping the bouquet in its final layer. “Besides, who cares about all the details of each flower, it’s not like whoever is receiving them is looking into all the deep meanings of each blade of grass.”

You finish tightening the bow around the bouquet, assuring with your trained hands that it is secured tightly onto the broom, before handing it off to Jack. “Just like you mentioned in the interview‒ green color scheme, with symbols of loyalty, prosperity, and patience. Here is a card that has all of the flower languages on them.” You sign, which the man responds with a smile, and a clumsy thank you with his hands.

Ruggie has drifted over to the dandelion heads soaking in a bowl of water, being prepared for the dandelion honey you sell at Sam’s shop while his junior admires the bouquet in reverence. “You like dandelions?” You write on a notepad, poking Ruggie with it. He looks over lazily, shrugs.

“I guess.”

“They symbolize ‘an oracle of love’, resilience, and even sorrowful goodbyes. The name Dandelion comes from the word dent-de-lion, meaning the ‘jaws of a lion’- fierce, is it not?” Ruggie hums in curiosity in response, glancing at the flowers again to imagine it with a growing smile on his face. “Flowers and plants all have their silent poetry. It’s good to tip your ears to them once in a while, they may have something to say to you.”

“You hear that Jack‒ ‘jaws of a lion’..." The hyena says with his hand on his hips, a bashful finger grazing his nose.

"Yeah, yeah. Let's get going, we have a lot of prep to do for Trey's celebration." Jack turns to you before he leaves "Oh, you should stop by if you have time‒ everyone was curious during my birthday who had arranged my broomquet. I'm sure the other students would be thrilled to see the face of our new‒ well, I guess not so new anymore‒ gardener."

You furiously shook your head, scurrying your hands across the air in a flurry. "I wouldn't want to intrude…my work is nothing worth fussing over…"

"Anyone with a pair of working eyes can see otherwise‒ your talent is unmatched, you nearly performed a miracle reviving my half dead cacti." Jack smiles, remembering fondly of the times he had come in, asking you for advice on his growing horticulture collection. "Besides, it's nice for the students and staff to get familiarized."

"And free cake." Ruggie adds.

You raised your eyebrows at that, quelling the swirling anxiety in your stomach. "…okay, I'll try to make it. Just have to finish a few things here and I should be good to head out."

"We'll see you then, (Name)."

——————————————————

You brush your apron, relieving the weariness of a day's work in the breath that swelled from the bottom of your stomach and escaped as an audible huff that loosened the tension of your shoulders. However when you glance at your phone, anxiety shot through you as you realize time had passed a lot quicker, and it was about half an hour past the time Jack had told you to come. In racing footsteps, you gathered your items, throwing your apron on the hook near the front door before slamming it.

By the time you arrive, everyone is singing happy birthday, gathering in a circle around who you assumed was Trey, who bore a bashful smile on his face with the broomquet in his hands. You catch the eye of Jack across the room, who lights up when you wave nervously at him. The room erupts in applause and bright laughter as Trey blows out the candles of his cake‒ a volume you take a mental note of to judge just how many people were at this celebration. Quite a lot, especially now as the students disperse, preparing plates and cutlery to cut the delicious looking strawberry shortcake.

"Hey~ what are you doing here?"

There’s a surge of anxiety when those words are pointed at you, which you respond with a pressed smile as you swerve your head to the voice. To your surprise, you recognize the face which greets you, though it is a bit unnatural seeing them without a bluish tint to their skin, or scales. You suppose it’s a surprise for them as well, seeing you out of the water for the first time in about eight years.

“I thought I recognized that face. Hello, (Name), it has been a while.”

You hands move automatically to the pen and paper stuffed inside your pocket. “Jade? Floyd? It’s been a while. What are you doing here?”

“Eh? What's with the notepad little siren?”

The anxiety returned with Floyd's words. Even with the Leech family’s connections and the chattiness of your hometown, it was hard for rumors to form with the eight years you had spent apart from your home‒ your friends. You were thankful a bit for the amnesty it brought you on rare occasions like this, but explaining the whole situation was difficult for you‒ making up a believable excuse even more so considering the one memorable thing your species was known for. Sirens‒ their voice famed to plunge sea farers into maddening passion, the talents of which even the great Sea Witch openly admired in historical record. Perhaps you had been an example of this once, training your throat to squeeze and burn itself to strike impossible notes, whirling an unmatched vibrancy when you perfected each lyric, each score, each tendon to stand straight, expand your lungs, smile, and sing. Even if you had such talents in the past, it was negated with every pinch and pull of your mother’s craft‒ that memory now clandestine, numbed from the surgery.

Or that’s what you told yourself, as your calloused fingers graze the satin ribbon around your neck, the scars marring it aching slightly as you adjusted the fabric in a slight nervous tick. They’re been healed from quite some time‒ or you believe they are from the years you had observed every winding crack slowly dull against time‒ but the mountainous fossils carved onto your flesh would grow tender like this, pushed then retraced piercingly like the jagged shores far from your homelands, leaving snowy, bursting seafoam prickling against your skin. You suppose all you could do is tighten a smile against your mute lips, maneuvering past it as best you could.

“I’ll explain later. What are you guys doing at NRC?”

“We’re students, see~?” Floyd flashes a crooked smile, turning to the side to show off his dorm uniform. “Jade here is even the vice dorm leader. Boring if you ask me.”

“What are you doing here, (Name)? I don’t think I’ve seen you in my classes.”

“My aunt just retired as the gardener here, she's back at her shop in the Shaftlands. So I've come to officially take her place."

"We'll have our quartet back in no time now‒ you should visit the Monstero Lounge sometime so we can catch up~" Floyd wraps an arm around your shoulder, hanging lazily off it while his twin smiles.

"I agree with Floyd. Azul would be more than happy to see you too." At Jade's words, you brighten, and quickly scribble onto your notepad.

"Azul here too? Is he here today?"

Jade nods. "He's our dorm leader, actually. And yes, I think he just went outside to get some fresh air" his smile widens "you know how he is."

You do. Surely he was tired of the noise and pleasantries of birthday celebration. "Azul the dorm leader huh."

"You won't believe how much he’s changed unless you see for yourself." Floyd switches his weight to his other foot, landing on his brother's shoulder while gesturing to the veranda doors. You swerve your head towards it, trying to make out a figure against the bright blue skies and roses reaching towards the mild sun. There's a slight silhouette, but you can barely make out its features with the glare of the glass.

"You should go to him. He talks about you sometimes, you know." Before you could turn around and question the twins, their backs are turned from you, melting back into the bustling crowd. Despite your initial excitement, your feet move in idle footsteps, weighed by the heaviness which emerges from your wrapped throat, plummeting to the soles of your feet sticking densely onto the ground. The notepad in your hand is gripped through your sweaty palm‒ there was only so much space in each sliver of parchment you could fill with your words, the rest of your language lost to the silence which cages your throat. Even if you could rasp through your disfigurement with a language people would lend an ear to, you were sure that your thoughts, refined through your mother's distant voice, would drive you back into forlorn silence‒ your hands clawing and reopening your wounds wide and fresh enough to assure not even a breath could be heard from it. Flowers always came to you with such ease in comparison, eyes turned away from your secret adoration for something far more beautiful in perfectly placed petals, inventing no hope that you could cling to that would turn your throat raw with desire.

Even if these givings were seen, spoken of , or heard‒ you armor yourself by repenting‒ these gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Forgive me, for there is fear that one day that life will ripen within it‒ something as grotesque as myself, a venerable mirror to my slumbering desires to be swaddled and held. You arrive at the handle of the door too fast for your liking, hovering your hand over it with a heavy heart and tongue before grasping it quietly, hoping a little that your soundless footsteps would turn you into a phantom.

But when you are faced with a familiar image‒ his weaving dusty mauve hair, and the arctic clarity of his blue eyes, you can't help but to pause your prayers for a moment, met with the blinding joy his face brings you. Dear, dear friend.

You're so used to his name springing from your throat that you nearly tear the fragile nerves of your lesions with a rasp threatening to boil over by the warmth in your stomach. But you clench that tension in your hand as you scribble his name in hurried, crude strokes across the entire page.

"Azul?" You turned the paper pad over with clumsy, shaking hands. He looks just as surprised as you, but he nods slowly.

"(Name)?"

You nod your head vigorously to your name, decorated sweetly with his voice. His entire body is facing you now, taking you in with the gulp of his gaze. You do the same, noticing that, actually, not quite a lot has changed. Sure, the soft little octopus had grown tall and slender during the eight years you didn’t see him‒ but still, there is that mole dotted prettily on his face you remember quite well, and the softness of his eyes when they meet yours is one of your fondest, most tender memories, unraveled whenever you saw the sea blue glow of freshly fallen snow, or the velvety reflection of the skies in gentle spring creeks. But now they were here, gazing back at you, there were no words that appeared in your mind, or which you could communicate with the likeness of flowers. It's so sweet again when you hear his voice.

"What's happening? Why are you writ‒ never mind that." He shakes the thought away. "How…How have you been? Last I heard from mother you had moved with your aunt somewhere on land."

Azul does not question how, or why you stood in front of him after eight years, but rather simply‒ how are you? The smile that blooms at that realization hurts your cheeks. Azul mirrors your sentiments silently, relieved that there were no comments on his appearance of how he's "changed so much". Dear, dear friend. He missed this. Missed you too.

"I'm well. Been working as a gardener here, I enjoy it. How have you been? I’m guessing busy, I heard you're a dorm leader from the twins."

"Ah, you've already met them I see. I just hope they haven’t said anything…unnecessary." His smile widens, you trace the movement of his mole which stretches against the curve of his lips. "I've been…alright. Land life has been a lot to adjust to, but I think I have the hang of it now."

"Haha. It was a lot for me when I first came on shore too. Pillows are so weird, aren't they?"

The dormhead chuckles as you approach him near the railing, situating yourself beside him to face the white roses dotting the garden. One meant mercy, purity, the breath of love; two‒ "I deserve you"; three‒ adoration; 99 white roses, and this would be an Eden of eternal love. But you're too enraptured by his laughter to count, caught in the waves of his lightness.

"They are. But I think it's nice now, might even be a hit at the reef if we sell them during spring break. You mentioned you're a gardener?"

"Yes. I just maintain the horticulture on campus, and I do bouquets from time to time like Trey's broomquet today." You write fast, wanting to answer Azul quickly, fill the time with as much of him as you could. He leans over, watching you as you scribble, relishing silently in the smell of fresh cut lilies and seaside rosemary tangled in a salty sweet ocean breeze.

"An impressive feat, considering the size of our campus. If you're willing‒ I may actually need your help with the twin's birthdays coming soon."

“I'd be happy to help! We would need to set an interview up like I do with most of my clients‒ just so I know their preferences more. But it'll be easier since I already know Jade and Floyd." Truthfully, you were already putting together the perfect bouquet for the twins, violet roses here, silver ragwort there, and a sprinkle of beauty berry should bring the composition together in a delicate balance. The meeting was just an excuse to assure another conversation with Azul again, a thought which churned a feeling of shame within you, rolling you smooth with its ragged tongue that sanded down the rough joy jutting out from you like an unfinished pearl. When Azul nods on confirmation, this sensation becomes slightly eased, but your muscles churn inside you like the dark, deep seas.

"I agree. Nonetheless, us four should meet at the mostero lounge soon to catch up. I could use a talent like yours to freshen up the look of the lounge a bit‒ perhaps we could work a contract of some sort out."

"I'm not that good, I'm not so sure I can hold up to your expectations, dormleader."

"Please‒ Jade's tastes aren't so bad but Floyd's sense of interior design is abysmal. His idea of interior design is a bunch of half finished snacks decorating the shelf beside his bed. Any help would be wonderful."

A silent laugh shakes your shoulders. "I'll think about it."

The patio door opens again‒ revealing Jack, who waves a hand towards you, and speaks with clumsy hands. "They're cutting the cake (Name)- Azul, you too‒ it's gonna be gone if you stay out here for too long."

"Be right there." You sign, lifting your body from the deck railing.

"Is that sign language? I've never seen it in person." Azul holds the door open for you, allowing you to scurry in with a bow of your head.

You nod. "Writing gets tiring at times. But I'm happy either way people speak to me." There’s a twitch in Azul’s eyes that you catch at your statement, regret tingling at your fingertips making your skin feel raw against your flesh. You squeeze the meat of your palm to ignore it.

"We saved you two some cake~" Floyd summons the two of you with a wave, gesturing to two neighboring seats across from them.

Jade smiles, scooping a part of his cake with a fork. "It's nice that we're back together like this. It seems forever ago that you left the reef (Name)."

"But eight years fly by, don't they? You're going to have to catch me up on all the embarrassing stories of each other."

"Only if you let us in on some blackmail about you (Name)." Floyd reveals his sharp teeth with a wide grin, licking the icing off his fork.

"I will." You write, hoping you can fill their heads enough with the happier moments at your aunt's flower shop and time so far as the NRC gardener, rather than deliberate the disease which flowered in your lungs, the sickness that came with it‒ the surgery, the scarring, the healing‒ your departure from your mother, from your home, from them. The ribbon feels tight on your throat, your smile grows tense on your lips. You try your best to quell the swelling waves of anxiety, eased a bit with the laughter of your friends that rang in your presence once more.

——————————————————

You meet them again at the VIP section of their lounge just a few days later, having planned a date to meet before you went home after the birthday celebration. Though conversation was a bit stiff at first, energy begins to swell in the room as you reminisce the events of your childhood, and the years of adolescence you missed in the 8 years of absence from your hometown. The conversation slowly progresses towards how the three would be able to see you more, shifting back to Azul's proposal to have you come to set up flower arrangements in the lounge.

"How about roses?" Floyd suggests. "Classic. Everyone likes them."

A shrug. "Hm. They're a nice touch‒ but a bit basic. I can add them in, but I wouldn't make them the focal point since there's just better flowers out there."

"What do you suggest?" Azul asks.

You think, flipping through the catalog of flowers in your mind. "Especially for the color scheme of your dorm, I think hydrangeas would be nice. Blue poppies, perhaps some rosemary in there as well. Maybe purple carnation‒” you scribble that last thought away as quickly and vigorously as it came, your throat tightening in remembrance at that thought.

“Those sound great‒ but I want something more elegant looking, the carnations you mentioned would be fitting‒ ah‒ remember those flowers from that story you always talked about? The one about the poetry being written on the petals?”

You were glad he moved from carnations. Besides, purple carnations signified grief and death in some cultures, far removed from the emblem of prayer they were in your culture. “Hyacinths?”

“Precisely. What do the white ones mean?” What about this one? What does this say? How about this, this, and this? You remember the way he pointed to each flower in your encyclopedia lent by your aunt, his small fingers fluttering across the page like a busy little cuttlefish at your riveting explanations. This is this, this and this. There was always a hurry to your words when you spoke to others‒ particularly your mother‒ rushing to seize the brief opportunity allowed for you to speak, but no matter how much you had stumbled over your words in clumsy delight, Azul listened with a smile on his face, making notes on paper for his experiments, words rushing to his hands like a school of fish.

“White ones mean a ‘quiet love’, or ‘love that is quelled’. If you want something with a happier meaning though, I would go with white wisteria, it means sweet nostalgic memories or drunken love; cornflowers‒ delicacy and elegance; or salvia‒ veneration and wisdom. Purple chrysanthemum would be splendid too‒ meaning your wish will come true."

You remember when your mother was kinder, tucking your small, innocent body into her soft arms‒ hushing your cries with a tender whisper. It was without that rattle in your throat she pointed towards you like a knife when you grew from that chaste form, sullied and filled with her disappointment. Your body was tall and flushed with it, but not quite tall enough, not quite curved and plump the way she liked‒ needed you to be to carve her desired image into you. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror‒ mother and child, mother and child. Her words lashing as the waves cracking against the jagged rocks, shaping you into a memorial of her pains, her aching hunger.

But you returned to that far-flung memory of her maternal care, remembering the legend she told you about purple chrysanthemums‒ placing one dearly to your hair, chirping her bright song with a story that was passed from the throat of her mother, to the her ears as a child, blood through blood. This was one of the only memories you remember of her singing not to an audience or a stage‒ but to you, flesh of her womb, skin and bones lovingly mirrored in babbling purity. You trace her unusually soft words with your hand, gliding across the page with the exact pitch of her voice swimming in your mind.

"There's a legend among our kind, of the purple chrysanthemum. We decorate our most treasured people with it, and wear it as a sign of someone watching over you to make a dream come true‒ whether it is a benevolent god, or another person." You pause your writing, the three looking over you to watch you write. "It symbolizes the victory of love‒ its power which pulls the best from you to achieve something as distant as a dream."

Your pen stills. "But‒ I should retract my suggestion. People of other cultures use it to commemorate death, I wouldn't want to offend someone."

Azul is brightened by the way you talk about flowers again, the fragrant morsels on his mind blooming, coloring him vividly in your dazzling artistry. This is this, this, and this. The way you forge lustrous, silent poetry with each careful placement of a blossom amazes him each time, finding your words lingering and echoing in the cove of his mind. "No." His mouth races somewhat brash, he tries again, clearing his throat. "No‒ I trust your initial judgment." He smiles. You trace that mole on his face. "I like it."

"Then it's decided."

Floyd yawns, draping his arms dramatically against the couch, and lulling his head upwards with a sigh. “Ugh. Enough with the flower talk‒ let’s talk about something more interesting.” He flashes a toothy smirk. “(Name), you wanna hear about the time Azul cried so hard he threw up?”

His twin clasps his hands with a similar expression. “Oh, that’s definitely a good one.”

Azul’s eyes blow wide open. “That is absolutely a violation of our contract‒”

“I don’t believe that includes (Name) actually.” Jade muses with a sly grin.

"Why was he crying so hard he threw up??"

The dormleader groans, dropping his hands into hands.

The twins exchange a look before Jade answers. "You, of course."

"Me?" You point to yourself in disbelief.

Floyd chuckles. "He sipped a little wine at the restaurant on accident. Then he starts blubbering about how 'oh I miss them', 'oh remember when they did this', and 'oh‒"

"I think they get the point, brother."

While Floyd ignores his twin in favor of continuing the story, Azul continues to hide his slowly darkening face behind his hands, while you sit, pen hovering over the paper.

“Why?”

The twins blink with a confused expression on their face, while Floyd speaks with a baffled tone. “Ha? Why? What do you mean why?” From the corner of your eye, you see Azul lift his head from his hands to look you, with what expression, you can’t tell‒ training your eyes on the paper with hardened brows, blood tinging on you tongue from the flesh drawn between your teeth.

The pen in your hand hovers above the paper with a soft tremble. Why? Why me? When you left that reef years ago, you left any notion that your presence would be something that would be worth lingering over‒ much more grieving about‒ a thought that was confirmed by the way your mother hurriedly dumped you at your aunt’s flower shop near the somber shores, her frosty gaze and distanced followed by years of inveterated silence as incurable and everlong as the one wrapped around your throat. Like the winter storms on the beach where your aunt's shop sat upon, that silence from your mother, and everyone else for that matter, was as thrashing and unforgiving to your empty ears and throat. There was nothing left for you down there, just memories that would make that scraped dryly against your throat and make you long for something your body was not mended properly for. So the proposition that Azul had felt something towards you‒ so much so that he had shed actual tears for you‒ threatened to bring the nausea deep in your darkened stomach frothing at the surface. You pushed through it, hand gliding clumsily across the paper.

“Never mind, sorry. I should get going soon‒ I’m behind on some duties in at the Botanical Gardens.”

Azul sighs in slight relief, and stands as you gather your things. "I'll see you off." You bid goodbye to the twins, who flash a pointed smile at you while Azul holds open the lounge doors to leave.

“Come back again so we can embarrass Azul more with our stories.” You smile at Jade's words.

Before you pass through the portal, Azul taps your shoulder. He lays his hand flat against his lips, sweeping it towards you. You're taken a bit by surprise, but soon your cheeks ache from the warmth squeezed into them by your curved lips, turning the nausea reaching from your stomach to your chest into something, you think, extraordinary.

You held that feeling in your chest as much as the rupturing threaded into yourself would‒ drinking in the ease of passing clouds and the clemency of rippling seawater tickling the bottom of you feet‒ much too quick, too light, too wonderful to be bound by the chthonic gods. Your heart races with the swiftness of sprightly, sun drunken waves. There was a rising ache‒ knowing your fractured body would splinter before you could swallow this feeling in its entirety, filling you body brilliantly like a blooming chrysanthemum‒ unfurling its divine petals towards all cardinal directions in a form which flared itself every which way. Victory of love. You knew it would not triumph against your fragmentation‒ but despite it all, you smiled stupidly, weaving your florid fingers against his to show him the correct placement of the word.

"Like this." You instruct‒ on his chin, near that dotted mark, then towards you in one motion. The word is practiced twice so you can linger your hands on his own. "Thank you, thank you." You mouth.

The heat of your fingers burns this motion into him, even as you let go. He practices it again, hoping to retrieve your sensation onto his skin with the repeated motion. “Thank you.”

You take your pointed and middle finger to your eye, then glide it towards the tip of your chin with a circle made with your pointer and thumb.

“See you soon.”

——————————————————

Carnations are always a favorite among your customers. The flower of love, of adoration‒ of the gods. They have been woven into hair to commemorate new beginnings, have been rumored to sprout from a devoted mother’s tears faced with her child’s death. Their name comes from carnis, or flesh, from the myth of innocent bloodshed, a shepherd who had his eyes gouged out from a goddess of the hunt, who was displeased by his flute playing which caused the animals of her hunting grounds to be spooked. From his empty flesh, carnations grew, white petals emerging, stained with blood. White carnations typically signify the mourning of lost lives, pure love, unrequited love, loyalty, faithfulness, a mother’s love.

But most of all, it whispers, my love for you is alive. It felt that way when they flourished in your lungs, choking the song in your throat in just a few months after they sowed into your meat. Alive and red and beating so vibrantly against your flesh‒ filthy with the darkened red of your aching insides. They came as impossible heaps from your mouth, emptying quietly as you could in the corner of your room so as not to bother your sleeping mother in the room over. You remember furling your body inward, praying it to become smaller, smaller, smaller‒ quieting your agony, erasing your swaying footsteps to the medicine cabinet, slicing your body up and down into manageable pieces. It was a dance in your eyes you carried everywhere with you that classified every variation of footsteps, the slightest inflection in tone, a twitch of the lungs before it even came‒ so you could shape yourself flat against the sharpened teeth of any who bothered to bite down on your brittle, bitter form, flaying and cleaving your meat carefully to its shape. Your eyes remembered these wounds, reopened and festering against your clumsy stitches to take into account next test‒ next time, next interaction, next opportunity to prove�� I’ll be better, I’ll prove I am worthy enough to live.

‘You’re so sensitive‒ you would be good with flowers’, your aunt says. Thank you, you gulp in the ache of your disfigurement with pride‒ a medallion passed from your mother, passed from her mother, passed from her own‒ blood through blood it was gifted, and split from your strangled throat. It felt like your body rejected it, but oh, that was the best part of it all‒ more pain, more, more, more‒ something to wear on your skin as a testament to how you’ve been such a good child, to mutilate yourself against anyone’s maws. Something to show, mother, love me for all of these marks prove it, prove that I can cut open myself deep enough to mirror the perfected version of yourself.

Carnations are a symbol of that. People give them as a trophy of love that is agony, love that is alive, love which slaughters. It is a mother's love. They're popular in those early months during the spring, where the flowers devour the corpses mulled over by autumn and winter, chewing and spitting it out with a drunken splendor. As such you had many on hand during these colder months, surrounded by consecrations of this love, thrashing, bursting inside you like sea-brine churned into frothing bubbles, the waves breaking against it swelling them over the edge of the shore. You could feel the eyes of the flowers leering towards you, tightening the ribbon around your neck.

The hand in your pocket reaches towards the heads, your fingers brush against their cold petals. They are worn, withered from the days they have slept stagnant and untouched in their watery casket. You are quick to take them from their bucket, shoving in a bag to be thrown away in the compost, back into the earth to nourish the next generation.

“(Name)?”

Was it already that time already? You had promised him you would meet with him to plan the twins' broomquet after you closed, but the day had waded through you so quickly.

His name, as always, almost makes it out of your throat. But you held the silence in your mouth like your muffled heartbeat, quietly turning to him with weary eyes. He immediately drinks their lorn gaze, before he takes out a small leather bound pocketbook from his inner pocket, flipping through a few pages, returning it to his coat when he finishes reading the contents of the page. With clumsy hands, he signs. “Do you need help?”

You look him up and down, pausing your hands shoved deep inside the bag of wilted carnations. “You know sign language?”

“I learned.” He says sheepishly. “Apologies‒ clearly I haven't gotten too far with it. I don't know some words yet.”

Your eyes widen. “Why?”

He points to his head, then towards you. For. You. I learned for you.

A smile curves on his lips, but you avert your eyes from it. You’re afraid to measure that tinted color on his cheeks, the shape of his softened eyes, the length of his smile the wrong way‒ to take something without anything worthy from yourself to give in compensation, so you take his words instead, knowing you could at least repay them with something much more beautiful, whole. Flowers. You don't look at him. “I could use some help.”

He rolls his sleeves up, takes the carnations in his hands and brings them inside the bag. “What is the meaning of carnations?”

“Love, adoration, ‘my love for you is alive’.”

“Easy to capitalize on. I see why it is so popular.” He takes one between his fingers, twirls it with a sly smile. "I like it."

You return it best you could. “They’re a bit grotesque, don’t you think? The petals are quite unfinished, like they’ve been cut jagged.”

“You don’t like them?”

You remember the day after the surgery, your lungs emptied not only from the lack of carnations taking seed inside of it, but sapped from anything you had felt for your mother. You realized, that day, oh.

It was her all along.

You had searched far and wide for what the cause of your sickness was‒ you had given too much yourself to too many people to pinpoint who you had such feelings for. Your nerves felt exposed to all, to everything all the time, pricked and pinched at any abstruse movement, washing over you like a bloody crusade everytime.

There was nothing written about in the dozens of books, articles, and lyrics you dug up that had said anything about familial love specifically, so it never struck you that it was even a possibility‒ besides‒ your mother loved you, didn't she?

But of course, the carnations‒ of course. Your love for her may have been alive, but so were these flowers, once. Before they were picked from your tendons and emptied from you as rubbish.

The absence of your piteous devotion to her plummeted your heart deep into the ocean abyss, your flesh weighted as a museum of that dance, the butchering of your body, marked up and down with lines which traced the shapes of jaws with surgical precision. If you could not be loved by the flesh which founded your own, surely, it would be a ludicrous dream to wish for any other being to love you at all, to take the weeping, patchwork meat of your body and consume it.

You want to get rid of all these carnations, give them all away at once. Take them, take them all. Yes, your mother would love these‒ yes or course they're a sign of eternal love, pure love‒ anything and everything that is alive, they would be a wonderful gift. You offer them as extras to people, suggest them instead of those beautiful roses or lilacs or lilies. These gifts were never a virtue, but a disguise for the womb of shame you kept awake in your heart. Take them, take it all. Take everything from me.

You smile, squeeze your eyes to mimic candor.

"No, I hate them."

His expression is like sand, shifting in a thousand ways. You try to inspect each grain of lustrous sand to feel how they shape around your words, but always, the waves. Wait here, you tell him, to go toss the flowers back into the decomposing earth to become the blood and body their children will sprout from.

You set some lavender tea and dandelion honey cakes on the table‒ the bareness of the table is odious to you, sways you with abhorrence. Even with it filled, you sign. "I'm sorry, I wish I had more to offer you."

"This is plenty." He signs. You avert your eyes from that soft smile, but the warmth that bubbles in your chest knows the angle of its curve, the way his mole stretches across his chin, the world in his eyes.

"So, what exactly are you looking for in the twins’ bouquet?”

He thinks, you know he folds his arms to do this. “I trust your tastes. You were always better at reading people than I was.”

“I…” You pause. Yes, the dance‒ breathing in the world raw. But part of it is remaining silent to that ripening wound. “I guess.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think blue star would be great. Perhaps some ragwort, and I believe I have some dried sea lavender left from my aunt’s shop. Salvia would be great too, and some Zion, beauty berry as well.”

“What do they all mean?”

“Blue star and salvia mean trust‒ something they are bound by. Zion flowers signify that someone is thinking of you, even if they are far. And sea lavender lets someone know they are thinking of you. Beautyberry means a deep understanding. I can of course fill up the space with roses, some chrysanthemums, of course.”

Azul writes in his small pocketbook, scribbling your words across a page, then another, then another. He was always like this when you talked‒ recording the medicinal properties of plants, committing your sensitives to flowers with a fervor. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d say he was excited by your words, but you didn’t.

“Is it alright if I came and watched?”

“Watched?”

“Yes, if I came and watched you work on the twins’ bouquet.”

“It’s boring work, you would fall‒“

You feel your hands in his, your words quickly swallowed by the warmth of his palms. He speaks with softness which reaches deep within your ears, tingles the back of your neck.

“I think it’s quite brilliant, the way you work.”

You want to clasp your ears shut, squeeze your eyes until you see stars‒ knees tucked into your body, forming an embryo to protect yourself from those words. Your tongue shakes in your mouth. You want to scream at him. However to realize this rejection through your trembling fingers would be to deny him something, even if it was the mangled scraps which make your bundle of flesh. You'd keep this revolution plunged deep inside the heart of your whirling sea, a war raging at your marrow to keep the shores lush with anything he'd wish to take. Take it, take it all.

You're still for a moment. "Have it your way, then."

He smiles, but this time, you can't look away.

——————————————————

When he comes a few days later, he brings tupperwares full of food.

"What's all this? A feast?" You see various dishes from the nights your mother brought you to perform at the Ashengrotto’s restaurant‒ fragrant steamed fish that falls off the bone, crunchy seaweed salad, steaming bowls of fish-broth soup, bursting with flavor.

“My mother’s recipes. Your favorite, at least from back then.” He remembers fondly of the times you would finish performing, joining him at the seat right beside him. You’d point to the aquatic plants, bring him to the magic and wonders of their chemistry, their mythos, your sensitivities to them, the world. He's shaped his shores against the curve of your gentle waves, your words always returning to his sandy beaches to leave a million gifts from the sea. This is this, this, and this. He'd hold each sparkling grain of sand, each seashell nymph like an exquisite pearl, cupping his ears to every single one to catch the whispers of eternity bundled in each of them. No matter how you would run yourself raw against jagged beaches and the maws of dark coves‒ he would remain a mirror to your sun faced sanctuaries, hoping that in this lifetime, you would realize that it was you‒ you all along‒ that he'd chased, parodying your brilliance to finally become himself.

His words almost bring you to tears. You gulp it down with the nausea that rises on your tongue, cindering the muscle with its heat.

"Why are you‒" your hands spit out these words in a fervor. "Why are you so fucking nice to me? What is all this?"

You hate the way his expression softens, the infinite arctic blue which melts against your image, the elation in your chest upon devouring such delectable things. It’s revolting.

"Because…" He begins out loud. There’s breath that swells his shoulders, before he gathers his fingers to a shaking fist, locking it under his chin.

Precious.

You swing your head left and right mutely, wrapping a hand around your neck as if to choke any sound that could be ripped from it. Still, it comes out like dried leaves, a strangled rasp, a whimper which rattles in your tightened throat. You hate how he pulls your trembling fingers from your skin, you hate it. But you let him.

His warmth comes as a cosmic storm stirring the oceans into inescapable waves. You were a fool to even try to shelter yourself from it‒ his tenderness beat against your form so loudly it hurt. You can’t pull away, your body does not let you.

Azul sees the fear that bruises your eyes, the way your chest lurches, in heaving, shuddering, controlled breaths to mathematically contain that terror inside of you. There’s a moment where he suspects himself to be the culprit, the distaste of his form, the vile nature of his weaknesses. But you had always consumed all of him, everything‒ his unsightly body, his awful shortcomings, all of the best and worst parts of himself with what surely was heavenly grace. Everything but his adoration for you, a mirror to your givings to the world, and most of all‒ him. This was something within.

He brings you to a seat, a cup of water to your hands. He lets you take time, sipping the moment in small gulps like the drink he sets in your hands. Silence, even with the lack of words exchanged between you two, was never something which was present when you were beside him. His mind always rushed with thoughts about you‒ all the more louder in the eight years you had been absent from his side. Even then, your likeness was always carved in the back of his mind, coming and going like a haunting oceanfront.

“Do you remember the first day we met?”

You remember. “Tell me.” You sign.

“You saved me from those awful kids, remember? I still got so scared of them I got ink everywhere. You were in such wonderful garments I didn’t want you to get dirty, so I told you to back off.”

His smile makes your own. He continues. “I was such a brat back then‒ even after you fended those kids off I told you to get away from me‒ ‘don’t come crying if I spoil your garments!’” A stiff chuckle escapes your nose as you remember the expression on his face. It was much like your own‒ frightened. “But you told me‒“

“Stain them, I don’t care.” Of course you remember. The surprise on his face, the stutter of his hands as you held them.

“Yes. We spent the whole day together. You took me to the shores for the first time, facing the field of‒ what was it?”

“Memorial roses.”

“Memorial roses. You told me they meant love for the honest form." He drags his gaze from his hands, and into your eyes. "I didn't even see the sun set when you talked about flowers the way you do. All my current knowledge of horticulture comes from you, you know.”

"Surely not all of it."

He shakes his head. "No, all of it. I've inscribed every word you've said to me in my mind and I've carried you with me all those years I spent toiling away in my octopot." The hand he rests on your own warms your fingers. "I have you written all over me."

You grip the heat of your throat, hands heavy as you raise them to retaliate, again. "No. Why would you want‒ ."

"I'm not. Why do you think so?" That softness, again, his eyes. Revolting.

You threw the words from your hands in frustration. Didn't he understand? "Why would you want someone like me to‒ to poison you?"

"I could say the same for myself. Why did you defend me that day?"

You remember the look in his eyes, the way he crouched low to the ocean floor in shame. "I saw myself in you. I couldn't‒"

"You couldn't bare it." He finishes.

"Yes, but you're different. With me, I'm not‒ I wasn't‒ "

"But you aren't different." There's a growing lump in his throat, frustration, heat‒ it rises with the volume of his voice, erupting raw at the back of his tongue. "Why won't you let me show you that you're worthy of the same treatment you give to the world?"

“How could I let you?" Your legs ascend from beneath you, your hands feel hot in the air as you flare them out from yourself, hurling them for Azul to see. "Look."

"Look at me." He would see, finally.

The nail of your thumb digs on your chin as your splayed hand sharply juts from your skin. It says, "My own mother".

You slip the ribbon from your throat, unraveling yourself in front of him. Azul sucks a tense breath in‒ you revel in it, your venerable mirror‒ it breaks against your old stitches, bringing you an ineffable bloom inside your chest. You don’t know if it's pleasure or pain which tightens it, but you feel as living, as chemical, as whole as a flourishing chrysanthemum‒ blazing your florid petals every which way, splitting the bud in a thousand directions. Here is proof. You lay yourself out, to him, flay your fragmentation against his eyes. The wounds burn fresh the air. This was your wish, wasn’t it? Still, the seafoam bursting against your skin, the ache, in waves. You hold the emptiness in your hand triumphantly, or, you try to.

He looks when you tell him to, of course, but the softness in his eyes tightens your chest. He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Aright." Finally, he speaks.

"Will you make a contract with me?"

"...what?"

"A contract. Will you make one with me?"

Your knees fall from you when you lean towards the table in support, seating you in the chair across from him. You open your arms, facing your palms towards him, empty, silent.

"I don't have anything I could trade you."

He reaches towards your emptiness, filling it with his warmth. "Then give me this. If you have nothing, grant me you."

You bring his heat near your face, hoping to harbor‒ at least‒ next to it. You won't take it, you couldn't. The fear laps upon you like stormy waves, it's force tearing your fingers from his. "I don't have enough of myself to give you."

"This." He replenishes the absence in your hands again. "This is more than enough‒ it will always be enough." It's a firm grip, it quells the tremble in your body slightly.

"So, will you make a contract with me?"

Hesitantly, you nod.

He guides you towards the shop window where the flowers swill in the moonlight, violet chrysanthemums shining pearly, plump with their honeyed sap. He slips one between his fingers, holds it between the two of you. "I lied when I said I only liked these. When you tell me of promises of success, of love‒ I feel like I can crack open this world with my bare hands. I don’t just like it‒ everything that comes from from you soars my soul."

He continues, bashfully. You feel filled with his words. "You're my ocean, the waters that shape my shores. You've always been where I belong, and what comes back to me to mold me to what I am even after your physical absence." The heat of his hands feel like fire on your skin as he pulls it towards his own. "This is a contract, a promise. Will you let love victor over you?"

You trace that spot on his face as he smiles, you find the small way that it curves mirrored on your own lips. You drink in his smile, returning it with your own; you breathe his scent in, exhale with the breath in your lungs that stirs his and yours‒ you mold yourself against him like you've done so many times against gnashing teeth and jagged seaside cliffs, but this time, your rolling waves kiss warmly against his sun faced sanctuaries, melding together to refract the light in your joint tenderness. The feeling begins as a seed he implants in your chest, pressed firmly against your heart, and you feel it slowly burst open when it is showered in his gaze, his touch, all of him against all that you can muster‒ an ineffable thing, a bloom which you could never put into words, even with the language of whispering flowers and the spectacular earth. It comes in heaping waves like the tears that draw flushed lines on your face. He takes all which falls from you in his hands, staining his hands with the salty fragrance.

"Stop that. I'll get your hands all dirty."

"Stain them, I don't care."

You sob, you smile harder. The tears make it impossible to neurotically measure the twinge of his muscles, the shape of his expression. But you don't think of this, filled with the knowledge of his tenderness, the precise shape of his smile, the softness of his seaborne eyes that fossilize deep within you. "You know I'll be difficult. I always am."

"And you know this about me to, don't you? But this feeling for you comes as easy as water to me."

It's true what he says, you feel like you're floating‒ weightless in the mild seas, drinking in the sunlight which trickles from the skies. Waves upon waves of this brilliance that tilts the light a thousand ways for you to admire. The chrysanthamum petals seem to widen with his warmth, the same unraveling comes bursting, flowering forward in your chest. Victory of love. It comes not as a whisper this time, but loudly as the beat of your blood. You feel it within you, that victory. At last you hold it in your hands, and it shines and lusters like a brilliant peal seeped into each of its petals, blooming forward with all of its love. You allow yourself place the flower in his hair, decorating his face with your love, your victory.

——————————————————

Notes:

All sign language is based off of American Sign Language

Part of the reason why I wanted to use hanakotoba (Japanese flower language) rather than western meanings for flowers was not only because I was more familiar with it, but because the twins I believe are Asian coded. The Octavinelle dorm is seen as the "yakuza" one (Japanese controlled crime syndicate), since they demand those Azul signs contracts with to pay the price, whether through general intimidation, or just straight up physical violence. Tweels also unfortunately sort of fit into the 'Asian twins' stereotype seen in Disney media (Siamese cats in Artisocats), but their overall design (ie eye shape and bristle-y, straight hair) fit into a pseudo Asian look. You know, as much as the fictional land of twisted wonderland will allow. But either way, I think it would be cool to see different species of seafolk have different cultures, and I think sirens in particular would have their own beliefs, systems, and traditions connected to verbal storytelling.

Not entirely sure if this is the case in the western world, but the east is very sensitive about numerology‒ so “bad” numbers are usually avoided when picking out the number of flowers to give to someone.

Chthonic gods are gods connected to the underworld

Carnations were used in coronation garlands for the Romans

Christians believed that it was the flower that sprouted from Mary's tears after the crucifixion of Jesus

Also associated with Artemis, who gouged a shepherd's eyes out because she blamed his flute playing for the lack of game that day. Therefore, they are a symbol of innocent bloodshed

Carnis, the word which is speculated the word carnation comes from, also means flesh. The genus name Dianthus comes from Zeus, connecting it to his daughter Artemis' story

Memorial Rose (ノイバラ) : In the western world, it is often a symbol of wisdom or talent, used often on literary and musical symbolism by writers such as Goethe. But in Japan, it symbolizes "love for the raw/honest form", as it is usually a wild flower that grows in the plains. Modest, but lovely. In Japan it is also called the ノイバラ or "thorn of the plains", so this modest but definitely still packs a punch. Just like Azul lol

Also often grows in the coasts

Omg I just noticed all of the fics I have written has had a toxic maternal parental figure don’t worry I’ll even it out soon lol

206 notes · View notes

merbear25 · 2 months

Note

”You’ll have to teach me” for France? Preferably with something safe for *cough* *cough* corporate sensibilities.

Hello, hello! Thank you for sending in this request! I read 'corporate' and ran with that as the setting. Hope you like it!

CW: SFW but suggestive, gn!reader, a bit of a power dynamic.

Following your lead

You'd been interested in working along side France for quite sometime; being able to contribute to one of the greatest world powers was your drive to do well in your studies. With your ambitious nature leading you to your dream job, you were thrilled to have secured the position as his assistant. Thoughts of standing by his side, aiding him in any pressing decisions that may come your way, and overall presenting yourselves as a team had you walking on air.

With that being said, you weren't expecting the fluttering feelings that'd eventually captivate you; those brief moments of flirtation at the beginning of your career lingered in your memories. Thinking of such, inevitably heated your chest and flushed your cheeks.

The physical closeness was another aspect of your dynamic that made your head spin: gently brushing against you while showing you something, lightly laying his hand on the small of your back when trying to lead your attention somewhere. His touch which—when accompanied by complementary comments on your clever ideas and your laugh—left you lying awake at night, engrossed in your own fantasies.

In spite of the attention he gave you, you were very much aware of him showing the same to others. You contemplated whether or not this side of him would cause your growing interest in him to faulter—the point was mute, as you were willing to pursue a man with such habits regardless.

In the passing months, your responsibilities were becoming more complex, which left you second guessing your competence. This wasn't to say that you were doing poorly at completing any of them, although the worrying thoughts of being incapable of keeping up your success rate were closing in. You felt as if you needed a bit more guidance in how you handled your new trying workload.

You could think of no one more appropriate to ask than the captain of this ship—France. As you stood outside his office door, you hesitantly brought your hand up to it, thinking that perhaps he was far too busy to fulfill your minute request. Despite this sliver of doubt, you knocked and were permitted entry.

Looking up from his work, a smile spread across his face when he saw it was you who'd come to visit him. "What can I do for you?" The question was left airy with a faint sultry undertone.

A slight heat nipped at your cheeks, but you tried to keep sight of your purpose for distrubing him, "Sir, I fear as though I may be misinterpreting some of the tasks you've given me. I'd like some clarification on what exactly you need from me." Choking back your shame, you admitted, "You'll have to teach me."

His smile became coy and he eased himself out of his chair to gain a more personable feel to the conversation, "That's quite the loaded request, my dear."

Letting his eyes fall on you, soaking in the magnificent assistant he was so lucky to have by his side, words of encouragement were first to leave his lips, "Of course, I'm always more than happy to help you."

Taking a short pause, the next words trailing behind signaled a pounding within your chest, "However, frankly speaking, I'm far more interested in fulfilling more passionate needs."

Your chest heaved at the newfound avenues being paved in your relationship. A gnawing pressure to push forth and explore your fantasies of him was too persistent to ignore, "I couldn't agree more, sir."

#follower event #x reader #hetalia #hetalia imagines #hetalia imagine #hetalia france #hetalia x reader #hetalia x you #aph hetalia #hetalia world series #hetalia axis powers #hetalia world stars #hws hetalia #axis powers ヘタリア #axis powers hetalia #aph france #france x you #france x reader #hetalia world twinkle

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bleue-flora · 23 days

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Hate to intervene on the discussion about the genuine finale, but Tommy did apologize previously to the nuke going off and he did it before Dream even killed him, Im not sure if it was intended for him to say the apology so early on if at all but it did make me a little confused when the reaction to the apology was dream focusing on tommy dismissing the revival book and then killing him. Its not that out of character or anything, it made sense for Dream to be paranoid and lash out especially considering Tommy accused him of being the same person the whole time within his apology, but it did make me feel bad for tommy, as well as the fact he didn't get a sorry in return but then again had the nuke not dropped and no reset, Dream probably would of apologized for his own actions once he really processed what was going on which is rlly the only issues i had with that final convo

Regardless on my opinion on that part of the stream, you've definietly highlighted why many dislike it and I completely agree. Dream and Tommy had closure, while pretty much no one else in the server really did, not sure if punz even did, many character arcs didn't rlly end, stuff was left ambigious, ranboo had their ending on twitter, we got nothing about dreamxd. killing staged duo off is just a repeat of everything before and it just makes the moral that violence is the answer to trauma and multiple characters in dsmp use violence as revenge and the ending having that would just be like saying that was okay. But the fact it instead took this understanding morally grey approach and ended that destructive cycle gave it a much better moral. Solid essay btw.

[context]

Always feel free to intervene, just know you’ll probably get an essay in response lol. ;D <3

In regards, to Tommy’s apology [clip] I am of the opinion that anything Tommy said before he died was not really genuine because he was stalling for time. He only asks Dream what his point of view is the server because he needed to stall. And even when Dream is explaining his side [clip], instead of really understanding it or even having remorse he mutes and says “Come on, Tubbo.” He’s not really listening, and his apology shortly after isn’t really sincere. He keeps repeating how Dream was always like this, so if he was apologizing it wasn’t because he realizes he actually hurt Dream. He even questions how Dream can be upset about burning down George’s house “it wasn’t even your house.” Language like “you could’ve got over that” tells me he isn’t seeing the point. He does not see how he might be in the wrong nor how much he hurt Dream.

So honestly, I think this apology is really just manipulation, trying to get Dream to stay. And honestly, that makes sense, because if you want someone to stay you’re not going to keep pissing then off, or at least he learned this because that was his first strategy. But that was only making them want to leave or kill him, so he changes tactics, getting Dream to talk [clip] “take as long as you need.” So yea, it doesn’t really count in my mind, just as Dream’s “I’m sorry” in prison doesn’t necessarily count.

If however the nuke hadn’t happened, and Tommy had actually apologized, now beginning to understand Dream more, then perhaps Dream would also. But to be honest that would be pretty out of character for both. Character growth can only go so far in one stream.

And I think Dream doesn’t feel sorry, not really. I think he regrets things getting out of hand and going further than they should have, but I think he’s so hurt by Tommy that he feels justified in his lashing out. And unless, Tommy were to express actual remorse for his actions and see them as wrong vs the “that was just me having fun with my friends” we got, then I don’t think Dream would apologize.

If the nuke hadn’t happened, I don’t necessarily see Tommy changing his behavior, only his view of Dream. I see him still being Tommy and pissing Dream off, just not viewing Dream as this evil devil out to get him. So honestly the reset was probably good because might as well go out on this nice moment when they understand where the audience can be optimistic about what could’ve happened vs seeing what the actual aftermath would have been. Certainly better and different but I don’t think things would change as much as we’d like to think.

Certainly Dream and Tommy had a satisfying wrap up where some other characters did not, but I would say it is pretty fitting that they would have a more dramatic actual resolution considering they have been the center of a lot of conflicts from the very start.

I do think though Punz did complete his character arc, perhaps not as satisfying as we’d like but still. Throughout the whole thing he has been in the background and more secretly Dream’s ally, but finally he was able to stand beside Dream and speak his truth, and be openly his friend, openly defend him and have his back. That was a good ending for him. Instead of being a bystander like in the disc confrontation this time he got to speak up and be heard. He finally got to die alongside Dream, instead of watching Dream die for him. He finally got to be included. It’s not perfect or as well thought out, but it works.

Have another essay I guess lol, glad you liked the other. <3 <3 and yea for sure sending a good message to the audience is super important (again something that Supernatural failed at) and to say let’s talk it out and try and see each others point of views instead of just continuing the cycle of violence is certainly a very important message to highlight. :)

#mmmm good thoughts #<3 <3 #hello there #dsmp analysis #dsmp finale #did someone order an essay?#c!dream #dsmp #dreblr #dream smp #dsmpblr #c!dream and c!tommy #c!tommyinnit #c!tommy #c!discduo #c!punz #c!stagedduo #lol turns out other characters can manipulate as well… crazy hot take XD

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boltupbitches · 5 months

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A #94 Jersey

She could feel her hands tremble as she folded the tiny #94 jersey in the equally tiny orange and black gift bag. Black tissue paper was filled into the bag to hide Sam’s surprise. She couldn’t wait to see his reaction.

At 28 years old, the young couple had decided to try for their first child. Sam had been open to the idea right after their marriage two years ago. They had agreed to wait and focus on their marriage first before making another huge leap.

After talking with her gyno two months ago, and stopping her birth control, it was only a matter of time before they got a positive test. Today was that day.

After a couple of weeks of nausea, excessive eating, tenderness of the breasts, exhaustion, mood swings, and a missed period… She decided to buy a test and see what the results would be. It didn’t hurt.

The moment was filled with anticipation. It wasn’t the first pregnancy test she had taken (a scare earlier in their relationship) in her life, but the difference now was the nerves were based on excitement - the trepidation and fear were not there this time.

She bawled in happiness as soon as she read the test and saw the positive results. Her heart was filled with so much joy that she didn’t think a moment in time could ever top her wedding day. This did.

—-----

As she sat down in front of Sam, she could feel her nerves flaring up. She knew he was going to be over the moon with this news. She couldn’t wait to give it to him.

Sam was collecting their dishes to load into the dishwasher when his wife excused herself to the restroom. It was in there she did a little pep talk in the mirror, going over in her head again and again what she wanted to say.

A knock at the door interrupted her low muttering, “Babe,” Sam called, twisting the locked knob. “Are you ok in there?”

“Y-yeah! Just one second! I had one of my earrings stuck in my hair. Can you get the cheesecake cut and ready in the living room? I’ll be right in.” She called back through the door.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll wait for you to come out before I pick the movie.” He had walked off then, not waiting for her response.

She sighed to herself, smoothing her hands down her face to ease her nerves, “Ok, let’s do this.”

She walked out then, carrying the tiny orange gift bag in her hand.

Sam was sprawled on one side of the couch, eating away at his cheesecake with a hefty topping of strawberry and whipped cream.

Her stomach growled at the sight of her slice sitting on the center table. She cleared her throat to get his attention. The cheesecake would have to wait.

“I got you something today while I was out and about.” She said softly, holding the bag up.

Sam stopped chewing and stared at her in confusion, mute for a few moments, “D-did I forget an important day or something?” He suddenly looked alarmed at the prospect, “Shit - babe - I am so sorry -”

“No - no!” She laughed as she cut off his ramble, “There’s no important anniversary or anything. I just have a surprise for you. That’s all.”

Sam nodded, unsure but at least subdued with her response. “Ok… thank you.” He reached out for the bag, sitting up and putting his plate down next to her untouched slice.

She sat next to him and handed the bag over gently, gulping audibly with nerves.

Sam pulled the tissue paper out, his hands coming in contact with the familiar fabric of a jersey. He stared at her in confusion, “um… is this some kind of lingerie thing?”

His wife laughed once more, “would you just look? And no, it’s not lingerie!”

Sam smiled at her reaction and pulled the cloth material out finally.

It was a folded mini version of his very own #94 jersey. His heart started to beat fast as he realized what the significance of this jersey meant. He had flipped it over to see ‘Baby Hubbard’ on the back.

Sam sat it down on his lap quietly and stared at it quietly for a few moments.

He looked back up at his wife with tears clouding his crystal blue eyes. “We’re having a baby?”

She had tears in her own eyes now, “Yeah. We are.”

He sat the jersey down on the other side of him and pulled her into his arms. He pressed kisses to her forehead as he cried happily along with her. They were finally going to be parents.

“Holy shit,” Sam laughed, happiness beaming across his face as tears continued to pour down his cheeks, “This is one of the best days of my life.”

“Mine too.” His wife agreed before pressing a deep kiss to his lips.

When they pulled away, Sam stared down at her with so much love and fondness it made her knees weak. ‘Thank god I’m sitting.’ She thought to herself.

“Thank you.” He whispered, “This is so fucking amazing. I mean.. Holy shit! It’s our time!”

“Didn’t take long,” She winked, referencing his insatiable appetite in the bedroom.

“It’s not hard when I’m married to the most loving, amazing, and beautiful woman in the world.” He praised, “Holy shit, I gotta call my mom and dad! They are going to be over the moon!” He launched up out of his seat, “Or do you wanna call yours first?” He asked after a moment of realizing they had her parents to call as well.

“We can call yours first.” She smiled, not caring who got the call first.

“Right, right,” Sam rubbed his hands through his grown-out locks, “Holy shit. Ok, ok. I’m going to call them on speaker - be right back!” He dashed off to get his phone off charge in the kitchen.

His wife just smiled as she heard him calling his parents as he walked back down the hall towards the living room.

This was their lives now. She couldn’t believe it. Baby Hubbard would be here by the end of the year.

#sam hubbard one shot #sam hubbard imagines #sam hubbard fanfiction

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schraubd · 6 months

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The Day After Hamas

The New York Times reports increasing "daylight" (to use an old term) between President Biden and Netanyahu regarding what the aftermath of the Gaza campaign will look like -- specifically, regarding the role that the Palestinian Authority might have in governing Gaza once (knock on wood) Hamas is defeated. Paul Campos thinks this is reflective of the worries regarding "the administration’s up until now very muted response to the siege of Gaza, and the gathering human rights and public health catastrophe that it represents." I'm not sure that's quite right, though it's perhaps lurking in the background. The more prominent instinct, I think, is that Biden fundamentally agrees with Israel regarding the merits and necessity of destroying Hamas, but fundamentally disagrees with Bibi regarding "the day after". The more "the day after" becomes salient in our minds and we start thinking not in terms of the war's prosecution but its aftermath, the more we're going to see latent but always-present disagreements between Bibi and Biden come to a fore. One sees this dynamic particularly in how Biden relates his response to Bibi's claim that the allies "carpet bombed Germany" -- "I said, 'Yeah, that’s why all these institutions were set up after World War II, to see to it that it didn’t happen again.'" The former point is about prosecution of the war, the latter point is about how we handled the aftermath. For Biden, destroying Hamas has to be followed by aggressive state-building efforts meant to provide a real future (economically, socially, and politically) for the Palestinian people. The allusion to the Marshall Plan after World War II is clearly part of this, and other relevant players are also insisting that any plans for rebuilding Gaza credibly commit to a realistic pathway for Palestinian statehood. For Bibi -- well, I really have no idea what Bibi's "day after" plan is. I don't think he actually wants to fully reoccupy Gaza; but he also doesn't want the PA involved; or international involvement; and certainly Hamas is out the question; so ... where are we left? He seems much more interested in what he'll say "no" to than what he can plausibly say "yes" to, because at this stage in the game reality has become Bibi's unconquerable enemy. And Biden, in turn, isn't going to have a lot of patience for Israel post-war simply refusing to let Gaza rebuild itself or have any sort of self-governance structure whatsoever just because Bibi can no longer square the circle of "no formal occupation" and "no Palestinian independence" by building a castle around Gaza and then never thinking about it again.. Even if one accepts that Israel is pot committed to destroying Hamas, that doesn't obviate but rather accentuates the need to have a serious answer to the "day after" question. Anyone remotely serious figure understands that the war in Gaza is the middle of the story, not the end, which makes it unsurprising that Bibi wants to treat it as an end and just close his eyes to what happens in the aftermath. Biden is a more serious person, and so he's actually contemplating these questions. via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/FUY0IK1

#Bibi Netanyahu #Biden administration #foreign policy #Gaza #Hamas #Israel #Palestine

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ikeprinces-stuff · 5 months

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~~ 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑾𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒓 ~~

Words : 1697

Warning : No warning

Characters : Jin Grandet & Clavis Lelouch & My prince OC

A/N : Hey, sorry for the lack of updating. Exams are kicking my ass on the one hand and my psyche on the other, but I enjoyed writing this and telling it to my little sister before posting it, since she's a Clavis fan LOL 😂 anyway, have fun reading. 💓💓

Previous short stories :

Reading Between The Lines

The Sweetness Of Understanding

The White Tiger And The White Lynx

Tags : @leonscape @myonlyjknight @orangejuice707 @altairring @the-bird-and-the-flute @scorchieart @violettduchess @aquagirl1978 @lorei-writes @ikemen-writer @scrumptiousfirepanda

“Well, what do you think, my dear brother?” Clavis asked with a twisted grin on his face. Jin raised an eyebrow at the malicious expression and said, “Why do you think Vern would agree to something like this?” Clavis was confident in his response. “My dear Vernard cannot refuse a request from his older, handsome brother, can he?” He said with a smirk, "You're not his only older brother, you know?" Jin pointed out. As the two of them continued to chat, they both looked over at Vernard, who was sitting across from them with his arms folded and a bored expression on his face, wishing he wasn't here.

Vernard was deep in thought, lost in a sea of memories that made him feel trapped and upset. The more he thought about how he ended up here, the more frustrated he became. He wasn't the kind of person to turn down requests, but the timing of this encounter was terrible. Vernard was supposed to meet someone very important at the moment, but then the last two people he wanted to see appeared on the scene, and without warning, they dragged him away to a bar. The feeling of being unable to say 'no' made him feel frustrated, even though he knew that the meeting he was planning to attend was much more important.

Vernard sighed heavily, remembering the situation that brought him here. The two older brothers turned their attention to him, and Jin believed he knew what was on his brother's mind. "See? I told you," Jin said, thinking he knew the reason for Vernard's sigh. "Come on, dear Vernard," Clavis said, his voice filled with hope. "It's not that bad." But Vernard's gaze was cold as he met his brothers' eyes. "It's interesting how much you believed I was listening to what you were saying." The two brothers fell silent for a few seconds, and Clavis realized that whatever he had said to Vernard had gone in one ear and out the other, or possibly not entered Vernard's ear at all.

Jin's muted laughter echoed through the space as he nudged his brother's shoulder. "Looks like Vern wasn't giving you any of his attention while you were speaking." Jin's shoulders slightly shook, as if he was trying to stifle a laugh. When he finished his words, his brother's expression turned sad, but he continued to smile. "Dear Vernard, how many times must I remind you that ignoring me is not polite?" Clavis said, attempting to assert his authority as an older brother. "I will listen with pleasure to anything you have to say as long as it's useful or important," Vernard retorted, with no signs of bowing to Clavis's demands. "Otherwise, my ears will remain closed." Clavis gave a scornful laugh and under his breath, muttered, "Just like Chev..." Vernard's expression darkened as he heard Clavis's statement but chose to ignore him and keep quiet.

"Okay, okay. Let's not ruin tonight, let's make it fun," Jin proposed, resting his cheek on his hand and looking intently at Vernard, hoping he'd catch the hint. But Clavis cut in, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Someone like Dear Vernard surely doesn't know the meaning of 'fun', do you?" Vernard's reply was as quick as it was sharp. "It's refreshing to hear that you know so much about me, Clavis." His tone carried the same hint of sarcasm as his brother's.

"Perhaps that's why you should join our faction, to learn everything you need to from me," Clavis added with a mischievous grin. "As a gentleman, I promise we'll have a blast," he continued, hoping that his words would spark some interest in Vernard. Vernard let out a frustrated sigh and buried his face in his hands. Ever since he made it clear he wouldn't be joining a faction, Clavis had been doing everything he could to persuade him to change his mind. But Vernard refused to give an answer, instead choosing to ignore Clavis's pleads.

"Gentlemen respect the wishes of others," Vernard pointed out, raising an eyebrow at Clavis. "Shouldn't you be respecting my wish to not be a part of your faction?" Clavis's smile widened as he recognized Vernard's attempt to leverage his good manners against him. "Ah, but I won't fall for that twice, Dear Vernard," he said with a mischievous glimmer in his eye. As Vernard let out a frustrated sigh, it seemed his plan had failed. "Ah, finally, the drinks are here," Jin exclaims, waving down the waitress who catches the motion and makes her way to their table. As she arrives, Jin begins to flirt with her, and Clavis and Vernard turn their attention away from him. After a brief moment of flirting, the waitress sets down three glasses, one of which is wine and the other two are grape juice.

As Vernard gazed deeply into his two cups of grape juice, Jin called out to him, "So, Vern. Despite your habit of wandering around at night, this is the first time we've actually seen you do it. I'm curious to know what you're doing." Jin rested his chin on his hand and leaned forward to peer at Vernard, eyes full of expectation. But Vernard merely returned his gaze with a cold look. Clavis chimed in, "Tell us, will you?" He leaned forward, his desire for knowledge clear on his face. Vernard's jade eyes darted back and forth between the two people in front of him, searching for an answer to their question. He was a secretive person, and even though what he did might be perfectly normal, it was unusual for him to reveal his activities, even to those closest to him... if there was anyone who fit that bill. Jin and Clavis, sensing Vernard's hesitation, leaned forward, waiting intently for his reply.

“I have no obligation to disclose.” Vernard leans back in his chair, still with his arms crossed. Jin gives a playful laugh, leaning closer to Vernard and holding his glass out in an invitation to drink. "No obligation, eh? Well, that's no way to have fun. Let's make a game out of it. I bet we can guess what's motivating you to be all mysterious." Clavis joins in, looking amused. "Yes, we can tell you all kinds of crazy stories about what you're up to." Vernard raises an eyebrow, a small smile flickering across his face. "I'm intrigued. Go ahead, then. Tell me what you imagine I'm doing." He doesn't take the offered glass but instead leans back in his seat, a slight glint in his eye.

Jin took a deep breath before beginning his guessing session. "Aren't you going to tell us who she is?" "She who?" Vernard responds, raising one eyebrow in surprise at what he heard. "Is she your secret romance, Vern?" Jin looked into Vernard's jade eyes, trying to read his expression. Clavis joined in, his smirk growing bigger as he leaned forward. "We think you've got a hot date tonight. Is that it?" Vernard's face remained emotionless, but Jin could see his eyes narrowing slightly. "Seriously, that's the best you can come up with? A secret romance?" He shook his head, his smile fading into a frown.

"Oh, looks like our guess was wrong," Clavis' voice dripped with sarcasm as he said to Jin, nudging his waist to make him nod in agreement. Jin's smile grew even more as they looked over at Vernard, who gave them a bland look. "I never said your guess was wrong," Vernard said, sending surprise across Jin and Clavis's faces. They exchanged quick glances before turning back to him, intrigued. Vernard spoke slowly, drawing out the suspense as he waited for their response. "I went to see a female. But she wasn't a woman." His voice was low, almost like a whisper. Jin and Clavis exchanged a confused glance, trying to decipher what he could possibly mean.

"A child...?" Jin whispered quietly to Clavis. He was equally confused by Vernard's statement, and his frown deepened as he tried to wrap his mind around what the other male could have meant.

With a flourish, Vernard picked up his cup of grape juice and drained it in one big gulp. As he set the empty cup back down on the table, both Jin and Clavis couldn't help but crane their necks to get a better look. "It's getting late," Vernard stated and stood up from the table, putting on an air of importance as he started to make his exit. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I have official duties to attend to in the morning, so I must retire early." he informed them. Just as he was about to leave, he stopped in his tracks and turned back towards the brothers. "Oh, and Clavis, you know I prefer apple juice, but I do appreciate the effort, so thank you for the grape juice. Hopefully, you enjoy yours." He ended with a wave, sending the two into a flurry of thoughts and questions as he finally left the bar.

Jin frowned as he watched Vernard leave, "Aw, he's leaving just as it's getting interesting." Clavis sighed as he picked up his juice and began drinking. "Like I said, Dear Vernard isn't as much fun. I'm determined to make him see how great it is to be a part of our faction. I just know he secretly wants the company of a handsome, fun-loving brother like me."

Clavis took a sip from the cup, but immediately recoiled as he felt an unexpected sensation. Jin's eyes widened as he noticed the change in Clavis' expression. "I take it that trick didn't work, huh?" he said, smiling as if he already knew the answer. Clavis' face turned cold, and his eyes narrowed as he looked back at the cup. "Yes, he managed to evade me yet again, like always," he said, frustration in his voice. He pulled out a small bottle of alcohol from his pocket, revealing what had caused the reaction in Clavis. "The moment I go to ask him how, I just know he'll say it was his 'intuition' or some such," he finished with a touch of sarcasm.

~𝑬𝑵𝑫~

#ikemen prince #ikeprince clavis #ikeprince jin #ikeprince #ikemen prince fanfiction #ikemen prince oc #ikeprince leon #ikeprince yves #ikeprince chevalier #ikeprince licht #ikeprince nokto #ikeprince rio #ikeprince sariel

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ofstoriesandstardust · 1 year

Text

day 11 - i’m dreaming of a white christmas - bradley “rooster” bradshaw

a/n: i call this “kylie takes a plot of a christmas movie and does whatever she damn well pleases with it”. this has been a many weeks labor of love and is probably one of my top 3 pieces from ficmas so i truly hope you enjoy!! :)

summary: (white christmas!au) Years after the legendary Tom “Iceman” Kazansky retired from the Navy after a truly horrible accident, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw finds himself following his recently reconciled godfather, Pete “Maverick” Mitchell to the far remote corners of Vermont to visit an old friend.

He doesn’t anticipate meeting the notorious Iceman, whose legacies still stretch far and wide throughout the Navy, nor Iceman’s equally captivating civilian daughter.

What begins as a trip to continue to mend and repair his relationship with his once estranged godfather turns into a scheme to push his godfather towards happiness while maybe finding some of his own along the way.

In other words, the White Christmas!au no one but me asked for.

12 days of ficmas | main masterlist | top gun: maverick masterlist

warnings: swearing, kissing, fluffy fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, did i mention there’s fluff, mentions of depression, mentions of cancer, a dash of angst like the way all things in life should be, misunderstandings, minor Icemav, no mentions of Sarah Kazansky or Penny Benjamin, Bradley’s Bronco is invincible atp, kylie writes slider for the first time in her life, i stole the iconic dialogue, fuck if i know anything about the Navy

word count: 9,751

I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow

The sound of Bing Crosby’s voice crooning floats through the old truck. Bradley reaches out to turn the radio down, muting the man, as Maverick turns on to an old dirt road, turning off from the paved road they’d been following for miles.

“Where exactly are we going Uncle Mav?”

A faraway look appears in Maverick’s eyes, the same one that had appeared when he’d approached Bradley about going on this trip with him Thanksgiving morning. With the two having extended leave following their less-than-ideal crash landings and return from the dead, he’d had little better to do.

And Phoenix thought it would be a good idea, to get back on solid feet and mend his relationship with his godfather. So he’d agreed and packed up, getting into the Bronco to travel cross-country to Vermont.

“I told you kid, we’re going to see an old friend of mine.”

Maverick offers little more information for the rest of the ride as they travel along the road. Eventually, just when Bradley thinks his bladder might burst, they make another turn and pull up in front of a large home.

Bradley eyes the sign outside. “A ski resort Mav?” His godfather hums in response, turning the ignition off.

“Not so much as a ski resort as an inn for skiers.”

“But neither of us ski.” He pauses, looking around the property. “And there’s no snow.” Maverick says nothing, pulling off his seatbelt and slipping out of the car. He sighs, having no choice but to do the same, walking around the truck to follow his godfather up towards the house.

There’s a girl leaving the front door, a box in her hands. She notices them and sets the box down on a bench on the wrap-around porch, offering a bright smile. “Well, I was just about starting to think that the legendary Pete Mitchell my Dad talks so much about wasn’t real.”

Maverick laughs, pulling the girl into a hug. “Haven’t seen you since you were young kid. How have you been?”

You pull away, still smiling. “Good. Been quiet the past couple of years. Dad’s happy to have you here.”

Maverick steps back, putting his hands on Bradley’s shoulders. “This is my godson, Bradley Bradshaw.”

You offer him a smile, reaching out to shake his hand as you introduce yourself. He returns the gesture, grasp firm as he takes you in. “Why don’t you guys come on inside? Dad’s just in the lobby here.” You say, picking the box back up. You shoulder the door open and he reaches out, holding it open for you as you pass over the threshold. You give him a small smile. “Thanks.” He follows you inside, door shutting behind him as he stops, seeing the old man leaned over the front desk.

There’s no way-

“Well well well Pete Mitchell. I was starting to think you ran off on me.” The man smiles, moving out from behind the counter.

Mav lets out a light laugh, moving to hug the man. “And leave my wingman? No way.” The two embrace for a moment and then pull away, still holding on to each other. “Quiet business you’ve got here.”

He sighs. “I know, been a quiet couple of seasons. Not much snow-”

“Because of global warming.” You say and Bradley turns, watching you disappear back out the front door, box in hands. The man huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he and Maverick watch you leave once more. “What am I going to do with her?”

It’s then that Maverick catches sight of him, remembering his presence, and waves him over. “Brad, this is-”

“Iceman.” He breathes out, the man lining up to the pictures in every base, everywhere he’s ever been stationed.

Maybe just with more grey hair.

Before a forced retirement after an accident that left him unable to fly, Iceman had been the stuff legends are made of. The type of pilot you only hear about in a blue moon. The type of pilot like Mav.

He offers a sad smile. “I haven’t been Iceman in a long time kid. Just Tom Kazansky these days.”

“Sorry-”

Tom waves a hand. “No matter. It’s good to see you Baby Goose.” He straightens at the nickname, only ever having heard Mav use it. “Haven’t seen you since Nick’s-” He swallows, clearing his throat. “Haven’t seen you since you were a kid.” He smiles sadly at him. “God, you look just like him.” He whispers. He clears his throat once more. “Well, why don’t we get you both settled in? Bet it was a long trip. Pete’s crazy ass over here saying you’ll drive all the way out.”

“Dad’s happy to have you and your Dad here.”

He looks up, seeing you offering him a steaming mug as he sits on one of the chairs. He can hear his godfather’s laughter echo from the other room. “Not my Dad.” He says, accepting the mug from you. You shrug, setting your own mug down on the coffee table as you sit next to his feet placed up on the ottoman.

“I know, but from the way Dad tells it, it’s close enough.” He can’t bring himself to say anything, heart aching at the thought of all the years he lost out on over misplaced anger. “Anyways, I’m happy to have you both here as well. It’s been lonely up here, especially with the quiet seasons.”

“Take it you guys don’t see much business.”

“We used to, but with no snow, it means no travelers, which means no money. Dad started this place up on his retirement and pension from the Navy but he’s been thinking of shutting the doors.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

You sigh, nodding your head as you tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I think the only reason he keeps this place open is for me. It’s all I've ever known. This place is much as it is his as it is mine. I mean, after the accident, after Mom left, this was something that was ours, you know? Maybe it’s stupid to not want to let that go.”

He thinks about the planes he’d been fixing up with Mav in the days after their mission, how he always wanted help Mav out with his motorcycle growing up. How he just wanted to share in something with his godfather. “Not stupid at all.” He whispers.

You take a deep breath and look back up to him. “Sorry, this is probably too deep for a stranger. Just wanted to say that we’re both glad to have you out here.”

He takes a sip of his drink, noting the sweet hot chocolate in the cup. “We’re happy to be here.” He says softly.

You look down to his lap, where his book is sitting. “Whatcha reading?”

He shifts, showing you the cover. “A Christmas Carol.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a person who reads the classics.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not, but my friend Bob sent it with me when we left. Said I should read it since the holidays were coming up.”

Bob had also said it would help keep his mind off the ejections and crash-landings that had plagued him since he’d returned to the aircraft carrier very much alive, but he didn’t need to bother you with that.

“Well, it’s a good story. One of my favorites. Anyways, I’ll stop bothering you and let you get back to your reading. Just wanted to give that to you.” You say, nodding your head to the cup he’s holding as you pat his leg. You go to stand and he finds himself shifting, moving his legs off the ottoman.

“Wait, you don’t have to- We could- We could read it together, if you wanted.” You pause, looking at him. He scoots over, patting the spot next to him. “Here, there’s plenty of room next to me.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t want to intrude on your time-” He shakes his head.

“Please.” You nod, slotting yourself down next to him. It’s a tight fit, but not an uncomfortable one as he shifts, setting his cup down on the table next to him and allowing his arm to wrap around your shoulder. He passes the book to you. “Here, you read it to me. I bet you do good voices.”

He sighs once more, clicking the phone off. So much for staying in touch with his team.

“Something wrong?” Tom calls out from his walk around the property with Mav. He waves him off.

“No, just didn’t realize we wouldn’t have any service this far out.”

“Sorry Brad, the only way to communicate with anyone is by carrier pigeon.” Tom calls back.

“Besides, you don’t need to be texting or Facechatting anyone while you’re here. You’re supposed to be taking a break, remember?”

He almost sighs at his godfather’s lack of awareness with technology. They let him fly the multi-million dollar planes but he can’t figure out his way around an iPhone. “FaceTime, Uncle Mav. It’s FaceTime.”

His godfather waves him off, turning back around to take another lap with his friend as they continue to talk. He sighs, turning to go back inside. You’re leaned up against the front desk, sorting through some papers.

“Can I have a carrier pigeon?”

You look up, a smile forming on your face. “Come again?”

“Carrier pigeon. Your Dad told me it’s the only way to reach civilization. Although I suppose I could write a letter like in the olden days. Can I have some pen and paper in that case?”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “He used that joke on you? No, reception out here is shit but you’re more than welcome to use the landline.” You say, using the pen you're holding to point to the phone hanging on the wall behind you. It’s blue, just like the walls in the lobby. “About the only phone that picks up service out here.”

He nods, sticking his hands in his pockets as he watches you. “No worries, I can do it later. Just wanted to call my friend Nat. Let her know how the trip was going. What’re you up to?”

You collect the papers, moving them from his sight. “Nothing, just some finance stuff.”

He nods, getting a sinking feeling finance stuff couldn’t be good. “Well, uh, you wanna show me around? Didn’t get the full tour last night.”

You nod, extending an arm. “Come Bradshaw, welcome to my humble abode.”

there’s always tomorrow, for dreams to come true, believe in your dreams come what may

Your voice is soft as you sleepily sing along to the movie playing. He smiles softly at you as the screen flickers, the characters singing. After the tour around the house and property, you’d asked him if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with you, the holiday fast approaching. He hadn’t really wanted to, but you’d been so excited to start watching the films from your childhood that he’d said yes before he even realized what he was doing.

He can’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed the holidays this much, the last time he’d really felt the cheer Christmas was supposed to be all about. It had to have been before Mom passed.

You shift, yawning as you move to tuck your feet up on the couch. He reaches out for you, tugging you into his side. “So you can have a pillow if you fall asleep.” He whispers. He can’t tell for sure in the dark room, Rudolph being the only source of light, but he’s pretty sure you blush at the movement. He does too, but he hopes you don’t notice either.

The movie continues as his arm subconsciously reaches down, resting on your shoulder as his thumb rubs soft circles into your skin. You hum at the movement as you snuggle closer into his side. His heart flutters at the movement and he struggles to pull his eyes from where they’re admiring you, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, and back to the movie on the screen.

He’s near sleep when you speak again. “Your stomach is grumbling.” You comment. He has to blink a few times to bring himself back into the present, eyes adjusting to the light as the roar of the abominable snow monster echoes through the room.

“What?”

You lean up, hand pressing into his chest. “Your stomach is grumbling. It’s like, speaking its own language its so loud. It woke me up.” You move off of him and he feels cold at the loss of your touch.

“I’m sorry?” You shrug, rubbing your eyes as the blanket falls around your waist.

“It’s okay. I’m kind of hungry too. How do you feel about Christmas cookies? Unless Dad ate the entire tray I made today, we should have some in the kitchen.”

“Don’t think it’s your Dad you have to worry about, it’s Mav.”

Your raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Mav could eat anyone out of house and home and still be hungry.” You smile, shaking your head as the movie comes to an end. You watch the closing scene as you stretch. He’s too busy watching you to watch the toys jump from Santa’s sleigh, admiring the light reflecting off your face as your hair falls over your shoulder.

“Mmm, okay, let’s go.” You say, but not before you fold the blanket and return it to it’s home in the basket next to the couch.

“Would’ve just thrown it over the back of the couch.” He comments, sticking his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants that he’d changed into before the two of you had started watching Rudolph.

You shrug, walking towards the kitchen as he follows you. “Yeah, but with business being so low, I’m the one cleaning this place, so I’d like to keep it as tidy as possible.”

He nods. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You wave a hand. “No worries, it’s really not-” You pause as you flick on the light-switch, flickering to life overhead. He pauses behind you, looking over your shoulder to where you’re looking at the now-empty glass tray. “They did eat all my cookies!”

He chuckles. “Guess the elderly folk couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.” You snort, shaking your head.

“Well, I could make more? It’s easy, really, and I think I still have some crushed up graham cracker leftover from earlier.”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t be opposed. What are they anyways?” He asks, leaning up against the kitchen counter as you begin to move around the small space.

You pull the coconut out from the cabinets. “They’re really cookie bars, but they were a recipe from Dad’s Mom before she passed, so he always likes it when I make them. Makes him nostalgic. Can you go in the pantry and grab me the sweetened condensed milk?” He nods, pushing himself off the counter to grab said item. “And the chocolate chips?” You call and he looks up, grabbing the bag and bringing the items back into the kitchen.

You make quick work of making the cookies as he stands back to watch you move through the kitchen. Finally, when the tray is slid into the oven, it’s then that you finally pause, washing your hands. He walks closer to you as you dry your hands on a towel. He offers a hand and you glance at it, looking back up to him.

“Dance with me.” He whispers.

You look at him, slowly setting the towel on the counter. “But there’s no music.” You whisper back, even as the smile on your face grows.

“Don’t need it.”

You take his hand, allowing him to lead the way. The steps are practiced, comfortable, as the two of you move through the kitchen, the light coming from the dim kitchen light and the blue of the moon outside.

“You’re pretty good at this.”

He shrugs. “My Mom taught me before she passed.”

You smile. “My Dad actually used to teach me growing up too. At the end of the ski seasons, when the place was empty but there was still snow out. He used to teach me in the big ballroom out there that we use as the dining space. Probably some of my favorite memories.” It falls silent in the kitchen as the two of you settle into a comfortable swaying.

Too soon, the timer rings and he finds you pulling away as you move to pull the tray out of the oven. “They’ll have to cool for a moment and then we can put them on to a tray and go sit out in the ballroom, how about that?” He nods as you pull two cups down from one of the cabinets.

“What’re you doing?”

You toss him a smile over your shoulder as you pull the milk from the fridge. “Well, you can’t have cookies without a glass of milk, can you?” You pause. “Wait, you’re not allergic or anything? Probably should have asked...”

He shakes his head, smiling at the sheepish look on your face. “No, no allergies. The only food allergy I’ve ever had is when I tried to convince my Mom carrots made me deathly ill when I was six.”

You raise an eyebrow, unscrewing the top to the milk and pouring it out into the cups. “Oh? Did she buy it?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Not a chance. She was too smart for that, although Uncle Mav got a kick out of it.”

You laugh alongside him as you move back to the cookies, moving the tray onto a cooling rack. “Here, will you take the glasses? We can just take the tray and eat from there.” He nods, grabbing the cups from your outstretched hands as you pick up the pan, careful not to touch the hot glass.

The two of you walk towards the ballroom when you hear the voices of your Dad’s. Turning the corner, he spots Uncle Mav sitting by the fire, head close to Tom’s as they laugh softly together.

He doesn’t remember the last time he saw Uncle Mav look so happy.

You nudge him, nodding towards the side door. “C’mon, let's not bother them. Why don’t we go sit outside?” He nods, grabbing a blanket in the entry way as the two of you quietly slip outside the door, trying not to disturb the men. You set the tray down between the two of you as he sets the glasses on the ground, offering the blanket to you. You look up at him as you sit down on the bench. “You sure?”

He nods, wrapping it around your shoulders. You smile gratefully at him as he takes the knife, cutting a small piece from the tray. “So talk to me more about your childhood. Sounds like you had a good time growing up.”

You nod. “Yeah, I was young when the accident happened. Five or six, maybe? Can’t remember. Dad fell into a depression after he was forced to retire and Mom couldn’t take it, leaving maybe a year later, if that. He took his money from the retirement and pension the Navy gave him and moved us up here, opened this place up. I remember growing up, fixing this place up, and turning it into what it is now. I honestly couldn’t imagine growing up any differently.”

He shifts on the bench. “You know, I’m surprised your Dad ended up all the way out here. People in the Navy still talk about him.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

He hums in confirmation, cutting himself another piece from the tray. “Yeah, your Dad is what we consider legendary.”

You cock your head. “Interesting.” He glances up at you.

“Why?”

You sigh, settling back against the bench. “A few years ago now, my Dad reached out to the Navy. Wanted to get back in, wanted to do administration work. If you ask me, I think once the thrill of starting the business wore off, he needed something else to keep him preoccupied. To keep him from falling back into his depression, and, uh, the Navy told him they had moved on without him. Didn't need him anymore. Those are my words, but the letter wasn’t much kinder. Then, not too long after, he got sick, and that was the end of that.”

A pit of dread settles in his stomach as he turns to glance back at the men he knows are just inside. “Got sick?” He asks quietly.

Were they here because Tom was dying?

He shakes the thought from his head, turning his attention back to you.

No, no Uncle Mav wouldn’t do that to him. Not after he watched his Mom die.

“Throat cancer. It... It wasn’t good.” You say softly, turning to look at him. “He’s in remission now, and fingers crossed it stays that way, but it did a real number on my Dad. Physically and mentally. The bills drained the savings and he became depressed again, really badly. Kept saying he lost his purpose in life and couldn’t go on.”

He watches you talk, an urge to help the old man inside arising within him. Tom had no idea of the power he still held over the Navy, of the legacy he’d left behind. “Wow, that sounds... really tough. I’m sorry.”

“My Dad was invincible growing up, nothing could hurt him. But to see the illness take so much of him away, to make him so lost, it was... I don’t ever want to live with that again.”

He swallows, remembering watching Mav’s plane go down, no sight of a chute. A man he thought would live forever... gone.

He remembers watching him Mom wither away in front of him, nothing left than a shell of the bright women she used to be.

“I... can’t even imagine what that was like.” He thinks that maybe he could, but any other words are failing him as he listens to you.

You sigh, shrugging. “He’s slowly gotten better but the business has taken a hit and it’s been hard on his mental health and our finances. Pretty certain that this will be our last season open.”

He falls back on to the behind, crossing his arms. “Damn, really? I’m- wow.”

You nod, confirming. “He’s talking about moving to Canada now. Anyways, I’m sorry, this is probably a lot and you didn’t really ask-”

“No, not at all. Is there any way me or Uncle Mav can help?”

You sigh. “Unless you can make it snow and get us a house full of guests, no. Although you and Pete being here is really good for him. You guys coming out here for the holidays is more than enough. Less lonely, for the both of us.”

He sighs. “Alright, well if anything changes, let me know, okay? We’ll help in any way we can.”

You smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand back, returning the smile.

He knows you said there was nothing he could do but... Mav would know. Mav would know how to help.

They have to.

You shiver, pulling your jacket around you tighter as your feet crunch over another pile of leaves. Your Dad lets out a light laugh. “Cold there, kid?”

You nod. “’S chilly today. Chillier then it has been. Maybe we’ll finally get snow.”

Your Dad snorts. “That’s wishful thinking.”

You nudge him. “Hey, maybe it’ll be a Christmas miracle.”

He shakes his head, a sign he’s going to ignore what you’ve just said. “Well, maybe we need to go inside and have Brad warm you up.”

Your cheeks warm at the suggestion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he feigns an innocent look. “Nothing at all, just that you’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

“Well, it’s not like there’s anyone else to hang out with up here!” You exclaim. He scoffs.

“I’m not fun to be around anymore?” He asks, clutching a hand over his heart. You roll your eyes, moving to wrap your arm around your Dad’s, linking them together.

“Never, you know I always want to hang out with you.” He hums, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“If you’re tired of your old man, you can just say so.”

You return his gesture, knocking his shoulder with your own. “Shut up.”

He laughs softly as a silence falls between the two of you. You continue your walk when another breeze goes through, causing him to shiver this time. “Cold, Dad?” He shakes his head, a smile on his face as the two of you turn back to the house. “You know, maybe we should go inside and get Pete to warm you up.” You say, a teasing lilt to your voice.

“What are you talking about?”

You offer him a grin. “You know Daddy, if you like him...”

“He’s just an old friend!” Your Dad protests, even thought the blush coloring his cheeks say differently.

“Sure, you’re both old but doesn’t he just make you feel youthful, like love’s supposed to?” You tease to which he rolls his eyes. You squeeze his forearm, causing him to look down at you. “You haven’t dated anyone since Mom.” You say softly, looking at him honestly.

He sighs. “Because I had you sweetheart-”

“And I was your priority. And I love you so very much for that Dad. But I’m all grown up now. And I want you to have someone to grow old with. Or- grow older with. What is Pete, like 60?”

“I’m 62.” He responds indignantly. You roll your eyes.

“Whatever, you’re missing my point.”

“Wha- How do you even know I like men?”

You roll your eyes once more. “You’re not subtle. You make eyes at him.”

“I do not!” He protests.

“Yes, you do. And even if you didn’t, you only talk about your Navy days if you’re talking about Pete, and you talk like he hung the moon and the stars for you. I’m not stupid Dad, I am your daughter after all.”

He sighs as the two of you near the house. “Even if there was something—and I’m not saying there is—Pete and I- we had our chance and he wouldn’t- it’s complicated, sweetheart. He’s still married to the Navy and with the cancer, it wouldn’t be easy.” He whispers.

“I just want you to be happy, Dad.” You say as the two of you walk up the front steps to the house.

“I know, kid.” He says as you reach out to push the front door open, unlinking your arm from his. The two of you pause, watching Pete and Bradley fight over the phone, each speaking over the other.

Bradley sees you first, kicking Pete’s shin and wrestling the phone away from his godfather as Pete winces. “We’ll call you back.” Bradley says abruptly, clearly cutting off whoever’s on the other end, hanging up the phone as the two of them turn to you and your Dad, guilty smiles on their faces.

“Uh oh, that smile usually means you’ve gotten yourself in trouble with another admiral.” Your Dad says, walking closer to Pete. “Dare I ask what you’ve done now Pete?”

“Nothing!” He defends, voice two octaves too high and he clears his throat, a blush crawling up his neck. Bradley nudges him as both you and your Dad raise an eyebrow. “Really, it’s nothing Tom, just stuff with my pilots back home.” Your Dad nods, clearly not believing him. “Here, come to the kitchen, I was just going to change the light in there so it doesn’t flicker as much.” Pete says, turning on his heel and beginning the walk down the hallway.

Your Dad sighs, still following the man to the kitchen even as he protests. “You don’t have to do that Pete-”

“No, it’s the least I can do to help you out, since you refuse to let me pay you for letting me and Brad stay here-”

“I can’t charge family-” The conversation disappears down the hallway, falling silent as the kitchen door shuts behind them. Bradley watches them go while you remain standing by the front door, still eyeing him warily.

“So we agree those two are...” He trails off as he looks back to you. “What?”

“What were you guys doing?” You ask.

He offers you sheepish look, rocking back and forth back on his heels. “Nothing.”

“So you and your uncle just fight over a landline phone like that all the time?” He sighs, throwing a glance back toward the kitchen.

“Well, I- I can’t tell you. It’s nothing.”

You walk towards him a few paces. “So it’s nothing, but you can’t tell me?” He bites his lip, saying nothing more. You sigh, knowing you won’t get any more out of him. “Alright, well I’m going to go change.” You say, turning on your heel and towards the staircase. You hear him sigh again, catching the way he was leaned up against the wall, head resting next to the landline.

Yeah, they were definitely up to something.

The sound of the piano keys floats through the hall as you pad down the stairs. You bypass the kitchen, originally planning on going in there to get more water, but you head towards the noise instead.

You half expect to find Pete, because according to your Dad, he could do just about anything, including walk on water.

Instead, you find Bradley, pajama-clad, playing a few keys. Somehow, he manages to make red-and-black checkered pants and a grey sweatshirt look good.

You quietly approach the bench, creaky floor announcing your presence. He half-turns, eyes softening at the sight of you.

“Hey.” He whispers. “Nice slippers.”

You look down, seeing the fuzzy reindeer slippers you had grabbed before leaving your room. “Shut up.” You say, a whiny hint to your voice. “The floor gets cold in the winter. And Dad gave them to me. As a Christmas present. We have matching ones.”

He shakes his head, laughing silently to himself. “What’re you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You answer, sliding down on the bench. He scoots over, letting you join him, knees knocking together as you do.

“Me neither.” He whispers. “It’s cold here. Freezing my ass off.”

You snort. “There’s not even any snow on the ground, Bradshaw.”

He knocks your shoulder as you laugh quietly. “Shut up, ‘m from San Diego.”

You smile, scooting ever so closer to him. “Didn’t know you played piano.”

He smiles bashfully, ducking his head. “Yeah, uh, learned when I was a kid. Mom got me lessons. Makes me feel close to my Dad.”

You hum. “I’d love to learn to play but this old thing has always been just for decoration. Me and Dad don’t play. Uncle Sli probably has videos of me banging on the keys as a kid.”

Bradley raises an eyebrow. “Slider? Like Ron “Slider” Kerner?”

You nod your head. “He’s my godfather. Why?”

Bradley chuckles, shaking his head. “I knew Slider growing up. He was pretty close with Mav. They still are, I think. Slider was there when my Dad died.”

You tuck a piece of stray hair behind your ear. “He was the only one that came ‘round after Dad had his accident and we moved up here.” You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Frankly, I don’t think Dad told anybody else where he was for a few years and then just figured no one wanted to hear from him. But he’s a good man and I... I don’t see as much of him as I would like. Him and Dad had a fight, something real bad, quite a few years ago now. He still sends me Christmas cards but we haven't seen him since. Doesn't call much either.”

“What’d they fight about?”

You shrug. “I guess Uncle Sli found out that Dad called in a few favors leftover from his Navy days. Helped someone pull... something. Had to do with the Navy, which I’ll admit I don’t know too much about, mostly cause Dad doesn’t even talk about his Navy days.”

Recognition flickers across Bradley’s face as you talk, followed by a look of disappointment. He shakes his head before you can say anything, the look passing as quickly as it came. “Well, do you want me to teach you how to play?”

You shrug. “I’d probably be pretty bad at it.”

“Can’t be too terrible. Maybe all that banging as a kid was just hidden potential.” You snicker, ducking your head. Your eyes flicker up to his, realizing how close the two of you have gotten over the course of the conversation. His hand gently creeps on to your thigh, testing the waters. Your foreheads brush as his eyes flicker over your shoulder. “We have an audience.” He whispers. You sigh, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

Sure enough, there are your Dad’s, giving the two of you all-knowing grins. You groan, leaning your head to rest on Bradley’s shoulder. “Why are they so nosy?”

He snorts, shrugging. “Not a clue.”

“Oh, don't stop on account of us.” Pete calls out, smirking. You shake your head, standing up from the piano bench.

“Goodnight Bradley.” You say, cheeks warm under the watchful gaze of the men behind you. He smiles at you, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Dad, Pete.” You say as you pass them.

“Night kid.” Your Dad calls as Pete snickers.

They were going to be the death of you.

“Why’d you fight with Uncle Slider?”

Your Dad glances up from the chess game he’s playing outside with Pete as you stroll towards the pair. Your Dad exchanges an uneasy glance with Pete. “Kid-”

“No, I wanna know why I don’t get to see my godfather anymore.”

Your Dad sighs, rubbing his temple, but Pete beats him to the punch. “I pulled Bradley’s papers to the Naval Academy.” He hesitates, eyes flickering to your father. “Your Dad... he helped me.”

You blink once, and then twice. “Why would you do that?”

“That was Sli’s question.” Your Dad says, looking to Pete. “Always said we should’ve let Brad figure it out on his own. Maybe we should have. Maybe he was right.”

Your eyes flicker between the two men, dizzy with the force it takes to follow them as they uncover a decades-long buried secret. “What’re you talking about?”

Your Dad sighs. “Nick, Goose, Bradley’s Dad, was killed in an accident while we were at Top Gun. It was our jetwash, Sli and I, that they got caught in. Bradley was only four.”

You shake your head. “I’m still not following.”

Pete picks up where your Dad leaves off. “Carole, Bradley’s mother, when she died of cancer, asked me to ensure Bradley didn’t make it into the Navy. She didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. I agreed and pulled his application to the Naval Academy. It set him back four years.”

Everything feels off-kilter, realizing you haven’t seen your godfather in years because of some bullshit Navy business?

Your godfather didn’t come around anymore, didn’t call really ever, because of some decades-long disagreement over someone else’s kid?

“Sli was angry with me for not letting Brad make his own choices. Asked me if I would’ve done the same thing if you came to me wanting to join the Navy.”

Your eyes flicker to your Dad. “And would you have?”

Your Dad hesitates, and then sighs, shoulders drooping. “I... Probably. If not because of what happened to Goose, because of what happened to me.”

Your father, an ever firm man, says the words in a voice so soft and quiet, you almost feel your confusion and frustration dissipate.

Almost.

You splutter, suddenly angry over a hypothetical situation that had never occurred. You had no interest in joining the Navy, never had and never would, and you both knew it.

You stare at the two for a moment, searching for the words, before you decide you don’t have them and turn on your heel, stalking back up to the house. You push the front door open, finding Bradley excitedly chatting into the phone. “No, no, Mav’s gonna love it.” There’s a pause. “Yeah no, Mav heard back from Slider this morning. He’s coming too.”

Your breath catches in your throat at the mention of Slider. Of the godfather you hadn’t seen since you were sixteen.

What the fuck were they up to?

“No, it’s gonna be awesome. I’m so excited to have you all up here.” He pauses again, listening to the other person on the phone. “Yeah? Well, tell Bagman he better believe it. It’s the Iceman.”

Suddenly, you recall how Bradley had told you that people still regarded your Dad as a legend.

Suddenly, you recalled the conversation from a few days ago, Pete pretending they weren’t up to anything.

God, that- that had to be one of Bradley’s teammates on the phone.

Bradley turns his head, catching sight of you. “I gotta go. We’ll talk later. Bye.” He says hurriedly, hanging the phone up on the wall. He offers you a sheepish look, putting his hands in his pockets.

You wave a hand, not moving from your spot. “Oh, well you don’t have to hang up the phone just cause I’m here.”

He glances back at the phone on the wall. “No, just my friend Nat from home.”

You hum, crossing his arms. “Mmm, and just what did this Nat have to say?”

His eyes narrow at you. “Did I do something?”

You shrug. “Depends. What are you and your godfather up to?”

“N- Nothing. Nothing.” He stutters out, darting out of the room before the words are even fully out of his mouth.

You sigh, taking a step farther into the lobby.

What the hell were they doing? Who was coming out here? If this Nat person, his teammate, was involved, you could certainly suspect others in the Navy knew about their plan.

The Iceman? Were they setting your Dad up to be some kind of show pony for failed Navy pilots or something?

That thought is enough to make you dart down the hall, barely making it in time to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Pete and Bradley were bringing out all these people from the Navy, Slider included, all just to mock your Dad. Mock him for having to close what had been his life-long passion after flying had been taken from him. Mock him for what his life had become.

God, you don’t think you’ve ever met people more cruel.

It’s another week as Christmas approaches and you’ve gone out of your way to avoid both Bradley and Pete. You’re fuming at what they’re up to and you have half a mind to tell your Dad.

And yet, every time you go to tell him, you walk into a room where they’re together. Seeing them together, seeing your Dad so content and happy, it makes the words get caught in your throat.

It’s only on Christmas Eve, when the four of you are supposed to be getting ready to have a nice Christmas Eve dinner, that you make the resolve to tell him.

It’s bad timing, probably, but both Pete and Bradley had grown antsy last night, disappearing to their rooms early, and you’ll be damned if you sit by while they humiliate your father.

You stride across the house, black boots clicking against the floor as you leave the kitchen. You’d just pulled the turkey from the oven, having gotten changed into the nice dress that always sat at the back of your closet for occasions like this one.

It was velvety, soft to the touch, red. It paired well with black tights and the boots shoved at the top of your closet. It was a Christmas-only dress and Pete had convinced both you and your Dad to dress up.

You had half a mind to find Pete and bitch him out yourself, but you knew your Dad would do enough of that once he found out about what his “friend” had been up to. Once he found out about what he had done.

You’re envisioning the ensuing argument that ended the same way it had with Slider when you slow, spotting half a dozen people standing in your lobby.

“Can I help you?” You call. They turn, all dressed in dress blues.

You only recognize them as such because your Dad’s are tucked away in the back of his closet. Every once in a while, he’ll look at them longingly and then sigh, shutting his closet door.

The tall blonde responds first, smirking as he does. “Well, pretty lady, you can help me any time.” He’s answered with a smack upside his head from the lanky man with glasses as the female nudges him.

“We’re looking for Bradley Bradshaw.” The female responds.

You raise an eyebrow, realizing this must be who Pete and Bradley have been in cahoots with. You don’t get a chance to answer though as they spot him over your shoulder.

“Rooster!” The female exclaims and Bradley side-steps you to offer the girl a tight hug. Your brain is still processing the Rooster nickname when the blond sees someone he recognizes behind you.

“Hey Pops.” The blond says and you turn to see Pete.

“Hey kids, good to see you all.” Pete clasping your shoulder gently. “Hey, I’m glad I caught you. I need your help with something.”

“Why the hell would I help you?” The words are hot on your tongue, tumbling out before you can stop them.

Pete flinches, hand leaving your shoulder. “What-”

“Is that Pete Mitchell I hear? Short as ever I see.”

You go cold as the entire group turns, recognizing the voice of the man who’d given you piggy back rides and helped measure your height every time he visited appeared in your line of vision.

“Ron Kerner, still just as annoying as ever, I see.”

The two share a good-natured laugh, followed by a hug. “Good to see you alive and well Mitchell. Figured you’d end up at Tom’s.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete squawks, punching Slider’s shoulder. He smirks, taking a step away from Pete.

“Oh, you know exactly what-” He falters, eyes locking on to you. He clears his throat, pulling himself up to his full height. “Well, how about that? My favorite goddaughter all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to help us out.”

Had you not suddenly been so angry again, you probably would’ve reminded him you were his only goddaughter.

So instead you say:

“Go fuck yourself.”

The words are once again pouring out of you before you can stop them, and you turn, headed straight for your Dad’s room. Someone’s reaching out for your arm and you recognize the callused hands as Bradley’s as he pulls you back to the group.

“Please don’t do that, you don’t know how hard it was to arrange for everyone to be here.”

You scoff, pulling your arm from his grip. “Good, I hope it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, setting up an old man who’s already down and out about his life to be humiliated.”

“What’re you talking-”

“And you,” eyes flying to Pete and Slider. “-you are supposed to be his friends.”

Slider is staring at you with a dumbfounded look, but Pete walks forward carefully, testing the waters. “What exactly do you think we’re doing here?”

You wave a hand, gesturing to the group of Navy folk that have gathered around you. “You brought all these Navy folk out here to make a fool of him for what’s happened to him, as if he hasn’t already been through enough.”

The front door opens again, revealing a couple of men you might be able to place from old Navy photos that are tucked away in a shoebox in the basement.

“Well, Pete Mitchell, never thought we’d see you again.”

One of them with similiar stature to that of Slider’s, grins at the sight of you. “And if it isn’t ol’ Iceman’s daughter.”

The blond has a predatory smile on his face as he looks at you. “Well, even better, Iceman’s daughter.”

Nat, you’re pretty sure, smacks him upside the head, following with a hissed “Shut up Bagman.”

You shoot Pete a withering look as he cringes. “My point. And I’m not letting you do this to him, I’m going to tell him, I’m-”

Pete cuts you off, taking ahold of your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. “They’re here because I asked them to be. I wanted Tom to be reminded that there’s people out there who still care for Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. That his life didn’t end the day he crashed that plane.”

You go cold at the words, heart hammering your chest. “What?”

He chuckles. “Brad’s idea, actually. Wanted to help the two of you out. Figured we could get some business in here and remind your Dad just how many people care about his sorry ass. So I really hope you won’t ruin the surprise.”

You sigh, deflating. “I-”

Pete waves his hand, dismissing the fact that you don’t have words to explain your misunderstanding. “This is where you come in.”

You knock on the door, pausing to hear your Dad’s rough “Come in.” You gently push the door open, slipping inside. He glances up at you from where he’s sitting on his bed, a smile breaking out across his face. “Well don’t you look nice?”

You smile, rocking back and forth on your heels. “Well, Pete did insist we dress up...”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “Why did we let him convince us to do that? My damn house and he expects me to dress up?”

“I take it you haven’t picked out what you’re wearing yet?”

He sighs. “No, I’ve decided I’m just gonna go in what I’m already wearing.” You glance at the grey sweatpants he’s wearing, a Vermont sweatshirt thrown on top. His reindeer slippers, matching with your own pair, adorn his feet. “It’s just the four of us.”

You frown, knowing he can’t, under any circumstances go downstairs wearing that. “Well... Oh, I know! How about you wear your dress blues?” You say, clasping your hands together. “Oh, would you please? Bradley and Pete are wearing theirs!”

He scoffs, shaking his head and standing up from the bed. “Of course Pete is.” He grumbles, walking towards the bathroom. You follow him, appearing over his shoulder.

“Please? For me?” You ask, pouting your lips and making your eyes wide. “I’ve never seen you wear them.”

He eyes you for a minute before shaking his head. “That look doesn’t work on me anymore kid.”

You sigh, shoulders deflating. “Fine.” You mumble.

He sighs. “Besides, I’m not that man anymore. I’m not a hero.”

You glance up at your father, taking a small step to stand next to him. You take his arm, squeezing it. “That’s not true.”

“Kid-”

“No, it isn’t. Your life isn’t defined by that accident, Dad. It doesn’t negate all the amazing things you did before it happened. It doesn’t change the fact that you were a legend and everything Pete and Bradley and Uncle Sli have told me confirm that. And not only that, but you raised me by yourself-”

“Slider helped-”

“By. Your. Self.” You say, stressing each word, making direct eye contact with him through the mirror. “You beat cancer, Dad. If nothing else, you should be proud of that.”

He sighs, turning to look at you. “I did good with you kid, didn’t I?”

You smile softly, looking up at him. “You’re my hero, Dad. You may not think anyone else still sees you as one or doubt you’ve ever been one, but you always have been. You will always be my hero, Dad.”

There’s a sparkle in his eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. “I love you, kid.” He pauses for a moment, reaching his hands to rest on your shoulders as he looks at you, before pulling you into a hug. “Guess maybe I should wear them huh?” His voice is thick with tears as you wrap your arms around him, squeezing him in return. “Alright, give me twenty minutes to get changed and then I’ll go down with you.”

You pull away, beaming. “I’ll be just outside.”

You slip out of the room, shutting the door behind you. Bradley’s at the bottom of the steps, waiting anxiously. He looks up, a silent question hanging in the air. You give a smile and two thumbs up, causing him to smile and dart towards the main room where you know Pete and the others are waiting.

Your Dad’s good to his word, appearing from his door twenty minutes later, on the dot. You smile at him, adjusting one of his medals as he stands at a attention. “You’re the only person I’d do this for, you know?” He says as you pull away.

You roll your eyes, taking his arm that’s held out for you and begin to move down the stairs. “Oh that’s not true, a little part of you is doing this for Pete.”

“Am not!”

You snort, reaching the bottom step. “Sure.” You turn, entering the main room, knowing what’s coming next.

“Ten-hut!” Pete calls, the entire room standing to attention, saluting your father. Your father freezes next to you as you step back, letting him have his moment. The spouses of those military personnel who have joined you erupt into applause. Your Dad walks into the room, taking in Bradley and his teammates, friends of his from his Top Gun program, and others who’ve served under his instruction or alongside him. He finally turns back to Pete as the applause dies down.

“At ease soldier.” He pauses, swallowing. “What’s all this then Pete?” He asks, a certain sense of awe present in his voice.

Pete smiles, standing at attention, probably the best he ever has. “Just wanted to give a legendary general a legendary Christmas, sir.”

“You’re an idiot.” Your Dad says, fondness coloring his tone.

Pete beams up at him. “Only for my wingman.”

“You can be my wingman anytime, Pete.” He whispers.

“Bullshit, you can be mine.”

Your Dad pulls Pete into a tight hug as your eyes flicker over to Bradley. He gives you a soft smile and a short nod as your Dad lets Pete go. He turns to you, eyeing you as you walk forward. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

“Only just barely.”

“And that’s why you did all of this?” He says, gesturing to his attire. You shrug.

“Yeah, but I meant what I said, that you’re my hero.” You say, taking his arm. Pete chuckles, shaking his head.

Your Dad’s voice is once again thick with emotion as he turns back to his wingman. “So truly Pete, what is all of this?”

Pete sighs, taking your Dad’s other arm. “I wanted you to see how far your legacy has gone. That there are so many people, mostly pilots but not all, that have been impacted by you in some way. I wanted you to see how they still are impacted by you.” Pete adds at the end, nodding his head towards Bradley’s team.

Your Dad eyes Pete for a minute and then blows out a breath. “Whatever in the world did I do to deserve you Pete Mitchell?”

You walk around the kitchen, drying the dishes with a towel when a figure appears in the doorway. You glance up, catching the tall frame of Bradley as he leans against the doorjamb. “Hey.”

“You disappeared.” He says, crossing his arms. You shrug, looking away from as you pick up another plate from the soapy water.

“All the Navy folks and military personnel... not my scene. Figured I’d make good use of myself and tidy up the kitchen.”

He hums, lifting himself off the doorway. “Not your scene, huh?”

“No, no it’s one thing to know your Dad’s a legend and another to be surrounded by legends, knowing you’re just a glorified innkeeper from Vermont- hey!” Bradley’s taken the bowl you’re holding and dishtowel from your hands, setting them on the counter. You pull yourself up, placing your hands on your hip. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

He sighs, taking your hands. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re a lot more than glorified innkeeper from Vermont.”

“Well-”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “You’re a legend in your own right. Don’t gotta be a top Navy pilot to prove it to me.”

You stare at him as you find yourself leaning into his touch, getting lost in his hazel eyes. “I-”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Okay.” You whisper, letting him take one of your hands, intertwining his fingers with your own.

You follow him out of the kitchen, past the main room where Slider is regaling Bradley’s friends with a tale from his days as your Dad’s RI. The man who recognized you as Iceman’s daughter earlier (Hollywood as you’ve learned his name is) adds a few snippets here and there. Bradley’s commanding officer, Cyclone, hangs on to Slider’s every words. It’s not hard to feel the deep admiration everyone in the room has for your Dad.

Bradley pauses, grabbing his coat from the rack.

“Oh, but you have your dress blues on and I-”

“I know, this is for you.” He says, flipping the coat on and slipping it around your shoulders. “Don’t want you getting cold.” He says as you slip your arms into the coat.

Bradley pushes the front door open, keeping his hand in yours as the two of you walk down the front steps. It’s quiet as the two of you walk around the property, the night air blowing right through you. “Thank you for doing this for my Dad.” You say quietly. “He- You don’t know how much I appreciate it. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you and Pete.”

“You don’t have to repay us. Mav and I- we wanted to do it for him. An old Navy pal and all that.”

“Well, it was still very nice of you.” You say, feet crunching over fallen leaves. “So when are you and Pete headed out of here? I can't imagine Cyclone’s wanting to sacrifice you and Pete for much longer.”

“Well, about that-” He pauses as you tear your gaze from the ground to the sight in front of you.

Your Dad grabs Pete by the edges of his dress blues, pulling him in close and kissing him. “Well, would you look at that?” You whisper. “They finally did something about it.”

He huffs out a laugh as the two break apart. “Only took ‘em 30 years.”

Pete claps his hands against your Dad’s chest, grinning and looking around as your Dad slips his hands into his pockets. Pete freezes, catching the sight of you and Bradley.

“Oh, don’t stop on account of us.” Bradley calls as you giggle, leaning closer into Bradley. “C’mon.” He whispers. “Let’s let them have their moment.” You nod as you and Bradley turn, walking in the other direction. “Well, it looks like we might be sticking around for a while then huh?”

You laugh, squeezing Bradley’s hand. “I don’t hate the sound of that.”

“For the company, right?”

You give a look, rolling your eyes. “Sure, just for the company.” You pause, feeling another breeze run through as you step closer to him. “Is Pete tying you down out here? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went back without him.”

He sighs. “Ah... no, I would rather be out here with him in all honesty. We didn’t talk for over a decade and I think it’s high time I start mending things with my godfather. You know, I think Tom got something right, when he decided to move out here.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking up at him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Before we came out here, Uncle Mav and I flew a mission we didn’t expect to come back from. We were lucky to walk away alive after all we had been through. And up here, where it’s quiet and slow, not so fast-paced and life or death, it’s maybe something us Navy pilots could use more of. Something I could use more of.”

You smile. “Well, we got plenty of it up here.”

“And, well, maybe I could just use a bit more of you.”

You pause your walk, turning to him. You go to respond when the first flake settles in Bradley’s hair. You blink, wondering if you imagined it when the second settles on your nose. You scrunch your nose at the cold bite of the snow. Bradley smiles, looking at you in child-like wonder as he places his hands on your waist.

“Well, what do you know, it’s snow.” He whispers as you look around at the snow falling around you. “Never seen it before.”

“Really?” You ask, eyes snapping back to his. He nods, confirming it, eyes moving over your face. “Well, we should get your friends out here, they should see it too-”

He stops you from moving, grip tightening around your waist. “Honey just- give a moment, will ya? Been trying to do this for weeks.”

“Do what? Oh.” You whisper as Bradley pulls you in for a kiss. His lips are warm, soft, against yours as the snow falls around the two of you.

“Yeah, could use a lot more of you.” He whispers, pulling away. You smile, finding your hands coming up to curl in his brown locks, admiring the way the curls framing his face mix with the falling of the snow. He snorts, bowing his head as you stand there.

“What?” You murmur, still in awe of the man in front of you. He shakes his head, smiling at you as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“Just finally got a white Christmas.”

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