#....my gal is a good egg i just know it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

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You go to my head, like a summer with a thousand Julys

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: THE BEGINNING of the Sarge and lil Mama universe

Warnings: fantasizing about breeding a young woman, masturbation with a stuffed animal, antiquated gender norms, slight grooming (I don’t know what else to call it even though it’s really not that and no one is under age) mentions of parental death, slightly manipulative Elvis, emotional infidelity on Elvis’ part towards his current girlfriends

Circa: 1954-57 due to playing fast and loose with the historical timeline of both Elvis’ basic training and Gladys’ death

Elvis Presley is an affectionate young man, he has a sweetness about him in all his interactions, and while he is famous and you don’t know him well he is devastatingly warm and you enjoy his attentions. He comes to your father’s studio often and he is affectionate when he does.

An affectionate acquaintance is what he is, he remains as such in a tidy little world where he hugs you during his visits and holds onto your waist as he chows down on the sandwiches you bring as refreshment for his Memphis Mafia. And there is nothing more to be said or thought. You learn to burn the bacon bound for his BLT because you like the way his eyes widen when it hits his tongue and how he groans around a bite:

“Honey, you shouldn’t’ve”.

In the coming months you learn to leave off the lettuce, too, once he’s back from touring again. Back to make another record, more juice for the machine and your father is gleeful at the unprecedented success of one of his artists. He took a chance on him and now Elvis’ life is fast, so very fast and the faces blur for him, blonde and brown and black and all of them want something he doesn’t quite feel like he can live up to.

It gets so bad he begs Wanda one night on tour just to sit with him, let him put his arm around her and just sit. When he walks back into the studio after months away and finds you there, it’s quieting. He hugs you and you smile and ask him how he is and it’s slow and steady and nice. He doesn’t have to manufacture calm with you, you are calm incarnate.

New songs mean new stages and life gets fast again. It happens like that more than a couple times. He feels older than twenty two when he’s blowing out as many candles atop a birthday cake on a movie set, his mother’s usual homemade creation missing and some fancy icinged concoction in its place. It doesn’t sit right in his belly and he tosses and turns that night wanting to be home.

Home is Memphis, the recording studio is there but he hasn’t gone yet, he takes a few days just to soak up Graceland and eat his mother’s food.

It doesn’t matter as you are not absent in his home, his mother speaks of you the first morning he is home. He shovels eggs into his mouth as she praises how you’ve grown up this summer, how you’ve been helping out at the church and took a part time job at the hospital. He’s not surprised, your father is a good fella, your mother of even better character and some kids are just born sweet -that’s how people like you get made, he figures. His mother assures him you’ve not grown into a career woman, she seems very insistent on how you’re just filling your time till you get married. She’s talked with you about it. And Elvis figures this is going down the road of how Billy and you would make a good match, and he wants to tell his mother you’re too much of a kid to be messed with by someone like Billy.

He doesn’t expect her to say, “She’s a good one Booby, the sort of girl who is bright and smart but would be happiest taking care of a man. Some gals are just built for that life, not that you’ll meet many on the road like that. But y/n? She’d make a good wife and even better mother, probably won’t really bloom until she’s had a baby. Some girls are just like that, kinda plain until they start opening up….”

The rest is lost in a blur. He is tired. It’s a perfect excuse considering he just came home. But when he goes to nap he cannot think of anything but you. You swollen and blooming with his child. You are younger in his memory, and it hits wrong. He gets angry at himself for thinking of you that way and ludicrously enraged at the suspicion anyone else might be, too.

Seeing you again will cure him, he knows that. He’ll hug you and you’ll ask him how he is and he’ll be reminded that you’re his old friend’s daughter and he’ll recall why he never bothered messing around with you. You’re steady and calm and nothing like this frantic emotion he suddenly feels at the thought of you opening up because of him… he stops trying to nap and goes to the shooting range instead.

Elvis Presley is reserved. The hug you anticipate never materializes as he steps through the door of the studio, and there is no cheeky grin when you ask him how touring was. He doesn’t smile or say much, he doesn't try to touch you at all, he is reserved. You feel cold.

But he watches. He watches you when he thinks you can’t see him, but the glass reflects and you notice his blazing eyes behind the microphone.

This has been happening to you more and more lately, men staring when they think you don’t see. Your mama says it’s because of your pretty smile. She has no answer when you tell her it happens even when you do not smile at all. You are not smiling now as you are confused, confused why he watches you like he wants to reach out to you and yet treats you like he does not, like the familiarity he usually wears like a second skin has been shed, lost somewhere on the road. Maybe he has a girl, you reason, and while that never affected his behavior before, maybe she’s a Hollywood one and a jealous type. Maybe he’s sad and tired like he says he is. He doesn’t eat the cookies you make. His voice breaks often and the session is scrapped early.

He hugs you sideways as he leaves and mumbles that he’s heard you’ve been keeping busy. You tell him you have and watch for some glimmer of approval. He stares at your lips and then flees outside to the sidewalk. Your father asks if you know what’s gotten into him. You do not.

That night, alone in his bed, he tosses and turns and refuses to touch the ache between his legs. You’d looked at him so earnestly that afternoon, trying to solve him and all he could think of was -you’re grown now. Bleeding every month, settling into a bra size, probably waking up with slick between your legs, your breasts getting sore and you don’t know why. Don’t know that all these things are happening to you so that a man can plough you open, pump you full and plant a garden inside you. He ought to be that man. He has the power to stop your bleeding, make your slick become a fountain and make you swell, filling the emptiness you register but do not understand.

He grabs the massive teddy bear sitting in the corner of his room. A fan gift, juvenile for a fellow well passed such toys, but he appreciates the thought. He appreciates the way the fur parts and rubs his weeping tip as he lays atop it and humps it miserably, pretending it’s you, pretending it’s somehow better to splatter all over synthetic fur at the thought of shocking you with his passion instead of touching himself to the thought of you swollen and dripping. He comes with a shout buried into the shoulder of the bear and registers in agony that his stiffness hasn’t gone down. He rolls over and calls up his costar. Tries to remind himself of that first, bubbly taste of a glamorous woman. She indulges him and he hates it, hates knowing what they both know: that he’s one of many, that she’d never in a million years risk her career to carry his child.

Thanksgiving morning you work alongside Gladys on the buffet line at the Methodist Children’s outreach and you ask her about her absent son. She worries for him, makes you worry in turn, is glad to have a companion in fretting, someone who understands why she can’t just “enjoy the ride.” You admit you’ve noticed a change in him. The buffet runs out of baked beans. Your mother says she’ll drive over and grab more from the market. It’s icy outside on the roads, your mother never comes back.

Your house is full to bursting that night, full of well meaning people who skip their Thanksgiving dinners to file past you and your father in a long line, awkwardly patting your arms and clasping his shoulder. They talk in subdued, measured tones about heaven and time and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through. Their restraint sets the tone for your grieving, you are subdued and rational until alone at dawn, clasping your pillow and sobbing, listening to your father do the same over the muffled noise of the TV.

When someone tells you that you’re the “woman of the house now” it feels like you’ve betrayed her again. It doesn’t sit right in your belly. You are sick with it, can’t eat from it churning in your gut, ironically you want mother to comfort you for her loss.

He comes back to Memphis in time for the funeral. He comes over to the house early, it doesn’t matter as neither you or your father sleep. Upon crossing the threshold, Elvis Presley does not awkwardly pat your father, clasp his hand or encourage him to be strong. He folds your father into a hug and doesn't let go for sometime, not until your father has wept for what he’s lost and Elvis meets your eyes over his shoulder, and he looks like he knows how this feels, like this is his worst nightmare you’re living. He is not removed from your pain, he dreads it and yet he partakes of it with you both. Gladys has brought a pot roast, she smoothes your hair back like she does her son’s before putting the meal in the oven, going back out to speak with your father.

Elvis’ eyes are watery when he approaches you, his freedom of emotion gives you courage to let loose, you sob, you wail and you babble and he cradles your head against his shoulder, swaying you in the middle of your mother’s kitchen as he mutters,

“that’s it, that’s it, you loved her didn’t ya?”

It’s the truest thing anyone has said all day.

He sits you down at the kitchen table and brushes your hair, powders your nose, brings you your black leather heels, holds out your coat for you to slip on. It’s not until years later you realize he must have taken the liberty of rummaging through your room to procure those items. It is odd that it was not his mother who took charge of such things.

At the graveside you are presentable in the manner in which he crafted you, your image is sad and tragic, but dignified and evocative.

Mother is buried in a coffin he bought, six feet under a plot of land he purchased, with a space next to it for your father when his time comes. There is no third space, and once the dirt is heaped over her you wonder where you’ll rest your bones, why he didn’t think to provide you a place in the earth, too. Your father calls him “a good boy” as the wind kicks up and the mourners disperse.

You ride back to the reception at your house, wedged snugly between Elvis and Anita. She hands you a monogrammed hanky in the back seat and it smells like rosewater. She sweetly lets you hold her hand and it’s icy from the cruel November wind while Elvis burns your right side, his arm thrown back behind your head and some thrumming turmoil roiling beneath his flushed skin. You can see the pulse thumping in his neck, above the fuzzy upturned collar of his coat and you instinctively press your free hand to it, trying to calm the flutter. He jolts at your touch and the vessel only pounds harder.

“You sick?” you ask him as your hand feels his sweaty skin. It’s wintertime and everybody at the hospital has come down with bugs and he feels like he’s raging with a fever. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping much either, he gets those same dark circles under his eyes as Gladys. They’ve both got them lately. Death has made you paranoid, you know.

“Nah, m’fine, it’s just from cryin.” he takes your hand down and holds it. Anita let’s go of yours, to open the car door as you arrive.

Whoever made it tradition for the bereaved family to have their house swamped by the community right after burying a loved one must've never known the bone deep desire to curl up and just process it all. Alone. So you stand again for hours and let them file past and it’s all very much the same as the other days and your stomach is in knots but you behave how your mother would’ve wanted, only occasionally sneaking off to the kitchen to load the emptying cheese trays and to just breathe. It goes on for hours, your feet ache and your throat is dry.

You escape back to the chilly sunroom to sit down for a minute and find him there, alone, sat on the wicker sofa and thumbing at one of your mother’s gardening books. If it were anyone else that would feel like a violation but since it’s him, it feels like he’s just trying to get to know her. And you appreciate that.

“Have you eaten, honey?” he asks you and nods at the apron you’ve donned as you just stand there and take him in.

“Uh, no, I’m not hungry.” you wave his frown away.

“Sit down honey, runnin’ yourself ragged like this.” and he pats the small space of cushion beside him as you think about your guests, think about how nice it would be to just relax with someone who values silence, but you can’t, you’ve gotta go back and host, it’s the right thing to do.

Except that his hand encircles your wrist and tugs and you go limply, folding into his side and he shouldn’t feel so warm, so safe, so right -you don’t know him that well. But he wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s bleeding for you and you suppose that puts you two ahead of a lot of so-called friends.

“They can eat sandwiches and make themselves feel compassionate without you hurtin those little feet any longer.” he declares and pulls you into his lap, tipping you back to cradle you like a baby, his hands running down your legs until they meet your ankles and he’s pulling off your heels with finality.

You’ve never had a boy touch you like this, you’ve never pressed your cheek against a hard chest and felt the thump, thump of a masculine heart radiate through your limbs. But he’s so final about it all, and so certain and so at ease you feel foolish for gasping and shuddering at the famillairties he takes as he rubs one hurting arch of your foot and then the other. He’s got an authority about him tonight you’d never noticed before, and you’d as soon question your pastor on a point of doctrine as question Elvis Presley on the propriety of rocking you to sleep, yards away from a substantial amount of Memphis’ most devout population.

Your last thought as you drift off is that you hope Anita understands you're just a kid to him, you hope you’re not shaming your mother on the very night of her funeral by tucking your head into his shoulder and sleeping for the first time since she died. Your stomach unwinds, your breathing evens out and your legs fall apart in your sleep, you dream of plush lips dragging along your forehead. You wake in the morning curled around a pillow, snug in your own bed, rested. Father tells you Elvis carried you up there himself before he left.

“He’s a good boy.” you agree with Father at breakfast.

He hadn’t felt boyish when he’d wrapped you in his arms. And you hadn’t felt girlish either, for all that you had been rocked and petted. Your stomach stays loose and molten for a few more hours before the grief catches up again and the newly empty house plagues you.

That’s why they invite the crowds in after a death, it takes half the city to make up for a single loved one’s absence.

You flee from the haunted space, longer shifts at the hospital and longer hours at the shelters. At night you sit and feed father your mother’s recipes, ask each other about the other’s day as if any of that matters now.

The Memphis division of the March of Dimes Charity approaches you to replace your mother on the board. Hustling you into your new position and entrusting you with the Christmas organizations all before the holiday itself is unheard of and rushed, but it all makes sense once you hear a doner put in a good word for you, requesting you be put in charge. There’s no bigger or quieter doner than Elvis Presley, so when he speaks up and asks for a thing -it happens.

Mere hours before catching a train to New York, he pops in to the event and makes the room shimmer with his presence, he kisses cheeks, chats with everyone and tosses kids who’ve been treated like glass up in the air, making them laugh for the first time in months. He signs ever so many posters and records and casts and he watches you all the while. The way you host and rustle about in your black heels and plaid taffeta crinoline as the function you put on runs like a well oiled machine. It doesn’t feel like a Christmas event without mistletoe or dancing, but it’s still a damn fine shindig, he’ll give ya that. And he notices what he suspected: when you’re busy working those grieving furrows of your brow clear and he finds he can breathe easier.

Before he leaves to catch his night train you get pulled into a photograph with him, poofy skirt crushed against his leg, arms helping balance a massive cake as he holds a kid who seems to think you want to eat globs of frosting off his fingers. You’re not about to deny a five year old boy in crutches so you slurp it off laughingly and the cameras capture Elvis watching that hungrily. The cake, not your pink tongue languorously licking white icing…

You walk him to the door and he leaves you in the warm glow of the charity function surrounded by children and folks you’re making feel welcome as only you can, and he boards the damn train that ships his ass to New York, calling Anita dutifully before slumping into the narrow bed and wringing his cock out to the thought of marrying you and keeping you full of him all your days.

You go on the date with Billy cause you figure it will get your mind off your grief and he tells you he wants one last happy memory before he leaves everything familiar and gets shipped across the world to get killed. Billy is being dramatic, as there’s no war on right now, but the draft is an atrocity all the same and you don’t mind giving Billy one last happy memory. Something in you has been curious about men since that night Elvis forced you to sleep on him by sheer masculine authority alone. You curl around your pillow at night and pretend it’s him, or someone, a man, you think. You pretend it’s a man.

You think it must be missing your mother that’s done this to you, she’d have kept you distracted but without her, and your father a reticent shell of himself, it makes sense you’re lonely and craving some stability, someone to tell you how it’s gonna be.

Billy isn’t exactly that, he can’t even decide on where to take you for this date, it’s up to you to suggest places, finally landing on the drive-in theater. It’s safe but mature enough to be a little thrilling. He doesn’t own a car so you drive in the car Elvis bought you when you became a March of Dimes board member. Father sets a curfew, and you try to soothe your nerves at the notion you might feel a man again tonight, your curiosity peaked and eager.

The theater lot is strangely empty when y’all arrive and you wonder if maybe Billy called in a favor. Halfway through the film you feel Billy’s hand on your thigh and you shudder and respond in kind, just a gentle resting on his own, but this spurs him on, soon he is ignoring the film altogether and fumbling to get under your velvet skirt and that’s a little surprising. You’re processing whether you like this or not when he leans over, pulls down your fur collar and glues his mouth to your neck like a pufferfish to the side of a tank. It’s not very romantic but it makes you flush and it shocks you and you like that. More shocking still is the blinding light that suddenly pierces the nighttime seclusion of your car cab, and there at your window is Elvis Presley wielding a police grade flashlight directly into your eyes, smiling like a shark against the glass.

“How’s it goin kids?” he grins, his breath frosting the frigid glass.

“Elvis, I-I- I’m on a date.” You laugh while stating the obvious.

“I know, I know,” he nods, opening your door and sliding in next to you, gently shoving you till he’s in front of the wheel and you're wedged in the middle, “Bill here told me you were handin out free dates to poor drafted boys, so I’m here for mine.”

“You’ve been drafted, too?” you cry out, Billy quite forgotten, “They’ll not make you with-“

-with his career you mean, but he gives you a pout and nod and that’s that. So is the way his arm slides around you and pulls you closer and you feel like you’re in the middle of a contest you didn’t sign up for. “I’ll miss you boys.” you sigh.

“Aww, you’re sweet honey, ain’t she sweet, Billy? She taste sweet, too?”

Billy mumbles something under his breath about not getting the chance and you realize Elvis has his hand gripping the poor kid’s neck.

“Elvis you're being rude.” you chide meekly.

“Nah, it’s rude to kiss a lady’s neck with so little finesse as Bill was yours, that’s what’s rude.” Elvis declares and you get that feeling again of being unable to question him. You just hush and stay put until the credits roll and he offers Billy a ride home which the kid accepts. He drives your car and you don’t bother protesting when he drops Billy off with a:

“See ya in the barracks, bucko!”

It’s rude and cocky and no one’s ever fought over you before and while you don’t appreciate him interrupting your exploration of a male specimen, it’s rather nice to matter a little to Elvis Presley. It’s heady and makes your heart thump and your legs feel heavy and you wipe your sweaty palms on the velvet of your skirt.

“How’d you know that, that I was there?” you ask him, timid now you’re alone with him and the gentleness he once showed you isn’t present, he is gnawing on his bottom lip, leg not pressing the gas is jiggling like it does before a performance and it attracts your eye by instinct.

He’s wound up and you feel a little suffocated from the warmth rolling off him as he drives you through the dark streets, back to your home. “He asked me to clear the lot out.” he confirms your suspicion, “Then your daddy asked me to look out for ya, make sure all was right and proper.”

You are surprised and a little hurt that your father wouldn’t trust his child who has been as unfailingly upright as yourself on a movie date, more strange still that he’d trust someone as, well -loose might be a unkind word- but someone as loose as Elvis Presley to enforce morality on such a night. “I don’t believe you.” you admit barely above a whisper.

Elvis’ foot slips at your little whisper and he revs over the curb outside your house with a thump, before he curses and backs up, head cranning to look out the rear window and you wanna touch his throat.

He kills the lights and turns to you and you're so ashamed by your craving thoughts you fear he can sniff them like blood in water, figure out that you wanna run your finger down his cheek, that you wanted to touch Billy cause you’ve been curious of him. “Now honey,” he admonishes you in the still dark and it’s all you can do not to shrink against the car door under the weight of his stare, “I don’t wanna have to report to your daddy what I saw in this here cab, so why don’t you tell me why it was you were lettin’ that boy touch on you so. You was leanin in, I saw ya, you was leanin in and you liked it.”

“Elvis,” you plead, face aflame and it makes him twitch in his seat to see you squirm so, “you, Elvis you know I haven’t -this was my first date! I didn’t do nothin wrong. It was exciting, that’s all.”

He looks at you sternly and it makes you angry, you're about to resume a defense when he takes his hand off the wheel to clasp your thigh, higher up than Billy ever dared. “This feel exciting, lil one?”

Your lungs feel crushed and your thigh trembles under his hot palm, “What’re you doin?” you gasp, feeling very, very wrong and near starving for it.

“This feel right to you?” he presses, unrelenting, hand rhythmically squeezing your soft flesh and you can see father’s silhouette in his usual chair by the window, reading and oblivious.

“I said exciting.” you cleared your throat, “And I said it was when Billy did it. And he never went that- that- that high up.”

“Oh nah? Hmm, well, now that I’m there, how’s it feel, honey? Hmm?”

You squeeze your eyes shut after a moment, watching his hand creep higher and nearer to where you feel your heart beat thudding between your legs proving to be a bit much.

“Ain’t right or fittin for Limp Dick Billy to be gettin a quality girl like you excited.” he shakes his head, “Save your bosom heavin for better stuff.”

“Limp Dick -what’s that mean?” you repeat him, bewildered as your world narrows to his lush lips and the searing heat of his hand near that place you’ve grown to notice more and more lately.

“Aww that’s just, that’s nothin, just a bad name we use for fellas whose uh, well, whose hair won’t uh, won’t stand up right.”

“Not everybody can have hair like you, E.” you mumble and watch the way the lamplight makes his rings glitters against the velvet of your skirt.

That’s an admission on your part that he drinks in like a dying man, happy to have some glimmer of superiority in your mind over his fellows, and he rubs his thumb soothingly over your twitching thigh as your skirt folds dip between your legs, highlighting them perfectly. He can see the outline of your little cunt between your pressed thighs and he feels rash, feels like spreading his hand a little further and brushing his pinky there against that place he’s imagined so many times.

“Elvis,” you whisper into the silent cab, “what’re you doing?”

That’s a question for the ages and one he hasn’t got a clean answer for. “Tryin to make you excited.” he admits.

“Why?” you puzzle and you’ve heard that this is why he’s called trouble. It isn’t fitting for the sexes to know too much about each other, and Elvis knows too much about women, that’s the talk anyways.

The motion of his thumb against your thigh makes you agree, he knows a little too much and you know too little.

“Tell me,” he leans in further and you feel trapped and your heart is bounding from being the object of his droopy eyed assessment, “does this feel like doin nothin?” he demands and then he’s pressing a fluttery kiss to your pulsing throat and the catch of your breath is audible in the small space.

“Don’t.” you beg, confused and wanting it to never end.

“Why not?” his breath chills the damp little spot where he pressed his kiss.

“You’ve got a girl.” you protest.

“Thought you said this weren’t nothin.” he growls.

“Alright maybe it is.” You squirm away from his touches until your back is pressed against the glovebox. “I-I don’t know. I just - I don’t think you should be doing this with me.”

“Alright then.” he smirks, “You'd best not give me reason to tell your father bout any future such nothin’s with boys, alright honey?”

“If you stop behavin in a way that would make Miss Gladys inclined to whoop you, then I will.” you fire back and he thinks he’s in love. Cause you’re right, his mama would be livid at him flustering you and trying you out without making it honest. Your supreme capabilities in social matters, mixed with your utter dumbness in regards to the slick sliding down your legs with each swipe of his thumb against velvet, makes him nearly primal in his wants.

“Deal.” he smiles, “I’ll be gone away to basic training soon, anyhow,” and he notices your little frown at that, “won’t be here to bother you or protect ya, either way. So you’d best just swear off men, ya hear me? Just for a little while till I can come back and vet ‘em.”

“You’ll be gone in the army for a couple years!” you protest his sentencing you to a nunnery.

“Yeah, yeah, and your eggs will keep a couple more years.” he laughs at what must’ve been a good joke that you missed while you were occupied trying to breathe after he patted your lower belly and got out of the car to hand you out by curfew.

On the front porch he tells your daddy a version of the truth. A version that paints you as quite blameless, himself in a starring role of protector and Billy as a no good kid who ain’t quality enough to be hanging out with nice girls like yourself. You are forbidden from seeing Billy again, Elvis is commended, your father goes upstairs to bed and leaves you alone with a young man whose lingering fingers and bitten lips make you lightheaded -you think maybe Elvis has the right idea, your father is blind as a bat when it comes to threats.

Not that Elvis is a threat, he just lounges against the kitchen counter and watches you put up dishes like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You don’t think Anita would mind you hanging around like this?” You ask him after his lip licking stare gets a little too heavy and you feel somewhat dizzy from being so closely watched by a guy who you know doesn't mean anything by it.

It’s just Elvis’ way of things, he makes people feel and it’s not his fault.

You’ve tried to not blame him for that building feeling you get when he’s around, the one like your lower belly is made of molten lead. That’s a physical abnormality, not his fault in the slightest.

You just do worry about how people might see this, seeing him walking home from your house late at night. You've heard the older ladies on the board whispering about you and how you haven’t got a protector, how your father can’t see what’s right in front of him. You presume they mean about Billy and his straying hands or the old donor who tried to tug you into a closet with him. Elvis is just trying to fill in the slack your father’s grief has left. Anyone with eyes could tell he’s just looking out for you. He had to be pulled off the old doner before he murdered him after he heard. It’s only that you notice Anita has turned a little cold towards you, and mama always said to be careful about letting a taken man take too much interest in ya. And Elvis does seem very interested in something about you, maybe just cause people stare and he thinks it’s rude, thinks getting pulled into closets is ungallant. He does plenty of his own staring, though.

“What about Anita?” his head snaps up and he takes his eyes off your shiny little leather belt to ask you to repeat yourself.

Something about having his focus back on your face makes you feel dumb about your worries and you change the question slightly. “Y’all gonna get married?” you ask instead.

“I dunno.”

“But with you going into the army, what’s gonna happen, what’ve you two sorted out?” you press, scooting him to the side so you can put a dish away behind him.

“She says she’ll wait for me.” he replies, sounding like her faithfulness is an imposition and you get a little mad for her, “she’s always tryin to nail things down I-I-I’ve told her, I just d-d-dunno.”

“She’s been very accommodating of you, Elvis.” you plead her case the way your mother used to plead yours to your father about dance lessons.

“Yeah, sure, sure.” he agrees dryly, leaning on the counter again and staring at his feet, “Gonna put a pause on her damn career and everything, least for a year or two. Big whoop. Who's gonna take care of the babies once she goes back to work, that’s what I wanna know. No children of mine’s gonna get raised by some passel ‘a mamies like a bunch of Wall Street brats while their mother is off kissin men for a living.`` By the end of this tirade his voice is close to a shout and you think he’s shockingly worked up over a rather hypocritical grievance.

But it makes sense, “Guess a career woman isn’t the best mother.” you agree tentatively and his eyes shoot up to your face. You’ve no more dishes to dry and your hands hang uselessly by your side.

“Oh hell, look at us ruinin our evening over her,” he shakes himself, “don’t mind her she’s just being an ole biddy about it all.”

“With some reason!” you laugh, “ And the point could be made that you’re actin a bit like an ass.”

“Oh hell not you, too!”

“It’s not nice to lead a gal on like that -or two in the case of Dixie and June- and then get mad at her when you decide she isn’t what you want after all!”

“Didn’t realize you were so invested in my private life.” he sneers.

“I’m not. But the Evening Herald is.”

“Don’t let the papers turn ya onto a nagging puss, lil girl, doesn't suit your sweet temper.”

“I’m not turnin into anything, just stating facts.” you murmur and clasp your hands before you anxiously. You swear you can feel the heat coming off of him, anger you presume, “And I’m a little tired.” you add sheepishly.

“Course you are.” he murmurs, visage smoothing like magic and he comes up to you, cradling your face in his hands as you back away and bump into the stove, “Been a big day and a lotta new feelin’s, hmm?”

“Yes.” you gasp, your chest hot and his hands are so large and warm and it’s like he blocks out the rest of the world full of his girls and your father and what’s right or wrong, cradling your cheeks with his thumbs running along your cheekbones, “You gonna be good and do what I asked ya?”

Your mind is so fixated on the plump curve of his bottom lip that you surface with a frantic splutter, trying to recall what he’s referencing.

“You gonna lay off the datin’ till I get back, yeah?” he reminds you helpfully as his fingers work the back of your neck to jello, your core pulsing in a strangely distracting response as he tells you how it’s gonna be, gives the very direction you’ve been craving.

“Yes, yeah.” you breathe and your voice sounds like those gals on the screen when they’re overcome by romance, but here is none that you can find, just Elvis looking out for you and patiently bearing with your stupid naïveté when it comes to boys. He’ll make sure you land the right one, start house with a fella who’ll give you security and direction. It’s just your loneliness with father being so mellow that has you going on stupid dates with boring boys. Elvis is right. You admit it to him.

He smiles in response and it looks like the kind he gives before he punches someone in his films. It’s a promise.

You shiver against the stove and grip the dish towel hanging from the handle.

“And you’ll let me know if anybody is botherin, ya while i'm gone, right?” he rewards your obedience with the promise of security, just like all those knights in fairytales.

Women obey and men provide, it’s the natural way of things and your heart swoops at the first taste of a married dynamic. You feel like you should offer him some favor, some reward for giving you his defense. You’ve heard stories about girls who feel the way you do, who get overcome by gratitude to a fella before getting married and they are ruined. You grip the dish towel harder, unsure of what motion you might make which would ruin you, what touch it is that seals your fate, puts a baby in a girl before it’s time. It can’t be a hug, surely not just a kiss, but you wouldn’t know as you’ve never dared. You’ll wait for Elvis to come back and make sure the fella you date and marry won’t get you in trouble in any of these ways. It’s complicated and confusing being a woman, and since that night of the funeral he seems to have taken the place of your mother, and you trust him in this.

“I’ll let you know.” you swear earnestly.

He kisses your cheek gently in response. Just a dry peck. That must not be the ruinous action in question, he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish you. It’s Elvis.

Elvis is a sullen but brave boy as he boards the army bus to ship him down south where it’s more Mexico than truly civilized but the world just calls it Texas. Or that’s what you hear from Gladys. You were not there to see him off, why should you be? You are busy and you have sworn off men and there’s a great deal to do in those dismal post holiday weeks. You do not pine for distractions, you don't have much energy to lie awake at night for long and rehearse the way his hand felt on your thigh, or his lips against your throat, or his fingers grazing the little swell of your belly where your womb is housed. These are passing, fitful and frantic thoughts, that pass through your mind before sleep takes you.

And Elvis is much the same, basic training is unkind, even to a man whose performances required much stamina. He crawls into his bunk and collapses most nights, staring with hooded eyes, at the newspaper clipping of you licking that damn icing, the picture he’s shown his new army buddies while announcing to them proudly “that’s ma girl, no, no, not the sort to fool with. The one I’m gonna have carrying my babies. Soon.”

Soon.

It’s a waste in the meantime, the way he spews his seed over the panties he stole from your room that morning he dressed you for the funeral, it’s a waste of precious fuel— fuel for his dream as it impotently coats and drips from the silk and makes him angry that he can’t find it in him to tamp down that restless heart of his, just settle down. Marry you already. Be a little respectable— sounds relaxing, sounds satisfactory. Sounds like something the Colonel would love for this whole “new image.”

That sours it all and he rolls over in his bunk with the sodden scrap of silk that no longer smells of you but of him and his wasted desire.

Soon, he tells himself, soon. After a little while.

It’s tragic really, the way we postpone snagging those things we know we want, the ones our gut lurches for, our soul craves as our conscience whispers “just do it.” Put off because life is too exciting to tone down, fun and girls are in abundance, and time seems very plentiful until it runs out in a great big whoosh of sand from the hour glass, taking with it those steady, stable, sure things we’ve counted on being there for an endless little while. Like your Mother. Just gone, and the universe doesn't pause to acknowledge your world is fractured, for everyone else it’s just tomorrow. Tomorrow is here and they’re not.

The shock of it jolts you, the regret nags you, the grief strips you back down to the bare bones of what you want and need. Elvis only knows one other person who he thinks gets how this feels as his train hurdles homeward to a coffin and a future that doesn't make any sense. Mama should have gotten to see him out of the army, gotten to see him do more, hit thirty, marry. Mama shoulda been able to meet those grandbabies she’d pestered him about but he put off for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a bitter pill and he wants to spit it out, start over, refashion it just so. No more regrets, no more fighting his gut. He’d like to dig a shallow grave for a little while, fold himself into it and just rest a minute, learn to forgive his stupid ambition, catch a break. Wake up some thawed spring morning to the sight of you beside him in the daffodil covered earth, find the reason in your eyes that makes him choose to live again.

Still, he finds it in a little fur trimmed peacoat standing and waiting forlornly for him at the station.

You’re not a girlfriend, you’re not a fan, you’re just someone who lost their mama too, somebody who knows there’s not much to say, just a hug there on the crowded platform and “she was the reason for everything you ever did, wasn’t she?”

Was. She was. Now is about what is.

#reposting for masterlist purposes #since the other links are deactivated #cheers #elvis fanfiction #sarge and lil mama #the beginning #elvis imagine #elvis fanfic #elvis x reader #elvis x you #austin elvis imagine #elvis presley #Elvis x Elaine

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wardenparker · 1 year

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The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Dating Your Ex - ch 6

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Marcus unexpectedly runs into his ex-wife he is plunged into a world of complications where rekindled attraction and deep-seated insecurities reign. Unfortunately for him, it is also a world where his ex-wife is not the only ‘ex’ around, as a new case crosses his desk that will require all hands on deck. ✨💖Inspired by and based upon absurdthirst’s Tequila. 💖✨

Rating: Mature, but as always this blog is 18+ Word Count: 15.6k Warnings: **Blanket warnings for this series include: divorce, break ups, collegiate Greek life, underage drinking, food/alcohol consumption.** Gal pal gossip, tough conversations, a little bit of dirty flirting, and more of Patrick Jane being Patrick Jane. Marcus’s romance barometer is dialed up *high* and we love to see it. Summary: Brunch with the girls, Marcus and Teresa have a heart-to-heart of sorts, and Jane still somehow manages to make himself a nuisance. But it’s your second first date with Marcus, so you’re determined to make it a good one. Notes: I am not gonna lie to y’all...a lot of working on this chapter was just swooning over the restaurant’s menu. I need to get my ass to L’Ardente in DC stat!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5

“There she is!” Is the cry from your friends when they finally spot you across the rooftop of the restaurant where you have done Sunday brunch trivia every week for the last year. There are already mimosas and you can see a plate of cinnamon rolls out on the table which makes you grin.

“Sorry I’m a couple of minutes late.” You’re barely sorry, considering the reason you’re late is Marcus wanted to go for a second round in the shower this morning, but you’ll at least feign an apology.

“Mmmmmhhhmmmm.” There is definitely a devilish grin to your oldest friends’ faces as they pointedly examine you up and down. “That is the look of a woman who isn’t sorry one bit because she was too busy getting dick.” Angela cackles.

“Spill!” Jacqui insists, looking at you with bright eyes. Her own marriage is settled, and very happy, but the giggly giddiness of a new infatuation is so much fun to experience with a friend. “Did you finally hook up with that hot curator from Air and Space?”

“Um…” Sitting down between Silvia and Angela, you glance at your young coworker, only to be relieved when she offers you an encouraging if awkward smile. “Actually?” You have to brace yourself. Angie is going to lose her mind when she finds out. “It’s somebody I used to know. And…didn’t think I would ever see again…”

“Do not tell me that you’ve picked up that clown you told us about in France!” Angela had been upset when you left Marcus but she was your friend and supported you through that time with phone calls, international at times. She hadn’t approved of Henri. “What would he be doing here?”

“I—it’s not Henri.” You shake your head and immediately pick up your menu as though you don’t have the bar’s offerings memorized. As though you aren’t craving their amazing eggs cochon. “It’s…well…my ex.” Silvia only knows who your ex-husband is now because of what’s happened, but you don’t think you have ever actually said his name to Jacqui. Until now, it still hurt too much.

“Marcus!” Angie gasps, aware that you have never called any other man your ex. “You were in bed with your ex-husband?” Her grey eyes blow wide in shock, matching the way her jaw hits the table.

“Surprise?” Your laugh is awkward, embarrassed even though no one here knows about what happened with Silvia but you and her. “He lives in DC now…”

“How in the hell did you run into your ex-husband in D.C.?” Angela demands, her face lighting up in overwhelming happiness. She knew that Marcus was the one for you, even if you had been too stubborn to see it.

“Wait— ex-husband?” Jacqui wrinkles her nose in confusion. “This is a good thing?”

“He stopped by the office the other night. Some kind of case.” Silvia blurts out, seeing the restraint in your happiness written all over your face. She doesn’t want to make more drama by telling everybody that she was the reason you saw him again, but she wants you to be happy if that’s how you actually feel. “Does this mean…are you guys back together?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, reaching over and squeezing Silvia’s hand. “I think so? I hope so.” It’s obvious from the way that you light up at the thought that it’s what you truly want, and your young friend smiles encouragingly before you look back at Jacqui. “It was college. We were just kids and I…I got scared. He’s in the FBI now. Director of his department and everything.”

“So…nothing bad happened?” She asks, still cautious because obviously you don’t divorce someone over nothing.

“Oh no, Marcus worshipped the ground she walked on.” Angela huffs, shaking her head fondly. “Sappy. And it was the relationship to aspire to. I broke up with three different guys because they didn’t treat me half as well.”

“It was my fault,” you tell Jacqui honestly. “Marcus didn’t do anything wrong, I just…we were so young and when he started talking about houses and kids and school districts and 401ks, I just panicked. So like I said…it’s Marc that’s giving me the second chance.” You knew Angie would be excited. She had always thought Marcus was amazing and was legitimately mad at you for a long time after you asked for the divorce. You’re not above beyond admitting she was right. “We’re just…taking things slow right now.”

“Oh my god, sleeping together is slow?” Angela snorts and shakes her head before looking at Jacqui and Silvia. “Although that tracks for them. They slept together the first night they met and were inseparable for the longest time.” She reaches over and takes your hand. “Are you still getting noise complaints? Tell me he didn’t peak in college sexually.”

Your cheeks are burning as you studiously avoid looking at Silvia, but you couldn’t hold your grin in even if you tried. “Definitely did not peak in college.” That’s for goddamn sure. He’s got new tricks and everything. “And uh…I don’t know what the people in my building will think, but he has a nice house and everything so…maybe I should make his neighbors cheesecakes or something as an apology in advance.”

“Damn.” A low whistle comes out of your oldest friend, along with a sly grin. “In college, they were encouraged to not have sleepovers at the frat and sorority houses.” She explains. “Everyone would hear.”

“Everyone was very encouraging when we decided to move off campus.” There’s been so much reminiscing lately, and aside from the guilt it makes you practically giddy to be able to think of the happy times again. You’ll make it up to him. You know you will. You have to.

“You have to tell us how you ended up in bed together again.” She demands, eager for details.

“It wasn’t super dramatic or anything.” You demure as best you can, pausing when you feel your phone go off in your pocket. Expecting a text from Marcus, you instead see Silvia’s name splashed across your screen.

Silvia: It’s okay to be excited <3 We’re okay.

The unexpected sentiment really just shows how mature she is, and you’ll have to make sure that you and she have some time to talk it out on your own, without other friends or coworkers around, but right now you just send back a barrage of hearts as a return message and feel the internal sigh of relief as warmth and giddiness floods your chest. The smile spreading across your face is instant. “We actually…after the thing at the office…we ran into each other on Friday night. I guess neither of us wanted to spend our night at home alone so we both had the idea to go out…and ended up at the same bar.” It feels like a fairy tale, allowing yourself to get excited has you nearly vibrate in your chair. “We had dinner together. And then…I invited him back to my place. I honestly had no clue he’d end up staying over.”

“This is…I still can’t believe that Marcus is here. And you two are rekindling your romance.” Angela sighs wistfully. “It gives me hope that soulmates exist.” She grins at you. “Really hot soulmates that make your legs shake, right?” Her grin grows just a smidgeon. “Like mine.”

"You can't believe it? Imagine how shocked I was." Interrupted momentarily by your table's waiter, you add your order to everyone else's and sit back in your chair after the young man walks away. "It's...surreal. But...kind of wonderful."

The girls all murmur their own agreements, Angela nodding. “I imagine so. Have you two talked?” She asks seriously, sliding her own mimosa over towards you to have some since another round is on its way.

“About what happened?” You nod, grateful to have even a watered-down mimosa when the guilt hits. Someday, you hope, you’ll stop feeling these waves of horrible regret. But that day is not today. “Yeah. We’re talking through things. And we’re, um…we’re going on our first actual date tonight. Dressed up, out on the town, the whole nine yards. I don’t know where yet, but you know Marc. It will be memorable.”

She’s nodding, glancing over at the other two women. “He’s a great guy.” She promises them before she looks back at you. “Honey, I know you. I know you feel guilty, but he’s a big boy.” She reaches over and covers your hand with hers. “If he wants to give you another chance, don’t second guess it. Dive in and enjoy.”

“I’m trying.” She’s your oldest friend - having stuck around through the bullshit and long distance and telling you to your face when she thought you were making a mistake - and you know if Angela thought that pursuing this was a bad idea she would say so. But she’s encouraging and excited for you, so you nod your head and finish the rest of the mimosa she handed you, and try to smile. “I’m not gonna fuck this up twice. I love him too much for that.”

“You always have.” She reminds you, smirking slightly. “Henri had nothing on Marcus and neither did any of those other idiots.” She scoffs. “It’s been obvious that he’s never forgotten you. Just look at the song.”

“Okay.” You huff and puff, looking at her in wonder. “Did everybody know about the song but me?” Jacqui and Silvia both look on in confusion, exchanging bewildered glances before Jacqui also looks to Angela for an answer. “What song?”

Angela snorts, “Of course. Danny - you know, Dan Stevens, he’s the one who arranged to have the song looked at.” She explains to you before she looks over at Jacqui and Silvia. “Do you know that country duo, Dan + Shay?” She asks, making Jacqui frown slightly but Silvia nods. “I do.” She tells Angela. “Well, the song ‘Tequila’ is about our girl right here.” She states proudly.

“I’m sorry, what?” Jacqui’s jaw drops, her face drawn in surprise and awe as her attention swings back to you. “It is not?!”

“Wait that’s the song?” You’ve heard it before - it’s on the regular rotation at the coffee shop you frequent, of all places. One of the baristas always seemed to be playing country. It had always twisted your gut with memories before, but now? Now you’re on the verge of tears. “Marcus said he wrote a song but…he didn’t tell me it was that song.”

“Yeah….” Angela bites her lip, giving you a soft smile. “Danny saw it and knew it could be a hit. It summed up his relationship with you perfectly.”

“So Marcus is the reason we never get a pitcher of margaritas when we go out?” Jacqui smirks at you. They’re her favourite drink, so she always just orders for herself even though the other two women love them also. “I’m gonna have to have a little chat with this man.”

You can’t help but laugh, pulling out your phone in your lap again to send off a text after you shake your head at your friend. “I think we can do that now, from time to time. The memories suddenly don’t hurt so much.”

To Marc: You didn’t mention that you sold your song to Danny. Turns out I’ve been listening to it every week for ages. Miss you ❤

******

Marcus is far less relaxed, sitting at his desk, writing down notes and impressions on the case so that he doesn’t miss anything. When his phone buzzes, he picks it up, smiling when he sees that it’s from you.

To ❤ : Miss you too. You didn’t ask. 😇 Enjoy your girl’s day.

From ❤: Angela knew. Because of course she did. Can’t wait for tonight!

The reply text comes through almost right away, telling him that even while you’re with your friends, he’s at the front of your mind. Marcus smiles as he looks down at his phone, opening the emails to reconfirm the reservation he set. He wants to make sure that you enjoy the ‘first date’ with him.

A gentle knock on his office door startled him it off his thoughts, and when he looks up, Teresa is standing in his open doorway awkwardly. “Morning.” She murmurs, holding up the tray of coffees and bag of bakery treats she brought as a peace offering. “Wasn’t sure if you had breakfast yet or not.”

“Come in.” Marcus almost stands up, but he doesn’t. Overthinks it for a moment and wonders if he would stand if she wasn’t his ex-fiancée. And he wouldn’t, so he doesn’t. He does motion her forward and gives a polite smile that would be HR approved. “You didn’t have to do that.”

"Yesterday was tense." She observes, setting the drinks down on his desk and handing him the coffee, keeping the cup of tea for herself. "Consider it a peace offering."

“Tense might be a mild term for it.” Marcus accepts the coffee, opening the lid and noticing that it was exactly how he always took his coffee. She had apparently remembered. “It would have been less so if your husband hadn’t been so...himself.”

“He forgets that not everyone finds him hilarious or ingenious.” Teresa sits carefully on the other side of the desk, smoothing her tunic blouse over her bump as she does. The baby isn’t too active today, thankfully, which means the morning has gone fairly smoothly. “Patrick is…he’s just Patrick. And while I love him, I know he’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” As if to prove the point, she takes the lid off her own cup and swirls the milky liquid around with a stirring stick.

“You could have been honest.” Marcus tells her after a moment. “I would have understood more than most would have.” He would have, that’s the irony. The you-sized hole in his heart had never healed, nor could it have been filled with anyone else.

“I didn’t really know.” Teresa admits, casting a look down at her own belly before looking back up at Marcus. What she put him through…he should despise her. Refuse to help on principle. But Marcus is a better man than that and she knows it. “I knew that I had hesitations, but I didn’t really know what or why until Patrick got on that damn plane.” She tilts her head, almost shaking it at herself and closing her eyes for just a half second. “I’m sorry. For what happened between us. Not that we had something, but…for how I handled it.”

It takes a lot to apologize and now he’s gotten two apologies in the same week from the two most important relationships he’s had. If he were a lesser man, he would see it as him being morally superior in some sense. Being a ‘good guy’ in the way that all men who are not good men claim to be. Teresa doesn’t have to apologize. She’s moved on in every way possible and he’s already helping with her case, so this isn’t some kind of exercising some pent-up guilt. Instead of basking in the apology, Marcus takes a sip of his coffee and nods. “I appreciate that.” His smile is softer this time. “Really. Thank you. Apology accepted. And I apologize for rushing you into things.”

"Apology accepted. Water under the bridge." The smile on her face is genuine as she takes an almond croissant out of the bakery bag that she brought and nudges it toward Marcus. "So...I have to ask. Your ex-wife? Really?" He hadn't talked about the first Mrs. Pike often while they were together, but she had always gotten a sense that she had hurt him. Badly.

“My ex-wife.” There is not the pang of sadness and hurt that had been there before. “It— there’s never been anything like being with her.”

"So you're happy?" He deserves that, after all. To be happy. Someone with as big a heart as Marcus Pike, she wouldn't wish anything else. "I don't mean to pry, I just – if you're happy, then I'm happy for you."

“Honestly?” Marcus bites his lip and looks down into his coffee, thinking about how he had pushed you up against the wall of his shower and made you cry out this morning. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this happy.” It’s his turn to give her an apologetic smile. “I think, deep down, it’s always been her.” He knows it’s always been you, but it’s still his ex he’s talking to.

"Then I'm happy for you." There's no point in feeling slightly hurt over not being the one that got away from Marcus when she was the one who made the choice to leave him, so Teresa sits forward with her breakfast and looks over the file on his desk. Learning to read upside down was a fun little trick that Jane taught her. "Notice anything new or interesting this morning?"

The moment seems to be over so Marcus spins the file around so she doesn’t have to strain herself. “Take a look and tell me what you think.” He has always respected Teresa professionally and now is no different.

"That is a lot of different places called Johnson's Ranch." The sheer number of possibilities makes Teresa cringe as she looks up and down the list. "I'll get a list of prior residences for the family and see what we can cross reference. Maybe we can at least narrow it down to a region and then use the pictures to pinpoint location."

“Perhaps it’s a family vacation spot?” Marcus kicks around, leaning back in his chair. “It would make sense that it would be somewhere tied to the family.”

"Could be." Teresa nods slowly, rolling the idea over in her mind. "I'll start with deeds and homesteads and move through rental properties and businesses second. Something of this place has to have survived."

“Could even be a place that was rebranded.” Marcus groans, shaking his head. “This is going to be a miracle to solve before you give birth.”

"Oh god," she laughs at that, huffing at the idea of still being on this case in that many months. "I'll text Patrick and ask him to bring us a map of the US and maybe...three or four different colours of pushpins? We can start mapping out possibilities and colour-coding the locations. It's going to take a while to get through." When she glances up at him, Marcus's brow is furrowed, focused on the list in the folder in front of him. "Tomorrow we'll use physical markers from the pictures to help narrow it down further, and hopefully your— Dr. Pike— will be able to help us figure out some more clues we might have missed."

“She’s good at what she does.” Marcus might have done a little professional snooping at your accolades. “If anyone would be able to help, it would be her.”

"We knew you'd have the right person to bring onto the case." Even Patrick Jane, who wanted to scrub most vestiges of Marcus Pike out of his wife's past, had admitted that he was the man that could help most effectively. "We just...had no idea it would be her."

“The irony.” Marcus can’t help but give a small chuckle. “If we hadn’t divorced, she might not have been where she is now to help. Our lives might have been very different.”

"You might not have been in the FBI at all." She points out, reaching for her tea again. It's particularly soothing today. "Law enforcement wasn't your original idea, if I'm remembering correctly."

“It hadn’t been, but it’s a good thing we are where we are.” Marcus can’t regret everything. He’s done a lot of good, and put some bad people away.

"They say everything happens for a reason." Though she isn't usually the kind of person to use aphorisms for comfort, this particular one is what she's really got to go with at the moment. Because if she hadn't said yes to Marcus, then Patrick might never had gotten the kick in the pants that he needed to tell her how he felt. Which, in turn, left Marcus single again to reunite with his ex-wife. It's all just...complicated. "Let's see what we can get done today. I know you don't want to be sitting here for twelve hours, and we need our expert to get through the detail work. So let's just prep and do some digging through land deeds and family assets today. When Patrick gets here with the map we can start charting things out, and we can all call it a night for dinner."

Nodding, Marcus agrees. “Not exactly the way I wanted to spend a Sunday, but I’m sure you feel the same way.” He snorts. “If you get tired because of the little one, just lay down on the couch behind you.”

"Thanks." He knows she isn't one for complaints or excuses, and that if she lies down it will just be with the file in her lap instead of on the desk in front of her. She doesn't however, miss the way Marcus glances over at his phone and smiles - the lines around his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. "You guys have plans tonight?"

“Dinner.” He nods and looks at his phone again. “She’s at brunch with her friends, but we are having a date tonight.” It’s still slightly surreal, but he can’t wait to see you again.

“Well.” Her own phone goes off - a simple text from husband acknowledging what she’s asked for, and then followed immediately by a picture of a bag of apples. Her current pregnancy craving. It lights her up unapologetically. “We’ll make sure you get to it,” she promises.

“Thanks.” Marcus nods, feeling like the air has been cleared between the two of them and he doesn’t feel like he needs to add anything else. He turns towards the notes and starts pouring over them again. Eager to get done for today and get ready for his date with you.

******

With no instructions except being told to dress up and expect him at six-thirty, you've been excitedly pacing around your apartment for the last ten minutes as you count down to his arrival. The texts back and forth with your sister have been animated, to say the very least, and with Angie's encouragements this morning and Leah's this evening, you're feeling about as dreamy as you have in a long time. A second first date with Marcus. The thing you've been dreaming of for years.

While he rationally knows that it’s a little silly to be this excited about a ‘first date’, he’s grinning as he parks the car. He’s always wanted to do this, from the first time he had really thought about you seriously, which was about day two of knowing you. Marcus wanted to take you out to a dinner he never could have possibly afforded by then. Picking up the gorgeous bouquet of flowers, Marcus exits his car and walks up to your building to hit the button for your apartment. Wanting to do this right.

You grin when the buzzer goes off, knowing he easily could have texted or called, but this is Marcus. He's always been determined to be proper whenever possible. You hit the button on the panel in your hallway to let him up and double check your appearance in the mirror one last time. The heavy thumping your heart is doing is just as eager as the first time he came to pick you up - though your apartment and sorority house are worlds apart.

It was probably about a week after the first party that Marcus had taken you out on the first official date of your relationship. Like you hadn’t been sleeping together for a solid week. He had taken you to Sonic for a burger and a grape slushie. All he could afford at the time, but he had wanted to do more. Always wanted to do more, and now - he could. Once he makes it to your floor, he strides down the hallway with confidence, a spring to his step that has more to do with seeing you than anything else and knocks quickly.

There isn't an ounce of shame in how fast you open the door. You're not going to pretend like you weren't right in the hallway when you were, but it stops mattering the instant you open the door. All dressed up in a perfectly cut suit looking like a dream, Marcus is holding a bouquet of your favourite flowers - he remembered, you sigh inwardly - with a bright smile on his face. "Hey love." The sight of him takes your breath away, and you really can't tell if you gasp or not before getting your composure back. "Do you want to come in for a minute?"

“Sure.” Marcus steps inside and offers you the bouquet. “I know you have a vase or ten to put these in.” He remembers how you used to admire the beautiful vases when you were window shopping. His grandmother had given the two of you a beautiful crystal vase when you had gotten married, and he wonders what happened to it.

“It’s an addiction,” you admit, cheeks heating a little but not really embarrassed. The soft pink and white ranunculus flowers deserve the best vase you have, especially because they’re from him. From the side cupboard in your kitchen, you dig through the smaller and more everyday vases you’ve collected over the years to come out with one made of gorgeous cut crystal. “You might recognize this one…” There were a few tokens that had gone with you to your new life, unable to completely let go of the one you had built with Marcus. Your wedding gift from his grandmother was one of them.

“I had just thought about that vase.” Marcus admits, grinning as he watches you unwrap the band from the flowers and move over to the sink to put a few inches of water in the bottom of the vase. There’s no hurt feelings over it, he had told you to take whatever you wanted when you were packing up, and he’s happy to see that you kept it. “It’s perfect, I think.” He hums. “Very fitting.”

“I feel very coordinated.” The flowers embroidered on the handkerchief hem of your black dress dance in the overhead lights from the kitchen as you set the vase in the center of your table and turn back to him. “What do you think? Is this appropriate for the mystery date?”

“Very appropriate.” Marcus agrees, stepping back slightly and dragging his eyes from head to toe. If it weren’t for the fact that he wants this date, he would be pulling you back towards your bedroom in a heartbeat.

“Later.” You point a finger at him and grin, being well-acquainted with that look in his eyes. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like what’s under the dress, too.”

“Damnit.” Marcus huffs, although he doesn’t mean it for a second. “Sonic doesn’t have reservations.” He’s done this to himself but he also knows you will be very happy with tonight.

“Sonic, huh?” Your eyebrow ticks up at him as you pick up your purse and open the door again. “Are we having a repeat first date?” That would be awfully sentimental and fairly on brand for the two of you.

“While I still say that the grape slushie is the best flavor, no.” Marcus chuckles and steps outside so you can close up your apartment. “I made reservations for us at L’Ardente for 7 o’clock.”

“L’Ardente?” The impressed noise you make has him puffing up slightly. “Well aren’t we very fancy tonight.” This is him, though, too a tee. Even when you were scraping by on pennies, he was trying to think of ways to make everything the nicest possible version of whatever DIY you could afford.

“Followed by drinks and dancing at Sax.” Marcus adds as you slip your keys into your purse and he takes your hand. “If you’re up for that after we try the forty-layer lasagna.”

“Dinner, drinks, and dancing?” Leaning into his side a little when you get into the elevator, you lend him a dreamy grin. “Cary Grant has nothing on Marcus Pike.”

“The experience I wanted to give you so many years ago.” He had, to an extent. Dinner was fast food or whatever you could afford at the time. Drinks and dancing was shots of tequila and parties on campus, but this is more mature. The way he had always imagined taking you for an anniversary dinner ten years down the road, still having that spark between you. “Now I get to.”

“You know I loved every date you ever took me on.” The boy he was would be so proud of the man he’s become, and it makes your heart swell knowing that you had been any part of it - though you push away the ache of knowing you could have been there for everything.

“I loved them too, but I always imagined this in our future.” He admits, the doors opening and both of you step out into the small atrium of the apartment building and walk by the post boxes to the front door. He had parked on the street in the ten minute parking so he could bundle you into the car and hurry off. “When we were ‘old and boring.” He teases.

“It’s a privilege to get to be old and boring with you.” You promise him, waving to your doorman on your way out of the building.

Marcus laughs as he opens the door to let you get in the passenger seat. “You mean we aren’t now?” He asks, winking at you as he closes the door to round the hood to slide in beside you.

“Maybe a little.” When he slips into the driver’s seat beside you, you lend him a grin. “If we tried partying like that again in our thirties we’d break something.”

“Hangovers.” Marcus moans. “Who knew they would get so fucking bad?” He asks rhetorically.

“I swear it’s why I’m pickier about what I drink now.” Years ago, the cheapest liquor in the world didn’t bother you. Now your home bar is carefully stocked with pricey splurges that craft beautiful cocktails. “If I’m going to deal with a hangover, I want it to be worth it.”

“Exactly. It’s why I try not to get trashed anymore unless it’s a special occasion.” Marcus jokes.

“And we have the dreaded work tomorrow.” Not that either of you dread your jobs, but it makes you both smile and you slip your hand into his as he steers the car into the flow of traffic. “How was today, by the way?”

“It was…interesting.” Marcus tells you, shrugging slightly. “Apparently when it comes to apologies from exes, when it rains - it pours.” He chuckles quietly. “Teresa wanted to clear the air.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Not that he deserves apologies from multiple people, but that things are getting cleared up. Making things less awkward will be good for everyone. “I take it her husband was not a part of that conversation? He doesn’t seem like the apologizing type.”

“No, he didn’t come for the apology tour.” He doesn’t really care, it’s water under the bridge. “But I also had to apologize to her too.”

“What for?” The only account of their relationship that you’ve heard places the end result squarely in Teresa Jane’s lap, but things are never that black and white in real life.

“Because while I cared for her…” he reaches over and takes your hand to bring it up to his lips to kiss it softly. “I was running away from the fact that she wasn’t you. And that there was still something missing because she wasn’t you.”

“I love you, too.” There really isn’t any escape to it - not that you want one. Not at all.

That sugary warmth that settles over him every time you say those words descends again and he looks over at you and smiles. “Good to know.”

“So…” You squeeze his hand and thread your fingers together easily. “Do you happen to remember my friend Angela? She was my roommate freshman year - black hair, grey eyes, supermodel tall?”

“Angela….” Marcus frowns for a second. “Angie Carter?” He nods. “Yeah. I hear she still keeps in touch with a lot of our old friend group. Marcus talked to some of them, but he had made it clear that he didn’t want to talk about you. It had been too painful. They had all respected it for the most part, obviously why he didn’t know you were in D.C.

“Angie Carter-Kim, now. She got married about a year ago to one of the other lawyers at her firm. But yes, same Angie.” The streets zip by as he drives steadily through traffic, turning up the length of Massachusetts Avenue toward the restaurant. “She’s extremely excited to hear we’re…doing this. She was over the moon at brunch.”

“She’s in D.C.?” Marcus isn’t surprised, Angie was always very driven and interested in the political side of the law, but it’s good to know that you have old friends who knew him as well as both of you when you were together. “That’s good that I have one person’s approval.”

“She wants to have us over for dinner so you can meet Harry, so I told her I would ask.” Truth be told, doing things like suggesting double dates with friends and giggling over Marcus at brunch made you feel so comfortable today.

"We can do that." Marcus agrees, knowing that it would be nice to have another person that wasn't work related that he knows in D.C. Especially since you were still close to her. "Tell her that we will set something up." It might be after the case, considering he doesn't know what is going to happen, but it would be something to look forward to.

“You’ll like Harry. He absolutely thinks the world of Angie and treats her like a goddess.” Just as she had said this morning - she didn’t settle for anything less after seeing the way Marcus had treated you. Which really should have proved a point to you, but hindsight is 20/20.

"She deserves someone like that. From what I remember she always had a good head on her shoulders. Even with us being dumb kids." Marcus hates letting go of your hand, but it's necessary to turn. "It'll be nice to catch up with her and meet her husband."

The restaurant has a valet, of course, and you slip out of Marcus’s plush SUV onto the sidewalk to wait for him. It’s silly - childish even - to feel like the few moments it takes him to join you is longer than you want to be apart, but when he steps up beside you and puts a hand in the small of your back to guide you into the restaurant, you’re home again just from his touch.

“I was thinking Le Diplomat, but decided that you might have been there and wanted to see what this place was about.” He murmurs as you both walk into the swanky restaurant and over to the sleek host stand. “Reservation for Pike.”

“Ah, of course.” The host smiles warmly. “Right this way, Mr. Pike. Mrs. Pike.” The table you’re led to is secluded, and the restaurant’s mood lighting is fairly obvious but not in a bad way. It’s inviting and romantic, which are perfect for tonight.

“That might be something you haven’t heard in a while.” Marcus is the one who holds out your seat for you, always feeling like the little gestures matter. “Being called missus rather than doctor.”

“I don’t mind.” It’s the first time in years you haven’t corrected the person, actually, and you love the way it feels, even if it’s not technically correct. “If you don’t, I mean.”

“I don’t mind it.” He admits softly as he pushes you in and rounds the table so he can sit down across from you. The candlelight is between you and he smiles as the menus are handed to you.

The host says nothing but to let you know your waiter will be over in a moment before he retreats, but you swear you don’t hear a word. Your focus is entirely on Marcus. On being with him again. “Is it really sappy if I tell you I’m a little misty about this whole thing?” You have to laugh at yourself a little, or at least have a sense of humor about it.

“I’ve been looking forward to tonight all day.” Marcus confesses with a laugh of his own. “I left the office early because I couldn’t get any more work done.”

"Angie came back to my apartment with me to help me pick out an outfit." It's such a silly thing, but you had been so excited and so nervous that your friend had jumped at the chance to do something so nostalgic as help you get ready for a date. "I almost had to remove her bodily from my apartment. I think she wanted to hang out long enough to see you."

“It good that she doesn’t hate me.” There had been a few of your sorority sisters that had been convinced that the story you had told your friends wasn’t true. That he had to have done something. It wasn’t something he had told you about, but it had been good that he hadn’t been on the market for dating for a long time because the well had been poisoned.

"She absolutely doesn't." You can promise him that with absolute certainty. "I'm the one she was pissed at, and rightfully so. She never approved of what I did."

"She shouldn't have been mad at you." Marcus shakes his head and frowns slightly. "You— you were doing what you thought was right, I know that you never meant to hurt me or yourself."

"I was an idiot, and she told me as much." There's nothing to do about it now but shrug, and you reach across the table to squeeze Marcus's hand. "Either way, I'm glad to be us again. Even if it took a while to get here."

"Me too." Sending you a small wink, Marcus wants to shift the topic of dinner. He doesn't want this to be a dinner of regrets, this is your new beginning together and he wants this to be positive. "Now, let's figure out what we are going to share for dinner." He teases. "Because I know we are going to steal bites."

"I don't know, but I think I heard something about a forty-layer lasagna?" You waggle your eyebrows at him, knowing how much he loves lasagna in absolutely any form. "So I think the question is what am I going to get that you can steal a taste of?"

"I am honestly trying to decide if you are going to choose the Duck Hunt or the Venetian Rosotto." He hums as he looks over the menu. "Duck ravioli and foie gras or riced calamari and king crab?" He asks teasingly. "Or do you want the Vitello Parmigiana? Stir things up with veal?"

"Oh, come on now." The menu is expansive and expensive, and you shoot Marcus a smirk. "The duck ravioli is under small plates, you don't think I would ever pass up duck as an appetizer in any universe, do you?" You had never had it before the very first fancy restaurant that his parents took the two of you out to when he brought you home to them, and it had been your favourite fancy food ever since.

"Then we split the Duck Hunt for an appetizer and then you order what you want." He sends you a small wink. By 'share' he means he will take one bite and then let you have the rest of it. "And we order a bottle of Krug to wash it down with. I think champagne is appropriate tonight."

"Krug?" One eyebrow ticks up at him from where you had been looking at the menu and your smirk turns to a glowing, slightly dopey looking smile that lights your whole face up. "If you want to celebrate, who am I to disagree? Just as long as you let me spoil you the same way from time to time."

He rolls his eyes at you, knowing it will be a debate later on down the road but he's happy he's going to get his way for now. "Let me do this tonight, okay?" He asks softly, wanting it to be a night you remember forever.

"As long as it makes you happy, baby." You really would give him anything. As long as it's within your power, you would hand over your whole life to make him happy. A bottle of champagne and a fancy dinner are the least of it.

It will, it will be the fulfillment of a promise he made to himself a long time ago. Nodding, he winks at you again. “I’ll make sure that I thank you for this later.” He promises huskily.

With all the stops he's pulling out, you should be the one thanking him, but you keep your mouth shut when the waiter comes over to take your order. Marcus orders the bottle and the first course and the waiter is gone again in a polite flash.

“Now...if we can fit in dessert, what would you want?” He asks, smirking at the dessert menu.

You hum like there isn't an absolutely obvious choice, if you can even make it that far into the night. "If we make it through two courses of pasta without bursting, there is a thirteen-layer chocolate cake that I think I might build a shrine to if it turns out to be as good as it sounds."

“You always choose chocolate.” He muses, smiling fondly at the memories of you thanking him profusely for the little Dove chocolates he would bring you when he had the chance.

"It was a miracle we didn't end up with a chocolate wedding cake." The decision had been close, but the beautiful strawberry and cream cake had been delicious. "We don't have to get chocolate cake, honey. It just sounds good."

“We can always get a slice to take home.” The mere mention of a wedding cake has him almost jumping to promise that the next one will be chocolate. To plan, to map out the future with you. Instead, he looks up at you to see if you agree. “Chocolate is perfect.”

"Marc..." You tilt your head and lean your chin on your other hand, trying to hold in the beaming smile that it threatening to crack the surface. "That's not what you were going to say first."

“And how would you know that?” His brow arches up playfully and he leans in, watching the candlelight dance in your eyes.

"You clench your jaw when you second-guess yourself." It's been his tell for his whole life, apparently, but the way he's looking at you is almost entirely distracting you from teasing him. "Your mother told me about that one."

“Damn.” He rolls his eyes slightly in good fun, and shakes his head. “Betrayed by my own mother.”

"What were you going to say?" If he really doesn't want to tell you then you won't push, but you don't want him to hold back. If either of you is tiptoeing on eggshells then you're only going to add to the communication problems down the line.

The answer is delayed by the return of the bustling waiter with a gorgeous bottle of Krug, along with a bucket to be placed on the table for easy access. Marcus leans back as the bottle is uncorked after he approves of it and two glasses of frothy champagne are poured. He nods his thanks as decides to answer you truthfully as the waiter rushes off. “I was going to promise you that your next wedding cake could be chocolate.” He admits as he picks up the thin stemmed glass. “To new beginnings.” He offers, giving you a chance to just ignore his comment if you wished to.

“New beginnings.” It’s a beautiful sentiment, and you tap the rim of your glass against his before taking your first sip. The crisp, bubbly liquid cools its way down your throat before it starts to warm you, and you hum at the sensation. “And I agree to a chocolate wedding cake only if we supplement it with fruit. Like those chocolate oranges you love at Christmas.”

Your comment makes him freeze. For a moment his entire system seems to shut down and reboot before he manages to smile at you. “You remembered those things?” He asks with a small chuckle.

“Of course I do.” How could you forget the little things that make him unique? They’re the things that make up the man you’ve loved for your entire adult life. “And I also remember that you like hot fudge on raspberry ice cream, and chocolate covered strawberries. So the pattern is unmistakable.”

“So we could always have chocolate dipped fruit as garnish around the cake.” He smiles, beams, at the fact that you knew him so well.

"We absolutely could." Any amount of dreaming from him has your insides twisting and filling with glee. "A piece of chocolate dipped fruit with every slice of cake. That would be gorgeous."

There’s a tiny portion of him that breathes a sigh of relief when he doesn’t see you hesitating or holding back. He knows what you said, but it’s hard to readjust after twelve years of believing he had pushed you away because of his need to give you everything. “Chocolate covered dehydrated raspberries are a current obsession of mine.” He admits with a grin. “There’s a little sweet shop around the corner from the Hoover building that sells all kinds of things like that.”

“We’ll have to go by sometime after work.” It’s pure encouragement, at least to you, when his shoulders drop ever so slightly and the warmth in his cheeks rises. Marcus without dreams isn’t Marcus at all, and you want to give him back that sweetness and joyfulness more than anything. “I want to share all of our new favorite things.”

“You would like it. They have all kinds of chocolate covered things.” He hums. Before, he had avoided thinking about you in there, but he knows you would like the chocolate covered rice crispy treats.

“Chocolate-covered-everything is my favorite everything.” He remembers that, apparently, and it makes you smile in the most pleased, adored kind of way possible. “I keep a container of chocolate covered sunflower seeds on my desk and I know it sounds weird, but they have a little candy coating on them and it’s the perfect combination of sweet and salt.”

“That sounds good, not weird.” He huffs. “Like a chocolate covered cashew or peanuts. But have you had a chocolate covered gummy bear?” He asks, raising a brow at you.

“Of course I have.” The look on his face is like he’s trying to keep himself from being positively giddy, and it makes your chest tighten with happiness to see him so relaxed again. “What do you think I put on my ice cream?”

“They are amazing. And I bet they are even better when chilled.” Marcus bobbles his head in agreement.

“I’ll build you a little chocolate-covered-gummy-bear scene on top of a cheesecake sometime.” You shoot him a grin and sip your champagne.

“What about in a cheesecake?” He tilts his head and considers it, looking at you for confirmation or disagreement with his idea. You love to bake, he could make cookies the density of hockey pucks.

“I bet that would work in a no-bake Cheesecake.” The idea is just silly enough to work and you stifle a giggle. “Now I have to try it.”

“Oh nooo.” Marcus groans, rolling his eyes. “You have to test something and I’ll be forced to try it.” He sarcastically tosses out. “What ever will I do?” He had always been willing to be your taste tester and had loved it.

“You’ll be at the gym more,” you snort, grinning and giddy at the lighthearted tone the night has taken. “It’s harder to just fuck away the calories than it used to be.”

“That’s way more fun than fucking running on a treadmill.” Marcus grumbles, sending you a small wink right before the waiter comes back with the appetizer for you to share.

I know says the twisted smirk on your lips, but you behave yourself with the waiter approaching.

The plating is beautiful and the smell makes his mouth water as he looks at the ravioli and foie gras. “This will be amazing.” He nods his thanks to the waiter and looks back over at you. “Well? Shall we try it?”

It tastes even better than it looks, which should be impossible, and the two of you dive back in for second and third bites with record speed so that it takes almost no time for the little plate to empty. You’d be mad that it’s gone except that it bodes such wonderful things to come. “Oh my god,” you moan softly, giggling happily. “That was insane.”

“Yes it was. And that forty-layer lasagna is going to be mouthwatering.” Marcus hums, sure that this place will quickly become a favorite. Just maybe not with the expensive champagne. “Have you decided what entree you are getting?”

“I’m torn between the Campanelle Nere and the carbonara they have listed.” Having told the waiter that you were in no rush, he had excused himself after your appetizer without taking your entree order. The night’s rhythm and theme are indulgence, so neither you nor Marcus has any intention of rushing. If you’re still dancing the night away after midnight, you won’t be surprised. Well… you might be surprised that you’re still awake, but not that you’re enjoying yourself.

“Ohhh pulling out the out of left field choices.” He teases, grinning at you and reaching for the champagne bottle to top off your glasses.

“It’s a special occasion,” you reason, laughing at his teasing tone. “I figured why do anything ordinary?”

Marcus grins. “So order both.” He suggests indulgently. “The leftovers can always be our midnight snack after we get home from dancing and…working out.”

You practically snort at the way his eyebrows lift with the suggestion, barely able to muffle it when the waiter returns to take your dinner order. Campanelle nere for now - carbonara to go. And it’s all you can do not to snicker behind the falsely dainty hand you’re holding in front of your mouth.

Marcus grins, ordering the lasagna with the short rib meat and hands his menu to the waiter. “Thank you, we just have…big appetites.” He offers, unrepentant at the double entendre in the statement.

The whole meal is as exquisite as that first plate, and half the slice of gorgeous chocolate cake is packed away in a bag with your pasta to be brought back to whoever’s house you end up at after tonight’s adventure is over. There doesn’t seem to be any question of the fact that you’ll be spending the night together, though, which sends a familiar thrill up your spine as Marcus leads you out of the restaurant. Yes, you’ve both grown up, but you’re still fundamentally the same people that you were the first time you had a first date — and those people are crazy about each other.

“Now, do we head to Sax now, or do we stop somewhere else for drink first?” He asks, trailing his fingers up and down your back as he asks what you want to do. Marcus of old would have planned everything down to the minute and hated straying from the plan, but he wants you to enjoy tonight fully.

“Let’s go to Sax.” Leaning into him on the sidewalk, you breathe in his cologne and sigh inwardly. There’s a comfort to this man that has not diminished with time, and it makes you so happy. “We can sit and scope the place out before we’re ready to dance.”

“There is bottle service there as well.” He points out, digging out his valet fob to give to the driver at the stand.

“Of course there is.” You raise your joined hands to leave a kiss on his warm skin. “It’s perfect, baby. Just a little over the top, but right from the heart. That’s the way you love, and I love you for it.”

He hums, warmed by the sentiment and he tugs you closer as the two of you wait for the car to be brought around.

The drive between places is only a few minutes and there’s another valet at the ready as you step out onto the sidewalk to wait for Marcus again while you take in the opulence of the club in front of you. It looks moody inside, dark and romantic and seductive - with jazz playing loudly and raucous laughter from the countless patrons already inside.

“Did you know that this is a restaurant most of the time?” Marcus asks as the two of you scout out a booth to snag for your private use. “They convert it into this place on the weekends.”

“We’ll have to come back for dinner some night.” It’s so easy to curl into his side when one of the waitresses shows you a clear table and sashays away with a promise to be right back.

“That sounds good to me.” The atmosphere is smokey, despite there being none on the air. The feel of it seems like you might have stepped back in time to war-time dances with GIs home from the front line. Marcus picks up the menu and hums. “What are you feeling now, baby?”

"Little bit turned on." You laugh, knowing that that wasn't the question he was asking. "Are we too adult to order a bottle of tequila?" It would be symbolically appropriate, but one of you does have to drive home tonight. And you both have to work tomorrow. So it might not exactly be safe.

“Do you want to order a bottle of Tequila?” He asks, arching a brow at you in surprise. A shot the other day was almost required, but he didn’t want to you to feel like it was a must.

"The only reason I stopped drinking tequila was because it made me miss you." That much, at least, is completely true. But you still tilt your head at him and smile. "But we also have to work tomorrow. So maybe we should stick to wine?" If he wants to reminisce over a bottle of tequila you'll join him in a heartbeat. You just don't want to pressure him.

Marcus smirks and looks back down at the menu. “I think we should do it. Our first date included tequila too.”

"We are tequila people, it seems." When you nod to the menu, you lean over a little and press a kiss to his cheek. "Let's do it, baby."

“We can have that hungover shower together in the morning.” A place like this was no stage for body shots, but Marcus orders a bottle of Don Julio when the waitress returns. Along with a couple of waters to make sure you don’t get too wasted.

"We used to be really good at those." Standing under a screaming hot shower with your arms around each other was a Monday morning special back in the day. "I bet we can get it back. Hangover shower, a gallon of coffee, and a stack of pancakes and bacon."

“Blueberry?” Marcus asks hopefully, loving blueberry pancakes when he feels like day old, dried up dog shit after too much drinking.

"Blueberry." You nod with authority. His smile is so soft and so genuine that you can just feel your heart bursting in your chest. "If you don't already have a favourite diner, there's one by my office."

“You always knew the good places for pancakes.” He agrees, nodding. “So I guess we just need to figure out which bed we are pouring ourselves into tonight.”

"Hmmm..." Even though the answer is easy, you tap your chin like it's something ancient philosophers might have muddled over for centuries. "Well. I'm thinking it's gonna be the place where we both have clothes. Which is your house."

“Maybe one day….” Marcus leans in and kisses the finger on your chin. “It can be called ‘our house’?” He asks softly. “Not now, I mean, but one day?”

"I have..." It takes a second to do the math, but the proximity of him makes you fuzzy and warm. "A little less than four months left on my lease. Is that too soon?" The annual re-signing of your lease isn't a bad thing, but you do want it to be your house together as much as you want to wake up beside him tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that.

“I think four months is a good time to decide if we are ready to move to the next step, don’t you?” Marcus asks. He would say tomorrow, but he knows that’s not rational.

"I honestly don't think we're going to spend too much time apart over the next four months." Maybe it's speculative, or just wishful thinking, but the flushed warmth under your skin is as honest as anything you've felt in a very long time. "But it sounds like a good amount of time for an official decision."

“Of course, we should probably make the decision before the last minute.” He teases and winks at you. “I’ll make you sign a lease if it makes you feel better.”

The second you open your mouth you shut it again, worried about pushing him or making him uncomfortable. "I don't need you to make a fakey lease for me," you tell him finally, nesting a little closer into his side. "But you do have to let me help with the bills."

“Groceries….” Marcus compromises. “And whatever else you want. How about that?” It was crazy to talk about combining finances, and he doesn’t want you to do that if you don’t want to, but one day you will have to have that talk.

"Utilities," you bargain when he puts his arm around you. "At the very least. We both make good money now, love. It's got to be equal somehow. A life shared, ya know?"

“We can talk about it when you— we decide what we want to do.” Marcus promises, taking your hand and kissing the fingertips of each finger.

"Can I tell you what my first thought was?" Tipping your head back lets you catch his eyes and you swallow down some nerves in an effort to be completely honest with him. Honesty is the thing that you're working on harder than anything else. You can't hold back this time. "When you said our house?"

“You can tell me anything.” Marcus tells himself that the two of you should talk often. Honestly and openness will go a long way. Even if it’s not exactly what he wants to hear.

“I was thinking…” It makes you sniffle a little, but your smile is beaming. “About how many firsts we’ll get to have there.” The specific image in your mind was domestic as hell - a scene of you and Marcus decorating for a kid’s birthday party. How excited and proud he would be every single year. “Including coming home from our first honeymoon, because we’re finally going to take one. But…I thought about how perfect it will be for parties.” You grin, squeezing his fingers a little in yours. “Especially kids’ birthday parties.”

Marcus closes his eyes for a moment, letting your dreams and ideas just seep into his soul. It's what he's always wanted with you, twelve years ago it had been his goal and he had thought he was going to have to live it with someone else. Now you are here and offering it to him again. Eyes still closed, he nods, almost ready to cry. "Yeah."

“Hey, hey.” You lean over to kiss his cheek and hold him a little tighter to your side. “Was that too much?”

"No." His denial is immediate, eyes flying open to lock onto yours. "No, I just— it's that I never imagined that I would be able to dream about that with you." He admits softly. "Just- just absorbing it. It's good, I promise."

“Okay.” Your voice stays soft and encouraging when the waitress comes back to deliver the bottle Marcus ordered along with a small but stylish tray of appropriate mixers, salt, and lime slices. You thank her and pass along an extra tip, but never take your real focus off of Marcus. “If you had said four months was too long, I would have agreed with you, for the record.”

"Baby....I'm trying not to rush you." He almost pleads with you to understand. "I just— I want you to set the pace this time."

"I know, baby. And I'm saying that my pace might be a little bit faster than what you expect." You set the bottle in front of him and pick up two shot glasses, wanting to bring the mood of the night back to something joyful rather than fretting. "Come on. Let's have a couple of drinks and dance. That's what we came here to do, right?"

He can agree to that. The last thing he wants to do is to turn this into another angsty debate about the future. “To the Tequila that brought us together.” Marcus offers taking one shot from you and holding it up.

"To second chances." The rims of your shot glasses tap together with a crystal clear tnk and you share a grin, lifting your other hand to cheekily offer him the salt you sprinkled on your skin.

Marcus keeps his eyes on yours, smirking as he leans down and laps at the salt with a slow drag if his tongue before he straightens up and tosses down the shot of tequila before reaching for his lime. “Still better off your tits.” He decides.

"Well yeah." And thanks to that comment as well as his unyielding eye contact, you're about ready to jump him right there in your booth. "You like everything better when my tits are involved."

“They are great tits. We could always take the bottle home.” Marcus coos, cock twitching in his pants. “Lick salt off your pussy and tequila off your tits.”

"Fuck, Marc." His name comes out in a whine and you pout at him as dramatically as possible. "You're gonna kill me."

He chuckles, smug in the feeling of you wanting him right now. “Drink your shot, baby.” He nods towards your drink. “I want to dance with my wife.” It slips out of his mouth before he can change his words, because it was what was running through his mind.

“Mmm.” You could tease him for it. For the slip of the tongue and how honest it is. But it fills you with such tangible joy that all you can do to keep from throwing your arms around him is hum and murmur: “I think I can arrange that.” Before taking your own shot with the salt ready and waiting on his hand.

There is a filthiness in the way your tongue flicks against his skin, making him groan quietly and shift in his seat. “Fuck.” He pants out quietly, his mind going extremely x-rated again.

“That’s what happens when you play with fire, Pike.” The wink you aim at him is unmistakable and devious, and you’re already sliding out of the booth when he groans in protest. “Come on, handsome. Dance with me.”

He lets you pull him out of the booth, standing up and letting you lead him to the floor. If he wasn’t an FBI department director, he would be dragging you to the bathroom to see about recreating a club quickie. He doesn’t think his boss would approve of the scandal.

The band on stage is playing something slow and sultry, the last strains of a love song cast out over the crowd as you step out together. You’re barely paying attention to what the song is, though, with Marcus’s hand tangled in yours and the notes morphing into something more upbeat. Less seductive but no less romantic. A very good combination for a second chance at a first dance.

Holding you close, Marcus soaks in the atmosphere and closes his eyes with a sigh. Everything is perfect, stars aligned in the skies, and he wants to live in this moment.

The Postmodern Jukebox-esque band on stage croons on, but your focus is entirely on Marcus. The way he cradles you close is near reverent and you keep close like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you move away even a fraction of an inch.

The two of you had danced before. A lot of it had been the normal grinding on each other and used as foreplay. This was almost as intimate and twice as romantic. He turns and presses his lips to your temple and sighs softly. "I love you." He promises, lips near your ear.

“I love you.” Three words. Three tiny syllables. But enough meaning to shake you down to your very core. To feel like you’re being broken down and rebuilt every time he says it, and every time you say it back.

Marcus closes his eyes, resting his head against yours and keeps you swaying with him to the rhythm of the song. Lost in the little bubble of a world around just the two of you. Not even caring about anyone else on the dance floor.

It’s your own little world, being caught up in Marcus’s arms like this. No one else exists and the music playing all around you might just as easily have been the radio in the living room of your little apartment off campus where you liked to dance barefoot and squish your toes into the carpet. If you can manage to remember a single one of these songs beyond the rhythm of his beating heart, you’ll make sure you dance to every single one of them again when you marry him again.

Soon, the need for a drink, Tequila or water, makes him pull away and kiss you once more before guiding you off the floor. “We need a drink.” He murmurs when you give him a doe eyed pout.

“Okaaaay.” He’s on point, as always. You just hadn’t realized you were thirsty because you’re so wonderfully distracted. “Should we mix up something fun this time?”

“What do you have in mind?” Marcus asks, intrigued by your idea of fun now. Wanting to see what it consists of.

“Apparently the best kind of Dirty Shirley is one made with tequila.” Or so you had been told many times over, when Jacqui was trying to get you to dress-up your mocktail on nights you didn’t necessarily feel like drinking. “My friend swears by them.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had one of those.” Marcus knows that after this drink, he will need to cut himself off or call an Uber. “Let’s try it.”

When you slip into the booth you pull Marcus after you, not wanting to be even a few feet away from him. The things on the tray in front of you are enticing, but not as enticing as he is, and the tequila will absolutely wait while you press your lips to his in the moody darkness of your private booth.

He’s surprised when you pull him to you. Not because kisses have been few and far between, but because of the urgency behind it. Slightly desperate and feeling like those early make out sessions when you first got together, Marcus crushes you against him with a moan.

Once, you absolutely would have climbed into his lap and completely blocked out the world. Right now there is something about the moment that feels invariably nostalgic and at the same time like you're clinging to the future. Each little sound that pours from one of you threatens to drown the other but it only makes you work harder, encouraged by the tight grip of his hands as he drags you close and the way your fingers bite into him to keep him pressed against you.

The whispering that is occurring to just the left side of the booth shouldn’t capture his attention. And it doesn’t, not when all he can focus on is the way your moan vibrates across your tongue to his. Not until there is a very pointed voice. “See? I told you he would choose this place after dinner.” Marcus’s eyes spring open and he freezes as the booth cushion depresses as someone slides into the bench seating. “Ohhh Tequila. I’d love a shot but we should get Teresa some water, huh?”

Fuck. Marcus cannot believe that Patrick fucking Jane is now interrupting his date with you.

You feel Marcus freeze against you before anything else registers, and a whine of protest is halfway past your lips when you open your eyes to see all the colour drain from his face. It’s another split second after that that you recognize another voice - and it takes everything you’ve got not to curse him out for interrupting. “You have got to be kidding me.” Mumbling under your breath, you try to rearrange your face into something less murderous before you turn around. “Well this is certainly a surprise,” you bite out, hoping you sound more surprised than angry.

For her part, Teresa is mortified. Half embarrassed at the way her husband is proving himself to the biggest asshole and half embarrassed that a man she used to sleep with was very enthusiastically making out with his ex-wife. “Patrick – let’s go!” She hisses, pulling on his arm before she throws you an apologetic look. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know he was – was— was—”

“Planning on crashing and ruining my plans with my wife?” Marcus fills in for her, finally able to speak again.

“Oo! Have we already gotten rid of the ex part of that title?” Patrick is already flagging down your waitress to request a bottle of water, acting like he’s crashed your book club instead of your foreplay.

“What are you doing here?”

“Patrick, let’s go.”

Marcus and Teresa speak at the same time, both of them sounding exasperated with the same man who is helping himself to the bottle of Don Julio on the table.

“He’s keeping tabs on us.” One of your eyebrows ticks up at Patrick Jane and dares him to say otherwise. To contradict you or play innocent. But this isn’t the first time you’ve met a man like Patrick Jane - and unfortunately it won’t be the last. “God forbid our reunion be more romantic or a better story than how he leapt onto the plane to bear his heart to the fair maiden and win her love away from the invader.” It would make you furious if it didn’t also make you feel sad for him. What a small, scared man he must be for that to be true. “Since he intended to gloat about his marriage and his growing family and can’t do that now that he found you happy, he had to think of a different way to feel superior.”

“That’s not—” Patrick frowns and shakes his head. “That’s not true. I—” He huffs. “I saw Marcus’s ideas written down in his office and it seemed like a good idea.” He admits. “Something better than sitting in the hotel room.”

“And you intentionally chose the one you thought was most likely to interrupt them?” Teresa sighs, shaking her head a little, but her fondness for her husband pushes through the annoyance and embarrassment. “This is his way of saying we should all go out together. By just putting us all in the same place.”

Marcus looks over at you, frustrated but wanting to see your thoughts on the situation before he says anything. Being cockblocked by your current boyfriend's ex-fiancée's husband wasn't exactly on your to-do list for today, but you take a deep breath to make sure you don't vent your frustration directly at Patrick Jane again after basically accusing him of narcissism to his face. "We were going to have one more drink and head home." You decide on a white lie, feeling that it's relatively harmless under the circumstances. "Why don't we have a round together and then you two can have the table?"

“That would be good.” Marcus jumps on the idea. “I’ve heard dancing is good for babies, so you should definitely take your wife out on the dance floor.” He smiles at Patrick like it’s a perfect solution.

“Of course.” Patrick Jane puts one hand to his chest like he’s offended that Marcus would ever doubt him.

“First I have to hunt down a bathroom.” Teresa looks embarrassed yet again, but shrugs. “The joys of pregnancy,” she laughs, rolling her eyes a little. “It’s in the back corner.” For as displeased you are that they’re here, you’re not going to fault a pregnant woman for having to pee. And honestly, you’re a lot pent up from nearly climbing Marcus like a tree on the dance floor…so it’s not a bad idea for you either. “Come on,” you offer, squeezing Marcus’s hand right before letting go. “I’ll go with you.”

Marcus waits until you are out of the booth, watching as you guide Teresa towards the bathrooms before he looks back over at Patrick. “Why are you really here?” He demands, pretense dropped and the beginnings of a scowl on his face.

“I find you utterly fascinating.” Jane deadpans, pouring himself a large amount of tequila lime along with lime juice and soda water. “Now that I don’t have to pry you away from Teresa, I am engrossed.”

“Why am I fascinating?” Marcus asks, completely bewildered by that answer. It had been the last thing he had expected to come out of Patrick Jane’s mouth. He waves off an offer of a shot of the tequila he’s paying for and watches as Patrick shrugs and lifts his own drink.

Jane leans back in the booth and smirks, raising the glass to his lips with a shrug. “A man as desperate to commit as you should have had this all worked out years ago. I always wondered why you were single when you obviously wanted so badly to be married.” In fact, the other men on the team in Austin had been sick of hearing about it. “But now I see why. It has to do with her.”

“I’m sure you’ve been in love at least once.” Marcus’s tone is just shy of snarky and he picks up his bottle of water. “The kind that never fades, no matter what.”

"I've been married twice." The other man reminds Marcus, frowning momentarily.

“Don’t have to love someone to marry them.” He retorts, scoffing slightly. His hard on is gone, the pleasant buzz he had is a thing of the past.

"Seems a shame to skip that part." Jane seems not to care about anything but his drink, watching the way it refracts the dim club lights in his glass. "You would never skip that part." He has to ask. To push the needle in just a little bit harder. "Would you, Marcus?"

“Are you asking if I loved your wife?” Marcus asks, stonily staring at Patrick. Wondering why the fuck does this have to be rehashed again. “And why does it matter? You are with her, like you should be. You’re having a baby, congratulations. Why does this matter now?”

"A curious man can never be satiated." With more enigmatic bullshit than sense coming out of his mouth, Patrick Jane seems particularly proud of himself and not inclined to make much sense.

Marcus’s sigh is half frustrated, half resigned. He reaches for the tequila bottle and uncorks it. “If I had been with Doctor Pike—” God, he loves saying that. “I wouldn’t have looked twice at Teresa, or any other woman. Ever.” He admits to Patrick. “She’s had a spell on me since the first time I saw her. And I’m the luckiest son of a bitch alive to have her back.”

“Funny.” A wry smile quirks to the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “That’s what she told Teresa about you.”

“What can we say?” Marcus shrugs slightly although his heart is bursting with pride that you were happy to have him back. “We love each other.”

“Yeah, we do.” You hum, appearing beside Marcus with a bright smile on your face. Teresa rounds your other side and slips back into the booth beside her husband while you nestle back in with Marcus. “Glad to see you two boys didn’t come to blows while we were gone.”

“I really think Marcus would like to punch me.” Patrick announces, looking hurt at the prospect. “But I’m going to be his best man when he remarries you.” He predicts, winking at you playfully.

“With no offense intended whatsoever,” you squeeze Marcus’s leg under the table to keep from bursting out laughing. “I don’t think the timing will probably allow for that. Unless you’re planning on moving to DC and this is how you’re telling us?”

“Oh God no.” Teresa manages quickly. “I think Marcus would transfer to the moon if Patrick were coming to D.C. permanently.”

Her husband huffs at her and shakes his head. “How little you trust me.” He gives her a wounded look. “And here I was trying to push them to do what he’s already dying to do.”

“We’ll remarry when we’re ready to.” You desperately need the cocktail you’re pouring for yourself, and you look to Marcus to see if he does, too.

“So you don’t know….” Patrick hums, smirking at Marcus. “Interesting.”

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” You tell Patrick flatly. He seems to thrive from pissing people off and at this point you’re trying very hard not to raise your voice. “Marc and I don’t owe you an explanation or a justification just because you’re morbidly curious about our relationship.”

“Don’t.” Marcus reaches over and takes your hand. “We don’t have to explain anything, and he likes poking. Just to see what he can get.”

“Maybe we should go home.” The defeat of having your first date invaded and the whole mood soured is starting to get to you, and making you doubt the whole thing. Like the universe is trying to tell you that just love isn’t enough.

“Please don’t.” Patrick urges you. “I would feel terrible.”

He should feel terrible, but you don’t say as much. “It’s up to you,” you murmur to Marcus, knowing that you’ll stay with him either way. If he wants to stay, you’ll stay.

“Baby, if you want to go home, we’ll go home.” He promises you, leaning in and brushing his nose against yours. “Do you want to go home?” He doesn’t want to push, but wherever you go, he’s going.

"I just want to be with you." The whisper is barely loud enough for him to hear because at this point you're convinced that Patrick Jane can read lips or has somehow planted a microphone on you. The night has been rudely hijacked but there is still time to get it back.

“That’s all I want too.” Marcus promises before he decides on what he wants to do. “Kiss me.” He demands softly, reaching up and grasping your chin.

Now that is a request that you will gladly agree to. It takes barely any effort to make it happen - just tilting your head backward and barely tipping your chin to press your lips firmly and eagerly to his. Your hand on his jaw just connects you a little bit more, focusing your energy entirely on him as you let yourself dissolve into the kiss.

Marcus ignores the sounds of approval from Patrick, focusing on the feeling of you, the way your lips melt against his. Forgetting in just a few seconds that they are even there. Whatever his endgame is here, you're not fighting it. The chance to give yourself over to the moment - to just have it be you and him with the rest of the world not mattering one single bit - is too good to pass up.

He’s not going to let Patrick ruin this, to take away from this amazing night that the two of you have shared. If it means making out in front of him and Teresa, so be it.

You don’t resist when Marcus deepens the kiss, sighing softly when he slides his tongue along the seam of your lips and letting him in instantly. All thought of the Janes has faded from your mind and the only thing left there is Marcus, leaving you in a perfect state of relaxation and bliss with your arms tight around each other.

He makes it soft and yet completely overwhelming, wanting to put the dreamy look back in your eyes. Choking your chin and tilting it up as he tangles his tongue with yours.

If not for air, you would never have stopped. If you could breathe in Marcus, you absolutely would. Unfortunately, the human body does require oxygen at a certain point, and you have to pull back even just for a moment. With your eyes still closed and your forehead pressed to his, you shiver a little in his arms.

Humming happily, Marcus just breathes you in. Unconcerned with what the two behind him are doing. “You want to dance again?” He murmurs softly.

All you can do for a second is nod, with your heart beating out of time in your chest and your blood pounding in your ears, you're just looking at Marcus like he hung the moon. "Yeah," you whisper when you remember how to speak. "Yeah, I do."

Marcus offers you a smile. One that says that he’s glad you said yes, because it was what he wanted. Not even bothering with the niceties of excusing the two of you - he hadn’t invited the Janes to this date after all - he stands and helps you out of the booth to guide you back to the dance floor.

The song doesn’t matter just like all the other people on the dance floor don’t matter, because the world may as well have ceased existing as long as you can still have Marcus here beside you. It makes you wonder - just days into this revived relationship - how you even managed the last twelve years without him. “Back in our own little world,” you hum softly, going to him like a magnet. There is nothing you want more than to be held in his arms.

“That’s what matters.” Marcus pulls you close and his arm around your waist keeps you anchored to him. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs quietly. “I was deciding what dancing venues would be best and had them written down. I guess he saw them when he got to the office today.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” The man who should apologize has probably never done so sincerely in his entire life. “Think of Patrick Jane as a test for the most annoying parts of having a child without any of the positive moments,” you joke, knowing what some of your friends and coworkers have said about their own kids. “If we can take the interruptions with grace now, we’ll be fine when it’s tiny people we love.”

“Tiny people we love.” Marcus instantly gets soft at the idea of mini yous running around and wrapping him around their fingers. “I like that idea.”

“So sometimes we’ll be interrupted.” You both hold each other a little tighter, melting into the idea. “That’s okay.”

“Hmmmm.” Marcus leans in and kissing you softly. The idea of kids is always something he’s loved but with you it’s extra special. The rekindling desires he had harbored when he was newly married to you.

“Love you, baby.” The soft murmur against his lips is more honest than anything else in the world right now, and you wrap one arm around his shoulders to keep close. “So much.”

The music is soft and slow, allowing the two of you to slowly sway side to side without actually moving your feet. Marcus is aware when Patrick and Teresa come onto the floor to join the two of you but he doesn’t even look over, too busy looking into your eyes.

“Think this band does weddings?” You can’t help the thought, imagining dancing to this same music in a hotel or vineyard somewhere. Something more mature and artistic than the wedding his gracious parents had thrown for you as literal children.

“I’m sure they do.” Marcus smiles, closing his eyes and sighing softly. “It would be nice. Although now you know we have to have a Tequila bar at the reception.”

“I was thinking tequila-based signature cocktail.” You admit with a grin. The thought had occurred to you this morning at brunch and made you smile. “Maybe both. Whatever we want.”

“You’re already planning our next wedding?” His grin matches yours and stretches a little wider. “I think I like that.”

“I’ve dreamed up a million different ways it could go.” Over the years it became the daydream that both haunted and uplifted you. Wondering if the day would ever come. Now that it’s within reach it feels like it’s lighting you up from the inside. “I want it to be perfect for you.”

“Baby.” Marcus shakes his head and leans in to kiss you again. “Only thing I need for it to be perfect is for you to be walking towards me again.”

“I promise.” Tomorrow on your lunch break you’re going to go and do a little shopping, you decide as you press your lips to Marcus’s. For something he would never expect in a million years. Something he deserves more than anything.

“Mmmmm.” He loves when you kiss him. He always has, reaffirming that men need to feel special as well. It makes him smile against your lips happily.

“This band. Tequila bar. Chocolate cake with fruit. I’m cataloguing it all away.” You promise him softly. “It will be perfect.”

“Now, the most important thing.” Marcus teases. “Where do we want to honeymoon?” The last time you got married, it had just been a weekend in a hotel but he wants to take you anywhere you want to go.

“This is a much harder question,” You laugh, still swaying with him even when the music picks up. “It could be somewhere neither of us has ever been before? Or we could go two places and share our favorite places with each other?”

“Honestly…” Marcus blushes slightly and gives a small shrug. “I’ve always imagined Paris with you.” He knows you have been, you lived there for awhile, but he wouldn’t mind going back. “But we don’t have to.” He adds quickly, not wanting you to mired in guilt.

“I can show you everywhere I wanted to share with you while I was living there.” Your tone goes dreamy, soft and full of warmth. You had dreamed so many times of showing him your favorite places - the chance to actually do it in real life sounds perfect. “And we can do new things, obviously. But I…I would love to share Paris with you.”

“Then that’s where we should go. Experience it together.” He sighs softly, imagining it with almost movie like clarity in his head.

“Perfect.” And if you happen to come back with one of those tiny people who you love on the way? You’ll just have to hunt down a Fabriqué à Paris onesie.

“So now that we’ve planned most of it out, we’re all set.” He knows these are vague fantasies, but they are helping him get more comfortable with wanting it with you. There’s no panic there for you, he’s gotten better at reading you with his FBI training.

“Oh yeah, planning a DC wedding is no sweat.” You practically snort, knowing how much work Angela and Harry’s wedding took to get right. You had never realized until then just how much of the work his mother had done for you.

“Honey, we plan what we want and hit we want.” Marcus winks at you. “And we can afford a wedding planner.”

“How very fancy of us.” You can’t help but giggle a little, knowing that you used to think vaguely of having a vow renewal fifteen or twenty years in the future. If you had only known then. “We’ll have to dream up just the right place, then. Some places have planners assigned to couples when you book them.”

“Wherever you want.” Marcus is easy in the venues and to be honest, doesn’t know D.C. like you do. “The people there are what matters to me.”

“I could get us a deal on a Smithsonian wedding.” You waggle your eyebrows at him, not above Throwing your seniority around to make sure your second wedding is unforgettably beautiful. “If you wanted to. It’s just an idea.”

“Is that what you would want?” Marcus asks seriously, intrigued by the idea. He’s never heard of a Smithsonian wedding, but it seems like it would be amazing.

“I’ve definitely thought about it before. A lot, actually.” Always him. Always wondering how many new friends would be added to the old ones and how many of your combined family members would be crowing ‘I told you so’. “Maybe we can make date nights out of visiting the galleries they rent out and seeing if we like any of them for us?”

“Whenever you want.” He agrees easily, nodding at the idea and looking forward to another date night. “I’ll let you arrange it so Patrick doesn’t find out.” He snickers quietly.

“We’ll leave a list of decoy ideas.” You laugh right along with him, smothering the spine but not the way your body shakes. “Send then to some very odd places.”

“Ohhh please tell me you have the address of a sex club or something.” Marcus begs quietly. “Something discreet so he doesn’t know until he gets inside.”

“I was thinking of the address for the Department of Sanitation or something.” But you burst out laughing, holding Marcus close as you shake with it. “I’ll have to see if Angie has had to do any interesting recon for a case that’s past. She might have something fun for us.”

“I like the way you think.” He chuckles with you, happy that the night had returned to being about the two of you and no one else. This is what he wanted.

“Anything for you.” Especially if it’s something to make him smile. Living without that smile for twelve years has only proven to you how precious it is to have back again.

Marcus might be the luckiest man in the face of the planet. “Let’s go home, baby.” He murmurs softly, ready to strip you down and make love to you.

"Absolutely." Home. With him. It's the exact place you want to be.

Marcus grins and glances over where Patrick and Teresa are dancing. “Let’s go.” He motions over to the coat check and bypasses the table where you had been sitting.

It almost feels naughty, to just skip right out on things, but you cling to Marcus's hand as he leads you to the door and passes off his valet ticket to the girl waiting by the door, but the only damn thing in the world is that smile on his face. When his car is pulled up to the curb you slide into the passenger's side and sit back in the leather seats with a sigh.

“He deserves it.” Marcus offers with a slight shrug if his shoulders and a slightly malicious grin as he throws the car into drive. Patrick will foot the bill, which is the least he can do for crashing your date.

"Let's go home, baby." His words were the perfect choice, and you giggle softly as he heads back through the winding streets of DC.

Home. He loves the fact that you think of it as home already. “Maybe- what do you think about spending all week at the house and then next week we can stay at the apartment?” He offers, not wanting to just make you stay at his place all the time if you want to be in your own space.

"You can see if you like any of my furniture better than yours." The grin you flash him while he's driving is excited and nothing less. "But I don't think it will take long for us to be spending our time at the house."

“As long as that’s what you want.” Marcus murmurs with a matching smile.

"I do." The word choice makes you fluster, like saying those specific words to him as a full sentence again is some sort of spell. "I mean, it is."

“Nah….” Marcus reaches over and takes your hand, pulling your hand up to kiss it. “I like your first answer.” He hums.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike x you #Marcus Pike x female reader #Agent Marcus Pike #The Mentalist #Mentalist fanfic #ex wife reader

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deanoheartspie · 9 months

Text

Sunshine 3

Pairing: Cowboy Sheriff Dean x City Gal Reader

Summary: After your family cut you off, your great-aunt Laura invited you over to her ranch you often visited when you were just a child... You drive through the beautiful town until you accidentally graze a horse that just so happens to be the sheriffs...

Warnings: None

A/N: Let me know what you think and what your theories are!

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Y/N'S POV

Who is this Lisa and who the heck are Ben and Aurora? It wasn't my business so I slowly backed up leaving the green eyed-man with the darker hair woman. After a few minutes she saw them bicker, well it was more of the woman than Dean he kinda just stood there and took it. As if he was used to it.

And let me tell you... He didn't look to happy when he came back over.

“Dean, what happened?” you ask as he drags you off to the diner, the moment we stepped in fresh common rolls filled your nose and you nearly died and went to heaven.

The man ignored your question while he sat on the other side of the booth, waiting for me to decide on what to get.

“Good morning Sheriff, same as usual?” The chirpy young woman asks with a smirk, He nods and as the woman is about to walk away he clears his throat. “You didn't ask her what she wanted.”

The woman looked me up and down as she rolled her eyes, “What do you want?” she asked not caring for an answer. I guess no Southern hospitality.

Did you say or do something wrong?

You had always hated attitude when it was directed at you, it made you feel small and weak. At this point, you knew how to put on your best face.

weakly smiled trying to make your smile reach your eyes, maybe the girl was just having a bad day? You never know. “I'll get eggs and bacon please” keeping your voice steady and quiet, The waitress simply walks off and into the back of the diner.

First Dean with the grumpy look on his face after seeing the 'Lisa' woman and now the waitress who seemed to already hate her. Maybe marriage would've been the best choice... What if your mom and dad were right? You couldn't live on my own.

“Sorry Darlin' I don't know what crawled up her ass today.” Dean apologizes while flipping through the newspaper. A fresh pot of hot coffee was set on the end of the table, so you poured us both a cup and took a nice sip.

Soon enough, the hot food was placed on the table and Dean had quite a lot of food. Three burritos and an extra side of potatoes.

“How the hell are you able to eat all of that?” you asked shocked as he stuffed his mouth with the food, eating like he hadn't eaten for days.

His bright green eyes, flick over to you as he innocently shrugs before grinning, “Well when you work two jobs you're dammed to burn off calories”

The rest of breakfast was quiet, you take out my wallet paying which you learned very quickly that Dean didn't like that not one bit.

“My momma is gonna whoop my ass, if she finds out I let a girl pay on the first date.”

You raise a brow leaning your chin in the palm of your hand, “First date huh” you teased with a shit-eating grin.

“Y'know what I mean” he rolled his eyes a soft smile on his face but he was quick to hide it by picking up the newspaper to hide his face.

-------------☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️--------------

Around 1:25 we arrived back at the ranch, Dean helped me carry my shopping bags upstairs, in all honesty, you expected some complaints but nope he was quiet as a mouse before disappearing off.

You organized all my new clothes into the drawers, putting all your old clothing into bags to donate. You didn't know how long you planning on staying here for, maybe until you got back on your feet and saved up enough money to leave. After all, you weren't made to take care of a ranch.

A few hours later, the sun had started to go down and You hadn't seen anyone since you got home. You walked downstairs seeing the little kitchen light on, your aunt Laura sitting there with a tea and book in hand. “Your here? I thought you'd be at the bar like everyone else?”

The bar?

You shake your head taking next to her, she offers you a book and you nod. We both quietly read for a few, until she decides to call it a night leaving you alone in the kitchen.

*Boom*

Heavy feet walk across the floor as a laugh escapes the Green-eyed man's mouth. He's drunk when he makes his way towards you. “Yo- you look good in the boots” Dean muttered with a grin, wrapping his arms around you tight.

Drunk Dean is apparently very touchy but not in an inappropriate way.

“Thank you?” you laugh as you walk over to the counters, he was dragging himself every time you moved. Filling the glass with water you hand it to the drunken man. “Drink.” He whines burying his head into your shoulder.

“Fine” He pouts as he downs the water before stuffing his face with some oreos. “Carry me?” you snort and start to laugh. “I can't carry you Deano”

It was different from seeing the usual gruff man be all sweet and clingy. In all honesty it was kinda cute.

The man gasps and places a hand on his chest, staring at you like you had said the most offensive thing ever. “Are you... Are you calling me fat!” he squints his eyes at you slapping his hand away after you attempt to help him up. “Get those filthy hands away” he stands up putting his hand on the wall helping him balance, groaning as he trips over the loud creaky stairs.

“Let me help.” you sigh and help him up as he smiles, finally guiding him into his room. Helping him take off his boots tossing them to the siand de, getting him tucked in. “Goodnight Dean”

“Goodnight sunshine”

Chapter 4

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

----Tag list----

@deans-spinster-witch @leigh70 @mrsjenniferwinchester @ladysparkles78 @hobby27 @khaleesihavilliard @foxyjwls007 @lucidlivi @jc-winchester @globetrotter28 @beskarfilms @the141bandicoot @alysinwonderland-at-tea @randomgurl2326 @ambergoddess444 @westernwinchesters @lemmons1998 @julie040904 @nic-kolas @raisinggray @alternativeprincess

#jensen ackles #dean winchester #dean x reader #supernatural #dean x y/n #cowboy dean winchester #cowboy! dean #dean winchester x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester series #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader

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pokemonpetfinder · 9 months

Text

Introduction Post

Shit- what am I supposed to say again?

Ah, whatever. Hi, I'm Ivaan. I'm running the blog for Pokemon Pet Finder; a place where people can come and find good partners to adopt. Currently located in Paldea and moved here since I also work as a kindergarten teacher. Don't call me dad; I know I teach young kids and breed pokemon, but I'm not a dad, and I have been called dad enough!

Post on how to adopt here

Post on Pokemon available for adoption

Anyways, team, yeah. I just have a Wobbufettet named Punching bag, a Chansey named Egg Gal, and a Ditto named Rated R. Honorary mention would be Marie Antoinette the Florges, and Girly the Happiny.

Rules

-Do NOT sell the pokemon that I draw and design. It's a dick move to sell a free design given to you by an artist

-While the character I'm roleplaying is in his 40s, I am not, and I am a minor. I will not be taking any NSFW submits or asks

-If your account has the default tumblr pfp, is untitled, has no description, has a pornographic name, or pornagraphic imagery, I'll assume that you are a bot and you will be blocked

-Time is weird on this blog and most pokemon on the adoption profiles will stay the same age, even if its been a couple years irl. So a 6th month old pokemon will still be 6 months old 3 years later

-In adoption posts, Ivaan is going to be a lot more cheery and friendly than he is in his personal posts because his boss says he has to. You might notice a personality switch between him

-This is a roleplay, and Ivaan's views might be different from my own. He also might be more passive and snarky, and I don't purposely mean to be mean or offend anyone

-Levels don't exist on this blog

-Posts where Ivaan is talking about the center and rules and all of that will be tagged as pokepet talks, while his personal stuff will be tagged as Ivaan talks

(This account is run by the same person who runs @quillpokebiology @pokedesignercalli @onyxgeoleader and @historianofgalar . I made another blog because I have no self control, and I thought the stuff I could post here would be fun.)

#introduction post #pokemon #pokemon irl #irl pokemon #pokeblogging #pokeblog #rotomblr #pokeblr #pkmn #pkmn irl #irl pkmn #pokeblog rp #pokemon daycare

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clarification-sfw · 5 months

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the way people fear pest snails is so unwarranted man. they're literally the cutest snails, easy as shit to keep alive, and they're live food for lots of different animals.

like I keep an assassin snail in my 20 gal guppy tank and he's been keeping my snail populations in check. they aren't really able to reproduce in my guppy tank because the assassin snail eats their eggs. but what I do is I just move any excess snails from other aquariums into that tank to feed the assassin snail.

their population never exploded for me after a couple months and they just steadily make food for the assassin snail and clean my tanks. they're great for my goldfish and Betta tank since shrimp would get absolutely fucked in there but snails do perfectly fine.

just if you're scared of keeping ramshorns because people tell you do please don't worry too much. just don't overfeed so they aren't able to explode in population and keep something like a pea puffer or an assassin snail to keep them in check. I find they're a great alternative to shrimp because of their resilience.

I might even use them as food for the goldfish once they're big enough because it should be good for them. I'll do a good amount of research before hand to know if this is a good idea

#aquarium #snail #fish #snails #bladder snail #ramshorn snail #goldfish

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nestasgalpal · 6 months

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Can't think straight when we are together Pt. 4 [Nessian]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Nesta’s Gal Pal masterlist | AO3

Tagging: @zoyaslai @champanheandluxxury @pataytayo @nessiantrashh @dustjacketmusings @saltydreamcollector @generalnesta @simpingfornestaarcheron @arinbelle @a-court-of-valkyries @azrielsgirl @swoopingoccamy @vasudharaghavan @vidalinav @sv0430 @nessianforlife @claralady @sayosdreams @malluzia @dealfea @kylosmomm @unlikelypersonalknight1

This townhouse had been in Rhys' family for generations, its living room a witness to almost all their hangovers, but now that the happy couple had officially moved in, the space was unrecognizable. Feyre's paintings hang on every wall, and instead of the mismatched cups they had collected over the years, a new set was now waiting to be used. The boxes with the old stuff were stored away, so Feyre and Rhys could start filling the rooms with their own belongings.

Cassian's heart warmed when he saw the place. Of course, a part of him missed the sense of familiarity when he entered a room, but at least he got to be part of the new memories they would make here.

The joy of the night was that, and collecting the jackpot. "How in hell did you miss this happening?" Cassian poked fun at Amren, who hadn't guessed correctly in the poll made almost 10 years ago about who would move in with their partner first.

"I thought you and Az would move in together and be the type of roommates who have the entire block wondering if they are really good friends or really good friends." Amren wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Cassian roared laughing again. She waved her piece of paper in the air accusingly, as if it was his fault she lost.

Fifty bucks wasn't a fortune, but it was definitely more than the others got. Mor had trusted her own ability to find a partner quicker than the rest. Amren had put all her eggs in the basket of a bromance that never happened. Az himself had been 15 years old and in love, and therefore it was Mor's name on his piece of paper. And Rhys, in an unexpected turn of events, had tried to make a joke out of putting Amren's name on it next to a poorly drawn knife, as if implying she would be the first one to move in with her partner, but violence would be involved.

Not only didn't he win, but, to his disappointment, he didn't even get a laugh out of the crowd.

So Cassian was now fifty dollars richer than he was that morning.

"I'm a little hurt no one put me." He confessed, the grin still hanging on his lips.

Rhys rolled his eyes. "Come on, man, you know you'll be last. I think Amren's hunch was right: You'll live with friends until all of us move out." The collective agreement when all the guests laughed, had Cassian frowning. "What?" Rhys saw the need to explain himself when he saw Cassian wasn't joining in the laughter. "You are the kind of guy who would rather spend time with friends than anything else. And I'm not complaining!" Again, everyone agreed.

Mor went a little further with the explanation that, apparently, only Cassian needed. "Cass, we know we are lucky to have you. I would hate having to share the best friend ever with anyone but the people in this room. And your career will also benefit from it."

Indeed, his prospects to go pro within the next year did benefit from him not having to divide his time three ways: football, friends and love life. There was still something that bothered him, though. But Cassian knew he should be grateful for how blindly his friends trusted that he would always be there for them. That was his role, after all. Good, reliable, always willing Cassian.

It's my fault, I'm the one who never sought a love life in the first place. Cassian thought, trying to rub it off.

But the itch didn't go away—not fully. Deep down, Cassian knew it didn't make sense, as Rhy's dream career was the exact same one he was pursuing. And love had never been something he was expected to give up in order to achieve it. Just the opposite: they were here celebrating it.

"I mean," Amren was adding now, as the conversation had kept going without him, "we don't even have enough chairs to grant you a plus one, so even if we wanted that for you," She shrugged, "we can't afford it."

Ouch.

"Yeah, I get it." He laughed without feeling it, doing his best to mask it. The topic clearly wouldn't die until he agreed. "As me being in a relationship would be inconvenient for all of us, I promise you I never will." He placed a hand over his heart as he made his vow.

As simple as that, everyone moved on.

The paint color for the walls was perfect. Were they thinking of adding a lamp in that dark corner? Mor made a point to mention how trendy wall molding was at the moment, and Az made a point to mention how that kind of feature only collected dust. The extra cleaning was a dealbreaker for Feyre; she had noticed in the last few days how much dust the paintings collected and wasn't planning on spending even more time cleaning the walls.

Football and the draft being around the corner was the next topic, one Cassian was thrilled to get into. He expected to be picked in the first round, and so did Rhys.

"You've got it, man." There was not a pinch of doubt in his friend's voice. "My dad heard our city's team wants you, so it's a done deal. Next season, you'll be playing for Velaris."

"It would make more sense to pick you in the first round: quarterback, team captain and the mayor's son." Cassian argued.

Az didn't fully agree. "I don't know, Cass. Your stats are better. If they don't pick you in the first round, you might not be there for the second one."

The three of them got deep into the discussion and stopped paying attention to whatever the girls were saying in their parallel conversation. From time to time, Cassian caught Feyre mentioning her sisters or her parents. He knew they hadn't taken her decision to drop out well; otherwise, she wouldn't be here with her life packed in boxes. He made an effort to pay even less attention to her. Feyre's family was a topic he would rather not hear about, for his own reasons.

"There is an implied pressure for the other teams not to pick Rhys if they go with you in the first round." Azriel was insistent on the fact that Cassian would be picked by Velaris' team first, then Rhys in the second round. Cassian wasn't so sure, and Rhys was on the fence. "Obviously, the mayor's son playing for another city wouldn't sit well with anyone."

"Do you see how offensive it is to imply the only reason the team wants me is my dad? I am the fucking captain in the college league!"

"Yet Cass has been MVP for the last three years. Out of four." He added, more worked up by the second.

"I mean, it is a factor, Rhys." Cassian wasn't planning on fooling himself to protect Rhysand's ego. His dad had intel on the team's plans, and knowing that was enough to figure he was part of the conversation... and conclude what that meant.

Neither of the three was budging. "He is your father in some way too." Rhys tried arguing.

Rhysand's parents had fostered Az and him for a couple of years and treated them like their own, that was true. But they were in their twenties now, and while Rhys was getting a townhouse as a gift in the middle of the semester, Cassian and Az paid for their shared dorm on campus themselves. The three of them would always see each other as brothers, Cassian had no doubt, but in reality, Rhysand's father had long ago stopped taking care of them as such. His mom, though, still had them go over for dinner at least once a week, and made sure they had presents under the tree each Christmas.

Just like the last one, the topic of the draft died unresolved, and the night went on. Board games were followed by charades, and the wine kept flowing, making it harder every round to perform.

Cassian did his best to play a horse, although his teammates were having a hard time understanding his gestures. He laughed and drank, focusing on the game as the back of his mind remained unsettled. As he played charades, it played with the idea that something was off tonight.

Perhaps it was the boxes in the living room, so similar to the ones where he and his mom used to put their few belongings when they moved from one tiny place to another. The flats she could afford were never bigger than this living room, and their things had certainly never filled them as much as Feyre and Rhys' did.

It could also be the topic of the draft. Of course, he wanted to stay in the city with his friends, but, as Az had pointed out, his chances were dependent on how much influence politics had in the decision.

The annoying rumble troubling him could, of course, be caused by the same anguishing fear that had a month ago settled in his mind and conquered it. It took on a new form now, but the dilemma was the same as it was the last time: What did he want, and what was he willing to pay for it? In the scenario where Velaris' team didn't pick him and another did, accepting would mean leaving this place behind—his friends. So, again, was his career on the list of things he was willing to sacrifice in order to keep life as he knew it unchanged? It was hard to tell right now, drunk as he was. Especially considering he had been regretting his first call from the moment he made it.

Cassian was repulsed by his own cowardice.

Despite his inner distress, he didn't let any of it show. He was present in the board game and alert enough to stop Amren, his assigned partner, from launching herself over the table and slapping Az when he caught her cheating. Az's life was saved, Cass was thanked, and the balcony door was opened so the smokers could take a break.

"I got this." He let Feyre know when she started picking up the game pieces to tidy up the table. "Why don't you go set up the karaoke?"

She did. Or tried to. Where had they packed it? "If you were me yesterday, would you say the karaoke belonged in the miscellaneous box, the living room miscellaneous box, or the home items miscellaneous box?" She asked him across the room, pointing at each one at a time. They were now alone. Feyre pouted. "This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend! I can't believe I exchanged a spa for an unpacking season."

They both laughed.

"Don't rush it, Fey. You have a thousand little rooms to fill, so the labels you wrote before coming here won't help you make sense of anything."

"There are so many rooms, right?" She smiled. "Not now, of course, but maybe after we've made this place ours, we can start tearing down a few walls and make it more of an open concept."

Nodding, Cassian closed the box that contained the game and put it on the shelf they had taken it from. "I like the little rooms, though. I like the privacy of small spaces better than large floor plans, which I wouldn't know how to furnish." He went to help Feyre figure out the boxes. Two sets of hands and eyes would, or should, find the karaoke faster. "I grew up sharing one-bedroom apartments with my mom. The living room would sometimes be the kitchen as well. Or that, plus the bedroom, not gonna lie."

Feyre nodded, understanding. She had lived like that for a few years as well, when her father's company declared bankruptcy. That was a long time ago, though, and the estate Cassian had wandered through last month was proof of it. Like businessmen do, her dad had found his way up again. Cassian had learned at a young age that connections were more valuable than money itself. If you knew the right people, doors would open for you, no matter what.

That was the problem, wasn't it? Some of the people he was competing against knew everybody, while his claim to success relied on his talent alone.

"How do you imagine your place?" Feyre asked. "Something small in the city?"

Cassian laughed. "The opposite. I want a big place. And far away from here. With a large garden for the dogs I'll have to run." Feyre confessed to liking the idea of animals as well. "I'll have my things all over the place. Not in my room, because the entire house will be mine." She smiled and imagined the place he was describing. "I'll need long hallways to frame all my football memorabilia. I've been collecting it since I was a kid, and it will be the first thing to find a place for. Then, we can fill the rest of the walls with her books, but my football stuff goes first."

Eyes wide, she opened her mouth to say something, but Cassian was too into the picture already. "Plus, I can build her the shelves, but the signed shirts have to go into these specific glass frames. They are custom-made, so I need to take care of them before anything else."

"Right, I'm sure she will understand." Feyre murmured.

Shit.

"I mean, whoever. I might even get the house before I get a girlfriend and won't worry about it for a long time, so whatever." He laughed, struggling not to stumble upon his words. "That's why my things have priority."

"Yeah, it makes total sense." Feyre pretended with him. "You go first."

"Nesta's spoiled ass won't be happy about that." Mor's voice took both Feyre and him by surprise, and the new homeowner almost dropped the bundle in her hands back into the box.

It could be because he had never been able to lie to Mor, but he didn't try to mask the feelings soaking his words this time. "That was unprompted."

"No, it wasn't. You were thinking about her." She countered, as if that explained the comment. "How do I know?" She read his mind again. "Your face changes when you do. You look more stupid than usual."

The silence was awkward, and none of them moved. Cassian didn't want to talk about Nesta right now. And if Mor didn't like her, which was clearly the case, then why did she even have to bring her up?

Feyre was the first to react, but that wasn't much help. "I'll go look for the karaoke in some boxes I have in the bedroom." She excused herself and left.

"What the fuck is your problem?" He snapped when they were alone.

"Do you know how hard it is for me to see you plan your life with someone who doesn't care if you live or die?"

Cassian crossed his arms over his chest and took a step forward. This was not the day to be condescending. "Do you know how fucking insufferable it is being told what you should and shouldn't do as if you didn't have a damn brain of your own?" Mor was taken aback by his sudden aggressiveness. "Keep her name out of your mouth and let me live my fucking life."

He didn't raise his voice, but he was cutting with every word. Mor just stood there, speechless. Cassian didn't know what had taken over him either, he only knew Mor had broken a candid moment between him and Feyre with nasty and unnecessary comments. The first fucking good moment he had had in the entire night.

"Go ruin someone else's life with your self-centered advice, Mor. You are done with mine."

Feeling offended brought her back to life. "I'm your friend, it's my job to protect you!"

His face was probably redder by the second. "From what? A 125-pound girl that needs glasses to read the ingredients on her cereal and spends her afternoons studying the names of pharmaceutical drugs?" The surprising choice of words for his description of Nesta stole a shocked laugh from Mor, as well as from Cassian, unfortunately. That seemed to lighten the mood. "See, now you've made me roast the girl I want!" He accused, a smile lingering in the corner of his lips. Mor was doing her best to contain hers, and he appreciated the effort. "I really want to be with her —read the labels for her and distract her mind when she is burned out. Do you really have reasons to dislike her so much you must stop me? Can't you just get a fucking hobby?"

Accepting that she didn't, in fact, have a specific reason, Mor nodded her head. Cassian saw a glimpse of regret for what she had been doing in her eyes, even if pride hid it again a moment later. All was said, at least as far as his need to defend himself and Nesta went.

"I am sorry, Cass. I am sorry I let some of that ugly overprotectiveness get between the two of you... and us. But you have to understand that I don't want things to change."

Her voice cracked in the last sentence, and Cassian couldn't stay mad because he understood. He understood Mor better than the rest, hence why he expected the same thing from her in return. She had always reciprocated, which was probably the reason it had taken Cassian so long to see she was actually sabotaging things for him. He would have never thought to be wary of her, of all people.

There had always been a silent recognition between the two. It was a bond that never turned romantic, but both had always been painfully aware they had, to some extent, sacrificed their own happiness for the group. Cassian never pursued a love life, knowing they would never be okay with someone taking his focus from them. He had at times wanted to, but the fear of losing what they had in the process and being left out had always stopped him.

Mor, on the other hand, had endured almost ten years of yearning from Azriel, only so she didn't risk the group having to pick between the two of them. Again, out of fear she would end up losing the only people whose presence in her life mattered. She always got that, and saw the same fears in him. Shouldn't she sympathize with his stance more than anyone else? Shouldn't she be the one having his back at this crossroad, where desire to have a life beyond this friendship finally rivaled with the guilt of not doing what was best for them? Now that Cassian, for the first time, was willing to explore which was greater?

In order to protect the group's integrity, Cassian had let the one person he had ever wanted to be with get away.

"I really am." She muttered. They shared a knowing look, and this time, Mor's pride didn't cloud the hurt and regret in her eyes.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Cassian ran his hands through his hair and said nothing. She reached for her purse, a bag way too big for daily use that somehow was always full to the brim. He saw her dive inside through the corner of his eye but didn't really pay attention until she put a white card in his face. "Here. This is for you. Feyre and I were going to use it, but plans changed." He rolled his eyes and said she needn't make him a gift to compensate, he knew she was sorry, but Mor insisted. "Just take it, will you? And go." He agreed, uncomfortable, just so this would end.

His friend seemed to be waiting for him to do something else, although Cassian wasn't sure what. He looked at the card, as she may want him to be more excited about it. That's when he saw it —the name for the reservation. "Archeron." He read. "How am I supposed to get in, Mor? This is in someone else's name."

The sassy, confident smile was back on his friend's lips. She winked at him and palmed his shoulder. "Let this be my olive branch to you two, okay?" Cassian was starting to join the dots. "And pack a suit!"

#nesta archeron #nesta #nessian #cassian #cassian acotar #nessian fanfic #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic #cassian x nesta #nesta x cassian

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