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kingofdirtandnothing · 3 years

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@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Thirteen

To say the house was a fixer upper was kind of, maybe an understatement.

To say that it was a strong breeze away from being condemned was a little bit more dramatic in the other direction, but the house rested firmly between the two of them. Barely livable, an eyesore.

Bertie loved it.

“You know what I see when I look at this house?” He’s pretty sure that Stiles’ cough sounds remarkably like asbestos poisoning but Bertie ignores it. Stiles would come around in time, he just needed to see things from a new perspective.

“I see opportunity. This place will basically come down to the frames. Which means that we get to choose everything when we build it back up, kiddo. We get to choose the paint, the flooring, where the walls are, the windows, closets. Everything. This can be our…”

For just a moment, he hears Ruthie’s voice when Stiles answers. “Our forever house.” Bertie hooks an arm around his son’s shoulders, pulling him in against his side with an obnoxious dad squeeze. Stiles was taller every day, and closer to being a man.

Bertie was absolutely, positively not ready to let him grow up yet. But as much as he wanted Stiles to be Peter Pan and this house to be his neverland, that wasn’t the way of the world. And yeah, Bertie had taken longer than he’d liked to get them here, but he still had two more years to get the forever house built before Stiles left for college.

Two more years to make memories, to try and be more than the shadow of grief he’s been for too long. Stiles spent too much of his childhood looking after Bertie, making sure he ate when he couldn’t get out of bed, making sure he slept with the mania hit him like a freight train. Bertie was settled now, he was on his meds now, but there was no giving Stiles back those years of his life.

But now he was stable, he was medicated, and almost more importantly, he was doing great financially. Once the book about his teenage years with Ruthie hit the shelves, his back catalog started selling like hot cakes. People were already clamoring for another book about the two young lovers on the creek.

Bertie just hoped working on the house would keep the grief from drowning him again when he started writing. Because as much as he loved Ruthie, as much as he loved keeping her alive on the page, it was exhausting to go back there.

To go back to the place where he still had hope for a happily ever after, and wasn’t a twenty one year old with a newborn son and a wife in the ground.

“Exactly.” Bertie’s voice is soft when he answers, peeling himself off of Stiles’ side so that he can fish the keys out of his pocket and unlock the padlock that was holding the front door closed.

Stiles had already taken care of the sign in the front yard, pulling it out of the soft dirt and tossing it over the back fence. Bertie would call the realtor sometime this week to come pick it up. But at the moment, the priority was just having it out of sight and out of mind. This was their place now. Bertie didn’t even want to look at the big red ‘SOLD’ sticker slapped across the front of it. (Those things were magnetized. Who knew?)

The padlock clicks in his hand, the heavy weight of it shifting into his palm as it opens, and Bertie pulls it away from the door. “Ready?” He steals a look over at Stiles, who puts on a smile for him. (Bertie really hoped they could get to a point where Stiles smiled at him, and not for him.)

The front door creaks open, catching on the tile just inside of the door with a deep scratching sound that makes Bertie and Stiles both wince. Okay, so fixing the hinges on the front door was on the list. It could be at the top of the list.

Inside, the house was...well, it was rough. There were pieces of tarp hung over broken windows, and the walls had holes in places in the drywall. In the kitchen, pieces of tile were missing in random places, making it look like an awkward checkerboard.

Each and every thing was put on a mental checklist. New flooring for the kitchen. Pull up the carpet in the living room. Replace the fixtures in the hallway. There was a lot of work to be done, that was for sure.

“Dad, tell me we’re not sleeping here.” Stiles however, wasn’t sounding convinced. Bertie looked back at his son to see him picking at a spiderweb that was hanging from the ceiling, and the piece of drooping wallpaper that was hanging low beside it, like a flower that hadn’t seen the sun in too long.

Well once they got the windows in here replaced and some nice shutters, there would be plenty of sunlight. (And no more wallpaper, that was going the way of the dinosaurs.)

“We’re not.” He could give the kid that much at least. “We’ve got an apartment rented in town.” That way they had a place with air conditioning and running water where they could shower and rest their heads at night. “And yes, it has wifi.” He could see the question building on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, and Bertie cuts it off at the pass.

He needed wifi too, no matter how high and mighty he wanted to act about it. He had emails from the publisher to answer, and social media that he had to put out for his followers. And honestly? Bertie liked watching those oddly satisfying videos on youtube when he couldn’t sleep at night. There was just something about watching someone cut into a cake that was shaped to look like a watermelon. It made a guy want to catch some Z’s.

Stiles relaxes from his shoulders all the way down to his toes, and turns new eyes back on the house around them. “Look.” Bertie hooks an arm over Stiles’ shoulder and points down the hallway. “That one can be your room.”

Bertie had plans for an office for himself on the other side of the hall, but you had to lead with the good stuff. The kid wasn’t going to be excited about natural lighting and a nice place to set up his computer.

“And down there…” A formal dining room, tucked away behind the kitchen. This was the money maker, the room he was going to sell the place to Stiles on, he just knew it. “This is going to be our theater room. Eighty inch flatscreen TV, full surround sound set up. I’m talking about speakers hanging in the ceiling. Full theater experience. And the fancy leather recliners that are mechanical.” Bertie makes a soft whirring sound with his tongue, mimicking the way the bottoms of the recliners would rise up with the motor’s help, and he’s rewarded with a laugh.

There’s a light in Stiles’ eyes as they stand in the entry way to the dining room that would soon be a theater masterpiece, and the heart of the house. Stiles was seeing it now. That was one thing that his boy never lacked. Stiles’ cup runneth over when it came to imagination. When he was a little boy, he could spin stories better than some of Bertie’s peers at the publishing house. And it had always been as natural to him as breathing.

“What if we did a couch in the middle? Same leather. Cupholders, usb chargers, the whole nine yards?” Stiles spreads his hands out wide in front of him, encompassing where he was seeing the couch in his mind’s eyes. “Two recliners, one on each side. That way if we have people over, we have room for them too. Or if we want to sprawl out or something. You know, get cozy.”

Bertie’s heart was big and bright and warm in his chest. Stiles was thinking of this place long term. He was thinking about having friends over. Or maybe a significant other. And that’s all that Bertie wanted out of life. For his boy to be happy.

“I think that sounds great. Really great.” He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder again, and shifts all those mental plans around in his head. Aside from the things that they needed to fix for the house to be safe for them to be in, he was going to start with the theater room.

“Dark wood paneling would be good too. It will make it look rich with the light on, and it’ll soak up the darkness when the lights are off. A good carpet, too. Something you can dig your bare toes into.” Part him wants to do the dumb thing and use the red carpet on the floor and the LED strips lining the way to and from the door.

“We should do straight up movie theater carpet. The dumb kind with the stars. And the lights on the floor!” Stiles laughs, pointing along the floor to the door. Bertie loves Stiles even more in that moment, selfishly to still see himself in his son, that Stiles was still his little boy in some way.

“Now we have to.” Bertie nods in faux solemnity, and gets another laugh for his trouble. He can’t remember the last time that they both laughed like this. It feels like it’s been years. Back when Stiles was still small and still believed that Bertie was the best thing in the world.

But it was more than that. The power balance between them had always been a little bit wonky, what with Bertie’s illness. But this...being here together, it felt like being partners. Equals. All the more, it made this feel like a fresh start. One that they both chose for themselves.

And maybe Stiles didn’t need a fresh start as much as dear old dad did, but he was still here, along for the ride. That was the kind of man Stiles was. Always willing to do what anyone else needed of him. It was both his best, and his worst quality and Bertie would always carry two shoulders full of guilt at being the one who put that in him. No child should ever have to care for their parent.

All Bertie could do now was try and teach Stiles that there were lines. Boundaries to be protected. To teach the kid to protect his own big, soft heart. Somebody would have to, or Stiles would spend the rest of his life setting himself on fire to keep other people warm.

“Okay. Theater room is settled, then. How about we go get a rough sketch of your room down?” Bertie steers them away from their big project, and back down the warped and water stained hallway to the second biggest bedroom. (Sorry kiddo, dad loves you a lot but he wasn’t giving up the master bedroom to you.) Somehow, there was only one creaky floorboard along the way. Bertie decides in one impulsive moment that he’s going to keep it. It would give the house charm, when everything was shiny and new.

“I was thinking…” He lets the words hang long, playing up the dramatics of it until Stiles elbowed him in the side. Bertie oofs with laughter. “Alright, alright. I was thinking a big cork board set into the wall here. Sixty inches, maybe.” Stiles was always pinning stuff up in his room, mental maps and spider’s webs of ideas. And he’d gotten to the point that he had two cork boards set onto the walls next to each other, red and yellow string strung taught between them. “Maybe bigger, even. We could actually do floor to ceiling.”

A space big enough for all those big thoughts in Stiles’ head.

“What do you think?”

#ch: bertie #polyfacetious | stiles #v: expats row #queued #carlota's christmas drabbles

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shootwinterfest · 5 years

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Let It Snow

Shoot Secret Santa by @spicycheeser!

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The whole situation feels really weird and the fact that she agreed to it means… well it doesn’t matter now, because they’re already here.

She pushes open the door to the cabin, knocking the excess snow off her boots before heading inside.

“She says a light switch on the right,” Root says, entering just behind her and dusting the snow off the shoulders of her coat.

Shaw slides a hand along the wall until she finds the switch. The lights flicker on and they get their first look at the place they’ll be spending the next four days.

The living room is open, all high ceilings and exposed wooden beams, everything you’d expect from a “luxury ski lodge”. To their left is a fireplace. A couch and armchair sit around it, with a soft looking rug and coffee table between. Bookcases and a few paintings line the walls. The kitchen is open to the living room, only separated by a breakfast bar, and there’s a staircase to the second floor loft that winds up and around (to the bedroom, Shaw assumes).

Slipping off her boots, Shaw leaves her duffle bag by the door. Padding to the kitchen, she begins rummaging and finds both fridge and cupboards to be fully stocked. Recently too, if the expiration dates are accurate.

“She says there’s a freezer in the basement with extra food as well,” Root says, leaning over the breakfast bar. “There’s sports equipment down there. Skis, snowshoes, that sort of thing.”

Shaw grabs a banana from the bowl of fruit, peeling it down. “Looks like Robot Overlord thought of everything.” She takes a bite, enjoying the minut flinch of annoyance Root makes at the nickname.

“Even if this wasn’t her idea, She likes to make sure we’re taken care of.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, takes another big bite of fruit so she doesn’t have to respond to that. It’s true though. However serious or not Shaw’s comment about going on vacation together was, it was Shaw’s idea. And now here they are, fully stocked cabin in the middle of nowhere siberia, four days to kill until their job in Moscow comes up.

“I’m going to take my bag upstairs and unpack,” Root clicks the ‘k’ at extra hard and attempts a wink before sliding away.

With reluctant sigh Shaw finishes her banana, tossing it before heading back to grab her bag as well. Ascending the staircase she follows the thin banister around to the one and only door and heads inside.

The loft bedroom is... fair-sized. She might be ill or something because “cozy” was honestly the first adjective that came to mind. There’s a dresser on each side of the room, a small bookcase, and a door that probably leads to a bathroom. Most of the room however is taken up by the enormous bed and now, as Shaw stands at the foot of it, she’s struck by just how little thinking she did about this whole vacation thing. What it might entail, for example. Not a vacation in general but a vacation with someone. With Root. It’s a thought exercise made infinitely harder to since she’s not exactly sure how to define what being “with Root” means either.

They’ve fucked (once) and kissed (twice) and spent plenty of time together flirting and shooting at people. All of that happened on the job though so downtime like this is completely undefined. Shaw’’s not sure what Root expects and not what sure what she wants from Root either.

Tossing her duffle in the corner, Shaw flops back onto the bed. There’s a skylight above, currently featuring a perfect square of grey-blue winter sky. She feels the bed dip beside her and hears Root release and over exaggerated sigh.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Shaw wonders outloud.

“I can think of several things,” Root hums, teasing tone not o be misinterpreted. “But vacation is about doing what you want to do.”

Shaw sits with that for a fw long minutes. She’s still not sure what to make of it, even when she feels Root roll off the bed and head towards the door.

“I have a project I want to work on,” she says by way of exiting, and Shaw is alone once more.

Propping herself up on her elbows, Shaw looks out the small window. There’s a fresh layer of snow out there and more forecasted for the evening as well.

Four days of this, Shaw thinks, wondering what on earth possessed her to even entertain the idea, much less suggest it. She conjures up ideas of what ‘normal’ people do on a snowy vacation and finds herself with a barrage of media stock images that involve people snuggling together for various activities.

Suddenly the idea of staying inside makes her itch.

Shaw heads downstairs. Root is on the couch, curled up under a blanket, laptop in lap. “Leave it to you to manage to find a WiFi signal in the middle of the woods.”

“She and I are well practiced at creating our own hotspot,” Root hums.

“Ew, okay, I don’t wanna know,” Shaw says, waving hand and making her way towards the basement.

Descending the stairs, she’s actually surprised by what she finds. The basement is tidy, well organized, and labled. It reminding Shaw of something she’d expect to find in White Suburbia rather than the frozen tundra. She heads for the sports equipment mounted and displayed towards the back and shuffs on a pair of snow pants (surprisingly just her size). She grabs the cross country skis, having watched enough Winter Olympics to know that if she wants a good burn that’s a good bet, and heads back upstairs.

Root’s still staring at the computer and Shaw can tell from the faraway look that the Machine must be talking to her. Fingers flying across the keys and Shaw wonders who is dictating to whom. Though, remembering Root’s prior innuendo ,maybe she’d rather not know.

Shaw walks behind the couch and pulls on her jacket. Peeking over Root’s shoulder she sees lines of code growing of across the screen. It’s a language Shaw has no desire to learn, and a lifestyle she has no interest in adopting. The contrast between her and Root sits odd in her stomach and propels her out the door even quicker.

Outside, the sky is still bright grey and she’s thankful she remembered to bring sunglasses for the glare off the snow. Strapping into the skis it takes a few minutes to figure out how to get moving, but it’s not long before she’s gliding along at a good clip.

The trail near the cabin excellent, challenging. A good rhythm going now, she feels confident enough to push a little harder. She loses herself in it, letting concerns and thoughts from before fall away and shifting attention inward to the way her quads burn or the bite of the cold air at her lungs. The world around her is crisp and quiet, the only sounds are the swishing of her skis and the hiss of her breath. Every once in awhile she’ll stop and take in the serene woods. Watch the way the light glints off iced branches, or examine some animal tracks she crosses. She spends a few hours like that and by the time she gets back, the waning light has taken on a golden hue.

Back inside, Shaw is almost thankful not to find Root where she left her. Instead, she’s in the kitchen, starting at the open cupboards in thought.

“Problem?” Shaw asks, grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Just reviewing dinner options. Decisions, decisions.”

Shaw pops the top off the beer with her belt buckle, taking a long swig. “Kinda assumed I’d be doing the cooking, you know, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering half the time I have to remind you to eat,” Shaw huffs, taking another sip. “Food’s not really your thing.”

Root looks at her and it feels heavy somehow. She tries not to squirm under it, changes the subject. “Look, don’t blow a microchip- let me shower and I’ll make something,” she shrugs like it’s nothing, even though Root is still looking like it's anything but.

Shaw moves towards the door, before Root’s voice catches up with her, “Need any company?”

The tone is light, the weigh from before evaporated. “I think I can handle it,” Shaw deadpans back.

Back upstairs, she takes a few extra minutes in the shower, letting the hot water defrost the cold ache from her bones. After, she finds that Root seems to have taken it upon herself to unpack their bags. All their clothes are neatly folded in the dresser to the left of the bed. Shaw’s extra ammo clips, gas mask, and other gear is organized in her duffle bag, tucked under the bed.

It’s annoying in its efficiency, annoying because it’s exactly how Shaw would have done it. Totally unnecessary. Could have done this myself, Shaw thinks. Helping herself to her favorite pair of worn USMC sweats and a hoodie, she pads back downstairs.

“You look cozy,” Root says. She’s kneeling near the fireplace depositing another log on an already roaring fire.

“She help you with that too?” Shaw asks.

“Fire setting happens to be one of my skills actually.”

“Somehow not surprised,” Shaw states and heads to the kitchen.

Cooking has always been luxury when she had the time to indulge, so she’s happy to seize the opportunity. The cabinets are still open from Root’s rummaging and Shaw browses those and the fridge before settling on a meal. There’s a whole raw chicken which she helps herself to, spending a few minutes of collecting seasonings and other essentials before setting to work. She dresses it the way she remembers her mother doing years ago and makes sure to grab and chop an assortment of veggies to lay underneath the roasting bird too.

Root could use the friggin’ nutrients, she thinks idly.

Shoving the whole thing in the oven, she sets a timer before heading back to the living room. Root is back on the couch, feet on the coffee table and afghan blanket wrapped around her legs like a mermaid tail. They have about an hour before dinner so Shaw makes her way to the bookshelves. Perusing the titles, she can’t help sneaking quick glances back at Root. The woman is typing away oblivious, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a sight Shaw finds to be a weird comfort normally, but here it makes her slightly unnerved. Not because of the action, but because it leaves Shaw to her own devices. It’s the ‘what’s next’ anticipation that’s bothered Shaw since they got here, and it seems like she’s the only one.

Eventually she selects a book, a popular title she recognizes from a few years ago, and is then faced another choice: Where to sit. The armchair, the other end of the couch? Root’s words about Shaw doing whatever she wants on vacation mock her and it pisses her off enough she bypasses the couch and chair, opting to flop down on the rug in front of the fireplace.

Root doesn’t look up from her typing but states, “The bear skin rug was the owner’s Great-Great Grandfather’s. He killed the bear himself and fed his family for 6 months off the meat. It’s a family heirloom and the owner apparently takes a eat deal of pride in it.”

“So sex on the rug is out?” she jokes, enjoying the way Root’s glitches excitedly. Shaw doesn’t bother waiting for a verbal response, simply rolls over, faces the fire, and cracks open the book.

Time flies after that. The book is good, but the wafting smell of roasting chicken and subsequent stomach grumbling buoys her to the present. Shaw portions dinner for them, Root watching ruefully as she very purposefully places roasted vegetables both plates. They eat at the small wooden table in the breakfast nook. Root takes her time, cutting her entire meal into tiny pieces before even taking a bite. Shaw has more of an eat-as-you-go style, which is why she's half done by the time Root finishes cutting. Shaw tries to slow her pace.

Companionable silence is one of her favorite things about Root. The quiet never feels pressured or uncomfortable. Even in the midst of this odd situation, it still feels right. They finish up and before Shaw can say anything, Root clears dishes. She returns to the table with a tumbler of whisky for Shaw glass of water for herself.

“She says I need to drink more water” Root says.

“She’s not wrong ,” Shaw chuckles, taking a sip of her own drink. “But She doesn’t mind if I’m dehydrated?”

Root smiles over the lip of her glass. “She thought you might appreciate a good buzz at the moment.”

They sip quietly, watching the snow starts to fall through the window.

“The owner’s hunting gear is in the basement as well. If you're wondering what you can do for tomorrow.”

Shaw was, in fact, wondering that. “What kind of gun?”

“Compound bow, actually.” Root says. “Game fowl season is in full swing right now.”

“Sounds fun.”

What about tonight? lingers heavily after but Root smiles lightly ,diffusing it. “I have a few more things I’d like to work on. Unless you have something in mind for us for dessert?”

Shaw makes a ‘after you/don’t let me stop you’ motion with her arm towards the couch like and Root heads back to her spot from before. Shaw stays, finishes her drink in her own time, but eventually returns to her spot on the rug as well.

It’s late when she finally lays the book down, the fire fizzled out to its final embers. Now the blue light of the computer screen is the only illumination and the creepy way it lights Root’s face, the strung out tiredness there, brings to mind an entirely different type of snowed-in scenario. The Stephen King kind.

All work and no play, Shaw thinks. Standing, she moving behind the couch and touches Root’s shoulder. “She going to remind you to take a break any time soon?”

“She avoids redirecting me when unnecessary. Doing so when you’re around seems redundant.”

“Fine. Then this is me telling me you look like shit. Be done for the night.”

Root smiles sleepily, closing the laptop and placing it beside her. “As you wish.”

Shaw ignores the reference and heads for the bedroom. She changes, brushes her teeth, and passes Root on the stairs coming up as she heads down to find a glass of water. By the time she returns to the bedroom, Root has changed into her monogrammed PJ’s and bunny slippers and is sitting on edge of the bed, odd expression on her face as she stares at her phone.

Shaw pauses in the doorway, not sure what she wants to do or what she’s going to do (two different things).

They've always slept separately in the past. She could still sleep downstairs but that’d be stupid when the bed up here is big enfor three or four people. She watches Root discard her phone, giving Shaw a open, content look before shutting off her bedside light.

It was neither invitation nor declaration. Another thing Shaw likes about Root- there’s never any pressure. Doesn’t make this any less confusing.

Shaw makes her way over to the bed despite the continued indecision, and slides under the covers. When she rolls over, she’s facing Root who blinks back at her in the dark.

Fuck it, Shaw thinks. “What is this?”

“It’s call ‘rest’, I think.”

“You know what I mean. This. You. Me. “ Shaw pauses “Her too I suppose- it’s a package deal right?”

Root beams at that, “Very much so.”

“So yeah, what is this?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“Can you just answer my question. I asked you first.”

Root shrugs, nuzzling her head further into her pillow. “I haven’t thought much about it.”

“Bullshit,” Shaw bites. “You always have a plan.”

“She always has a plan. I…” Root trails off. Shaw can tell it’s Root thinking rather than listening, so she waits.

“I enjoy you Sameen,” she says, quietly. “Whatever that is, day to day.”

“And Her?” Shaw asks, referring to the Machine. “She just along for the ride?”

“Mmm, on the contrary, she has always been quite invested in us as a pair.” Root smiles small, like it’s an inside joke. “She likes you too.”

“That is…” Shaw searches, but comes up with nothing. “Whatever. It’s fine, I guess.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Shaw rolls onto her back looks up at the skylight. Stars wink above, dots of bright in crisp, dark blue.

“I’m not good at this,” Shaw starts. Root doesn’t reply but Shaw doesn’t have to turn to know the woman’s attention is tuned in. “Not sure how it’s supposed to go.”

“On the contrary, you’re quite good at it. You make sure I eat, sleep-“

“So does the omnipotent FitBit in your ear,” Shaw grumbles.

“You talk to me, and listen,” Root continues. “And if I'm totally honest you're the first person, maybe in my whole life, who has thought about me. About my safety. About my health.” Root says it plainly, as though they’re discussing the weather.

There’s a pressure in Shaw’s chest at the words, like the air is compressing around her slowly, the weight of it clenching under her ribs. Something demanding attention, something stirring.

“It doesn’t have to be like on TV,” Root offers. “Or like what the rest of them, any of them have. Because we're not like the rest of them, are we?”

Shaw snorts, “Fuck no.”

“So forget them. Forget ‘should’ and ‘supposed to’.” Root adds, propping herself up on an elbow. “What you're not good at isn’t applicable. It’s a language you don't ever have to learn. Not with me.”

The pressure reaches combustion and that something that’s been building, building all day and even before, finally explodes. Without thought, Shaw pounces on top of Root, pinning her to the mattress.

Only anger usually moves her like this, but the sharp and familiar satisfaction that usually follow a snap is missing. There is relief, as she looks down at the other woman whose hips she was straddling, but she’s not sure where to go from here.

Root, by contrast, doesn’t seem unsure. Doesn’t seem surprised either. She simply looks back up at Shaw, and smiles knowingly. “Ditto.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, and dismounts, shuffling to her side of the bed once more, and letting the warm afterbuzz of that stirring thing, settle in her gut.

“Keep your freezing feet to yourself” Shaw says without malice, as she snuffles down further into the covers. “And tell Rosie the Robot to wake us up for 5am. I wanna shoot some stuff, bright and early.”

“Mmm, goodnight Sameen,” Root contently from the dark.

It’s odd, to have someone know her better than she know herself sometimes. To have someone who understands, who seems to hear the whispers within her like they were as clear as day. Maybe Root can help her hear them a little better too. Maybe together they can have their own language.

Shaw chuckles, into her pillow despite herself. The whole thing is so weird. So unexpected.

Inconceivable, she thinks as she drifts off. She falls asleep smirking at the reference and how ridiculous and maybe cool being ‘with’ some can actually turn out to be.

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#shootsecretsanta #shootsecretsanta2018 #person of interest #shoot #spicycheeser

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