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dulcewrites · 6 months

Text

New Traditions

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x afab!reader

Summary: As the first holiday season in your new home approaches, Rhett and you start new traditions and make promises (wc: 3k)

Warnings/Fic notes: mentions of unhappy childhoods (reader and Rhett probably needed more hugs as kids). Allusions to a rich!reader. Me using decorating as smokescreen for a character study lol. Daddy issues galore. The Christmas music is very self indulgent on my part too. Allusions/mentions to 18+ content

A/N: *Mariah Carey whistle note* ITS TIMEEEEEE. Lmao hiii, I hope you all are doing well. It has been a minute since I have written for a fandom outside of hotd so please bear with me on that front. I eventually want to take request soon (for Rhett, some tgm characters, and Calvin Evans) so my inbox is always open if y’all are interested - just shoot me something. If you read anything you like please reblog, like, and or comment. Also let me know when y’all put your decorations up (if you celebrate anything). I’m a staunch first weekend of December girlie myself ❤️

Masterlist

As pathetic as it sounds out loud, Rhett had grown accustomed to having the rug pulled out from under him. He had a looming and painful history with differentiating the cards life dealt him and what he deserves; over time, they began to blur together. At a certain point, he just resigned himself to life just being sort of... eh. Reminding himself that though things could be better, they could also be much, much worse.

It would all combinate in this hazy, syrupy snapshot of moments that ran together. At least, that is what he thought till he met you.

He thinks you would not understand it if he told you - that you are one of those people that is easy to love, while people like him took work to want. Hard work. Something that would be likened to the type of manual labor a Wyoming, farm grown boy like him is used to doing day in and day out. If he dared to express it, you would give him a good-natured laugh and shake your head like you always did when he said something self-deprecating.

"What kind of women do you take me for, Abbott," followed by a playful eye roll. "The type that settles?"

Rhett supposes that was the conundrum with you. Because the statement is not wrong; nothing about you gave off the impression you would settle for anything. That could come from a life of having almost everything at your fingertips. But the questions still tickle his tongue and doubts still makes his brain hazy.

It has only compounded since the two of you moved in together.

It was you who posed the suggestion, a shy smile on your lips. Despite the skepticism and disappointment from your parents, it did not feel right for you to sell your grandmother's ranch, the one your father grew up on, after she passed. You insisted on keeping it yourself, clearly having a soft spot for the house you would visit whenever you had the chance to.

Our home, you called it.

Your baking kits in the kitchen, his horses in the stable, and various clothes in the closets. He should feel reassured by this all… and yet… he waits for the other shoe to drop. For the rug to once again be pulled out from under him. Everything is so warm and new, and he worries about the day it slips through his fingers like sand.

Words in general, and expressing this specifically, does not come easy for him. Though loving you comes as easy as breathing for him. Rhett puts all that stuffing emotions and feelings away to good use as he tries to focus on the present. The only thing that manages to keep his mind clear is keeping his hands busy. So, he tries to make up for it in any way he can. The pale wall color your grandma insisted on keeping but reminded you of a sterile hospital? Painted to something more vibrant. The light fixtures in the kitchen that you said were ‘far too phallic to enjoy a meal under’? Well, those new ones are the best money could buy.

He just finished the building that rocking chair you got for the porch when you stick your head out of the house to call him in for dinner, eyes alight with something he could not put his finger on.

Dinner was silent, too silent for you, who always could spark up a conversation with anyone. A tiny sense of dread sets in, and he can’t help but think it maybe something he did… or did not do.

“The chicken is good,” he tries to start any kind of conversation or joy behind the eyes, but all he gets is an empty smile.

The unnerving quietness carries on for a few of minutes, but you suddenly drop your fork on the plate with a clank.

“Did y'all go all out for Christmas?”

Along with the noise the fork made, the question startled Rhett. He blinks blankly utterly confused by how it went from silence to that.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry,” your lips downturn into an embarrassed frown. “I should not have assumed y’all even celebrate it. I guess I just assumed with your mom and all.”

“No, we do celebrate,” he shakes head.

“So, did you go all out? When did you guys put the decorations out?”

Rhett shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Much like everything else that comes to his family, it is never linear or easy. He doesn’t know how to explain how one year they just stopped decorating; gifts and midnight mass were seen as hassles not the usual. Everything that the holidays stood for: family, love, gratefulness, togetherness was the antithesis of them. The joy and warmth of the holidays was sucked from the house and never came back till Amy was old enough to know what Christmas was - till Rebecca and his ma teamed up one day to make a fuss about the house being cold and sterile. What they meant is that Royal was cold… and sterile.

Rhett can still remember the look of disbelief in Rebecca’s eyes when Perry didn’t back her up on the matter. It was a look Rhett had seen from when he was a teen till the last day, he saw Becca. He still gets a rotten taste in his mouth thinking about he never got to tell her how much she meant to him. But that would also mean admitting that often his biggest advocate was a woman basically forced into the family versus the people he shared actual blood with.

Slight embarrassment burns his mouth like a hot iron down his thoat.

With a tight throat, Rhett shrugs. “It changed every year,” he lies. Then shakes his head. “It wasn’t a big deal really.”

Almost as abruptly as you stopped eating, you get up from the kitchen table. He just about calls out to see if you are ok, but you come back in the dining area carrying a picture.

“When I was cleaning out the garage, I found this.”

Rhett leans over, and he can’t help the slow grin that settles on his face. At first, he didn’t recognize the faces in the picture but then he saw a familiar crooked, mischievous smile, but this time on a younger girl. A little you. Decked out in a red, poofy dress and tiny white fur shawl. Shiny black saddle shoes that gleam even in the old photo.

“My baby as a baby,” he whispers.

Rhett continues to scan the photo. Behind you was two older people, and he can only assume they are your parents. They are exactly how he thought they would be and nothing like he thought at the same time. Your mom casually glamourous in green, your dad in a suit far too done up just for family dinner with a heavy hand on your shoulder. You wear her eyes but his nose. Right behind the three of you, a heavily decorated banister and in the foreground a Christmas tree so large that Rhett thinks it has to be a safety hazard.

You do not seem as happy or in awe of the relic as him, in fact you look sick at the sight.

“That was taken before they sat me down to tell me they were getting a divorce.”

Rhett’s heart sinks a little at the as the way your mouth juts out in bitterness.

“Looking back on it, I should have known. Dad was never home, mom was detached, probably depressed. Ya know, I remember them specifically saying that nothing would change, and naive little me not only believe that but wanted it. Not realizing something was just… off. But I guess most nine-year-old’s can’t tell the difference.”

He supposed it was easier for him to paint a rosier picture of your parents, for his sake and yours. Maybe winters in Texas were better than ones he experienced, maybe life was better. He has seen pictures of house, the compound, you grew up on. But now hearing what you are saying made pity take over the normal envy.

Rhett reaches out to grab your hand, and squeezes. “M’ sorry.”

You wave your free hand nonchalantly thought the casualness does not meet your eyes fully.

“No use crying over spilt milk,” you sigh. “I just saw the picture and tried to rack my brain for the last time we were all together for the holidays. After that one, it was one year with mama, the next with dad. And I don't think we ever decorated the house together. That was my caregiver, Jodie's job. Made me curious other people’s traditions I guess."

Rhett fiddles with the rings on your fingers while chewing on the fleshy part on the inside of his cheek.

“Maybe we can make our own,” he mutters softly. “Startin’ this year.”

You look up through your lashes, eyes fluttering away from the picture that sat on the table.

“Really?”

He nods. If that is what you want, he’d do it for you. Like he would do anything for you. Your gaze goes out the window across from the table. The leaves on the trees already began to change and fall to the ground. Going from green to various shades of red, purple, and brown. The season already has changed; heat melting away as the temperature dropped and cool breeze set in.

Your spirit noticeably lightens. “Do you think we can get a real tree? Mamma always said it was too much of hassle to get a real one.”

Rhett holds up his hand and extends his pinky. “As long as there is mistletoe in the house.”

Under new light fixtures, and with the sun grazing the ground as it sets, the two of you made your first promise.

Investments are important.

Your father told you so all your life. To the giant painting he bought for the Tennessee house (the one you later realized was a Degas), the stocks he bought for you for your fifteenth birthday, or his insistence you go to his alma mater. All investments that he expected payoff for. Your father will always be the smartest businessman you know, and he still managed to be so clueless with everything else.

People are not investments. Not really, at least. Not in the way your father looked at it. You can put money and effort into something, but it is never a guarantee it will work out that way. And you can’t just leave when things do not go your way. Your poor father never seemed to understand that, and you think it broke your grandma’s heart in the process.

And maybe you are no better than him. As a child, you admittedly reaped the benefits your parents offered you, almost to a fault. They would often laugh at your ability to move on to the next thing without so much as a blink of an eye. Onto the next toy, the next piece of clothing, the next makeup item. How can you criticize behavior you gave into yourself?

“You’re a reformed brat,” Jennie, your old debutant buddy turned psychologist said over the phone. “Give yourself some grace. At least you want better yourself now.”

So, you gave yourself just that. You didn’t sell your grandma’s place for the equity or whatever bullshit your dad mentioned. You didn’t Amelia County leave though your mom offered to set you up with her in New York. And God… you’re letting your fall - fall so deeply in love with Rhett, despite the voice in your head that tells you not to.

You replay your, in your opinion, embarrassing meeting. Bursting into tears in the middle of a grocery store was not the romantic story you want to tell others. But he came up to you to say that though he only spoke to her a handful of times when she would stay in her vacation home in Wabang, he knew your grandmother was a good woman and would be missed.

A blubbery mess of grief right next to the meat aisle spiraled into decorating your grandmother's house together - your house.

With Frank Sinatra’s version of ‘Let it Snow’ playing in the background, a rush of giddiness takes over. Jodie always said you had an eye for pretty things.

"A little excited, no," Rhett eyes copious amounts of bags you brought into the house. “It’s not even December yet.”

You survey the bags and boxes laid out. So, you went slightly overboard. Like driving out of town to the nearest big city to do some more shopping. Some habits die hard.

"This is just the starter stuff," you pull reams of garland out of the bag. “Just wait till they start selling the trees. Oh! And I got ingredients to teach you how to make sugar cookies from scratch.”

Rhett is silent for a moment, and you wonder if it is too much too fast. Your mother always said that enthusiasm, especially around men, should be tempered and demure. No one likes a girl that acts like a dog with a bone, sweetheart.

“Do.. do you think we can invite Amy over for the cookies thing,” his cobalt eyes soften at the mention of his niece. “I think she would like that.”

“Of course.”

You knew how important it was to Rhett for things to stay good with Amy. Her reception of the move was the only one he seemed to care about. You could not help but think the rest of Rhett’s family was skeptical about his decision. Cecilia was always kind towards you, and she was mostly receptive to the idea, but you assume it must hurt to see her baby venture out. Something about her reminded you of your own mother. Two women clearly used to the short end of the stick, and had to find ways to deal with it. While your mother found salvation in travel and extravagant parties, Cecilia found hers in faith.

Perry was well… Perry, about the whole thing. Just based on how he handled the news, and small tidbits you picked up from Rhett, it seemed like Perry was upset about Rhett making a choice just for himself. A luxury that the eldest son had a premium on for some time.

But you think it was the patriarch of the family who took it the hardest. It may be the reality of having two less hands around 24/7 like Rhett says, but you tend to think it is something deeper with Royal. Anger, sadness, pride - all of them??? You don’t know.

But what you do know is that family tension is something both you and Rhett know far too well.

After unpacking the bags and boxes you got, the smoky coos of Frank Sinatra transition into the pop Christmas playlist you put together. You don’t remember when the bottle of red wine came out, whether it was between Britney singing about what she wants for Christmas that year or Mariah singing about a holy night. It might have been after you insisted the two of you try your hand at diy decorations. But Rhett rolled his eyes when you talked about getting glasses, taking swings straight from the bottle instead.

“I don’t know how you drink this shit,” he wrinkled his nose, but he takes another hit.

“Just like you enjoy your watery beer,” you retake the bottle from him to have some more yourself.

“Last time I checked,” he expertly ties red and green ribbon into pretty bows and knots. “You were there with me, drinkin’ said watery beer.”

You bite your lip as you watch his brows furrow, and he pokes his tongue out sweetly as he ties meticulously.

“You’re quite good at that.”

“‘M good with ropes too.”

It could be the red wine, which always made your insides warm and fuzzy. Or if could just be the Rhett of it all. Him indulging this perhaps silly childhood wound of yours in full earnest.

“Hmmm,” you shuffle closer to him. The two of you might a makeshift area on the living room floor of pillows and blankets. An almost sickly-sweet peppermint candle ablaze on the table, and the fireplace crackling nearby.

“Royal used to make me secure the lines and pull logs. Kinda got good at it.”

By this time, you’re stuck at his side, suddenly a little fixated on hair on his neck that trickles up to his jaw and cheeks. You like him like this; hair falling from behind where it is tucked behind his ears. Scruffy and soft.

“Maybe you can show me how good you are.”

Rhett’s attention still doesn’t stray from the ribbons he cuts and ties, a task he is clearly taking seriously, but he nods in agreement. You roll your eyes slightly at how oblivious he can be.

“On me, Rhett,” you spell it out for him. “You can use the ropes on me.”

He stops and turns with a look of wanton, wetting his lips for a moment.

“Yeah,” he asks, the inflection at the end of the question breathy and soft.

You nuzzle your nose into area right under his ear with a hum, kissing the skin there and taking in the smell of his cologne. A woodsy scent with sprites of magnolia and cedar. It was one that consumed the bedroom and your mind. You spent much of your formative years pretending to hate the idea of being desired or wanted - chasteness an idea drilled into your head since you were a little girl and told by the ladies of your church that the only thing worse than being ungodly is being ‘fast’. Then you spent college overcorrecting to the point of farce. Letting the guys you knew had little regard for how you felt at the end of it make decisions for you. Emotionally, mentally, and sexually.

Your first time with Rhett was a hodgepodge of giggle and sighs only to be heard by vast emptiness of the home you do sit in now. His boots and jeans askew on the floor. You eccentric grandma’s knick knacks watching you two. Most notably, the cat clock that reflected in the moonlight, the one Rhett insisted you keep when he moved in. After him eating you out until you cried, and a night that ended in you making a trip to the local pharmacy for a Plan B, you honestly expected a series of awkward moments that would single-handedly ruin the small town bliss you experienced for the first time. And yet, in the morning, his lips turned up in a shy smile and he asked if you had bacon in the fridge.

You didn’t realize how badly you were under water and needed to breathe until you came to Wabang. Your lips work their way up his jaw til you reach the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s make it another tradition.”

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