#so they tell miss maria what to write on their cards and then decorate with oil pastels

[reidecorating]

Like Ivy

Request: “Being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me.” and “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you.” I’m thinking something Christmas-y with Reid - Anon

A/N: I do apologise for procrastinating on getting this out, but I wanted to make sure it wasn’t terrible. Merry Christmas to all of you who celebrate it, my present to you is the longest fic I have ever written. I had so much fun writing it so I hope you guys enjoy reading it! Happy holidays <3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAUFem!Reader

Word Count: 7.7k

Summary: Best friends yearning & best friends pining - but make it festive. Entails Secret Santa, the classic penny behind the ear and waltzing.

Warnings: Fluff, proceed with caution :)

The Cathedral of Santa Maria. Spencer had finally put his finger on it. The small glass dome encasing a building, with doors small enough to allow entrance to ladybugs who may practice religion, adorned unmistakable timely Italian architecture and ornamented pine trees, all dusted with flitters of snow. For the past week, Spencer had caught sight of the trinket each time he wandered past where it sat, as one of the few other decorations surrounding the name plate displaying in gold Times New Roman ‘DAVID ROSSI’, on the often unoccupied desk. So, he gathered that it must be important. Filing away his final stack of paperwork for the night, a silver paperclip glistening in the artificial light, Spencer made a mental note to ask the man about it the next morning. Standing from his usual office chair slouch, he stretched his limbs, feeling a series of clicks in his back as he regained his posture, only to bend back down in reach of his satchel. He made his way home giving tight lipped smiles of encouragement to the few agents sprinkled about the room, working over time. Haphazardly, he pushed the arrow pointing downwards with a cardigan clad elbow. As if on queue, his phone buzzed to the simultaneous ‘ding’ of the lift. 

I understand you’re nocturnal, but I hope you’ve gotten home by now! If not, text me when you do so, safely :) 

He didn’t realise he was grinning from ear to ear until an aggravated looking bureau member from a floor above, evidently itching to get home, cleared his throat to gain Spencer’s attention. “Sorry,” he grimaced. Noticing the button for the ground floor having already been lit up, Spencer stepped inside and stood as far away, as was possible in the small space, from the rankled looking man and his briefcase. A dimple appeared on his cheek as he remembered you, two years, three months and seventeen days ago - not that he was counting - offering him cherry scented hand sanitiser from a small bottle, and, only after he’d nodded, gently grasping the tips of his fingers to steady his shaking hand as you poured the gelid liquid into his palm. The act was so pure he chose against telling you that while alcohol based hand sanitisers reduce the number of microbes on hands in some situations, they don’t eliminate all types of germs - making soap and water the most effective way to go. Since then, you occupied his thoughts in the same way ivy grew along bricks of long forgotten towers. In abundance, in the most beautiful way. He turned his attention back to the tiny mobile he was holding. 

On my way right now. I have a date with microwaved leftovers at midnight, can’t miss it. Will do. 

The next time his phone buzzed was when he’d dozed off on the way home, using the concave pane of a metro window as a shoulder to lean against. He waited until his feet landed on the uneven pavement of his stop to open it. 

Tomorrow you have a date with a properly cooked meal, at mine. What is it that Hotch always says? That’s an order, not a request. 

Spencer’s heartbeat quickened as he read what you had written, his brain immediately carrying variables in an effort to slow it down by convincing himself that friends make each other feel this way. However, when he counted the rose flush on his cheeks and nose whenever you were around, the looks you shared which said more than words ever could and the way you held each other nearer than the distance between the sky and the ocean where they met at the horizon after close calls and mentally grappling cases, it didn’t quite equate to being just friends. Dwindling leaves clinging to their branches shuddered as scissors of winter wind pruned the trees scattered about. Spencer’s pale hands slid into his coat pockets, hiding from frostbite. On the short walk to his apartment, he admired the twinkling lights on either side of the streets, feeling as if he were a plane which had just landed upon a runway in the night. Candy canes, reindeer and eccentric portrayals of Santa Claus glowed amongst bushes and on porches, making Spencer wish you were there to see them too. It wasn’t rare he found himself wanting to share everything he did with you. Pretty things made him think of you. Eventually reaching the familiar building, tiredly, he followed wreaths and holly all the way to his undecorated apartment door. 

You? Cooking? I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Home safe. Goodnight, sleep well. 

He kept his promise, despite seeing the time was nearing to one in the morning and being doubtful you were still awake. 

Hilarious :/ and I will, knowing you’re alive. Goodnight Spencer :) 

Spencer coveted for nights when he could tell you goodnight from right beside you, perhaps with his hand draped around your waist while yours tugged at his hair. He wanted to fall asleep to the scent of your skin and whatever soap you’d picked up from the store that week, not the quiet hum of his vintage fan. His microwave beeped, acting as an alarm to return down to earth from the clouds, presenting him with far less than gourmet potatoes. Realising he would take your burnt cooking over this any day, he settled for a sandwich.

 ∗∗∗

“Did you know that snowglobes were invented in France. They were first introduced as ‘water globes’ at the Paris Expedition Fair in 1889, and, to no surprise, the first snow globe actually contained a tiny scaled Eiffel Tower covered in snow,” Spencer lectured, almost putting the two agents who had struggled enough to get out of bed, back to sleep. The days were slow. Annual leave for a majority of the bureau was looming nearer and files kept them busy as the jet gathered dust. “Glad to hear the French contributed something, other than their opprobrium of a language, to this world,” Emily complained, from her desk. “Well, baguettes… Croissants, parachutes… Aspirin-“ Spencer was halted by the unimpressed look on Rossi’s face, as he hovered on the edge of Spencer’s table, a bushy eyebrow raised in vexation. “What’s with all this talk of snowglobes, kid?” The older man squinted at Spencer, craning his neck towards this, the way he did to suspects behind the glass of an interrogation room. “Since you brought it up,” he smiled smugly, swivelling in his chair from one side to another. “What’s the story behind the Santa Maria sitting on your desk?”

“Yeah, the eighties have come and gone, Rossi, isn’t it a bit late for repentance?” Emily let out a sly smile, walking over to also lean against Spencer’s desk with a steaming mug in hand. “It was a gift from my grandmother, handmade, I take it out every Christmas to help get in the festive mood,” Rossi explained. “Also, that was very funny Emily but now… I can’t help but recall what Garcia told me about the time you got a little tipsy and licked peanut butter off J-” 

“No one told me it was National Congregate Around Spencer Reid’s Desk Day today.” The three agents turned their heads in unison to find who the voice belonged to, Spencer’s breath hitching at the sight of you. You stood before them, an upturned magician’s hat in hand, semi-curious as to what the ending of Rossi’s sentence would have been if it weren’t for you interrupting. “Y/N!” Emily waved, flashing a smile. “You’ve taken an interest in magic and didn’t even think to tell me,” Spencer feigned a hurt look. “Spencer, I knew magic wasn’t for me after I did the card trick you taught me, wrong . Six times,”

“It was seven. Plus, the student is never as good as the teacher,” he suppressed a smile. “Or maybe the teacher just isn’t good,” you raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s a little hostile, someone didn’t get enough sleep last night,” Spencer defended himself, putting his hands in the air. His eyes held a glimmer of mischief as if to say ‘we know something that you don’t’ when they met yours. Emily’s jaw dropped. “That… Didn’t sound suggestive at all,” Rossi pursed his lips in concern, looking back and forth between the pair of furiously blushing agents. “Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” you winked at Rossi. Basking in the radiance of your laughter washing over him like the sun, Spencer chuckled along. “Anyway, what’s with the hat?” Emily questioned. “This,” you shook it by its brim, “contains the remaining names for this year’s Secret Santa, courtesy of Miss Penelope Garcia. I was just ordered to present it to you all. She calls it being her ‘little elf’ - I call it unpaid manual labour - but pick a name, any name,” you encouraged. You watched as Spencer’s tongue comically poked out as he eagerly concentrated on picking a name, elbow bent at a worrying angle. “I just want to say that every time I get a gift that isn’t alcohol, I’m slightly disappointed,” Emily turned to you as it was her turn to fish for a piece of paper. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you grinned at her. You watched Rossi’s expression as his eyes skimmed the name in his hands. “Oh, and Rossi, yes, there’s a budget,” you called over your shoulder, causing them to laugh as you gave them a wave. Slinking away from the comity of the bullpen, back to Mrs Claus’ lair, you retrieved the only remaining name. You paused in the hallway to double check if you’d read the glittery scrawl correctly. Spencer Reid. It was just your luck. You were prepared to engage in hand to hand combat with Garcia, seeing her office looming ahead. “Penelope. I hate you. I love you,” you kissed her cheek, placing the top hat on her curls, “but I hate you.” She recognised the tone, beaming at the implications. “Thank me later, beautiful!” She called after you as you rushed away to get started on completing the mountains of reports you had been avoiding thus far. 

The day had come to a close, a headache making a home for itself in your head. Scanning the, now, mostly empty room, you caught sight of the back of Spencer’s uncombed head. Double checking that not enough people were around to be reprimanded by HR for misconduct, you inconspicuously made your way over to him snaking your arms around his neck and burrowing your nose in its crook. “Hi,” he chuckled, amused at the sudden affection, his unoccupied hand immediately reaching to grasp one of your wrists. Spencer had followed your strict, but coffee induced, orders earlier that morning telling him not to distract you unless, one, he was dying, or two, something was on fire, because you were determined to finish the numerous write-ups you had left until today. “Hi,” you mumbled into him. “Ready to go home?” You asked sweetly, arms still slung around him, pulling your face away to get a glimpse of his soft features. Your heart stopped for a little while, at the beauty of him. He was breathtaking. You refrained from tracing the small bump of his nose with your own, and settled for admiring the five o’clock shadow presaging a hidden jaw. The part of Spencer that craved domesticity was enchanted by your simple question, the word home resounding in his head, acting as an old film reel for projections of images of the two of you together; leaving work together, going home together. Little did he know that, as if through an unnoticed telepathy, just a few inches away, the same images occupied your own head. Coming home to an empty apartment had become tedious. You allowed yourself to give into your daydreams of returning home to Spencer - with Spencer. Spencer, with his warm eyes and words that drip like syrup from his tongue. You wanted nothing more than to revel in him filling your senses once the cologne from the day had been washed away, and hear him harp on about the history of mattresses, attempting to retain questions to ask him later in your memory bank, as you capitulate to sleep. “As a matter of fact, I finished most of what I had to do last night so I am ready to go… home,” he tested out the word, to which you had assigned a brand new connotation, feeling a flutter in his chest. You quickly rescinded your arms as you peripherally detected a flock of agents returning from what you assumed was an afternoon break. Spencer suddenly missed your body on his. Having already packed your things, feeling accomplished noticing that the pile of folders on your desk had shrunk significantly, you packed Spencer’s things to save him time, aimlessly throwing the strap of his satchel over his head for him once he had ungracefully shoved his arms into a blazer. “Hang on,” you gently pulled at his shoulders to meet your height, carefully fixing his tag and creased collar. The blush on his face, at the feel of your cold fingers brushing the nape of his neck, said everything he didn’t - save a meek, “Thank you.” You smiled at him in return. “Wait,” his eyes widened, “I need this,” he mumbled, reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a large black bag, decorated in gold intricacies. He didn’t explain it, but you knew that if Spencer had something to say, he would come out and say it, just all in good time. “Now are you ready?” You eyed the thing curiously, and glanced back at him. “Let’s go,” he motioned his arms in front of him, with a small nod, letting you lead the way. 

Afternoon rays of sun fought their way through clouds, battling with the winter air to warm the people mingling outside as you made your way towards the crowded station. “Penny for your thoughts?” You asked, intuitively slipping an arm through his when the sun began to disappear altogether. Your cheeks grew warm as you realised your compromising position, feeling your heart rate return to its usual pace once he relaxed into your touch. “Hm?” He turned to look at you, letting his river coloured eyes unabashedly scan your face. “You look like your mind is far away,”

“What’s on my mind is definitely not very far away,” he said, quietly. That glimmer had returned. You noticed that the crease between his brows had disappeared, indicative that whatever thoughts were rattling through his brain, were good ones. You hummed a smile, content with his contentedness. “So… Hand it over,” he extended a palm a second later. “Hand what over?” You asked, genuinely confused. “A penny,” he said as if it was obvious. You blinked up at him, unfazed by the joke, as he bit his lip provokingly. All of a sudden he stopped walking, eyes still on you. “Just… Hold on a moment,” he whispered, squinting at you as he reached a hand towards your cheek. You remained still, thinking that Spencer had finally lost his mind. “Here it is!” He exclaimed, breaking out into a smile as he retrieved a one cent coin from behind your ear. “What!? You’re kidding! That was brilliant,” you beamed at him, eyes wide in bewilderment. “For a second there I thought you had gone crazy,” you teased. “Magic does that to people,” he nodded, satisfied with how impressed you seemed. “Ah, but alas, you gave me a very ambiguous answer, so I,” you snatched the penny from his fingers, “am entitled to a refund.” Spencer shook his head with a soft smile. “You might need to use that for the bus if we miss the next train,” he informed, hurriedly examining the watch on his upturned wrist. 

No trains were missed, that day, the two of you arriving at your door in time for the six o’clock news. “Here, let me take your coat,” you offered, putting it on the small rack beside the door, placing yours adjacent to it. Spencer relished in the warmth of the place, setting his things down. “So, I’m thinking we get a proper meal in us, and then you can help me decorate this dreary place,” you instructed. He wanted to let you know that anywhere you are is far from being dreary, but something told him that was far too sappy, so he settled for a simple, “Sounds good.” He took in the familiar apartment, its walls embellished in old paintings snagged from secondhand stores and books scattered about on almost every horizontal surface, in a certain disorderliness that said, yes it’s messy, but everything has its place. “Also, I hope you know that you’re only leaving in the morning so make yourself at home.” It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for the two of you; you falling asleep at his apartment out of feebleness, him at yours, and more often than not, it involved discarded games of Scrabble as the two of you settled for debating the rules instead of actually playing. Lately, he’d been craving it more and more - and so had you. Spencer would never say no to that offer, but he was taken aback. “But I didn’t pack- I don’t have-“

“Eidetic memory is slipping I see,” you giggled at his flustered state. “I told you, I kept finding toothbrushes, sweaters and socks here every time you left, so I made a drawer full of your things, since you practically live here anyway,”

“An entire drawer? I didn’t think I was missing a whole lot,” he responded, nose tinted red. “I have to water my plants quickly, before I put dinner on, but feel free to shower,” you said, still laughing quietly. “Let me help cook, first. You need someone to disassemble the smoke alarm,” he raised an eyebrow at you. One ‘KISS THE COOK’ apron and half an hour of seasoning a chicken, spilling sweet potatoes and bumping elbows later, the two of you stood back from the counter, you boasting to Spencer about how nothing had turned to ashes, and him pointing out that the oven hadn’t been turned on yet. Soon after, you put the oven on high, humming an indistinguishable carol over the shower that could be heard running from the next room. A warm, tingling feeling overcame you.

By the time you had showered, Spencer stood serving - a well timed and flawlessly cooked - chicken, wearing mitts matching the baggy flannel pyjamas keeping him warm on top of the open oven. “Smells good,” you complimented, slightly startling Spencer. He stood at the small wooden dining table, mouth agape at the sight of you. He was sure his heart was a puddle. “I like your sweater,” he praised. You glanced down slightly confused, shortly realising that your sweater, with its much too floppy sleeves, reaching a little way above your knees, was actually his. “Oh, I’ll wash it and give it back to you at some point,” you said shyly. “I was wondering where it went, but don’t worry about it, the colour looks nicer on you than it does on me,”

“Nonsense, you know that’s not true.” Soon enough, you found yourselves digging in - not before you expressed your gratitude towards food that wasn’t charred for the first time in months. You sat across from each other, your reindeer sock clad feet occasionally tapping his beneath the table. Spencer’s heart was full, marvelling at you from where he sat, wishing this could be something he could experience forever, much preferring it over a stale sandwich. You watched him intently through your eyelashes, chin resting on your interlaced hands while he taught you about how the thalidomide scandal emerging from Germany led to safer drugs in the pharmaceutical industry, the lecture prompted by an article he’d read recently. It continued into getting the dishes cleaned up, his rambling only being interrupted by your intermittent questions which incited further tangents, or requests to pass the tea towel. His voice was a ruffled silken sheet, on which you would like to lay for eternity. Admittedly, you found it difficult to focus on retaining any more information than the odd date, due to being too focused on the way his lips moved to form every word he said, hopelessly enamoured by the overly enthusiastic expressions he made to match the tone of what he was saying. Eventually, he wandered towards the living room as you stacked away the final plate, butterflies still spurring in your stomach from when his fingers brushed yours as he handed it to you.

“Spencer Reid effortlessly navigating technology, Christmas miracles really do exist, huh?” 

“Actually, I just remembered watching you choose music, instead of paying attention to the road, that one time you drove me to work,”

“I was most definitely paying attention,” you huffed out a laugh, slightly bashful at the thought of him remembering small things you do. “You hit the kerb four times! That was the day I vowed to never let you transport me anywhere,”

“I see your argument, and I raise you with the counter argument: the kerb hit me.” Sitting with his back against the couch, legs sprawled out over the rug beneath your coffee table, Spencer couldn’t hold back his laughter. After watching you disappear into the kitchen, he busied himself with reading the holiday edition of Reader’s Digest laying on the table. He recounted you telling him that you had accidentally  drunkenly subscribed to it, and never bothered to cancel the subscription, the first time you’d caught him reading an issue. You emerged a short while later, with drinks in both hands. “Bonjour monsieur, on tonight’s menu, we can either open this Merlot or, drink Capri-suns like the sophisticated adults we are. Your pick,” you said, hiding the juice pouches behind your back and noticeably waving the bottle of wine in front of you. “I have a feeling it isn’t my pick,” he let out a laugh, “so just fill a glass with enough Merlot for two,” you were on your way to get a glass before he had the chance to finish. “Your wish is my command!” You called. Spencer put down his magazine once he saw you rushing towards him with a large glass of wine in hand. “Of course you opt for Christmas Jazz over Mariah Carey,” you teased, hearing the music he’d queued floating from the withering speaker in the corner of the living room. It was the kind of music that would play in the diner of an expensive hotel, you noted. “I can change it if you’d like?” He began reaching for your phone, when you halted him by grasping his arm. “No, it’s good, I like your taste.” Spencer grinned sheepishly, taking the glass from your hand as you sat down beside him. 

Hours of conversation and decking the halls with tinsel later, with wine flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes you moved the furniture to cater for your very own dance floor. Carefully, Spencer placed a hand below your ribs, touching you like new glassware, lacing the other with yours. Your unfettered hand, replaced the weight of the world as it rested on his shoulder. You recognised the look on his face as he settled into the close proximity, it was the same look that painted yours when you admired him whilst he failed to notice. The soft glow of a lamp illuminated the man you held, making an indistinct halo of golden light appear above his unkempt hair. “I apologise for any damage caused to your feet,” you giggled, struggling to find a rhythm. “Here, follow my lead,” he looked down at your feet. “The Waltz?” Dazzled, you raised an eyebrow, a few seconds after recognising the box-like steps in unison. Spencer tried to focus on anything but your lips, glistening in the dull light, so close to his. “Mhm, I’m not exactly the most co-ordinated-”

“You don’t say?”

“That’s tough talk for someone I’ve seen fall up a flight of stairs,”

“That sounds made up, but as you were saying,” you laughed into his chest. “It’s simple because its a repeating pattern. Did you know that name of the dance comes from the German word waltzen, which means to turn, or to glide? Some say the dance itself comes from the folk music and dances of west Austria, but others debate that it’s a variation of the Volta, from the 16th century,”

“Interesting, makes sense to debate that though. I’m pretty sure volta means ‘a turning’ in Italian - although that’s mostly in reference to the turn of a new thought or idea in sonnets… I’m thinking of Shakespeare,” you chimed in. “Sonnet one-hundred and thirty being a classic example of that,”

“Of course you would know that,” you shook your head in awe, cheeks hurting from grinning too wide. The incandescence of the smile that hadn’t left his face all day was mesmerising, the honeyed expression tied together with the dimples on his cheeks and creases around his eyes. “What would you like for Christmas?” He mumbled, lifting a moment of peaceful silence. “If you pulled my name out of the hat today you’re going to have to be a lot more subtle than that,”

“Unfortunately not,” he pouted. “Don’t tell anyone I told you, but I have Rossi,” he whispered the words into your ear, neglecting that no one else was around to hear. “What do you get a man who already has everything money can buy?”

“A new wife,” you joked, causing him to scoff. He studied your visage as you pondered his earlier question, still swaying to the soft piano sounds. “Honestly Spencer, being able to see you smile, being in your vicinity, just that is enough for me,” you finally answered, tilting your head up at him. Spencer thought his knees would give way. He thought his knees would give way, and he would hit the ground with enough impact to implode through the earth’s crust. In reality, he only stumbled over his feet momentarily, regaining his composure before you noticed him slowly becoming unhinged. “If that’s the case, I wish I’d picked your name,” he managed to utter, breathlessly.

The music which continued to play was drowned out by the sound of steady breathing, you were too caught up in each other to pay attention to the world. Wordless, you looked into his eyes, his actions parallel to yours. “You look beautiful right now,” he sighed. “Of course, you always look beautiful but, you know.” You shook your head, refraining from averting your eyes from his. He wished you believed it, promising himself to never abstain from letting you know until you saw yourself the way he did. “It’s funny you say that, because I was thinking the same thing. About you of course,” you rushed out the last part, realising the potential for miscommunication. “I love seeing you happy,”

“Well, as long as you stick around, you’ll be seeing a lot of that,” he spoke lowly, on the verge of telling you about all the things he felt for you. You hadn’t realised, but you had unconsciously moved closer together. You could feel his warm breath on your skin, lighting a fire inside your lungs, as he took yours away. Spencer saw all of the signs; the signs that this was not usual for a friendship. Maybe, if it weren’t for his defeated battle with fear, and doubt, he would have told you by now that he had fallen desperately for you. Spencer knew there wasn’t a drop of insincerity behind any of the kind words you spoke into him, he understood that you were his person, but he found it difficult enough to comprehend that someone could feel this strongly for someone. So, the implausible idea that someone could feel this way about him, was one he was not even prepared to entertain. “Y/N? I, um,” he tried, wearily. You gave him a soft smile, both tired arms laced behind his neck now as his rested on your waist. He dropped his sword. Once again losing the fight against his unreasonable insecurities, changing his mind at the last second. “I need to give you something,” his demeanour changed and he vanished from your line of vision. Your heart sank, hopes of hearing him say that the love you had for him was requited, fallen. Before you got too lost in your head, he emerged from the doorway with the same black bag you’d been inquisitive of. “Uh, here, this is for, uh, you,” he tucked his lip beneath his teeth. “Spencer…” you trailed off as he handed it to you. You sat yourself on the carpet, patting the spot next to you for him to join. “I thought I should give it to you now, since I’ll be in Vegas for Christmas,” 

“Spencer, you really didn’t have to-“

“Go on, open it,” he ignored your humility. You gave him a look as you opened it - it being replaced with a look of elation as you realised what it was. In your hands, you held a scarf, long enough to hit the floor, striped in all your favourite tones. “I had to ask my mom for help with the tassels, but-“

“You took the time to make this? For me?” You exclaimed. Without thought, you draped it around his neck to tug him closer to you, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me, thank you so much,” you lauded, refusing to let go of him. “I think it was last winter, we were walking back to our hotel in Minnesota during a case, and you insisted that the both of us use my scarf to keep us warm, because you didn’t have one,”

“Ah, I remember that, except it ended up being one of the top ten worst disasters in U.S. history due to the height difference, and we both ended up falling face-first into the snow,” you giggled, recalling the way you had used up most of the hotel’s hot water afterwards. “Exactly,” he matched your expression, “seeing as you still haven’t bought one for yourself, even though we lose eighty percent of our body heat through our head and neck, I thought I would take matters into my own hands,”

“Well, I love it. You’ll have to tell your mother I said thank you and that I’m sending my love,” you finally dropped your arms from around him, out of fear of crushing his shoulders. 

Once the zeroes had lined up on the twenty-four clock, Spencer sat where he usually resided on your bed, ardently admiring you as you folded away his gift. “Wait! Spencer close your eyes! Please!” You squeaked, immediately shutting the cupboard doors, realising your unwrapped present for him was hidden within. “Y/N? Is everything alright?” He asked, eyes now sealed shut. “I didn’t want you to see what I’d bought for Secret Santa,” you let out, too exhausted to form a coherent excuse. “We only got those names today - well, yesterday, now - so how did you manage to-”

“Shoot,” you cursed to yourself, knowing his unintentional profiling would lead him to the conclusion sooner or later. Spencer’s eyes slowly opened. “Okay, let’s say if, hypothetically, I had intended on giving you something for Christmas anyway, but then drawn your name today, would you, hypothetically, be able to act surprised when you receive it from me at work?”

“Hypothetically speaking, I would?” He squinted at you, stifling laughter. Your hair was slightly messy and your drowsy eyes were visible to Spencer even without his contacts in. He thought you just looked so adorable, wanting nothing more than to hold you and share your warmth. “Anyway, come to bed,” he beckoned, his voice gravelly, giving way for the day. Obliging, you shuffled towards your bed before sliding your cold feet beneath the covers. Spencer turned to face you, resting his cheek on an upturned palm. “Sorry for ruining the surprise,” you whispered, tucking the duvet under your chin, bright eyes looking through him. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he assured, treasuring the sight before him. There had been a shift in the air between the two of you. Spencer held the wine accountable, but he could sense that you felt it too, a level of intimacy that you had not quite reached during previous nights like this. “Come closer, I need to exploit your body heat while I can.” Spencer listened to your instruction, inching nearer to you, his heart rate so high he was sure you could feel it when you nuzzled your head into his chest. “Goodnight,” you felt his chest rumble. “Hang on, the night isn’t over yet,” you mumbled, “talk to me,”

“About?” He asked, amused by your grit to avoid sleep. “Anything you want,” you yawned. “You’re sleepy,” he stated, coaxing you into getting some shut eye. When you tilted your head up and continued to blink at him, he gave in. “Have you ever wondered why a lot of our most vulnerable conversations happen  at night?” You nodded in response. “Well, a study done by the University of Colorado a couple of years ago concluded that natural light from the sun actually regulates your circadian rhythm, or internal biological clock, which standardises your sleep cycle. According to their study, this sleep cycle coincides with sunrise and sunset, meaning that if you regularly expose yourself to sunlight, your body enhances its internal clock to align more closely with the natural light cycle,” 

“Based on that,” you contended, words slightly jumbled, “our circadian rhythm would vary between seasons, right? And yours would be different, since you’re a literal vampire, to say... someone who surfs down in Florida because of disparity in sun exposure?”

“Precisely,” he raised his eyebrows, “I’m impressed you’re still paying attention, you look like you’re already dreaming.” Spencer nudged your forehead gently with his own, causing you to breath out a laugh. “Alright, so how does all of that relate to being more vulnerable at night?”

“It relates in the sense that the rise and fall of the sun reflects in our physiological, as well as emotional behaviour. During the day, we’re a lot more active, and at night, we become more relaxed and receptive. Hence, since your mind is at ease, all the thoughts and emotions that might have felt jumbled up during the day become clear, making them a whole lot easier to express,”

“Mhm,” you managed, eyelids growing heavy. “Do you… have anything to say now,” you whispered drowsily, eyes now closed, “that you can’t say during the day?” Spencer couldn’t handle it anymore. He was already so fond of you but as his hand settled to rest around your waist, feeling your warmness, he believed his ribs could collapse from the way he felt inside. As you dozed off, gradually, winter became less cold in his arms and dreamscapes of his tea leaf eyes. “And, she’s asleep,” he whispered, minutes after silence, into your hair, “but to answer your question, yes,” his lips planted a chaste kiss on your forehead, “I love you.” Of course, unbeknownst to him, you weren’t asleep just yet.

∗∗∗

A couple of days went by, and as more time went on, the less certain you became as to whether Spencer had really even said the words, wondering if the whole thing was just a fatigue driven hallucination your lovesick mind had conjured up. Waking up beside him the next morning however, tangled in a warm cocoon of cotton and limbs, had left you feeling giddy, smiling like a fool with heart shaped eyes as he attempted to feed you the waffles he’d made - which the two of you gulped down far too quickly than sanctioned, to avoid being late for work. When you didn’t succeed, and the clock had beaten you by ten minutes, you both wrestled past evocative looks from the rest of the team for the remainder of the day, JJ even singing something about the two of you ‘sitting in a tree’ . The soft, shared, smiles and light brushes of fingertips when he handed you coffee in the mornings left you wanting to concede; let him know that you would walk on burning coal for him, the more logical side of you reminding you that professing your devotion to him over an open case file consisting of a double homicide, three days before Christmas, was far from ideal. Spencer wanted the kind of love only the poets could express. This had become evident the evening you took him to a midnight screening of ‘Un homme et Une Femme’. You recalled leaning into him to translate, catching sight of his welling eyes glimmer in the dim lit theatre. Believing his love should be celebrated, you decided to withhold the unsurfaced feelings a little while longer.

Later that week, you all gathered around the BAU tree, a small framed picture of Derek decidedly hanging from one of its upper branches after Garcia had to be heavily persuaded, and eventually bribed, to not place it at the top, arguing “But he’s my star.” Spencer snuck behind you, subtly placing a hand on your back to glide through and place Rossi’s gift under the tree. “I want to let you know that I’ve been practicing my ‘surprised’ face in the mirror,” he discreetly whispered against your neck, making you roll your eyes. “Okay super sleuths, I know we’re all itching to fly away for a break, but hold your reindeer, because we are yet to kick off our annual Secret Santa,” Garcia excitedly exclaimed, shuffling in with two large sparkling bags. “I thought there was a budget?” Rossi quirked. “Yes, sir,” she looked smug, “for you.” The team shared smiles at Rossi’s perplexed look. “So, who wants to start us off?” Garcia chirped. With that, the festivities were under way. You held tight an abnormally large heat sensitive mug, which you were sure would also reveal a promiscuous image once warm - a gift from Emily, who gave herself away by insisting it would help your caffeine dependency - watching as the others tackled ribbon wrapping paper. You threw an impressed look Spencer’s way, that glint of knowing something the universe doesn’t returning to your eyes, when Rossi opened a small portrait of what looked to be a Venetian cathedral, the Santa Maria to be exact. Once the banter and excited chatter had died down, everyone turned to the recipient of the final gift, neatly labelled Spencer Reid, enveloped in brown paper and tied with deep purple ribbon. Penelope looked as if she were about to pass out. Spencer’s shifting eyes landed on JJ as she mouthed a small ‘you’re up’, causing a smile to tug at his lips when he eyed you gazing at him with the soft look he adored. Your eyes lingered on his hands as they swimmingly untied the mauve knot and tore open the paper to reveal a large leather-bound journal. He examined the old looking thing,  trailing his fingers along the convoluted golden details of the artistic interpretation of a moon calendar adorning its umber covers, partially covered by thin leather straps. His mouth was slightly agape, shaking a little at how well you knew him, clumsily catching the matching novelty pen before it slipped out of the wrapping and onto the floor. You had picked it up at a forlorn occult shop after it had caught your eye while looking out of place as it lay surrounded by large crystals. Knowing in an almost divine way that it should belong to Spencer, you had bought it. He couldn’t help but look at you briefly, communicating a silent gratitude. “This is amazing,” he ogled, “I love it.” Your heartbeat was in your throat. He was yet to find out you’d filled the first page for him.

Shouts of Merry Christmas, long hugs and season’s greetings were thrown around the room before, one by one, everyone slowly bade their goodbyes. While helping JJ clear away torn reds and greens of gift wrapping, you caught sight of Spencer, ears and cheeks scarlet, with his nose buried in his new, opened, journal.

“We are asleep until we fall in love," you looked up from Leo Tolstoy’s one thousand page book and recited to me, once. Since you walked into my life, I’ve been wide awake. You know that I’m never far away, but this is for the days you need to let out some of what you hold in, without saying it aloud. 

I love you too, Spencer.

Spencer read and re-read the words until he was sure he could recite them like the Lord’s Prayer. It was commonly Spencer who remembered small details and remembered paltry quotations, but this time, it was you. Sitting in the glow of the afternoon sun, one October, he had been reading War and Peace, and couldn’t help but share the line with you as you sat across from him, chewing through a much smaller number of pages and reading a collection of poetry. The woman he had been so captivated by, admiring from afar that day - and all others, felt the same way he did. In disbelief, he began breathing manually. Making sure he was deciphering the cursive lettering correctly, he scanned the page again. While his eyes were definitely not deceiving him, they remained glued to one word. Awake. The havoc caused in his heart by the train of thought hitting him so brutally, rivalled only Gare Montparnasse. You must’ve heard his confession nights ago. It was the only explanation for the ‘I love you, too’. You most definitely were awake. Profiling tendencies overcame him. With his basic background of graphology, he could make out that the last line had been written in fresher ink than all the others, confirming his hypothesis. For the first time in a while, his mind was quiet, the uncertainties which fought to float in, unable to make their way through as if the thee simple words you’d handed him were a barrier for them. He needed to talk to you.

Walking quickly towards the elevator, an overwhelming wave of anxiety crashed over you. You had subconsciously been avoiding Spencer for most of the evening, second-guessing whether or not you’d heard him correctly, whether he’d even meant the words in the way you’d interpreted, wondering what you would do if this friendship were to ever end. However, a more hopeful side of you contended to quiet those thoughts. He had to feel it too. There was no room in which you hadn’t shared a longing look. The feather touches, and dancing. So badly did you want to believe that he thought this too. A slender arm appeared through the closing elevator doors, tugging you back to reality, causing you to jump before quickly pushing the open button. “Spencer! You could’ve lost an arm!” You yelped. “It’s okay, I have two of them,” he huffed. He avoided your eyes for a moment, before inhaling half of the oxygen in the small lift and turning towards you. “I wanted to say thank you, for this,” he held up the book, “it’s gorgeous, and sort of… exactly what I needed - and not just the book itself but what you wrote… inside it,” he nervously looked at you. “Did you- do you mean what you wrote?” His tone of voice syringed into you a drop of hurt. “Spencer, I never want you to think that I don’t mean it,” your let out in a shaky voice, gently grasping his elbow. You visibly saw his body ease, a smitten smile replacing the lip being chewed at. His throat bobbed as he gulped before he spoke again, heartbeat in his ears. “I want you to know that I’m in love with you, Y/N. I don’t want you the way I want a best friend, I want you in a-” he sighed, clenching and unclenching his fist trying to find the words, “I want you in a way that means I want to fall asleep beside you, and wake up to you the next morning, for as long as the sun rises. I want you. I want you - no, need you, the way the tide needs the moon to rise and fall, I want you-” he swallowed, furrowing his brows at his feet, “I want you, like this.” Hazel eyes fluttering shut was the last thing you saw. Large hands lightly caressed your face, one travelling behind your ear, brushing your neck to delicately tangle in your hair. After years of wondering, you finally knew what his lips felt like on yours. His nose bumped yours lightly as you tasted his soft lips, their slight chap reminding you that winter had kissed them first. Your hands wrapped around his wrists, before one settled on his tilted jaw and another hid in his chestnut hair. He felt warm, everywhere you touched setting electricity through him. Even after you pulled apart, his arms remained on either side of your face, holding you like you were fragile. His breath fanned over your face, as you shivered, the fluttering in your stomach unsubdued. The elevator had long reached the ground floor, causing the two of you to bashfully laugh concurrently. You thought to yourself that Spencer’s crimson flush and wide grin was a sight you would lose sleep to gaze at. “All this time, I’ve been missing out on that,” you teased, watching him shyly bite his lip as he waited for you to say something else. “I’m very glad you said all of that because I’m very much in love with you, Spencer Reid, and, if you’ll let me, I want to love you, the way people love in all the books you’ve lent me,” you told him. At that, he was sure his heart was yours, fearlessly. So, making afternoon plans and debating which train to take, neither of you really caring as long as you were in the other’s company, you finally stepped out of the elevator, oblivious to the mistletoe that was hanging within it, but more than mindful of what was to come. 

#this was almost as long as their elevator ride #me? writing? unheard of #this took so long i don't know if it's even fully edited but we'll see #hope u guys have fun reading it!! #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid oneshot #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #mgg x reader #mgg fic #spencer reid x reader #mgg oneshot #cbs criminal minds #gublernation #spencer reid smut #spencer reid self insert #mine: writing

[whumping-every-day]

I'm loving Gabriel so much...might I request: Stefan and Maria celebrating his birthday? With cake and presents, and pretty decorations! Because Gabby needs all the good things and softness

You asked for this over a month ago, Anon, and I am so sorry. I was so inspired that I wrote almost 4k for it, please enjoy! Tagging the Gabriel Gang under the cut. 

Tags for this one: None! Just excessive softness!

Masterlist

-

They are hiding something from him. 

It’s not Gabriel’s job to be in the loop, of course, and he understands that Master and Mistress don’t have to tell him anything. 

But the strange thing is that they often do, and the change is unsettling. His Masters have understood, from the very beginning, that it calms Gabriel to understand what’s going on around him. They have communicated with him from early on, before he was even used to being spoken to like a person.

Then one day, the mail comes with a mysterious black box. His Mistress snatches it up with an unusual amount of enthusiasm, and she waves Gabriel away when he offers to help clean up. She tells him not to worry and kisses his cheek, and the box gets tucked under her arm. It goes upstairs with her, and Gabriel doesn’t see it again.

Days pass, and Gabriel’s suspicion grows. Gabriel is used to his betters talking like he isn’t present, or like he can’t even hear them. Sometimes it’s comforting to be ignored. But more than once over the next few weeks he goes looking for one of his masters, only to find them together, whispering hurriedly among themselves.

The second time it happens, Mistress jumps when he knocks.

They always welcome him in after, of course; Master pulls him into a little hug, and Mistress ruffles his hair and asks if he’s not part cat, since he’s so quiet. It comes with all the impossible warmth and kindness that color everything his new Masters do. But Gabriel can’t help noticing that whenever he interrupts them, they never go back to what they were saying.

More days pass, and Gabriel focuses on shutting his mind off and behaving himself. That’s all a well-trained pet should be worried about, after all. If he can just be good enough, if he can be exactly what they want him to be, then maybe, maybe –

Maybe he can convince them not to do whatever they’re planning on doing.

It’s not sound logic, but it’s all Gabriel has. The thought of the black box is like a tic, impossible to shake off.

Then, one day, Master calls Gabriel into his office. It’s a Saturday; Mistress has gone grocery shopping, and both Gabriel and his Master had woken up late.

He’s still shaking off the vestiges of sleep as he nudges the office door open.

“Ah, hey, bud.” Gabriel looks up to the source of the warm greeting, and feels his insides freeze. Master is seated at his desk, and in his hands is a manila folder. Gabriel has only ever seen that folder twice; once, when First Master had gotten rid of him, and then again, when Second Master had sold him to Stefan and Maria.

Gabriel must make some sort of sound, because Master stiffens, his brow creasing.

“Whoa, hey. It’s alright, sweet boy.” Gabriel can’t seem to tear his eyes off the folder. He’s only ever seen it when he’s being sold, and he’s terrified, suddenly, right down to his bones. He whimpers, takes a single step back, and Master puts the folder down.

“Gabriel, hey.” It’s firmer, this time, and it pulls Gabriel out of his internal spiral. “Come here, little one.” Gabriel lets out an unsteady breath and stumbles closer, drops to his knees at Master’s feet.

A large palm immediately settles in his hair, heavy and warm, and Gabriel whines and leans into it desperately.

“Easy, sweetheart, take a breath. There you go, good boy.” Gabriel feels the pinprick of tears at the praise, and he shudders and tips his face into Master’s palm. Yes, he’s being good, he’s doing his best, so there’s no need to have the folder out, no need – “I guess you know what this is, huh.” Master taps the file, and Gabriel flinches.

He nods meekly and hides his face against the man’s knee.

“Don’t worry,” Master murmurs gently. Those broad fingers are still carding through his hair, and Gabriel knows how strong they are, knows that they could easily knot and tangle and pull. But they don’t, and they never have, and Gabriel lets himself lean against Master’s knee just a little. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Master continues. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions. These papers, they’re, eh… lacking some information.”

Gabriel frowns quizzically. Information? He assumes information about him, but he doesn’t know what’s written in the file.

“It’s fine if you don’t know the answers.” Master drags his fingernails gently along Gabriel’s scalp, and Gabriel lets himself be calmed by the repetitive motions. “Actually, I would be surprised if you did, but let’s just make sure, hmm?” He waits for Gabriel to give another hesitant nod before he asks, “do you know when you were born?” Gabriel just blinks for a moment, before slowly shaking his head.

“ ‘m sorry,” he whispers roughly. Master had said it was okay if Gabriel didn’t know the answers, but he still feels the shame at not being able to provide what was asked.

“Don’t be, little one,” Master says simply. “You know I want you to be honest, and you were. Good boy.” And he keeps petting Gabriel’s hair, and Gabriel swallows against a wave of something hot and tight in the back of his throat.

There’s a gap between questions, then, long enough for Gabriel’s eyelids to grow heavy, long enough for him to slump against Master’s knee. Master only guides him closer, lets Gabriel rest his head in his lap.

“Do you remember anything about where you were born? Or your parents? These papers aren’t agency-issued, so you didn’t come through official channels.”

Gabriel blinks back to proper awareness, frowning faintly as he digests the question. His parents… that must have been before First Master, he assumes. But there was nothing before First Master. Right?

… Right?

There was no time before First Master, no time before the pain and the beatings. Gabriel has always been a pet, because that’s all he’s ever been good for.

“I-” The boy’s voice cracks, and Master’s hand has gone still in his hair. Gabriel blinks, and his next inhale is audibly shaky. “I d-don’t, I don’t know,” he whispers, and it’s tremulous even to his own ears.

“That’s okay,” Master promises gently. “Stay with me, little one, don’t push yourself.” He curls one of those large, calloused hands against the back of Gabriel’s neck, heavy and weighted and safe, and it’s good.

“I can’t, I can’t remember,” Gabriel confesses quietly. It makes sense that he would have had parents at some point, but when he tries to think of them, nothing comes. And even if they had existed… they must have given him away. How else had he come to be in First Master’s possession?

“Easy, sweetheart, hey,” Master says, and Gabriel realizes that he’s trembling again. “You’re okay, precious, you’re alright.” There’s a moment of quiet on Stefan’s part, and a faint frown. “I shouldn’t have sprung this on you,” he murmurs regretfully. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Take a breath for me, there you go.”

At some point, Gabriel’s fingers have wound in the fabric of Master’s jeans; he’s clinging to the man’s ankle, and when Master opens his arms Gabriel practically falls into his lap.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” he sniffles, and Master just curls an arm around him and holds tight. He’s still on his knees, but Master is holding him, and with some encouragement Gabriel slinks up more so he can hide his face against the man’s shoulder.

“There you go, bud,” Master murmurs softly as he strokes the base of Gabriel’s skull. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” 

Gabriel is already tired, already over-wrought from the constant nerves, but the mention of before has shaken him terribly. Master strokes his hair and rubs his neck until Gabriel is boneless against him, mostly held up by the thick arm around his waist. When he is finally guided away, gentle and careful, Master dries his tears.

“Thank you for being honest,” he murmurs, and Gabriel melts inside. Master keeps a hand cupping his jaw while he picks up his pen with the other. “It’s no problem. Just means I have to get creative.” Stefan makes a few quick additions to the papers, scratching something out and writing in a note underneath. Gabriel just waits, leaning against the man’s knee and soaking up the contact.

He doesn’t care what’s on the papers, not really, and it’s not like he can read them. But he can’t wait for them to be put away, as if their mere presence is a reminder than his owners could get rid of him at any time.

They won’t. Even if they haven’t collared him yet, even if they haven’t given him a physical sign of belonging, they promised that they wouldn’t. And Gabriel can only hope (and pray, and beg, and bargain with whatever might be listening) that they mean it.

“Now, what were you up to before I interrupted?” Gabriel perks up at the question.

“O-oh! Mistress said I could polish the banisters today.” Gabriel bites his lip, drops his eyes. It is a struggle to find tasks they will let him complete. It’s almost like they don’t want to assign him regular chores, so Gabriel treasures each one he’s given.

“Did she? Ah, well.” Master ruffles Gabriel’s hair one last time before his hand falls away. “You should be off, then.”  Gabriel nods obediently, and he immediately misses the warmth as he peels himself away from Master’s legs.

“Yes Master.” His joints creak faintly as he gets to his feet, and Gabriel carefully hides the wince. He’s sore a lot, he finds; something about spending a very long time locked in a basement.

“Remember not to push yourself.” Master is watching him like he knows, somehow, and Gabriel gulps and scurries for the door.

“Yes Master,” he murmurs again, and he hovers against the door frame, unsure if the man has more to say. But Master only watches for another moment, before giving a quiet sigh and waving him away.

Gabriel ducks out of the room feeling uneasy, but not bad. He closes the door as quietly as he can, and then quickly goes back in search of the correct cleaning supplies.

He doesn’t see the manila folder again, and Master doesn’t ask any more strange questions.

-

It’s almost a week later when everything finally clicks.

They’ve sent him upstairs to his room, and Gabriel would be convinced that he was in trouble, except that they’ve both sworn he isn’t. They just needed to do something in the living room, they said, and that he shouldn’t worry.

Gabriel is worried anyway, even though he’s trying not to be.

He straightens the blanket on the bed, making sure all of the edges are perfectly aligned, and that there are no creases or wrinkles. His Masters have been impossibly generous, giving him a bed to sleep on, and Gabriel isn’t about to take it for granted. The rest of the little room is already spotless; Gabriel cleans the window and dresser every day, and vacuums whenever he can get away with it.

It’s calming, making sure that everything is perfect, but in the end there’s not much to do.

“Gabe? You can come down now, sweety.” Mistress’s voice is airy and light, not even a hint of irritation, but Gabriel’s heart still kicks into overdrive.

He remembers what surprises had looked like, back with First and Second Master.

He pads down the carpeted staircase, and it muffles his steps so that his approach is nearly inaudible. There’s music playing faintly, and Gabriel bites his lip as he creeps around the corner and pokes his head into the kitchen.

“M-Mistress?”

“In here!” It comes from the living room, and Gabriel’s heart is in his throat as he follows.

He’s not sure what he’ll find when he steps inside, but it’s not what he’d expected.

His owners are both sitting on the couch; there are three colorfully wrapped boxes at their feet. There are colorful streamers draped from the ceiling, and they’ve wound a few strands of tea-lights around the end table and up over the couch. The main lights are off, and there is something sweet in the air.

“Surprise,” Mistress says with a smile, and Master chuckles softly at Gabriel’s baffled expression.

“Come join us, bud,” he says, and Gabriel quickly scampers over and melts into his spot on the floor. It’s immediately comforting, and the tension eases out of him as Mistress’s fingers settle in his hair.

“This is probably new to you, huh,” she says, and Gabriel nods wordlessly. She shifts so that Gabriel is kneeling between them, and he leans back against Master’s legs shamelessly.

“This is for you,” Mistress says simply, and Gabriel blinks up at her in bewilderment.

“We kept it simple,” Master adds. “We know that this is a lot, and we didn’t want to overwhelm you. So it’s nothing too crazy.”

With the way Gabriel’s expression is clouded, it’s very much like he’s asking without words if maybe they are crazy.

Mistress giggles just a little, and she cups Gabriel’s cheeks and kisses his forehead.

“We wanted to celebrate you,” she says easily. “Because we love you, and you’re special.”

We love you, and you’re special. Gabriel has heard the words before, but they still make him impossibly shy. His cheeks go pink with it, and he tries to duck his head and hide, only to be stopped by Mistress’s hand on his cheek. Instead he whines softly, because it’s so much – it’s too much, he can’t handle it.

“No hiding this time, bud,” Master says, and his eyes are fond.

“Most people celebrate on the day they were born,” Mistress says. “But since we don’t know when you were born, we picked today. Unless you find a day later on that you like better.”

Gabriel looks around for a moment, at the twinkling faerie lights, and the colorfully wrapped presents, and the streamers, and something hot rises behind his eyes.

“I-” his voice breaks, and his throat closes, and suddenly Gabriel can’t speak. Instead he sniffs, wet and pathetic.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mistress says softly, and she scoots to the side on the couch, so there is a Gabriel-sized gap between her and her brother. She pats the empty spot and holds out an arm, and wordlessly Gabriel slinks up into the couch and folds into her arms. It had been a struggle, at first, to get Gabriel up onto the furniture. He’s still a thousand times more comfortable on the floor, where he knows he’s not doing anything wrong… but it’s getting easier.

A larger pair of arms envelope them both a moment later, and then it’s the three of them, warm and loving and safe and held, with Gabriel wrapped in the middle. He sniffles against Mistress’s shoulder, and Master rubs one of those big hands up and down his back.

It’s several minutes until Gabriel regains his composure, and even then his eyes are still red, still wide with awe and wonder and that constant hint of nerves, as if all of it might still be a dream.

“This is… this is f-for me…?” It’s small, and timid, but Mistress nods and smiles down at him, and Master gives him the gentlest little squeeze, presses a kiss to the side of his hair.

“For you,” Master murmurs.

They hold him for a little while after that; Mistress plays with his hair, lets him curl up into her front, and Master rubs his back and lets Gabriel cling to his hand.

“Would you like to open your presents?”

“Mmm…” Gabriel is content where he is, and he would happily accept just the grace of their warmth, if that was all they wanted to offer. But Master is gesturing to the boxes, and it clicks, very belatedly, that they’re gifts. They’re for him.

It’s a lot. His hands shake as Gabriel accepts the first present, and his Masters are patient with him when he slowly unpeels the red paper. He glances back to them every few seconds, as if waiting for one of them to yell gotcha. But they don’t, and then the box comes open properly, and he stares down at the little set of brushes and paints inside. Gabriel had liked the crayons when Mistress had brought some home, but he hadn’t thought that they’d noticed.

“Th-these – these are real paints,” he says.

“Yeah, bud. We thought maybe we could put some tarp down in the downstairs study, make it into an art room.” An art room? Gabriel must have too much shock and bewilderment in his expression, because Mistress shakes her head and smiles faintly.

“Or maybe we’ll wait on that. But those are for you, and you can use them however you like. There are some canvases and brushes in the bottom.”

There are indeed canvases in the bottom; they are small, about a foot in diameter, but Gabriel handles each one like it’s made of glass.

“I – I d-don’t-” Words fail him, and Gabriel is left stammering on a thank-you that would never feel like enough anyway.

“Shh, it’s alright, little one,” Master says gently. “You’ve got two more left.”

Two more – that’s two more than Gabriel ever expected. The whole scenario is bizarre. Nothing will ever truly be his, of course - everything in this house is the Master’s property, including him. So these things that they are giving him are also theirs. Just for him to use, maybe.

The second box isn’t a box, but a soft lump wrapped in the same red paper. Gabriel tears this one open with only a little encouragement, and he can’t help but gasp as his fingers meet fabric. It’s the softest thing Gabriel’s ever touched. It’s fuzzy and silky, and when Gabriel curls his fingers into it, the fabric almost slips from his fingers. It’s like holding onto a cloud, and it’s a dark blue, like the night sky.

“It’s, it’s so soft,” he says in awe. Even the blankets on Master and Mistress’s beds aren’t this soft. Gabriel lifts the fabric up, only for it to fold out and tumble down his lap.

“It’s a blanket,” Master explains. He helps shake it out and then tucks it around Gabriel’s shoulder, and it feels like being hugged by a cloud. It’s warm, too, practically decadent, and Gabriel buries his hands in it and sinks deeper into the couch.

“Now, you know you’re allowed to use any of the blankets in the house,” Mistress murmurs. “And the ones in your bedroom are already yours. But we thought it might help if you had one that was just for you.” She smiles and reaches out to squeeze his hand, and the lingering shock keeps Gabriel silent as he accepts the last package.

This one is smaller, around the size the paints had been. His fingers are unsteady as he slips one under the edge, rips carefully at the paper. It still feels utterly surreal, and every second is spent waiting for the other shoe to drop. There’s a smaller box inside, and Gabriel’s eyes widen in recognition. This the box that had come in the mail, over a week ago now. Gabriel turns it over, then shoots a nervous, questioning look to his owners. It’s about the same size as the cavasses, but heavier.

“It’s a tablet,” Mistress says, which does not help with Gabriel’s confusion. He shoots a sidelong glance at Master, then back to the box, wondering if he can get away with pretending to understand.

There’s a quiet, rumbling chuckle, and Master shakes his head. “It’s alright, little one. We already programmed it for you.”

“Yeah, we figured it could be confusing at first. It’s very simple… here.” Mistress holds out a hand for the box, and Gabriel hands it over wordlessly. He has seen phones before, of course – and by the image on the box, he suspects that a tablet is something similar. But he cannot fathom why his owners would give him one.

“Now, it’s not connected to the internet or anything,” Mistress says as she presses the button. “But it’s special for another reason.” The device boots up, and Mistress swipes the little arrow, which leads to a blank screen. “I’ll show you how it works.”

Gabriel leans forward curiously, and takes the tablet when Mistress hands it to him.

“Tap the green icon,” she says. Gabriel obeys, and he almost jumps when the screen responds. “Good. See this list here? There’s two numbers there, tap the first one.” He obeys again, and the screen goes black, except for one red icon on the bottom.

There’s silence for a split second, and Gabriel looks up in alarm, afraid that he’s somehow broken it.

Then Master’s cell phone rings, and Mistress’s face splits in a smile. There’s something almost smug about it as Master reaches into his pocket and swipes the screen.

In his hands, the tablet flares to life with color, and Gabriel almost drops it in surprise. “Oh-”

His Master smiles at him through the screen, and waves up at his phone from where he’s sitting. Gabriel sees it happen twice, once out of the corner of his eye and once on the tablet’s surface.

“Hey, buddy,” Master says with a grin, and even through the screen his smile makes Gabriel feel fluttery inside.

“We know you don’t like to be alone,” Mistress says. “But with me going back to school, and working, and your Master travelling – we wanted to give you a way to call us. Just in case there’s a time when neither of us are home.”  

The image on the tablet is impossibly clear, until suddenly it blurs, and Gabriel realizes his eyes have misted over. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead he sniffs, and nods his head, clutches at the tablet.

“Tha-a-ank you,” he manages after a moment, and it’s wet, unsteady. “Th-this is, this is so much, I don’t – I can’t, can’t pay you back for this-” He can’t pay them back for any of it. And how much had a brand-new tablet even cost? Something in his stomach goes cold at the thought, but his owners are already shaking their heads, and Mistress winds an arm around his middle and squeezes.

“Don’t be silly,” she says, and kisses the top of his head. “These are for you. We love you, sweetheart. Besides, we promised to take care of you.” She smiles a tad sheepishly and lifts a hand to play with one of his curls. “Let us spoil you a little.”

It takes him a moment, but Gabriel sniffs again, takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” he breathes, one last time. This way he can contact them, even when they aren’t here - he thinks of how empty the house seems when they’re gone, and the dark shadows in his room, and he bites his lip. The tablet is still live in his hands, and it shows a close-up of Master’s shirt now that the man has put his phone in his lap.

“The second number is mine,” Mistress adds. “I know we’re still working on your letters, but once you get a bit quicker, you’ll be able to text, too.” 

He doesn’t deserve any of it. Gabriel knows that, deep in his bones. The attention, the kindness, the safe place to sleep – it’s all more than he’d ever thought he would get, and he doesn’t know how he can possibly express his gratitude enough.

But he nods tearfully, and leans into Master’s hand at the small of his back, and knows that he’ll spend the rest of his time with them trying.

–

@robinshouseofwhump @pepperonyscience @angelsuperwholock @pennsss @silver-sparrow-462 @silverinkgoldenquill @kestrelsparverius @learningtowhump @shameless-whumper @latenightcupsofcoffee @thebluejayswhump  @what-huh-imconfused @vickytokio @captivity-whump @pink-and-purple-flowers @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @adventuresofacreesty  @kyra-plays @cagefreebirds @whumpywhumper @blue-flare10 @whumptywhumpdump   @whumpywhumper @maybeawhumpblog  @fallingstormphoenix  @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @infreidel @shadowicepuma @justanothermaltesegirl @whump-in-the-night @theawesomeawkward @promptnations @whumpity–whump–whump  @maraudersmarvelwhump @haro-whumps @whumposaurus @deluxewhump  @nervous-writer @doublebubblebitchqueen @mortifiedwhump @whump-tr0pes @comfortforthepain @kungpao-giffy @whumps-the-word @burtlederp

#gabriel whump series #comfort #pet whumpee #caretaking #creepy caretaking thats actually very soft #its the same you guys know the deal by now

[queerchoicesblog]

The Florentine Lady

Folks, the wlw story set in the Italian Renaissance suggested by @scottishqueer for the wlw writing project continues. Time to introduce the mysterious Florentine lady, wife of a brilliant architect.

If you do happen to like this miniseries, please consider spreading the word!

Previous chapter: After The Storm

Previous series: Ancient Greece

_____________________________

A few days later, I pay a visit to my most wondrous tailor and commission him a series of accessories for both my costume and Riccardo's: we have to be impeccable! He winks at me and assures me he will do everything within his power to turn them into wonders that will catch the eye of the Duke himself. I love masquerade balls so much and I count the hours until when I will finally put my Flora costume on.

I'm smiling on my way back to the castle for my card match with my dear mother-in-law. I'm basking in my carefree happiness and in the gorgeous sun shining bright today that it takes me a moment to notice a blonde figure admiring the castle from the edge of the bridge. She doesn't take a step in? Is she scared off by the guards? What a missed chance!

"You chose the best angle to admire the Duke's castle, ma'am" I say as I approach, hoping to give her the little push she needs.

Oh, I startle her, poor thing! She looks behind her and notices me. I smile at her and she turns back towards the castle.

"So this is the best angle..."

To my surprise, she sounds skeptical. What she says next irritates me even more.

"Is this all your castle has to offer?"

A sudden realisation hits me. I laugh. But of course!

"Ah, you must be the new Florentine lady"

She turns back towards me as if I stang her with a needle.

"My fame precedes me, I see"

"Indeed it does, milady" I confirm, mocking a curtesy.

She rolls her eyes and laughs bitterly.

"It doesn't sound like good news by the way you talk to me"

"Well, it's surprisingly easy for ladies with an attitude to get a reputation" I observe with pretended nonchalance.

"Do you think I have an attitude?" she asks and she looks genuinely confused, only slightly annoyed by the implication.

"You? And who would ever say that? You've just arrived, we'll have to wait and see. Fare ye well, fair lady of Florence" I answer, walking past her to enter the castle, my home.

I'm pretty proud of my witticism: I put her in her place, I'm quite sure of that. God knows, maybe for once Maria is right: the new lady is no fun. And no fun is not the right attitude to have in Ferrara.

The day after I entertain my friends with my accidental encounter with the Florentine and we laugh of it. She certainly has guts: we're not Rome the Great nor her Florence but our Duchy is the peak of modernity. She should know: isn't her husband working with Biagio Rossetti, the genius moulding our lively city into something new, unprecedented? The most talented artists decorate our palaces and our gatherings are blessed with the finest music. We're second to no one. Not even Florence, superb arrogant Florence.

But it's getting late, time to attend the evening mass. As we head to the Cathedral, I spot Riccardo standing in the main square. I wave at him and beckon him to join us. He obliges after pressing a kiss on my lips. On our way back to the castle, we walk arm in arm a few steps ahead of my friends. He confides me that when I saw him, he had just taken his leave from the architect and his wife.

"A remarkable man, if you ask him: I'm glad Duke Alfonso didn't turn a merchant's ear to Biagio's request and invited him to join the enterprise. He's a true artist, a man already thinking in future terms, so to speak. Excellent addition to our court"

"And what about her?" I inquiry. "What do you think of the lady?"

"His wife?" he says, furrowing his brows before shrugging. "She doesn't talk much but she seems a fine lady"

"If you say so..." I giggle as we set foot on the castle's bridge.

I couldn't possibly foresee that a few days later he would ask me to show the Florentine around. The city, the churches...or invite her to join the sewing circle or "whatever gathering you women do". My first question is "why?", the second "why me?". But he's already heading to his meeting with the Duke. He just says something about being a good neighbour and introducing her to court. Before I can protest, he's out of the door.

I sigh in resignation. The idea of spending time with the architect's wife is the opposite of thrilling but I know my husband. He's as stubborn as a mule: if I refuse, he will keep asking until I eventually surrender out of exasperation. So, I grab a quibble and write a note.

The next day she's waiting for me in the garden. She picked a crimson dress that certainly was in vague in Florence but not here. It suits her, though. I put on my best practised smile and greet here. We chat a little but soon an uncomfortable silence falls so I suggest we go on our walk, lady...

"Your friends didn't even tell you my name? Nor your husband?" she asks, amused and bitter.

I'm forced to recognise that this is exactly what happened. I refrain from admitting it though.

"I'm so sorry. I'm afraid I forgot it but they must have surely-" I start but she cuts me short.

"No reason in lying to me. I just thought..." she sighs in defeat. "I just thought they did"

Then she looks at me.

"It's Cristina. My name's Cristina"

I refrain from saying it's a lovely name, fearing she would take my words as forced kindness.

"Emilia" I only say, smiling apologetically and offering her my hand to shake.

I suddenly feel uncomfortable: it's not going well and we haven't even started our walk. Thank God, the feeling eases as we wander through the streets of Ferrara. I share stories and facts, even if I'm sure Riccardo would have been a better guide. I ask her about her parentage: she tells me her mother is French, from Alsace. She's never been to France but she can speak the language properly. She has two sisters and a two brother, the oldest one lives in Spain.

"He's a diplomat, just like your husband" she explains.

As we talk, we reach the area where her husband works: I ask her if she would like to have a look even if there's still little to see. The new boulevards are shaping though. She agrees and I start a passionate speech about the exciting times we live in.

"Do you ever feel lucky to live in a time like now? I do. I mean, look at this city, at these streets: they're changing and we can't yet foresee the final result but you can tell a new...world is rising. It's here, underneath the surface and enterprises like the Addizione are bringing it to life. Enough with those narrow filthy alleys, let's have light and space and fresh air instead. Let's expand the borders of our gaze. Your husband is lucky to work firsthand in this enterprise" I note with proud excitement.

She keeps quiet though, so I continue. I don't get why she doesn't sound thrilled too.

"Even our world is broadening. You were speaking of France, Spain...what about the West Indies? Oh, lucky those who can set sails towards them! We hosted an explorer at court once, he brought back the most curious objects and even a bird with extravagant colours! He shared stories of those lands, he said it's like a terrestrial Eden, can you believe that?"

I sigh contently.

"It's exciting how so many things are changing all at once..."

"And we don't get to take part to any of it"

Her voice is somber just like the look on her face.

"Well, we can always enjoy the view and breathe in these winds of change. I'll tell you what? We'll take a walk down these new boulevards when they're done and we'll keep walking until we reach the fields outside the city. We'll pick flowers and make flower jewels out of them! God, I hope I still remember how, I haven't braided flower crowns since I was a child" I suggest, hoping my enthusiasm may be infectious.

"Sure, we can...watch all of it from afar"

Alas, it's not. Cristina doesn't look comforted nor cheered up by my words. She wanders forward and rests her hand on a raw stone at the top of a pile. The builders are working down the road and left them here. Her slender fingers gently grazed the stone as if it was a dear friend. When she speaks again, her voice is filled with such melancholy my chest tightens.

"I envy my husband, you know. There are days he hates his job but he doesn't understand how lucky he is. He has a purpose and a place in the world, this fascinating, changing world, as you say. He sits at his desk and knows he will leave a mark, his signature in the world to come. He touches this stone and knows it will be positioned right there, near that tree. He will be an actor of this modernity not a...paying spectator sitting quietly in the dark of a theatre"

She takes a pause before adding grimly:

"I have no purpose nor a place in the world. My days are empty, filled by mindless occupations that are supposed to make the passage of time more bearable. But I feel so lonely and worthless. When I die, I will walk away from this world like a...shadow. Nothing more. A shadow vanishing into the void"

"Oh, Cristina, what are you saying? What brought such sad thoughts on?" I smile weakly, walking closer.

She turns towards me and searches my eyes. I don't know what she hopes to find on my face.

"Don't you envy your husband, Emilia? He's among the advisors of the Duke, he guides him into taking decisions that shape the future of the city and the whole Duchy. He's a diplomat, he's in touch with the most prominent members of society all over the world, royalties, the Pope, nobles...he can influence history. Don't you envy him?"

I take her hands into mine and give them a squeeze.

"You are not lonely. Not as you think...I-I can be your friend. We started off on the wrong foot but let's leave it behind us, huh? It's never too late to start a friendship"

I give her an encouraging smile as she ponders my words. Then she winces, slowly retrieving her hands.

"But you don't understand me"

We walk back to the castle in complete silence. When we arrive there, I offer to have someone escorting her to her place but she shakes her head and refuses. She thanks me for showing her around and walks away before I can formulate an answer. Soon she disappears into the crowd gathering around the market nearby. I shake my head too and walk inside, but her melancholy affected me.

#wlw writing #wlw writing project #wlw miniseries #original work #lgbtqa+ #italian renaissance

[salmonthestoryteller]

The Crossroads

For @suzteel

A little Rosa-centric fic set after s1 with lots of Human Squad feels for you!  I hope you enjoy!

The Crossroads

Rosa can't help but start to feel trapped.  It’s not that she doesn't understand Liz's concern.  She gets that she can’t just go wandering around town where the wrong person might see her. Not until they figure something out.  Something that doesn’t involve Rosa Ortecho coming back to life. Because, let's face it, that's not normal.

Rosa isn't one for staying still, though. She's wandered what is apparently Max Evans's house and property so many times now she's certain she has the whole place memorized.  She'd actually managed to cut out a stencil from some spare cardboard she found. There was leftover paint from when the house was decorated - because, unsurprisingly Max Evans was the type to keep spare paint cans in case he ever needed to touch up the house's paint job. She's still not sure how her sister fell for such a boring guy, well boring aside from the whole alien-who-brings-people-back-to-life thing. Liz had not been amused when she had come to check on her and found her artwork addition to Max's exterior sidewall.

"Someone could find this and what would they think?"

"Well, I'd like to think they'd appreciate his taste in artwork."

"Rosa, I'm serious."

"Who is going to find it? Nobody is here. Liz, c'mon, just chill."

"Just, I'll get you sketch pads but please, don't redecorate his house more."

"Ooo. This would be a bad time to mention the bedroom, wouldn't it?"

"What did you do to the bedroom?" Liz's eyes widened.

Rosa laughed. "Psych. You're so easy. Your eyes practically bulged out of your head."

"Oh, you're a riot."

"I totally am." Rosa had nibbled on the Crashdown fries she had out on the counter while Liz unpacked the groceries she'd brought. "Have you figured out what to do yet? I can't live in Max Evans house forever."

"I know. Kyle and I are trying to figure something out."

"What about Dad?"

"Rosa, we can't tell him the truth. We can't tell anyone."

"Dad isn't just anyone."

"And what would I tell him? That Max was an alien? That he was some sort of healer and he brought you back to life? The dead don't rise from the grave, Rosa."

"It's Dad. He'll believe you. He always believed you."

"Do not start that with me."

"Why cuz it's a decade in the past for you? Cuz it's not for me. Dad never doubted your word like he did mine."

"Yes, he did, Rosa.  I had to tell him everywhere I went. And everyone I went with. And why I was five minutes late. Everything I did had to be perfect. To prove I wasn't turning into you."

The word stung.  Not as bad as the last day - the words then had cut even deeper. "It wasn't me you had to prove you weren't turning into.  It was Mom." She snapped back. "And it sure sounds like you failed at that while I was gone."

Liz closed the cabinet door with a bang. "That is not true!"

"Oh, yeah? I asked Kyle how often you visited home.  And you know what he said? Never."

"You died! You died and that changed everything! I couldn't stand to be in this town a moment longer."

"You abandoned everyone we cared about, everyone we loved, for ten years. That's on you, not on me!"

Liz had tears in her eyes, and Rosa knew she had the same.  Turning away, she nabbed up the keys from the counter and ran out the door. "Rosa! Rosa, wait!" Liz shouted after her, but she was already gone.

----

She ditched Liz's car ten minutes up the road, keys still in the engine.  She'd needed to get out - get away - and she couldn't have done that on foot if Liz was chasing her in a car. She needed to move, though, and sitting in a car wasn't the type of movement she needed.  She needed to run, to scream - she needed ten years of her life back.

The crossroads weren't far. One of her old hiding spots. Maybe if she could just see her things, touch them, she'd feel less disconnected with this new world. But there was a truck parked on the side of the road and who was sitting by the spot froze her.

Like Liz, Maria was older now. Her face no longer filled with innocence and naivete, but more defined - her eyes hardened as she glanced back sharply. If she'd been there to shield them, would they have kept more of that innocence? Could she have given them that? Or was this just the inevitable march of time and there was nothing she could have done?

Maria had one of her boxes, plucked from the ditch alongside the road where she’d kept it.  The box itself was open, and one of her sketches was in her hands. An old one, from simpler times.

Maria’s eyes widened, then her brow creased with confusion.  “R-Rosa?  How?”

“Don’t worry about how.”  Rosa told her, approaching slowly.  “Just accept that for now, I’m here.”

“That’s not possible.”  Maria shook her head.

“That’s what I keep hearing.”

“Am I dreaming?"

"I would hope you have, y'know, far better things to dream about." Rosa teased her.

"Nothing could beat this."

"Don't be stupid.  Look at you.  You got all hot and shit."

Maria let out a pained laugh. "That's what my mom told Liz."

"Mama DeLuca always knew what was what." To her horror the light hearted statement made tears fill her friend's eyes.

"Yeah, she did."

The emphasis on the last word was confusing and she reached out a hand.  Maria grabbed it, squeezing it. "Hey, don't cry."

"Sorry. This is just a really amazing dream." She managed an amazed smile through the tears.  "It's so real."

"Yeah. So, c'mon.  Come tell Rosa everything.". She led her to the back of the truck, and they settled into the flatbed as she started talking. When she fell did fall asleep later, Rosa took the small tin and repacked it carefully, glancing at the drawing one last time before doing so.

She drew up along the truck one more time to brush a hair from Maria's face.  "Sorry I wasn't here." She whispered, before turning her feet back the way she'd come.

-----

Alex Manes pulled up alongside her two miles from the house.  "You getting in or are you going to walk the whole way back?"

"Y'know, you should be careful about picking up strange girls.  Some of them turn out to be dead." When Alex rolled his eyes, she hopped in. "Do I get to call you Pegleg?"

"No."

"Long John Silver?"

"No."

"I know a guy with a false leg called Alex."

"What's the name of his other leg?" He didn't miss a beat.

"It's, like, tackey to steal someone's punchline."

"Uh-huh."

"Tough crowd."

Alex gave her a tight smile.  "Feel better?"

"Not really."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I want my life back." Rosa replied.

Alex nodded.  "I get that."

"Liz cut you off too?"

"We grew up, Rosa."

"No, like, the term you're looking for is fucked up.  Valenti, of all people, he grew up. The rest of you just fucked yourselves over."

"We did what we had to do." Alex responded.

"Or maybe you just did the easy thing."

“There wasn’t anything easy about any of it.”

Rosa scowled at him, but turned back to watch as they pulled up to Max Evans’s house.  “You’ve changed.”

“We all have.”

“The world just went out on without me.  I feel like an imposter in my own life. I keep thinking about what I would have done if I was here. What I could have done.”

“You can’t change the past, Rosa.”  Alex looked over at her.  “All you can do is keep moving forward.”

“Do yourself a favor and never write hallmark cards.”  Rosa told him, but her lips curled into a small smile, which he returned.  “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Alex only nodded, but it was enough, and she forced herself to leave the safety of the car.  She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she didn’t have time to even say anything before Liz was hugging her.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.  Hey, no worries.”  She reassured her.

“You died.  You died right after we argued and I never got to take it back.”  Liz clung on tighter.

“Liz, hey hey hey, don’t do this, okay?  I’m okay, you’re okay.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”  Rosa promised her.  “I’m sorry, too.”

Liz finally drew back, wiping the tears from the corner of her eyes.  “Kyle said if you wanted to, he could take you to one of the bigger cities. Someplace they wouldn’t recognize you. Maybe there you could-”

“Hey.”  Rosa interrupted her softly and waited for her to stop before repeating,  “I’m not going anywhere.  I’m here.”

“I used to lie awake at night and think of all the things I could have done different.  I could have said differently.”  Liz confessed.

“I guess this is our big chance to do things differently.  Let’s neither of us blow it, okay?  Well, I mean, we probably will.  But we can try not to.  What do you say?”  Rosa offered her a grin.  Liz hugged her again.

-----

“This is your ride, seriously?”  Rosa complained when she went out to meet Kyle.  They had planned a trip to Albuquerque for the day.

“I’m sorry, are you making fun of my car?”  Kyle crossed his arms.

“Aren’t you a doctor now?  Shouldn’t you have some expensive zippy little sports car?”

“In New Mexico?”

“Okay, point.”  Rosa conceded as she slid into the passenger’s seat.  “Please tell me there will be music for this ride.”

“My car, which you were making fun of, is bluetooth enabled, and I have Spotify.”  Kyle told her, placing his phone in the holder on his dash.

“Spot a what?”

“There will be music, okay?”

“Oh, you aren’t in charge of the music.”  Rosa grabbed his phone from the holder.

“That’s my phone, and you have no idea how to run that app.”

“I’m the one whose a teenager still, you’re the old fogey now, and I’m sure I can figure this out.”

“I’m not old.” Kyle told her, clearly insulted.

“You’re older than me now… but somehow not any taller.”

“Do you want to walk to Albuquerque?”

“Well considering you haven’t even pulled out of the driveway, I’m starting to think it would be faster.”

“Buckle up.”  Kyle told her.

Rosa grinned, and did as he said as they pulled onto the road.

#cosmicloveexchange #cosmic love exchange #roswell new mexico #rnm fic #rosa ortecho #human squad

[moondancewrites]

Kaleidoscope Eyes - Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Lucy Larson (OC)

Warnings: Fluff, eventual smut

Summary: After the Infinity War, Bucky Barnes is invited to officially join the Avengers and move into their compound.  For the first time in a long time, everything in Bucky’s life makes sense.  He has a place he belongs, friends who care about him, and a purpose.  But, there’s one thing that’s keeping him from feeling truly like his old self.  It isn’t long before he realizes that the something he’s missing might be found in Lucy Larson, a Stark Industries employee who has worked her way up the ranks to become Maria Hill’s executive assistant at the Avengers compound.

A/N:  This story exists in a perfect world where none of our beloved Avengers die in Infinity War and Cap and everyone come back to the Avengers compound to live and work.  What’s the point of fan fiction if you can’t keep the ones you love alive, right?  Be gentle on me - this is my first Bucky fic and it scares the hell out of me to write someone as complex as him.  Also, this will switching POVs every once in a while.

Chapter 1

John Lennon’s voice filled the room, signaling the start of another day.  Lucy reached for the console beside her bed, fumbling to turn off the alarm.  

“Five more minutes,” she whined, hugging her pillow and squeezing her eyes closed to keep out the early morning sun.

“Ms. Larson.” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s soft voice filled the room .  Lucy turned onto her side, pulling her pillow over her head as if that would hide her from the omnipresent AI.  “Ms. Hill wanted to make sure that everything was ready for this morning’s arrival.”

“This mornings …. Oh!”  Lucy sprang up in bed, wide-eyed with excitement.  “Y-yes, F.R.I.D.A.Y.  Everything is ready.  I just need to go down and do some final checks.”

The day was finally here.  Today, all of her friends would be back home after saving the world, once again.  Not wanting to waste another second, Lucy jumped out of bed and ran to the shower.  While she washed her hair, Lucy went over the list in her head of things she had to do to prepare for the day.

Lucy had been given the task of setting up the living quarters for one of the newest member of the team.  It took a little coaxing, but Steve had managed to talk his best friend, Bucky Barnes, into officially joining the Avengers.  Maria Hill, Lucy’s boss, put her in charge of making sure that his room was ready for him when he arrived.  Since Bucky didn’t have many possessions to start with, Lucy pretty much had a clean slate when it came to decor and wardrobe.  

Steve wanted the whole room to be a surprise, so she’d been working solely with him to cultivate items the would suit the new Avenger.  They had been texting back and forth the last few days as the team made their way back home.  Although, honestly, Lucy could have probably done it without asking Steve a single question since she knew so much about Bucky already.  She’d known Steve for years now and he talked about Bucky all the time.  She felt like she knew him already.  Sure, she knew about him before, but that was only through the official files and the gossip around the compound.  But through Steve, she felt like she knew the real Bucky - not just the Winter Soldier or the White Wolf or whatever people called him.  

As the hour drew nearer, the butterflies in Lucy’s stomach started to flutter a little faster.  Would he like what she’d done with his room?  What if he didn’t like it?  Would he tell her?  Would he even talk to her at all?  People were speculating that he would be the silent type.  She wouldn’t be surprised by that at all, given his history, but she was determined to be his friend.  Or maybe just make him smile.  That was the day’s goal.

She was doing some final checks in his closet when there was a knock on the door.  Her heart leapt in her chest.  “They’re here,” Gina, one of her old friends from data maintenance said from the doorway.  “Holy shit … it’s freezing in here.”

“That’s how Bucky likes it,” Lucy replied.  Gina squinted at her and Lucy’s gaze shifted back to her task.

“And you know just how … Bucky likes it?” Gina choked on her laugh and Lucy had half a mind not to throw a shoe at her.

“I just mean … That’s what Steve … Sergeant Barnes …” She was flustered and Gina knew it, which made it even worse.  

“C’mon, Luc … time to meet ….” Gina flipped her hair back over her shoulder as she said, “Sergeant Barnes,” with a teasing exuberance.  

“I hate you,” Lucy muttered through gritted teeth.

“Love you, too.”

--

“Welcome home, Buck,” Steve said with a kind grin, patting his friend’s back.  The place was even bigger than they’d all described.  It felt more like a town than a compound.  

“Thanks,” Bucky said with a gulp.  He pulled on the strap of his bag nervously, tightening it around his shoulder.  He was half expecting there to be a huge crowd of people waiting for them to arrive.  If the whole team had arrived as a whole, maybe that would have been the case.  But it was just him and Steve for now - the rest of the Avengers would slowly make their way back throughout the rest of the day.  Steve thought it best for them to get there ASAP so Bucky could start to become acclimated before they started training for whatever lay ahead.

“Look, I know it’s a big change.  And I know you’re nervous-”

“I’m not-” Bucky started, but Steve shot him a look that made him shrug in admission.

“It’s going to take some getting used to.  But your room is right across the hall from me.  And I’ve put someone I trust in charge of setting it up for you.”  Bucky’s eyes followed Steve’s gaze.  “There she is.”  Steve smiled widely, waving at a woman coming down the stairs.  “Buck, this is Lucy.”

“Hi Bu- … I mean, Sergeant Barnes,” the young woman said with a wide smile.  She reached out her right hand and Bucky took it.  Bucky was about to correct her and say that Bucky was fine, but she just kept right on talking.  “I’m Lucy, Maria Hill’s executive assistant.  She runs the compound, so I basically do whatever she needs me to do.  And she’s made it clear to give you whatever you need to make you comfortable and I’ve been working with Steve on your room and I think you’re going to like it.  At least I hope you do.  But if you don’t, you can tell me and I’ll change it right away.”  She was still shaking his hand.  That is, until Bucky looked down at their hands and she realized what she was doing.  She pulled away and a soft blush appeared on her freckle-speckled cheeks.  “Sorry.”

“Thanks,” was all he could think of to say.

“Why don’t you show us what you’ve done?” Steve suggested.

“You … you want me to come with you?” Lucy asked, pointing at her chest.

“You’ve done all the hard work - you should show him,” he told her, grinning that signature Cap grin that would make most girls swoon.  Lucy just smiled, though, which Bucky found interesting.  

If this girl talked as much as she did while showing them the room, Bucky was certain he’d have a headache after her little tour.  He’d never heard a person talk so fast in his life.  And with such … giddiness, he decided, was the best way to describe it.  The girl was practically bouncing on her heels.  And those were some tall heels.

“Oh, okay.  Sure.  I can do that.  This way, gentlemen.”

“She was in charge of my room?” Bucky whispered under his breath to Steve as they followed Lucy to the living quarters.  

“She’s a sweet kid,” Steve sighed.  “She’s just excited to meet you.”

That baffled Bucky.  “Why?” he asked.

“Everyone’s excited to meet you, Buck.  You helped save the world.  And you’re my oldest friend.  They’ve all heard a story or two.”

“Oh, great.”  Bucky rolled his eyes.  He was already having second thoughts about this whole new living situation.

“Here we are.”  Lucy stopped in front of the door abruptly and Bucky nearly collided with her.  She turned on her heel, reaching in the pocket of her cardigan to pull out a keycard.  She handed it to Bucky.  “This will get you in until we set up the retinal scan.”  He just nodded and he thought he saw a hint of a frown tug on her bright smile.  

“What are you waiting for, Buck?” Steve said, nodding to the keypad on the door.  Bucky pushed the card against it and the door slid open without a sound.  He looked back at Lucy and Steve who were both standing the exact same way with the exact same expression.  It almost made him smile.  Almost.  

What did make him smile was what he walked into.  He hadn’t been in a place that felt like home in so long, but that place …. There was something about it that made him feel instantly safe and comfortable.  Blue and green were the main colors in the room - a stark contrast to the dark reds and blacks and gloomy greys he was used to.  The walls had a few art pieces on them.  There was a really cool painting of a car that caught his eye.  The bed looked like a gigantic cloud.  He felt the urge to fall on it, just to see if it was as fluffy as it looked, but he restrained himself because of the company.

He could hear Lucy holding her breath behind him.  He turned to her and nodded.  “This is nice.  Thank you,” he said.  Lucy exhaled and that bright, giddy smile was back.

“You like it?”  He nodded again.  “Oh, thank God,” she sighed.  “I know I’m not an interior designer by any stretch of the imagination, but with Steve’s help with the whole color thing … he said your favorite colors are blue and green, so I did both.  And he said you liked tech and cars, so I got some stuff out of Mr. Stark’s art vault and found a few new pieces.  And he told me your size, so I got you a closet full of new clothes.”  Lucy walked over to the closet and Bucky followed.  “See?” She beamed, turning on the light.

“Yeah.  That’s … great.”  There was that little tease of a frown again.  Was someone that giddy even capable of frowning?  “Thanks,” he said.  He looked at Steve.  “It’s great.”

“I told you he’d like it,” Steve told Lucy, patting her shoulder.  “Lucy, want to explain the tech part to him while I go drop my bags off?  Then I’ll come back and give you a tour.”

“Sure,” she said.

--

Steve closed the door behind him, leaving Lucy alone with her new neighbor.  He wasn’t as scary as some of her coworkers made him out to be, but the few who described him as quiet and brooding hit the nail on the head.  Even though he barely said a word, Lucy spoke enough for the both of them.  She had a talent for it, if you could call it that.

When she went over everything with Bucky, he seemed pretty comfortable with it - way more comfortable than Steve had been.  Hell, Steve still couldn’t figure out how to get half of the stuff to work.

“You’re pretty into tech, huh?” Lucy asked him as he played around with the buttons.  “Steve is still figuring out how to use that thing.”

“That’s because Steve is a grandpa,” Bucky said matter-of-factly.  Lucy busted out laughing, nearly falling into the dresser.

“Oh my God.  That’s great.”  Bucky smiled … actually smiled.  And his smile was so … soft.  And kind.  And sweet.  The smile fell from his lips, almost as if he could hear her thinking about how much she liked it.  “I bet Wakanda was like heaven for you, then, with all their amazing tech.”

“Yeah,  it was great.   Until the whole war thing.”  

Fuck.  “Way to put your foot in your mouth, Luc,” Lucy groaned, covering her eyes with her hand.

“It’s fine.  I’m used to war,” Bucky said with a little shrug.  That sentence broke Lucy’s heart.

“I-” A knock at the door cut her off, followed by a bearded Steve poking his head in the room.

“Ready, Buck?”

“Sure.”  Bucky turned to Lucy.  “Thanks, Lucy.”

“You’re welcome, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Bucky … please,” he said with a soft smile.

“Good luck with that,” Steve laughed.  “Do you know how long it took for me to get her to call me Steve?”

“You’re welcome, Bucky,” Lucy said, looking defiantly at Steve.  Steve crossed his arms over his chest and Lucy smirked at him.  “See you at the party tonight?”

“Wait … what party?” Bucky asked with wide eyes.

“The … welcome home party?  For all of you guys?  Steve, you didn’t tell him?” Now Lucy was crossing her arms over her chest.  

“I was going to casually mention it later after the whole tour and everything.  Ya know, ease him into the whole thing.”

“Oh …” Lucy dropped her arms.  “Sorry.  Well, anyway … see you later!”

--

“This is a bad idea.”  Bucky adjusted the collar on his crisp white shirt.  It fit like a glove.  Everything did, actually.  Even the boxers.  Thinking about Lucy picking out his boxers made his cheeks get a little hot, which he was shocked by.  He wasn’t sure until that moment that he was capable of blushing anymore.

“Nah, man.  It’s a great idea.  Everyone is going to be there - even the guardian’s gang is making an appearance before they go off to who knows where.”

“Oh, great.  The racoon will probably try to steal my arm again,” Bucky groaned.  Sam laughed at him but when he saw the look on Bucky’s face, he shut up.

“It’s gonna be great, man. Booze, drinks, girls …”  Sam nudged Bucky’s metal shoulder.

“I repeat,” Bucky said, glaring at his friend, “bad.  Idea.”

“Do you know how many fine women are going to be at this party?”

“I thought this was just a compound party … that’s what Steve said.”

“Yeah.  There are some honeys that work here, man.  There’s this one girl in deployment.  Kristie ….” Sam licked his lips.  “She’s mine,” he warned.

“They can all be yours,” Bucky said, holding his arms up.  “I’m not ready for any of that.”

“Not ready?  Pschhh.  Man, we’re dudes.  We’re always ready.  And don’t act like you’re all brainwashed and everything because I know for a fact Shuri straightened you out.  You’re you again, man.  You can be a dude.  A normal dude.  And you know what normal dudes do?”

“What do normal dudes do?” Bucky found himself asking; his voice sticking on the word dude.  He wasn’t used to that word yet.  

“They get.  The.  Honeys.”

“Sam.” Bucky had to laugh at the man’s enthusiasm.  “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to … get the honeys.”  He grimaced hearing those words come out of his mouth.  “But it’s not tonight, okay?  I just got here and I’m already kind of freaking out.”  Sam smiled at him.  “And I don’t know why I’m telling this because you’ll just make fun of me.”

“Buck, Buck, Buck,” Sam sighed, throwing his arm around him.  “Would I ever make fun of you?”

“You made fun of me five minutes ago …”

“Touche,” Sam said with a shrug.  “But we’re friends, man.  I’ll stop pushing.”  Bucky let out a breath.  “For now.”  The music from the party got louder as they approached the big double doors.  “But for now, it’s time to celebrate.”

--

“Wow,” Gina breathed, looking over Lucy’s shoulder.  Lucy turned, curious to see what made Gina’s jaw drop like that.  Sam and Bucky had just walked into the party.  Bucky was wearing a white button down with black slacks and a black tie.  His hair was down and falling in his face, hiding the pretty blue eyes that she couldn’t help but notice earlier in the day.  “That man is wearing that outfit … yowza.  You did a good job with wardrobe.”

“I guess I did,” Lucy said, unable to tear her eyes away from him.  He wasn’t really her type - she liked nerdy, lanky guys, usually - but it was impossible to deny that he looked good.  

“I’m going to go introduce myself.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Lucy told her.  Gina’s brow furrowed.  “He’s kind of nervous about the whole party thing.”

“Oh?  Well, all the more reason.  I just want to make him feel welcome.”  Gina winked at Lucy.  She was an insufferable flirt.

Lucy watched the exchange between Gina and Bucky from across the room.  Bucky’s expression never changed and they only shared a few words before Gina turned around and made the ‘kill’ signal across her neck.  Lucy chuckled, taking another sip of her drink.

While the others were all mingling and laughing and drinking and dancing … well, at least the Peters were, Bucky hid himself away in a corner, nursing a beer and observing the party going on around him.  Steve came over and sat with him a few times, but each time he’d get pulled away by someone.  Lucy kept her distance for a while, but after a few drinks she managed to get the courage to go up and talk to him.

“Enjoying the party?” she asked, sitting on the chair beside him.  Bucky jumped.  “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving it off with his metal arm.  It was so shiny and she was so curious about it, but she didn’t dare ask him, at least not on the first day.  That was more of a two month conversation.

“So … are you?” Lucy asked.

“Am I what?” Bucky responded, pushing his hair behind his ear.  Over the course of the evening, his tie had loosened and the first two buttons on his shirt had come undone.  It was a good look, although Lucy dared not mention it or even think it.  She had a feeling he would sense it if she did.

“Enjoying the party.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  It’s fine.”

“I like getting together with everyone, but the music they play at these things …”

“It’s pretty bad,” Bucky replied with a small smile.  Lucy smiled back.  “It just sounds like noise to me.”

“Who’s the grandpa now?” Lucy teased.  Bucky’s smile widened, his gaze falling to his beer resting on his lap.  

“Touche,” he said.  “But it is pretty bad.”

“I know.  I prefer oldies.”

“Like …?” Bucky asked.  He was actually talking to her.  Like, having a conversation.  Lucy could hardly believe it.

“Like the Stones.”

“Stones … Rolling Stones,” Bucky said.  Lucy nodded.  “I like them.”

“And the Beatles.”

“Them I haven’t really listened to yet,” Bucky told her.  Lucy’s jaw dropped.  “What?”

“You haven’t heard the Beatles?” she asked.

“I think I’ve heard a few songs.  But not a lot.  I like the Stones better.”

“Blasphemy!” Lucy exclaimed, clutching her chest.  Bucky chuckled - actually chuckled.  It was so soft she could barely hear it over the music, but it was there.  Lucy tried to ignore the warm flutter of the butterflies.  “The Beatles are the best.  But … I suppose I’m biased.”

“How so?” he asked.

“I was named after one of their songs.  Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Bucky’s blank stare told her that he hadn’t heard it.  “Ya know, Lucy in the skkyyy with diamonds,” she sang.

“Haven’t heard it,” he said with a shrug.

“It’s a great one.  But I think A Hard Day’s Night is my favorite album.  The movie is hilarious.”

“They made movies?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah!  It’s great.  It really has no plot except following them around for a day while they prepare for a show but the music is great and they’re funny.  Especially George.  Everyone likes John best but I mean, c’mon … George Harrison was the best Beatle.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bucky replied, taking another sip from his beer.

“BUCK!”  Sam stumbled over to them, nearly falling over Lucy.  “Oh, hey Lucy!  You are looking gorgeous this evening.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Lucy muttered, smoothing the skirt of her blue dress.  At least somebody noticed.

“Buck, there’s a group of girls over there that keep asking me about you, man.  You’ve gotta come say hi.”

“I’m good here,” Bucky said.

“C’mon, dude.  Be my wingman …”

“Why don’t you go get red wing to do that for you?” Bucky quipped.  Lucy didn’t expect Bucky to be so funny.  But there he was, making her laugh for the second time already that day.  She practically choked on her drink.

“Ha. ha.  Very funny.  Seriously, dude.  We could both get …” Sam seemed to forget that Lucy was there until that moment.  He cleared his throat, averting Lucy’s gaze.  “They want to get you a drink.”

“Got one,” Bucky said, raising his beer.  “And I’m fine here.  Lucy’s telling me about how the Beatles are better than the Stones.”

“Bullshit,” Sam laughed.  “Beach Boys are where it’s at.”

“I did not peg you for a Mike Love fan,” Lucy said, looking up at Sam.

“Well, it shows how well you know your friends then, huh, little Lucy?” Sam booped Lucy on the nose.  Lucy pretended to bite at his finger and he laughed at her, shaking his head.  “C’mon Buck …”

“You’re not going to stop until I go over there, are you?” Bucky asked, heaving a heavy sigh when Sam nodded in response.  “Fine.”  He got up, running his hand through his dark hair.  Lucy wondered if it was as soft as it looked.  “It was nice talking to you,” Bucky said, pulling her out of her musings.

“You, too,” Lucy said.  “Give the Beatles another chance.  You won’t regret it.”

--

Finally, Bucky could sink into the plush bed that he’d been thinking about all day.  He’d managed to escape Sam and Gina and Beth and Tori, the girls he’d introduced him to.  They all seemed nice.  Gina actually came up and talked to him first, but that was right when he got there and he was still freaking out about the whole party thing.

The only thing that calmed his nerves was when Steve and Lucy came to talk to him.  Then again, there was something about Lucy that made him nervous, too.  A different kind of nervous.  Kind of … uneasy.  He wasn’t sure what it was about her.  Maybe it was her giddy demeanor or the way her freckles bunched up on her nose when she laughed.  Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn’t decide what color her eyes were - were they blue or green?  Granted, he hadn’t been brave enough to look that close.  But they were vexing, still.  Maybe it was the fact that she talked to him like they were already friends and yet he knew nothing about her except that George was her favorite Beatle and she was named after one of their songs.  Or maybe it was the way that blue dress accentuated her curves.  He couldn’t put his finger on it and it was irksome, to say the least.  

He tossed and turned for a while, trying to get comfortable.  It wasn’t the bed - that thing was heaven.  It was just his new surroundings, he told himself.  Not the brunette in the pretty blue dress.

After about an hour, he gave up and started fiddling with the tech pad that Lucy had showed him earlier.  He wasn’t sure how he got to it, but he found himself pressing play on ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’.  He laid back, crossing his arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling as the music filled the room.

‘Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.  Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly, a girl with kaleidoscope eyes’

“Kaleidoscope eyes,” Bucky murmured to himself, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

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