#'A flat ass and Braces.' so as long as youre ticking that off youre good

[dizzybevvie]

seeing fanart of Beverly as a lil white boy and being like girl who are you

[fruitcoops]

would you potentially write sirius wearing remus’ jersey? 👀 (i love your writing btw!!)

I sure can! I really hope Haz writes this in Vaincre, but for now, this is my take on it. Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for smut and mild overstimulation

Remus heard footsteps approach from the hall and closed his eyes with a sigh. Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it—

“Y’know, I don’t think Earth should qualify as a planet.”

“Fuck you,” he fired back, though it came out as little more than an incomprehensible slur around the hunk of plastic in his mouth.

“Really, I do,” Sirius continued. Remus took a deep breath through his nose and did his goddamn best not to bite through the still-soft mouthguard as it molded to his teeth. “Other planets don’t have life on them. We’re the only one. That makes us an outlier.”

“As soon as this thing comes out, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Kinky. Anyway, have I told you about that article I read that talked about the moon landing?” Through the blood pounding in his ears, Remus heard the clink of a water glass being taken down from the cupboard. “Turns out the whole thing is a hoax.”

Remus dug his phone out of his pants and furiously typed out a message, cursing every higher power that he got stuck with that idiot as his husband. Damn you for being pretty. “Read,” he ordered, closing his eyes and holding it over his shoulder.

“I’m illiterate.”

“I detest you.”

“What was that? Sorry, I’m having some trouble understanding you.”

“Sirius fucking Black—”

Remus’ mumbled retaliation cut off abruptly with a soft huh as he whipped around, and his jaw fell open. Sirius smiled, easy as you please, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Yes?”

“Oh, fuck,” Remus whimpered around his mouthguard. A sly grin curled the edges of Sirius’ perfect lips upward; he quirked an eyebrow and turned in a slow circle.

“Fits better than I thought it would,” he remarked as Remus whined, desperately checking the timer on his phone. Two minutes and seventeen seconds. Shit. The golden number 6 on the back caught the light of their kitchen like a beacon—a sexy, sexy beacon that beckoned toward every atom in Remus’ body while he tried not to drool on himself. “Mine was a bit big on you, non?”

“Baby, c’mon. C’mon, don’t do this.”

“Should I take it off?”

“No!” Remus blurted, nearly spitting the mouthguard out in his hurry. Sirius shot him a teasing look and sauntered over, then braced his hands—his fucking hands, Remus was so gone for that irritating bastard—on the back of the couch and leaned over until their noses nearly touched.

“What?” he asked, quiet and yet low as thunder. “Cat got your tongue, Loops?”

Remus couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sharp peak of his collarbone beneath a drape of red-and-gold fabric; he couldn’t wait to get his teeth on it. His hands only shook a little as he reached up and rolled the hem between his fingertips, sliding his palms up to the strong planes of Sirius’ chest, hidden by his jersey. A meteor could strike the earth, and Remus would die happy for having seen his name and number emblazoned on the most beautiful man alive.

“Are you going to take it off?”

Remus shook his head without looking up and skimmed a thumb over Sirius’ nipple, feeling a thrill race through him when his breath caught. “Gotcha.”

“Bummer about the mouthguard,” Sirius panted. “If you didn’t leave it to the last second, you could already have that pretty mouth on me.”

As if on cue, the timer went off. Sirius’ face went slack in surprise. Remus grinned, and carefully popped the mouthguard out, laying it in its case before yanking Sirius into his lap. “You were saying?”

“I will admit, I thought that would take longer to set.”

“So you decided to torture me?” Remus guided him down to his neck and felt Sirius shudder.

“I always torture you on mouthguard Fridays.”

He hummed, opening a new package as quietly as he could. “I think I found a solution.”

“Seeing me in your jersey?”

“No. This.” Ignoring the confused noise Sirius made when he leaned back, he slid the new mouthguard mold between his teeth with a sugar-sweet smile, making sure to highlight his dimple. “You look gorgeous. You’ll be sorry for it, though.”

Sirius’ brows pitched and he mumbled a word that might have been ‘kisses’ if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

“You’ll get kisses eventually. That thing’ll be done in ten minutes, and it better be perfect.”

Without giving him a chance to appeal his case, Remus pushed him flat onto the couch, set the timer, and settled between his thighs with a tight grip on his narrow hips. The first touch of his tongue to the outline of Sirius’ dick drew a deep groan from him; he saw Sirius’ next tighten and reached up to grab him by the jaw.

“What did I say?” he asked patiently as Sirius squirmed under him. The tension released, and he smiled, placing a kiss to the side of his mouth as he rubbed his palm along Sirius’ shaft. “Je t’ai, mon amour. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

In a moment of shocking foresight (which Remus was eternally grateful for), Sirius had chosen to wander about in just the jersey and his underwear. The fabric was already sticky when his breath fanned hot over it—Sirius closed his eyes with a soft sound and reached back for the armrest.

“Harlot,” Remus teased as he ran his hand along his inner thighs. Sirius huffed a laugh, but it quickly transformed into a moan as Remus pulled his boxers away and took as much of him into his mouth as he could.

“Oh, god,” Sirius said, clearly winded as one knee knocking against Remus’ ribs while his lower back arched. “Please, please, ngh—”

Remus pulled away with a sigh and took his jaw again, giving it a little shake. “Sirius. Don’t clench your teeth.”

A shaky sound slipped through; he stared up at Remus in a silent plea, but managed to relax.

“You have eight minutes left.” Remus rubbed his thumb in small circles over the head of his dick and watched his eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Count if you want, but that should be good enough for you to wear.”

Sirius nodded, his breaths coming harder as if he had just run a race. Under his palm, Remus could feel his heartbeat pounding in his broad chest—he smoothed the jersey down, then scooted back to resume pulling Sirius apart thread by thread. He had felt that exact fabric almost every day for months and rarely found anything attractive about it, but on Sirius it was astonishing how fast his whole body lit up in response. He wanted to see him wear it and nothing else.

He pulled off with a soft laugh when Sirius put his forearm over his mouth. His thighs were trembling on either side of Remus. “Oh, baby, is that hard for you?”

A keening noise was his only response.

Remus kept a tight grip on the base of his shaft, sliding his thumb along the underside as he swallowed Sirius down and nipped kisses along his sensitive hips. “Relax, I’ll take care of you.”

He grinned to himself as a shudder rocked through Sirius’ whole body and more precome dripped over his lower lip. The clock on his phone read three minutes. Plenty of time to take him apart, Remus thought, slipping two fingers into Sirius’ mouth to stop him from biting down. He made a muffled noise of protest, but it was weak, and within moments he was putty once again.

“I don’t think it really matters which skate you put on first,” he said casually, bracing an arm over Sirius’ lower belly as his hips jerked. “And at the end of the day, superstitions are bullshit.”

Sirius’ eyes flared open in disbelief; he tried to retort, but the mouthguard and Remus’ fingers made him incomprehensible.

“Sorry, I’m having some trouble understanding you,” Remus mimicked. Sirius’ chest buzzed with an angry sound, but he just smiled and licked a long stripe up his length, laving his tongue against the spot just beneath the head. “And you know what?”

“Hmm?” Sirius managed, clearly frustrated as his hands flexed.

Remus pulled back and leaned over him. The contrast between the warm colors of his jersey and the quicksilver of Sirius’ eyes drove him wild, and he closed his eyes as he bent down until his lips just brushed the shell of Sirius’ ear. “Sometimes, if it was a really long day and I was tired and ready to go home…”

Sirius made a questioning noise and Remus bit down on the hinge of his jaw.

“I would sharpen your right skate before your left.”

Sirius froze. Remus sat back up with a smug look and took his thoroughly slicked fingers out; from the expression on Sirius’ face, he may as well have told him he burned down the rink. The slack-jawed horror dissolved into pure indignance in half a second. “You mother—”

For the second time in about fifteen seconds, Sirius was lost for words. He replaced them with a yelp that Remus prayed the neighbors wouldn’t hear, rolling his hips back onto the finger that crooked upward in a practiced movement. The mouthguard may have muffled his words, but it did nothing to stop him from moaning.

Remus redoubled his efforts as the clock ticked down the final minute—he had plans for later, but they would only work if Sirius was properly handled first. He finally fell silent, reduced to gasping and writhing as Remus worked two fingers inside of him and kept up so much suction his own jaw was beginning to ache. Finally, with a desperate little sound and a harsh grip on the couch cushion, Sirius shook to pieces, his stomach jolting as Remus stroked the underside of his thigh in soothing motions.

The timer went off a few seconds later, and he carefully pulled the plastic out of Sirius’ mouth. There were a few dents from his lower teeth and the back was decently mangled, but overall…

“Huh. Not bad,” he said, setting it on the coffee table. Sirius blinked slowly at him, his mouth still open and his pupils blown wide as he tried to catch his breath. “Alright, up.”

Sirius silently shook his head, never taking his eyes off Remus’ face.

“Yep, c’mon. You’re still wearing my jersey, and I need to thank you for it.”

A quiet puff of air left his lungs as his dick twitched. “I c—I can’t.”

Remus sighed through his nose and stood, then hoisted Sirius into a bridal hold and headed toward the stairs. “It’s a good thing I’m strong enough to do this, or else you’d have to get yourself upstairs all by yourself.”

“Re?”

He maneuvered so Sirius’ feet wouldn’t smack into the banister and smiled when a kiss brushed against his cheekbone. “Yes?”

“You were kidding about the skate thing, right?”

“Depends.” He nudged the bedroom door open with his hip. “Were you kidding about the moon?”

Sirius’ shoulders shook with laughter as Remus set him down on the bed and settled on top of him, bracketing his face and waist. His hands were warm and broad on his cheeks, pulling him down for a kiss at long last. Remus hummed into it; his insides turned to happy mush, and he began running his palms along the outside of Sirius’ bare thighs.

“You look fucking amazing in my jersey, love,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“Cocky bastard.”

“You say that like you didn’t already know.”

Remus kissed the smile off his face, lacing their fingers and pressing them down over Sirius’ head—he stretched his back like a contented cat before shifting until he was comfortable. “I still think about that night, you know.”

“Well, yeah, we won the Cup.”

“I think about the way you let me push you against the door,” he continued, paying Sirius no attention as he mapped each curve and angle of his neck. After over a year of practice, he knew the best spots by heart. “And the way you looked at me when you saw what I was wearing. And when you held me like you were going to break if I stopped moving. I wish you could’ve seen your face when I begged you to let me come again. Remember that?”

The room was quiet for a moment, save for Sirius’ shallow breaths and the rustle of the sheets as he squirmed.

Remus pulled back from his neck and ran a thumb over his wet lower lip. “Hey. Answer me.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Sirius said on the tail end of a slow exhale. “Fuck. You can’t just say things like that.”

“You kept your hand right here,” he said, pressing down on Sirius’ chest with just enough force to feel his lungs hitch. “I might not have a badge, but I’ll figure something out. I think I understand why you like it when I wear yours so much.”

“Every time you wear it, we fuck, and it’s always mind-blowing. There’s no way I’ll be able to see it on you outside of bed.”

“I have the sneaking suspicion we’re on the same page with that.” He took the backs of Sirius’ knees in his hands and pushed until they almost touched his chest. “Hold.”

Through the grace of God, the lube was easy to find. Remus really didn’t know what he would have done if it wasn’t—he might have been confident on the outside, but his fine motor skills were sorely lacking and his brain was playing a loop of sexy boyfriend jersey sexy boyfriend jersey that he couldn’t even dream of stopping. Sirius made a series of cut-off keening noises as he opened him up, and Remus wanted to memorize the look on his face.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he soothed, resting a hand over Sirius’ heart when his legs began to shake. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Oh, god,” Sirius choked out, leaning his head back into the pillows. “Re, please—”

“Shh.” Remus moved his free hand up to hold one index finger over Sirius’ lips while the other pushed and pressed inside of him, skimming over his prostate in a random pattern that drew harsh exhales each time.

“I can’t,” Sirius whined. “Mon amour, I can’t.”

“You don’t need to do anything but hold.” Small white spots were appearing on Sirius’ knuckles as he clutched at his thighs; his dick was already starting to drip again. Remus slid into him and stifled a moan into his own shoulder, though he really didn’t have to worry—Sirius’ short cry would have covered any other sound easily. “There you go, nice and easy.”

Sirius blubbered out a string of incoherent words as Remus began to move and the mattress began to creak, but he was far too preoccupied with the way his jersey shone in the light of their bedroom and stood stark against the sheets in a blaze of red. Sirius’ smooth skin, so warm and flushed under his touch, blended almost seamlessly with the golden edges until Remus couldn’t think to do anything but lean down and kiss him. He responded eagerly, craning his neck for a better angle and pulling Remus’ lower lip between his teeth with a breathless moan. Once, he tried to let go of his leg and bring him closer, but Remus calmly took his hand and guided it back to the proper place without breaking stride.

“I need—I need—mon dieu, merde—need you, please,” Sirius panted, squeezing his eyes shut with a wavering moan.

“Je t’ai,” Remus repeated as he sucked a mark on the junction of his neck. Sirius’ whole left side went limp at the feeling. “I’ve got you. Christ, Sirius, you look incredible.”

A gasp left his kiss-swollen lips as he looked up at Remus. “I don’t think I can come again, Re, please—”

“You can. Color?”

“Vert, green, but—” He bit down on his lower lip as Remus held his waist in a firm grip. “I really don’t think I can.”

“I think you can,” Remus said, combing his fingers through the top of Sirius’ hair and giving it a tug. His whole abdomen tightened and his knees knocked together; it took Remus several seconds to get his breath back to the point where he wasn’t about to come on the spot. “I’m taking care of you right now, remember? If I say you can, you can.”

Sirius’ gaze was bright and untethered as he gulped—Remus gave his hair another pull, harder, and he shivered. More precome painted his stomach and darkened the hem of the jersey. His vocabulary seemed to be reduced to oh, fuck on repeat, growing slightly higher in pitch each time until he was just whimpering. “Re—Re, now—”

Remus caught his mouth in a slow, gentle kiss and wrapped a hand around him, not changing his pace until Sirius crumbled into a puddle of bliss and his shins connected with Remus’ ribs. He buried his face in Sirius’ sweaty neck with a sharp gasp and followed him over the edge mere moments later; he didn’t even try to catch himself as his knees slipped on the sheets and brought him down to lay across Sirius’ chest.

For a few seconds, all he could hear was their breaths and heartbeats. Part of him was tempted to doze off right there, but he rallied the last of his energy and peeled Sirius’ hands off his legs, pulling them down and out so they wouldn’t cramp. Sirius was staring at the ceiling in a daze; the jersey was rumpled and rucked up around his ribs, and Remus slid that down as well.

“Baby?” he said, kissing each of his cheeks. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Sirius’ voice cracked and he bit back a laugh.

“Ça va?”

“Mmm. Très bien.” His arms were little more than noodles as he wrapped them around Remus’ shoulders.

“Come on,” he said after a bit, disentangling himself despite Sirius’ grumbling. “You did so well, but we still have to clean up. You can be the little spoon, if you give me a hand.”

“You’ll have to carry me.”

“No,” Remus laughed. “I barely hold myself up, are you kidding?”

Sirius cracked one sleepy eye open, then narrowed it. “Depends. Were you kidding about my skates?”

[arrowflier]

serotonin boost prompt whenever you find the time: gallavich date with secret smiles, sweet kisses and the handholding we all deserve ❤️❤️

"We're gonna miss it, Mickey," Ian says for at least the third time, eyes on the ever-ticking clock over their fireplace.  Mickey, kneeling on the floor in front of the worn sofa they had grabbed off a curb when they found out they had to get their own, just shrugs.  He picks out a bright red crayon to pass to Franny, who's laying on her stomach next to him scribbling on the back of an ad for the local co-op.

"Calm down, man," he tells Ian.  "She'll be here soon, can't do anything about a late train."

Ian sighs, leaning forward and rubbing his eyes.  "Since when do you stand up for Debbie?"

Mickey eyes him warily from the floor.  "Since it's not her fault," he answers, then asks, "Why you so worked up about it, anyway?  It's not a big deal."

He sounds honestly confused, and it only makes Ian more upset.  This was supposed to be their night.  Their one night, all week, to just do something nice together.  And Debbie had to come to them for last-minute babysitting while she went to an interview, then had to be late enough getting back to send all Ian's plans circling the drain.

He doesn't say any of that to Mickey.  "It's nothing," he mumbles instead, knowing it sounds unconvincing but not really caring at the moment.

Sure enough, Mickey's eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to reply, but gets interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Mommy!" Franny cries, jumping off the floor to race to the apartment door.  Mickey is slower to rise, grumbling about getting too old for sitting on the floor; if Ian we're in a better mood, he'd tease him for being perfectly fine with lying on it the other night.  Ian stays put, leaving Mickey to follow their niece with a concerned glance back at him.

Ian listens to Mickey opening the door, reminding Franny to let him do it, and greeting Debbie.  He knows if he followed, he'd say something about her tardiness, so he lets Mickey make his excuses and wave the two of them off.

He braces himself when he hears the door click closed again, and Mickey's footsteps come back around into the living room.

Mickey doesn't say anything about his sour mood.

"Kay, you ready?" he asks instead, grabbing his wallet from the crate temporarily serving as a coffee table.

Ian laughs humorlessly.

"I was ready an hour ago," he points out dryly.  "But we missed our reservation already, Mick, we're not going anywhere now."

Mickey frowns at him.  "Nah, fuck that, man," he says.  "This is our night, right?" he asks, and Ian would be lying if he said that didn't warm him up a little, hearing Mickey call it that.

"Yeah," he agrees, and Mickey nods decisively.

"Let's go then," he orders, gesturing to the door.  "I ain't givin' up on tonight that easy."

Ian can't help but grin, even as he asks, "go where?"

Mickey smirks, and slaps Ian on the ass when he gets up and walks past him.  Ian starts, twisting to look at him with wide eyes, and Mickey waggled his eyebrows just to make Ian laugh.

"You let me worry about that, tough guy."

--

They end up outside the restaurant they had picked out together, some weird new mexican fusion place that advertised world-class margaritas.  Mickey had gotten fond of the drink back in Mexico, and Ian figured it was something they could enjoy together.

"Mickey," he says as they get closer, " it took us two weeks to get in here, there's no way they held our table."

Mickey shakes his head.  "Gallagher, I'm disappointed in you," he says as he leads Ian to the door.  "Ain't conning you way into places your family's shtick?"

Ian just looks at him, brow furrowed, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

"Just hang back a sec, til I wave you over, alright?" he demands.  "Watch and fuckin' learn."

And he's off, through the crowd at the entrance and straight up to the podium at the front.  Ian can't hear what he says, but there are some wild gestures and hushed but tense words exchanged.  At one point, Mickey gets out his phone and taps at it impatiently, pretending to wait for a response before waving it in the host's face.

That bit seems to do the trick, and Ian is waved over, picking his way through the other waiting groups without looking any if them in the face.

When he gets to the front, Mickey is saying, " and you're lucky he didn't have to hear any of that 'overbooked' bullshit, he'd have your fuckin' job for that," before taking off into the restaurant with Ian trailing behind.

He stops at a booth toward the back, and gestures Ian in first, sliding into the bench on the other side.

"What did you do?" Ian hisses lowly, leaning across the table toward him.

Mickey grins, and taps their feet together, catching one of Ian's and drawing it back to his side. 

"Told 'em you were Ed Sheeran," he jokes.  He reaches under the table to grab Ian's leg, pulling his foot up to rest on Mickey's lap.  Ian has to lean back to make it comfortable, but the stroke of Mickey's thumb against the bone of his ankle is worth it.

"You did not," Ian pokes, but Mickey shrugs.

"Does it matter?" he asks quietly as a waiter approaches.  Ian pulls his leg back, aware of how they must look, but takes Mickey's hand over the table instead.

"Guess not," he accepts, squeezing Mickey's fingers and feeling the metal of his ring.  "Thanks," he adds, and Mickey's smile turns soft.

"Anytime," he murmurs, then grabs the menu to give his order.

--

"That was amazing," Ian groans an hour later, a stack of empty plates between them.  Mickey hums his agreement, taking a final bite of fried ice cream dessert before tossing his spoon down with a clatter.

"Fuck yeah it was," he says with a burp that has the couple at the nearest table eying them with distaste.  "Except the margaritas," he adds with a scowl, taking a long drag from the bottled beer they had quickly switched to.  "Too fuckin' sweet."

"Thought you liked 'em sweet," Ian teases, leaning closer, and Mickey licks his lips.

"Nah," he says slowly, "that's just how I like my men."  He winks, and Ian flushes immediately.

"Oh my God," he manages to squeak out, hands flat on the table.  "You did not just say that." 

Mickey laughs, open and free, and grabs Ian's hand again without prompting.

"The drinks were shit, though," he muses.  "Now that I think of it, maybe I was just drinkin' straight tequila down south."

It's Ian's turn to laugh--"only you, Mick"--and they're both grinning like fools when he stops.

"Ready to get outta here, Red?" Mickey murmurs, tilting his head toward the end of the booth.

"Sure, Mick," Ian agrees easily, then let's go if his husband's hand to fumble for his wallet.  "Let me just..."

"Hey, no," Mickey interrupts.  "They gave away our reservation, man, we ain't payin' for shit."

"What--Mickey!" Ian whispers, but Mickey is already up and moving quickly toward the back, where he catches the door to the kitchen before it closes behind a surprised waiter and slips inside.

With a muffled groan, Ian takes off after him.

He almost makes it, but before the door shuts behind him, he hears the host yelling, "Hey, you can't go in there!"

"Shit, shit, shit," Ian mutters, faced with at least one sous-chef staring at him across the bustling kitchen.  Before he has time to panic, though, Mickey is back at his side, grabbing his arm and pulling.

"This way, dipshit!" he hisses as they wind through counters and racks and boxes toward the door to the back alley.  "Should've known you'd get caught," he pants, out of breath, "it's the fuckin' hair, man, too bright."

"You like my hair," Ian offers stupidly.  Mickey stops long enough to make sure Ian sees him roll his eyes, and grabs a folded tablecloth and a bottle of something fancy from next to the door before he shoves it open with a hip and pulls Ian out into the cool night air.

Ian looks back for pursuit, but the kitchen workers couldn't care less.  One of them even salutes him with a bread knife, lips twitching, until the door closes and breaks their line of sight.

They run for a few blocks anyway, until Mickey tugs him into a different alley to catch their breaths.

"That was some date night," Ian pants, hands on knees and a wide grin on his face.

"Night ain't over yet," Mickey disagrees.  He pushes off the brick wall he had leaned against, motions back to the street with the arm not holding what he pilfered from the restaurant kitchen.  "C'mon, man, we got somewhere to be."

Then he's off again, albeit at a more sedate pace, and Ian laughs again as he follows.  He catches up with a few long strides and grabs Mickey's hand, letting his husband lead him once again.

--

This time, they wander farther, only stopping when they come to a park with overly green grass and a neatly manicured baseball diamond.

It isn't their field, the one with the dugout they used to frequent; that field is back Southside, and they haven't walked that far.  But it's close, and Ian's heart pounds as Mickey leads him around the open fencing and toward the outfield.

They stop at the greenest point, and Mickey releases Ian's hand to throw down his stolen tablecloth, kicking the edges until it's more or less flat and open.  He plops down immediately, just off center, and motions for Ian to do the same as he uses his pocket knife to uncork the stolen bottle of booze.

Ian sits as Mickey takes a swig of the mystery liqour, then accepts the bottle when he passes it over.

"This is nice," he says after a long sip of what turned out to be a moderately pleasant red.  "How did you know it was here?"

Mickey reaches for the bottle again, taking another swallow before he answered.  "Was helping Debs look at schools," he admits.  "For Franny, when she's older."

Ian doesn't press.  He loves how much Mickey dotes on their niece, but he knows talking about it makes him uncomfortable still, their own future hanging over them.

He lays down instead, and looks up. The stars are out, glittering above them in patterns he doesn't understand, but thinks must mean something good.

"Thanks for tonight," he says softly to the sky.

The tablecloth rustles as Mickey leans on his elbows next to him.

"Anytime," he replies. He looks down at Ian, and turns on his side so he can brush red hair back from his face.

"Gonna tell me why you were so upset, earlier?" he questions, voice light but serious. "Not like you to freak out like that."

Ian nuzzles into the hand on his face, and closes his eyes. "Just wanted to do something for you," he admits. "You were so excited about finding that place. And you're always doing stuff like that for me."

His eyes flutter open again, fixing on Mickey's face. "Figures the first time I try, everything goes wrong and you have to take over again."

Mickey doesn't respond right away. He watches him, thumb stroking his cheekbone, hand curling around behind his ear.

When he does speak, it's quiet. "I like doin' that shit for you, Ian," he says. "Makes me...happy. To see you smilin'."

Ian's lips stretch into a gentle curve, and Mickey returns it. "Yeah," he whispers, leaning down until their noses brush. "Like that," he finishes, the words lost against Ian's lips as they kiss.

Ian doesn't know how long they stay there, laying on that thin piece of fabric over the grass, making out under the stars. He doesn't care. Because it's Mickey. And despite everything that went wrong tonight, being there with Mickey was perfect.

They're eventually interuppted by what feels like rain, but turns out a second later to be the timed sprinkler system switching on. Mickey yelps into his mouth at the cold water as they break apart, scrambling to dash across the field and to the relative safety of the sidewalk. They leave the tablecloth where it is, a sad heap if fabric wet with water and remainder of their overturned bottle of red wine, and fall against each other as they turn to head toward home.

"Still wanna thank me?" Mickey jokes on the way, teeth chattering as his skin dries.

"Yeah, I do," Ian says, nudging him with a hip before pulling him back, wrapping a long warm arm around his shoulders.

"Tonight was perfect."

And if they stop again to kiss against under the L on their way, Mickey's back pressed to the support and legs hugging Ian's waist, well. It is still their night, after all.

[honey-dewey]

Handicapped Parking

Pairing: Javier Peña/disabled Reader

Word Count: 2,992

Warnings: Reader is wheelchair bound, canon-typical violence, nightmares, small bit of angst, one use of (F/N) (L/N).

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Javier could not believe what he was seeing. A handicapped parking spot at the embassy. Who the hell worked at the US embassy and for the DEA that was disabled enough to need handicapped parking? You, that’s who. The brand new recruit and official partner for Steve and Javier, you are about to be hell on wheels for those two boys.

Javier Peña had never seen anything like what he was seeing now. A handicapped spot right in front of the building with a car parked in it. A new car that hadn’t been there yesterday. As Javier parked, he eyed the spot. Who the hell chose a job like this if they were disabled? Best anyone could do was paperwork, and that was mind numbing. 

Javier almost forgot about it as he walked into the building, greeting the same people he did every morning. Steve was at his desk, hunched over some new paperwork, and he looked up when Javier walked in. “Hey, Javi. Check this out. We have a new partner.” 

“Hm?” Javier lit a cigarette. It was too early for this. 

A paper was pushed across the desk. “Yeah. Hired yesterday. Meant to keep us in check.” 

Javier snorted, reading over the papers. “This says,” he said, looking up at Steve. “This says they’re disabled.” 

“So what if I am?” 

You had just come back from a very frustrating bathroom break to find your other new partner standing at his desk. You rolled forward, holding out a hand. “(F/N) (L/N), DEA.” 

Javier shook your hand and introduced himself. You slotted you and your wheelchair into your desk, which was perpendicular to Steve’s and Javier’s. “So, anything new?” 

Steve explained everything they knew and what their current goal was, and you raised an eyebrow.

“He’s in prison,” you pointed out. “Why are we trying to disrupt that.” 

“We want his ass in a real prison,” Javier grumbled without looking up from his typewriter. “Not that palace he calls a jail.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, looking over the terms and conditions of the surrender. “So we prove he’s violating these terms. Easy.” 

Steve shrugged. “Not as easy as it sounds. Cigarette?” 

You wrinkled your nose at the offered cigarette. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Okay. One less person I gotta share with,” Steve said, holding his cigarette out to Javier, who picked up his lighter and lit it all without looking up. 

The three of you worked in silence for a while. You managed to go through four pots of coffee before three PM, which would’ve been only mildly concerning. However, you and Steve each only had maybe a pot and a half between you. Javier drank the other two and a half pots. So it was mildly concerning for you and Steve, and pretty damn concerning for Javier. 

“Jesus I don’t know how your heart hasn’t given out yet,” you said when Javier went back for his seventh or maybe eighth cup of coffee. 

“This is a light day for him,” Steve said, looking up when someone placed a piece of paper on his desk. “Usually he’ll have three pots and I’ll have one. He doesn’t sleep much.” 

You made a face, putting new paper into your typewriter. Javier came back with his coffee cup and immediately groaned upon seeing Steve reading the paper. “Who wants us to do what?” 

Steve chuckled. “You remember that pigeon coup? They want us to stake it out.” 

Another groan, this time a bit louder. You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing while looking expectantly at Steve. “Can I see?” 

Steve handed you the paper and you read it over. “Well. I guess that solves our violating the terms problem.” 

The stakeout was to last as long as it had to, and as you pulled up to the prison before dawn on one warm morning, you immediately knew this would be hell. Steve and Javier took turns waiting outside while you sat in the car, your typewriter in your lap. Your window was open and you occasionally handed the boys whatever they needed from inside the car. 

Finally, when the sun began to crest the hills, you braved the outside. Strapping your crutches to your arms, you swung your legs out and slowly made your way across the grass. 

“I thought you couldn’t walk.” Javier said as soon as you were standing beside him. 

“I can,” you promised. “Car accident. Left me paralyzed, but with lots of therapy, I was able to regain some of my legs. I just prefer the chair because no matter what, my legs won’t support my weight for more than a few steps. When I walk I use crutches and braces to keep my knees, ankles, and waist stable.” 

Steve whistled, handing Javier a thermos. “I’ve never seen crutches like that before.” 

“Gutter crutches.” You watched Javier take one sip of the coffee and immediately pour the rest of it out onto the ground. “Mostly for long term work. Is that a pigeon?” 

Steve turned and Javier raised his gun. Three wasted shots later, and you were scoffing. “Damn. You’re a shit shot Peña.” 

“Think you can do better?” 

You took the gun, abandoning your crutches and catching the next pigeon in your sight. Your legs wavered, but you locked your knees and tried to stay steady. “I got it.”

“Shoot.” 

You waited, ignoring Javier. 

“Shoot!” 

Again, you waited until the perfect moment before shooting and killing the pigeon in one shot. 

Steve smiled, taking the gun from you. “Ever been duck hunting?” 

Javier watched him jog after the pigeon. “No, I’ve not been duck hunting you fucking hillbilly.” 

You wavered, falling flat on your ass as your knees gave out. “Damn these legs!” You swore, grabbing your discarded crutches and strapping them to your arms. By the time you’d finally struggled to your feet, Steve was back with the pigeon. 

“Thanks for the help,” you said sourly at Javier, who had simply watched you grapple upright. 

“In my experience,” he said in an equally cool tone. “People like you don’t need much help. I’m sure all I would’ve gotten was a crutch to the knee for my help.” 

You glared at him while he read the small letter tied to the pigeon’s leg. God you hated that man. 

The next few months were odd. You fell into a rhythm with Steve and Javier. Neither underestimated you anymore, and finally, they learned exactly where your boundaries lay with help. Steve had a bruise on his leg for two straight weeks after you whacked him with your crutch when he asked if you needed help shooting a gun (you most definitely did not) and Javier only ever gave you help when he noticed you struggling. Like when some new intern put the coffee mugs too high for you to reach without standing up and Javier had, very kindly, silently handed you your mug. He did a lot of things silently, usually with that scowl on his face. 

“We got a call,” Steve said one day, poking his head into your office space, if it could even be called that. “Let’s go!” 

You groaned, standing and hearing your back pop four times as you followed Steve out, your crutches clicking on the linoleum as you headed to the waiting Jeep. 

“Why’s Javi driving?” You asked as you got into the back. “I get so carsick when he drives!” 

Javier gave you a look in the rearview mirror. “Strap in sugar.” 

You rolled your eyes. None of you wore seatbelts. You just didn’t have time for it. So instead, you simply gripped the back of Steve’s seat while Javier drove like a maniac towards your destination. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you grumbled as you got out of the car, shaking off the car sickness and looking around. Nothing seemed very out of the ordinary aside from the cop cars surrounding a particular building. “Who’s in there?” 

“We don’t know,” Steve said, helping you with your tac vest. “Whoever it is, they’re worth the cavalry.” 

Half of your job was waiting, which was hell. You stood leaned up against Steve, trying to keep your weight off your aching back. As the minutes ticked by, you talked to one of the younger cops who’d been left outside. He was sweet, teaching you a few Spanish phrases and smiling when you butchered them. 

So of course, when the man you were trying to catch raced out of the building, wildly firing his gun, the young cop got a bullet to the back of the head. 

“Shit!” You yelled, looking around as the man raced off. You yanked your crutches off your arms and gestured to Javier. “Come on!” 

Javier was on your heels as you ran, trying to steady your feet and knees. Your hips and lower back screamed, but you just kept going, relying entirely on your braces to support you. 

Eventually, the stress became too much. Two blocks down, your legs stopped working, sending you screaming to the ground, wildly throwing your hands out to catch yourself before you broke your nose on something. Thankfully, the road was long and flat, so as soon as you righted yourself, you raised your gun and shot the guy in the shoulder. 

He went down, clutching his shoulder in pain while you breathed heavy, dragging your limp lower half over to the wall of a building, leaning against the worn down brick. 

“Hey,” Javier said, coming to stand in front of you. “You ran.” 

“I ran,” you agreed, holding your left knee as it twitched. “That’s a week and a half of chair time, straight. Fuck.” 

Javier sat beside you, watching cops run past to grab the man you’d been chasing. “You want help back?” 

You snorted. “Javi, I won’t make it three steps like this.” To demonstrate, you attempted to haul yourself upright and almost immediately hit the pavement, hissing sharply as you came down harder than intended. 

“So.” Javier looked you up and down. “Is that a no?” 

“Yeah that’s a no.” You stared at the sky, feeling your stomach twist. “Y’know what I want? A cup of tea. I haven’t had one in a while.”

Javier shrugged. “I’ve got a really good tea at my apartment,” he said. “My mother mails me some once a month. You’re bleeding.” 

You looked down at your hands, finally noticing the ragged scrapes across your palms from when you’d fallen. “Oh. I didn’t even notice.” 

“How’d you not notice?” Javier asked, taking your hands and digging through his pockets. “We can disinfect it for real back at the office, but for now,” he said, producing a small roll of gauze from his pocket. “This will have to do.” 

You sat still while Javier bandaged your hands. By then, the street had been completely cleared, and you were looking for Steve. 

“He’s probably waiting in the car,” Javier said, finishing up on your hands. “We’re gonna have to go to him.” He looked hesitantly at your legs. They’d stopped twitching, but they were still completely useless. “Got any ideas?” 

“Unless you wanna carry me,” you said with a sigh. “It’d probably be easiest to call Steve.”

Javier stood, crouching down in front of you. “Can you get on?” 

It took some maneuvering and a bit of heavy lifting on Javier’s part, but eventually, you were being carried back to the Jeep, arms slung over Javier’s shoulders and him gripping your legs as he gave you a piggyback ride. 

“Comfy?” He asked, and you chuckled. 

“Mhm. Totally not in horrible pain,” you replied, feeling yet another stab of discomfort hit your back. 

Javier was quiet for a minute before speaking again. “Why’d you come here? No offense, but you’re not exactly fit for the job.” 

“Like I got to pick this,” you said, leaning to cheek against Javier’s shoulder. “I was reassigned. I never asked to come down here.” 

Another long beat of silence, and then, “I’m sorry.” 

“Nah. It’s fine,” you promised. “Just a bit stressful sometimes.” 

Eventually, the car came back into view, and Steve rushed over to meet you, your crutches in his hand. “What were you thinking?” 

“Chase the bad guy,” you said, smiling as Javier turned around and put you down in the car. “Really, I wasn’t. I just went.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve said, ever the voice of reason. “Don’t do that again. You scared me.” 

The drive back to the office was quiet. Javier had to carry you inside the building, and Steve found a hot water bottle to press against your back. Javier finished properly treating your hands while Steve filled the water bottle with water from the kettle. 

“Really, a hot bath will probably help the most,” you said, putting the hot water bottle in between your back and the chair you used whenever you didn’t need your wheelchair. “But this’ll do for now.” 

Your night was late, as it always was. You weren’t attempting to leave the building until well past ten PM, and when you tried to stand, Javier put a hand on your shoulder. “Nope.” 

“No?” You said, surprised. “Let me up Javi, unless you want a crutch to the ankle.” 

Javier didn’t move. Instead, he scooped you up in a bridal carry, causing you to squeak indignantly. “Javier!” 

“Yes?” 

“Put me down! I am more than capable of walking myself to your car!” 

Javier shrugged as best he could while carrying you. “You had me piggyback you two blocks earlier and you couldn’t get up all day to get your own coffee. I’m carrying you to the car.” 

You pouted, but realized that squirming would only serve to hurt you and probably Javier as well, so you remained still as Javier placed you in his car. 

The drive home was, as with most things Javier did, quiet. When he pulled up to the building, you made him go into your apartment across the hall from his and grab your wheelchair. When he came back, you smacked him away when he tried to help you into it. 

“Oh my god,” you groaned, feeling your back pop painfully. “Fuck.” 

“C’mon,” Javier said softly, handing you back our crutches so you could put them across your lap. “I believe I promised you tea.” 

You sighed. “Javi, I wanna go home.” 

Javier nodded. “I’ll bring it to you. How’s that sound?” 

At the notion that Javier would be coming to your apartment, you sighed and gave in. “Fine. I’ll leave it unlocked.” 

Ten minutes after you’d gotten settled on your couch, Javier came into your apartment, carrying two cups of tea. He set one down on your coffee table and kept the other in his hands. “Feeling better?” 

“Yeah, actually,” you said, reaching and grabbing the mug. “Painkillers are my new best friend.” 

Javier sat down on the couch. “You know you could ask to be sent home,” he said. “They’d probably do it.” 

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “But then I wouldn’t be able to see you or Steve anymore.” 

“That’s what’s keeping you here? Me and Steve?” 

You nodded. “Javi, before this, no one would even look at me. I was disabled and trying to work in law enforcement. You and Steve treat me like a capable adult, and people actually listen to what I have to say now.” 

Javier was quiet. “That sucks.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” You took a sip of your tea, smiling. “This is good.” 

“Custom blend,” Javier said. “Mamá always insisted it could cure anything.” 

You smiled. “You tell her to mail some extra if she can. It’s amazing.” 

You and Javier sat in your living room until midnight, drinking tea and swapping work stories. Finally, when you began to yawn, Javier stood. “I think it’s time for bed.” 

“Aww,” you groaned, pulling your wheelchair closer. “But I was having so much fun.” 

Javier smiled as you sat in your wheelchair and headed towards your bedroom. “Need anything before I go?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, actually. Can you help me into bed? When my back hurts a lot it’s kind of hard to haul myself into bed.” 

“Sure.” 

Between you and Javier, you were able to slide into bed, immediately feeling weary. “Javi?”

“Hm?” Javier turned, standing in your doorway. “What is it?” 

You fidgeted nervously. “Stay? Please? I’ve started having nightmares recently and they really scare me.” 

Javier nodded. “Okay. Let me grab my pyjamas, I’ll be right back.” 

By the time Javier had returned, you were half asleep. He waved to you and settled down on your couch, likely not falling asleep, but you sure as hell did. 

It was early morning, before sunrise but well after midnight, that you woke up, breathing heavy and immediately starting to cry. The shattered pieces of your nightmare were practically gone now, leaving you with nothing but jitters, a looming sense of dread, and the image of blinding headlights in your brain. 

“Hey,” a gentle voice said, and you jumped, heart pounding before you remembered you’d asked Javier to spend the night. “Are you okay?” 

You shook your head. No point in trying to lie to him. He could see you crying. 

Javier slid into the bed with you, pulling you close and letting you cry into his shirt. When you were spent of tears, he continued to rub your back, his warmth seeping into your skin. “Wanna talk about it?” 

“I don’t remember much,” you admitted. “I think.” You had to force your words out, your throat pulling tight. “I think I dreamed I was in the car accident.” 

Javier was quiet. “You’re fine,” he promised after a beat. “Hey, you hear me?” 

You nodded, wondering when you’d begun to shake. 

“You’re safe here,” Javier said. “Safe as can be.” 

“I trust you,” you said softly, still buried in Javier’s shirt. “Trust you a lot,” you mumbled, yawning widely and feeling your eyes blink shut. 

“I think you need more sleep,” Javier said softly, helping you lay back down. “Agent’s orders.” 

You smiled, the sick feeling in your stomach sliding away. “Mhm. Stay with me Agent Peña.” 

Javier lay down beside you, pulling you close. “If you insist.” 

For the first time in a long time, both of you slept fitfully, cradled in each other’s arms.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

They’re Sayin’ (You’re Gonna Be My Man)

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: T Word Count: 2217

Summary: Sam calls Bucky too soon after he's left Louisiana, looking for advice he doesn’t really need and getting a conversation he didn’t really expect.

Sam’s supposed to wait until news of the Flag-Smashers’ movements comes down the line to get in touch with Bucky. He doesn’t. It’s sooner. It’s almost right away.

He’s sure Bucky’s gotta be out of the state, but he doesn’t know whether he’s made it back to this alleged apartment in Brooklyn (on some level, Sam’s aware that he keeps making jokes about the conspiracy of the apartment’s existence because it’s his way of daring Bucky to invite him over sometime). When he calls Bucky up, he knows he might catch him on a plane, in a cab, with a buzz of voices around him as he scowls at strangers in an airport or stomps down a sidewalk. But, other than Bucky’s voice on the other end, Sam just hears quiet, so he figures the guy made it home.

“You never told me if you had any tips,” Sam accuses straight off.

Shifting his feet, he tamps down more of the grass he’s been practicing on, squinting when sweat rolls into his eye. He just finished a brisk mile with the shield on his arm, getting used to the weight and the bulk of it, and he’s ready to start throwing again.

“Tips for what?” Bucky asks. “Fixing the boat? General life stuff? I know we had a good talk, but I think I take advice better than I give it.”

“Which is not saying much,” Sam points out with a laugh. “You suck at taking advice.”

“Until recently.”

“Until recently,” Sam allows. He takes a deep breath and leans over to the side, stretching from his run and tapping his hand on the Vibranium disc currently propped against his leg. “Nah, man, for the shield. How to throw it, how to catch it, how to pull off some of Steve’s fuckin’ boomerang tricks.”

“I thought you were gettin’ the hang of it,” Bucky says in his ear.

“I am. I just realized that, when I had you here, you did a lot of standing around and catching the shield on that cyborg arm of yours. Not a lot of active advice-giving.”

“You really want me telling you how to do your job?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, nobody said that. I am simply aware of the fact that you’re one of very few people alive who’ve handled this thing, and maybe the only one who did it with any actual competence.”

“The level of flattery is astounding,” Bucky says dryly.

“You want more, you gotta help me out,” Sam jokes back.

“Well, show me what you’re doin’.”

Sam glances around himself. Flat lawn. Waning daylight. Tall trees wrapped in the pads he’s been ricocheting the shield off of. No place good to prop his phone.

“I gotta get somebody to film me,” he realizes. “Lemme call you back.”

“Everybody’s gonna be filming you with the shield pretty soon. Only question is whether you’re doing something impressive in news footage or looking like a jackass in some kind of Avengers’ Greatest Fuckups reel.”

“Shut the hell up. I thought we were gettin’ along now.”

“Just trying to be motivational. Am I not doing it right?”

“I think you better look up the word ‘motivational’ in the dictionary while you wait for my call,” Sam suggests.

He disconnects and hangs his head, shaking it even as he smiles.

His legs are screaming for a thorough, post-workout stretch and maybe some ice on his shins—they’ve been taking the brunt every time he digs his feet into the ground and braces to snatch the returning shield from the air—but what’s another quarter mile? Sam runs to Sarah’s, arms pumping, stride a little different now that he has to accommodate the shape of the shield.

When he gets there, the boys are playing soccer on the lawn and he calls through the screen window to the kitchen to get his sister’s ok to borrow them as his training assistants. They get even more excited by the bestowing of this title and its implied responsibility than by the sight of the shield. That’s pretty incredible. Sarah caves to a temporary borrowing (supper’s almost ready) and they’re off.

On the way back, Sam lets AJ carry the shield. Seems like a nice break for himself until Cass requests a piggyback.

“Alright,” Sam agrees with a sigh, crouching in front of his nephew. “Hop on.”

Captain America’s benevolence is limitless. At least, it is this evening. When his back’s killing him tomorrow from absorbing the shock of a hundred shield throws, he will not be so easily persuaded into giving piggybacks.

In the clearing, Sam pulls his phone from the zipped pocket of his shorts and videocalls Bucky, who picks up on the first ring. His face is too close to the camera, but it’s good to see those blue eyes and the crinkles that are either there because he’s smiling in greeting or he’s confused about how a videocall works. In a few seconds, Bucky figures out for himself that he needs to hold the phone farther away. It makes Sam miss him. Also makes him a little worried because he can see the blank, white wall of Bucky’s apartment around his head. No paint, no art. Sam can’t even hear a TV or anything in the background.

“You’re not busy,” he observes.

“Not really, no,” Bucky admits.

“You coulda stayed here longer.”

“Nah, you needed time with everything, not me constantly looking over your shoulder. Shield’s yours now, Sam. I’m gonna be at your side, but you and the shield… I got no say in what that relationship is. I understand that now and I’m trying to respect it.”

“So when you’re actually doing the right thing, let you back off?”

“That’s right,” Bucky agrees.

“I’ll try to remember in case it ever happens again.”

Before Bucky can defend himself against Sam’s teasing jab, Sam passes the phone to AJ, camera turned so Bucky will still be focused on him when he starts throwing the shield again.

“Got you propped up on my human tripod,” he informs Bucky, reaching above the phone to playfully shove the side of AJ’s head. “So watch your mouth.”

“Can I say hi?”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Sam warns.

And, of course, Bucky eggs the kids into a long ooooh, like they’ve caught him breaking his own rule. Which they have. But Bucky was being a smartass and the opportunity to let him know is not something Sam likes to pass up.

He’s stretching now—maybe for himself, maybe for the camera pointed his way—gripping his ankles in turn and holding his heels to his ass until he feels the pull in his thighs. Bucky’s not wrong about having this time to himself. Just him and this legendary object that’s feeling more right on his arm every time he slips it through the straps. Still, he misses what they had going the last two days. Not him and the shield, but him and Bucky. Having him here like that… It was different from every other experience Sam’s had with him. Bucky was still, in turns, a grouch and a showoff and a staring machine and a shithead (flirting with Sarah, come ON), but he was also more convincingly a person than Sam’s had the pleasure of seeing him before. At ease and multi-faceted by nature instead of the necessity of adapting in the face of a threat.

Bucky smiled.

They didn’t always bicker.

He looked damn good in the morning when they leaned against the kitchen counter, not talking, sipping their coffee.

Sam wants those minutes back so bad. Living with Bucky here was incomparable to living with him overseas. Lotta reasons for that, including not having to share the space with Baron Zemo. Mostly because this is home and Sam liked pretending, while Sarah did some well-deserved sleeping in and the boys got the hems of their pajama pants wet in the dew in the backyard, that it was real. That this breath between their fights (no longer with each other) could last and that this is where they’d hold it. It could be their kitchen, their mugs, their tousled sheets Bucky’d climbed out of, looking all rumpled and lovely and shit.

But Bucky doesn’t know what Sam pretends and Sam sure as hell isn’t going to tell him. He’s just going to keep faithful to their usual dynamic, trying for less glaring. Not a word to unsettle things, as much as he’s curious how they might handle things being unsettled. As much as his mind plays back the blinding glint off the water as they rolled up their sleeves and went to work together in a way more meaningful, more personal, than they ever have before. Plays it back all the time.

No. Quiet. Sam needs to figure himself out first and knows Bucky’s working on doing the same. Maybe sometime—but probably never—they can see how those selves overlap. All they need to make fly right now is being Captain America and… what’d that moron call himself? The White Wolf? Son of a biscuit…

“Let me see him!” Cass says excitedly, recapturing Sam’s focus.

It’s his brother he’s talking to and Sam watches fondly as AJ turns the phone to show Bucky a grinning Cass, being careful to keep it steady. Pretty damn sweet. Cass even waves while Sam stands there, watching and doing shoulder rolls.

“Hi, Uncle Bucky!”

Sam feels like he just whipped the shield out and caught the return in his stomach. He strides over to the boys and AJ passes the phone back without being asked. He’s stifling giggles despite or because he senses that his little brother shouldn’t have said that.

“One minute,” Sam tells Bucky, hardly glancing at him because he just can’t. He tilts the camera towards the ground and raises expectant eyebrows at his grinning nephews. “Did somebody tell you to call him that?”

In unison, the boys go, “No, Uncle Sam,” which is suspiciously adorable. But they aren’t liars.

“Did you hear somebody call him that?”

AJ and Cass glance at each other and that’s enough for Sam. They won’t answer, so he knows it’s Sarah who’s made this joke, put this idea in the kids’ heads. They won’t give her up though, because they’re Wilsons and they’re loyal to their mother.

Sam turns the camera back on himself, unprepared for the upward tick at the corner of Bucky’s lips that make them even harder to look away from than usual.

“My sister must’ve—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupts.

“You know?”

“Yeah. Sarah called me that to my face.”

“She did what?”

Sarah having her joke is one thing, but saying it to Bucky takes things a little far, in Sam’s opinion. Bucky could think Sarah’s serious. He could think she’s saying that because Sam’s said something to her. Something about coffee and bedsheets and the sweet ache he felt in his chest when he saw Bucky’s smile in the golden light of dawn.

“Last night, before she put the boys to bed. You were in the shower, I think.” Bucky reaches up absentmindedly to run a hand over the top of his head; the flex of his bicep in the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing and waiting for the end of this recollection are both torture for Sam. “They wanted to hang out with me, but Sarah said, ‘Uncle Bucky’s gotta get some sleep. You’ll see him tomorrow.’ Something like that.”

Now, when Sam’s truly learning the meaning of flabbergasted, Bucky’s mouth cracks into a wide, self-satisfied smile.

“You made that up,” Sam guesses helplessly.

“Nope.”

Sam knows that, with his nephews’ inability to lie and Sarah’s lifelong history of messing with him as evidence, but it would’ve been a convenient escape from the reality of his sister (and possibly the boys too) addressing Bucky as if he and Sam are together.

“Tell me you told my sister to drop the ‘Uncle.’”

Another thing Sam knows: that Bucky didn’t do that. Bucky seems happy to prove his fears correct; he shrugs.

“Sounded kinda nice,” Bucky defends. That makes Sam soften. He knows Bucky doesn’t have any living family, that he’s been struggling to allow himself to make friends. Maybe he just likes being told he belongs to them and that Sarah’s joke makes it effortless for him. Then, Bucky adds, “Pass me back to my nephews.”

Sam points a warning finger at him.

“Watch it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The crease between Bucky’s eyebrows deepens as Sam watches the pain in the ass pretend to be stern with him. “Just throw the damn shield. I thought you asked for my help.”

“I did.”

Releasing a cautious sigh, Sam hands the phone to AJ once more. The boy’s got his silliness under control and he accepts the job solemnly.

Sam’s two steps away, hefting the shield onto his arm, when he hears Bucky shout, “And my hand in marriage!”

The boys’ laughter has them rolling on the cool grass, the phone clutched in AJ’s grip, and by the time Sam wrestles it away from his nephew, the camera’s swung all over the place. Showing Bucky the sky, the dirt, some quality footage up AJ’s nose, and probably—almost definitely—the way his words made Sam smile.

[idabbleincrazy]

Go Out with a Bang Ch. 5

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<-- Chapter Four

Fandom: Angel (Buffyverse)

Rating: E

Pairing: Spangel

Characters: Angel, Spike, Wesley, Illyria, Gunn, Lorne

Word Count: 7561

Warnings: Smut, angst, teasing, rough sex, anal fingering, anal, dirty talk, semi-primal sex, possessive!Angel, coming on command, biting, blood drinking, Sire/Childe dynamics, Vampire dynamics, mention of canonical character death

Summary: Spike has lingering doubts about the coming battle and requires a rougher touch to wash them away before he and Angel leave the solitude of the suite.

A/N: Normally I wouldn’t end a fic like this, but since I plan to make this a series, I made an exception. mo cheann milis - my sweet one

Feedback fuels my creativity! If you like my work, plz comment/reblog!!!!

Spike woke just as the vibrations of his phone started and without pulling fully away from Angel, he managed to grab the phone and shut it off before the sound of the alarm filled the silence. Setting the phone down, he wrapped himself back around Angel, brushing his lips across the nape of his neck in a soft kiss. Tried to push back the looming dread as the seconds ticked away, same as he always did. He couldn’t waste the time he had left, not when he finally had what he’d wanted for over a century. 

“Know you’re awake, luv.” Spike let his hand play over the expanse of Angel’s stomach, his fingers trailing down between his legs to wrap around his half-hard member. “Hmm, looks like all of you is awake. What were you dreaming, naughty Liam?”

Angel hummed sleepily and thrust up into Spike’s enveloping hand, his own reaching back to clutch at Spike’s side, holding him fast against his back. 

“Was dreaming of you, of us, and that week in Bruges. D’you remember, lovely William? Such passion you showed, even when I’d had to repay you for getting us kicked out of that first hotel.”

“Remember nearly losin’ a toe to your own passions that first night after the girls had left for Vienna”, Spike tightened his grip slightly and pressed the evidence of his own arousal against the small of Angel’s back. “Never found myself face-down so quick in all the years before that; barely had yourself out of your breeches before you were in me. Rest of the week weren’t much slower, neither.”

Angel let out a soft groan as Spike worked him fully hard, turning in the blonde’s embrace to capture his lips in a slow, deep kiss. Spike’s hard cock brushed against his and he nipped at his bottom lip before breaking the kiss. 

“How much time do we have left?” 

“Not due back over at my flat for ‘bout an hour ‘n a half, give or take. More than enough time for one more tumble before we shower and pack up whatever little mementos you plan on scarperin’ off with.” 

“Good.” 

Angel growled playfully and pressed Spike onto his back, settling between his spreading legs as his lips trailed along his jaw. Spike ran his hands up Angel’s back, arching himself closer against him as blunt teeth nipped a path down his jaw. He let out a soft moan as Angel teased his tongue over his Siring mark, tilting his head to grant him better access.

“Bloody hell, Angel. Keep tonguing that and I’m gonna go off too soon, luv.” Spike felt his cock throb with every flick of Angel’s tongue, a trickle of pre-cum pooling on his stomach as Angel thrust his own hardness against his. “Fuck, always too much and not enough. Need you, Angel.”

“You’ve got me, Spike.” Angel kissed his way further down Spike’s body, biting softly at his collarbone before sliding himself down to lick over one pert nipple. “Tell me what you want, hmm...want my mouth on you? Wanna be in me again, filling me up so fucking good? Tell me, Will.”

Spike whimpered as Angel’s teeth scraped gently over his nipple, his hands winding into Angel’s hair, fingers carding through the short strands at the nape of his neck. Needed this. Needed the distraction, to keep the nagging thoughts from pecking at his resolve.

“You. Just want you. God, Angel, wanna feel you in me. Now.” Spike pulled Angel back up to him with a sharp tug on his hair, drawing a growl from the elder vampire. “Can’t wait, luv. Need you in me, need you to make me feel it, to forget…”

“Forget? Forget what, sweet Spike?” 

“Forget that I might lose you tonight.” Spike turned his gaze away from Angel’s concerned look, willing himself not to dwell on the battle that loomed before them. He knew Angel had promised to do everything he could to keep them both from dying their final deaths at the hands of the Senior Partners, knew he was more than capable of holding his own in a fight, but the renewed Sire claim and the newly formed Claim were filling his head and soul with all kinds of doubts and worries. “Need you to drive these thoughts from my head, Liam, please. Fuck me, good ‘n hard, Sire.”

Angel gasped softly at Spike’s hushed words, feeling his pain just as clearly as he smelled it rolling off him, like acrid smoke swirling up in the scant space between their bodies. He braced himself against the pillow on one hand, using the other to grip Spike’s chin and urge him to look back at him. His eyes flashed a heated amber as they locked onto stormy blue, the fear and desperation he found in those steely depths made the claims flare up in his still heart, aching for his Childe, his mate, as he felt the need to soothe away all of Spike’s apprehension. 

He let a soft purr rumble in his chest as he dipped his head down to capture those beautiful lips, determined to kiss away the sorrow that curved them down. He wouldn’t make promises beyond those he had already given, couldn’t promise more than he had, but he could help him, help keep that wall from falling to dust. He could give him this distraction. Spike’s hands clutched Angel closer as he deepened the kiss and he let his tongue slowly tangle with Spike’s until the first soft moans escaped the pliant mouth beneath his. A whimper of complaint hit his ears as he pulled away to look down at his Childe, blue eyes less stormy, if not a bit glazed by the lust that steadily darkened them. 

“Please, Da…”

“Shh, my beautiful boy, I’ve got you.” Angel runs his hands over Spike’s chest, fingers caressing the Claim gently, reverently, as he shifts on the bed. “I’ve always got you, till I dust.”

He sits back on his heels and looks him over once more before steeling his resolve. Minutes have passed since he woke from his dream yet it seems like hours, days, a lifetime. Had he made a mistake in giving into their needs for the Claim? Should he have insisted they wait? Or would they still have ended up like this, with him needing to bolster Spike’s nerve one last time? He wouldn’t take it back if given a million chances. Needs the connection as much as he fears that it could ruin them both tonight. Maybe Spike’s not the only one who needs the distraction.

“Turn over.”

Spike does as he’s told, knowing that look on his Sire’s face, reveling in it. Angel wants to keep him on his back, to love him as he has these past few hours. Can’t. Can’t give his Childe the hard, fast fuck he needs while looking into those eyes; not while the Claim still lays such a fresh and vibrant shade of raw, fang-torn red above his heart. Needs him on his knees, Renaissance-sculpted face pressed into the pillows as he drives away the shadows that crowd his mind, one harsh thrust at a time. Spike knows this, understands, and says nothing as he settles himself face-down, knees drawing in towards his chest, ass up, back sloping as his shoulders press into the mattress. He lets his hands rest on either side of his head, ready to reach back for Angel and pull him closer, or up to grip at the headboard for leverage to push back harder. 

Angel lets a soft growl of approval rumble in his chest as he reaches over for the lube. He pops the cap and squeezes a drop onto his fingers, pushes the first slick digit into Spike’s tight hole before the gel even has a chance to warm up. Draws a gasping hiss from the blonde beneath him and has to resist the urge to soothe a hand up along the visible knobs of his spine as he gives him a cursory thrust before adding a second finger. 

“Yesss...oh, Christ, Da.”

“This what you want, boy? My fingers working you open for me? Speak, William, let me hear you. Wanna hear every little sound, Childe, every filthy word that falls from that sinful tongue.” Angel let himself get lost in the pattern of the recent past, keeping his probing fingers moving fast, not nearly deep enough for either of their liking, slipping back into the Angel that - since his boy returned to him - had kept his deeper feelings and wants hidden from the body beneath him. “Moan for me, Spike, such a sweet little whore.”

“Fuck, Sire, Angel, yes. Yes, it’s what I want, please. God, Da, fuck me.”

Angel growled low and deep, his brusk fingering slowing, the minimal prep already more than Spike probably wanted, less than he would have preferred. Removed his fingers from the barely-stretched hole. Back to the pain, then, like in the shower, like all the weeks and months since his Childe had become corporeal once more. For Spike, he let the demon closer to the surface; for himself, he kept it firmly in check, kept it precariously balanced with the soul as he took up the bottle of lube once more and poured a meager drop onto his aching cock. Yes, aching. Even as he longed to make love to his sweet William, his body still could never deny its response to the prospect of a rough fuck. 

“Please, please, Sire...LiamAngel’GelusDa, please!” Spike whined desperately, one hand reaching blindly behind him to pull Angel closer as the elder vampire drew out the moment, stroking himself. Angel allowed himself a second of pride; Spike’s mind was definitely not on the night ahead, if his rambling was anything to judge by.

“My filthy boy, I’ve gotcha.” Angel reached out a hand to grip at Spike’s hip and pressed forward, sliding into him in one quick thrust. “Oh, Jesus, Spike...so fucking tight.”

Spike moaned loudly, his fingers gripping at the back of Angel’s thigh as he pushed back against him. He braced the palm of his other hand against the headboard for leverage as Angel began a harsh pace after only a slight pause, more to gather his own wits than to give Spike a chance to adjust. He fought with the Claim as he thrust into the yielding body beneath him, wanting nothing more than to give in and flip his Childe back around and watch every emotion play across that beautiful face; but that wasn’t what Spike needed. He didn’t need the slow caresses of their previous two rounds, he didn’t need the time and energy to dwell on the imminent future; he needed the fast, deep thrusts, forcing out any thought that wasn’t focused on the here and now.

“Fuck, yes, Angel, just like that. Fuck your boy, Da.”

Angel snarled at that, letting himself tap into the primal need that always lurked deep within him to possess this particular blonde over all others. He took Spike’s hand from his thigh, wrapping it up in his own and stretched out over his back, spreading Spike’s arm out along the pillow as he plowed into him. He let his demon face to the fore, dipping his head down to scrape his fangs along the unblemished side of Spike’s neck, his tongue trailing back up the same path to lap up the beads of blood that welled up from the shallow scratches. 

“Always such a little whore for me, aren’t you, Spike?” Angel’s voice was gruff in his ear, and Spike couldn’t hold back the shiver that ran through him, moaning wantonly in direct confirmation of the question. “That’s right, always spreading those pretty legs so easily for your Da. Ripe little slut, my perfect boy, not satisfied without my cock filling you, stretching you open just right.”

“Angel…”

“Yeah, that’s it, lemme hear you. Love it when you beg for me, when you go hoarse from screaming my name. Loud as you are, the whole city must know whose cock you always hunger for by now.” 

The scent of Spike’s anxiety was slowly erased by the increasing scent of their lust, the musk of arousal overpowering the sour tang of his fear with each hard snap of Angel’s hips. As Spike called out his name again, those slim hips pushing back to meet each deep thrust, Angel slid his hand around his waist and wrapped his fingers around the slick shaft of Spike’s cock. His fangs scraped over sweat-dampened skin again as Spike let out a keening whimper when he began stroking the throbbing length in tandem with his thrusts. 

“Christ! Da, ‘m close. Fuck, make me come, Angel, please, lemme come.”

Angel groaned loudly against the back of Spike’s neck and sped his thrusts faster, skin smacking against skin as he felt his orgasm surging closer. He no longer scented his Childe’s trepidation in the air now, all-consuming lust and want and need swirling thick around them as his brutal pace continued, pushing them inexorably towards that edge. Spike’s cock throbbed in his hand, and he tightened his grip around the girth as he stroked him, the copious pre-cum slicking the way easily. His thumb and forefinger twisted sharply at the now-exposed head and he fought back the renewed urge to sink his fangs into Spike’s neck at the mewling plea that fell from the blonde’s lips. So very close.

“Come on, then,” Angel pushed deeper into the clenching hole, the tip of his aching cock brushing over that bundle of nerves as he held himself within his Childe, needing Spike to come first before he finally let go. “Spill for me, mo cheann milis, let me feel it.”

Angel’s voice rasped in Spike’s ear, the Gaelic endearment tipping the scales for him and he cried out a wordless howl of ecstasy as he came, ropes of cum spurting from his pulsing cock to soak the sheets beneath him. He sagged in Angel’s enveloping embrace as his climax ripped through him, letting the arm wrapped around him hold him up. 

Angel felt already tight muscles clench further and barley kept himself from following immediately behind as Spike’s cool seed spilled over his hand.Angel released his grip on Spike’s hand and raised his to the blonde’s moaning lips, offering his wrist as he staved off his orgasm just a few more seconds.

“Drink, Childe”, Angel murmured against Spike’s skin, his own fangs sinking into the nape of his neck as soon as he felt the sharp sting of Spike’s piercing through his wrist. 

Spike’s now-free hand reached back to grasp once again at Angel’s thigh, pulling him impossibly deeper as he took a long pull of blood from the offered arm between his teeth. Angel thrust into him one last time, his fangs latched onto his neck, muffling the roar that sounded around the flesh as he came, his cum surging from him into Spike’s tight warmth to fill him as though it could mark him even more completely as his from the inside out. 

Barely half an hour had passed since Spike had brought him to full awareness with a mere touch, but for all Angel could tell, it could have been an eternity unto itself. His mercurial Childe would never lose that effect on him, he supposed. It was so easy to lose all sense of time, to just exist, trapped in amber, when his hands were full of miles of pale, smooth skin, and his ears were full of exquisite, sinful sounds he’d failed to find anywhere else in all his many years of unlife. 

Angel took one short draw of blood from the pinprick wounds on Spike’s neck, savoring the flavor of his mate before swallowing it and disengaging his fangs. His climax tapered out as he laved his tongue over the wounds, a purr vibrating through him from the body pressed back against his as Spike followed suit. 

“Needed that. Ta, luv.” 

Spike’s gasping voice was soft, and surprisingly sober as he pulled away from Angel’s wrist and let himself slump down to the mattress, a sated calmness wafting off of him. Angel hummed in welcome, and eased himself carefully from between Spike’s legs with a grunt before collapsing next to him on the bed to catch his breath. 

A few minutes later, Spike shoved himself up and slid from the bed, stretching languidly before turning to face Angel. He still smelled of a resolut calmness, but Angel could tell the look on his face was diligently schooled to conceal the tiny kernel of doubt that still lay deep in the back of his mind. Angel sat up and waited for him to speak, knowing the younger vampire well enough than to push the issue. He’d given him enough of the reassurance he sought to shield himself behind and carry out the fight. Angel would never stop marveling at his Childe’s silent strength.

“So, we showerin’ together, or ‘m I soaping myself up while you pack up your gear ‘n whatall?”

Angel laughed softly in relief and clambered out of bed to follow Spike into the bathroom, his eyes lingering on the already-healing bite mark on the back of his neck before trailing down the planes of his back. In his need to give Spike the ‘rough and tumble’ he required, he’d not had the chance to appreciate the way those muscles shifted with every little movement. He made a mental note to rectify that if they saw tomorrow. 

After they showered, Spike pointed out that he couldn’t exactly wear his shirt back to the apartment, seeing as how they’d used it to wipe up after that first round. Angel somehow managed to look both sheepish and proud at that fact, and pulled an extra shirt from the closet for him to wear. He’d gladly have let Spike go around shirtless if there was time for him to be distracted further by the finely-muscled beauty of his chest. 

Watching as Spike buttoned up the too-big shirt, Angel felt his cock stir yet again, the demon rumbling in contentment at the sight. Some things even a soul couldn’t change and the particular pull of possessiveness he felt for his golden Childe had failed to fade away over the past century, no matter how hard he had tried to tamp it down. Seeing Spike in his shirt, the fresh Sire mark just visible above the collar, sent a thrill down his spine he hadn’t felt in too long. 

Forcing himself to turn away from the beautiful blonde before he ripped the clothes right back off of him, Angel finished getting dressed as Spike pulled on his boots and went out to the living room to retrieve his duster, lighting a cigarette as he walked back into the bedroom. 

“So, what goodies were you plannin’ on packing up to scarper off with, luv?” Spike leaned against the dresser as he took a drag from the cigarette, a put-on pout forming on his lips when Angel crossed over to him and plucked it from his lips to take a puff from it himself. 

“Well, aside from the cooler of blood in the fridge and the toys on the table, I really only planned on taking some of the clothes. Nothing else here was really much to my taste, anyway, and the few things that were have already been moved over to the Hyperion. But, if there’s anything you have your eye on, feel free, I’ll drop it all off at the hotel after the meeting.”

“Wouldn’t mind raiding that liquor cabinet, they kept you well and truly stocked up on the good stuff and it’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Angel chuckled and handed the cigarette back to Spike, walking over to the closet and pulling out two duffle bags out and handing one to him. Spike took one last pull from his smoke and stubbed it out on the wood of the dresser before heading out to pilfer the booze. Angel set about emptying the closet and drawers of the clothes he liked best and collected the handcuffs, lube and various other items from the bedside table before zipping up the duffle and following Spike through the suite. He set the bag by the elevator and fetched the cooler of blood from the kitchen, returning to find Spike eyeing the various knick-knacks.

“Any of these things collectibles, you figure? Only, just wonderin’ what we would do for dosh once that company card of yours gets cancelled…”

Angel smiled slyly at Spike and pulled him away from the painting he was inspecting, the duffle bag in his hand clinking as the glass bottles were jostled. 

“Trust me, Spike, I’ve planned very well for this. Managed to set away a few million dollars just in case the Senior Partners keep us on the run for a while. We’re more than set.” 

“You stashed how much?!” Spike’s eyes widened in disbelief, looking for all the world like he’d just seen Angel sprout a second head.

“Fourteen million, give or take. Helps when you can bullshit about having palms to grease and the Partners can’t track the cash. And, if a few harmless, yet rather valuable artifacts happen to turn up missing from the vaults, well…” 

“Lord, Angel, good to know all that penny-pinchin’ of yours amounted to something. At least we won’t be livin’ off scraps if we survive.” Spike followed behind Angel as they walked over to the elevator. “Guess this makes you my Sugar Daddy, then, eh, Peaches?”

Angel groaned and resisted the urge to turn around and cuff Spike upside the head as he pressed the button for the elevator doors. As he picked up the duffle bag, Spike turned him around to look up at him, his face once again serious.

“Hey, if the worst comes, couldn’t think of a better last day. Came here expectin’ you to toss me out flat on my arse, laughin’ all the while. ‘Stead, you gave me more than I ever dared to hope for, you gave me you. Thank you for that, Angel.”

Angel shouldered his bag and stepped closer, reaching up to brush his thumb softly over Spike’s cheekbone, the blonde’s love for him flowing through their bond in full force and hitching an unnecessary breath in his throat. Spike stared up at him, his eyes clear and bright as they hadn’t been in a long time. Angel dipped his head down and captured his lips in a relatively tame - for them - kiss, his nose brushing across Spike’s as he pulled away. 

“Thank you for taking me back, Spike.”

A soft purr rumbled in Spike’s chest as the two of them stepped into the elevator, more determined than ever to see them through the night. 

Spike pulled the Viper into the apartment building’s garage with Angel close behind in the recently tinted Plymouth, and stepped out of the car on slightly shaky legs. Angel got out of the Plymouth and came to stand next to him, his eyes narrowing in concern as he took in the look on Spike’s face. 

“What? Will, what is it?”

“Think the Claim’s kickin’ in a bit now that there were more than a few feet between us. Heard you, in my ‘ead, naggin’ me ‘bout my driving. Was bloody unnervin’.”

“Oh,” Angel breathed a sigh of relief with a soft smile. “So, I guess that was why you swerved three lanes over about three miles back?”

“Well, yeah...didn’t you hear cussin’ a blue streak?”

Spike looked a little crestfallen at the possible imbalance in the progression of their Claims and Angel hated having to shake his head no.

“Try it now, think something at me.”

Still angry ‘bout that jibe at my drivin’, ponce. Least I don’t drive like some soddin’ Grandma who forgot how to shift bloody gears. 

Angel watched Spike’s face bunch up in grumpy concentration as he waited for the blonde to think something in his direction, soon becoming unnerved when a minute passed and his head stayed British accent-free. 

“Well?”

Spike’s frown deepened and he tried again, shutting his eyes to focus better.

Stupid bloody git, I drive just fine thanks very much. Not everyone has to compensate for that beach umbrella you call a forehead.

When Angel failed to growl at the insult, Spike’s frown fell into a pout, his shoulders slumping in defeat. 

“Nothin’? Not even a whisper?”

“Sorry, Spike. Wait…” Angel decided to try to direct his thoughts at Spike to test the connection. Will...can you hear me still? “Anything?”

“Not a blip.”

“Well, maybe it was just a one-off, then. I wouldn’t let it get you worked up, Spike, I’m surprised it happened at all so soon. From what I know, the effects take time to form. At least we can already sense each other better, that’s something.”

“Yeah, I suppose.” Spike sighed wistfully. “Was just lookin’ forward to bein’ able to broadcast naughty thoughts at ya when the others are ‘round, though.”

Angel scoffed and shook his head and started walking towards the stairs that led to Spike’s basement apartment. 

“Believe me, Spike, your eyes are expressive enough for me to get the very inappropriate gist nine times out of ten.”

“Still, it’d be nice to have the back-up for that tenth time.”

Spike and Angel stepped into his apartment to find Wes and Illyria still there, Wes hovering protectively at Illyria’s side as he helped her from the bed. Spike became all too aware now of how big Angel’s button-down was on him and how fresh their Siring scars looked on their necks as Wesley looked between them, his brow raised knowingly. Even with the heat of embarrassment that tingled at the back of his neck, he couldn’t find reason to put more space between himself and Angel, and he was happy to note, rather, how Angel pressed closer beside him, his large hand resting at the small of his back.

“I see the two of you spent the day...productively.”

Spike surreptitiously tasted the air to gauge Angel’s reaction, relieved to find a happy calmness rolling off of him instead of the expected sense of discomfort, and relaxed into his soft touch. 

“We’ve worked out some things that should have been settled months ago, yes.” Angel smiled wistfully at the ex-Watcher. “We won’t traumatize you with the details.”

Wes gave a quiet chuckle and nodded in understanding. Spike noticed how Wesley smelled considerably less of alcohol than he had the previous few weeks and was glad the man wouldn’t be going into this foray quite so compromised.

“Well, I’m happy for you both, truly. We’ve all been waiting months for you to finally gather the courage to admit to each other what had already become obvious to the rest of us. I’m glad you both will be going into this with the truth of your souls made known. And don’t think for a second that I begrudge you it, either of you.”

“Ta for that, Percy.” Spike leaned into Angel’s side and nodded at Wes, his soul twinging at the sadness he felt for the mystic and his loss. “Means a lot, from you.”

“Thank you, Wes. Really. You, more than any of the others, know the importance of the step we’ve taken. But, I want you to know we’re not going to let it distract us from whatever blowback we have to face tonight.”

Wes nodded in understanding, a sad smile on his face. 

“I know. I trust you both to have taken all due considerations beforehand.” Wes looked over at Spike. “Gunn and Lorne will be here soon, you might want to change into something less telling...unless we have an hour for all the sordid details and all of Lorne’s inevitable questions?”

“Right.” 

Spike ducked his head and reluctantly left Angel’s side to change his shirt. He could feel Angel’s cheeky mirth and heard him clear as day when he spoke too softly for Wesley to hear. 

“Too bad. I was getting used to seeing you wearing my clothes.”

“Possessive bastard”, Spike whispered back with a smile in his voice.

Angel chuckled quietly, the sound cutting off abruptly as he caught Illyria’s gaze, her head tilted curiously at him. 

“I do not understand. Why should it matter if he wears the clothes of his mate?” Illyria looked down at Wesley for clarification on the matter, and Angel found himself regarding them with his own curiosity. They seemed to have formed a tenuous bond of their own in the past few days, and he could scent a sense of companionship burgeoning deep within them. His soul took comfort in the slight easing of Wesley’s grief, even if it wasn’t likely to last. “Even the base creatures of this world seem to carry the scent of their mates with them, on them, when they must be apart, why should the half-breeds be any different?”

Wes huffed a soft laugh, not quite looking at her as he spoke.

“Sometimes, the full details of the intimacies between two people are preferred to be kept secret. Not for the lack of understanding, but simply to have something that is just theirs. Displaying themselves as something other than they previously were perceived to be can lead to prying questions into matters better left private, especially in the early days of a change in dynamics.” Wesley looked at Angel, his eyes portraying just how much he truly understood what had gone on between Spike and himself. “Lorne, as a demon himself, may appreciate the delicacies of such matters, but the empath in him might find it hard to resist boasting of his foresight of such partakings. Charles is another matter, entirely. He has a penchant for not being able to read the room and asking the awkward questions others would politely refrain from inquiring upon.”

Illyria looked like she had even more questions than answers, but before she could open her mouth to speak them, Spike returned and silenced her with a look. Angel wondered at that, at what things may have passed between them during the hours they had logged in the firm’s training rooms for her haughtiness to be quieted so easily. 

“Enough of the lessons on demon relations, Perce. Blue don’t really need complex understandin’ of what makes vampires tick right now, you’d only succeed in spinning her godly little head in circles. And not a word to the other two, they don’t need the distraction.”

Spike sat himself on the couch just as the sound of footsteps on the stairs reached Angel’s ears, signalling Lorne and Gunn’s approach. Just as the doorknob turned, Angel let out a quiet mine, and Spike’s eyes flashed golden as he mouthed always back at him.

Charles entered the apartment first and promptly sat down on the couch beside Spike with a nod in Angel’s direction. Lorne lingered by the door for a few seconds, his red eyes widening as they flicked between Angel and Spike and narrowing again as he looked over at Wes and Illyria. Another look at Angel, his mouth opening to speak and shutting again when Angel curtailed his questioning with a shake of his head. 

“Fine, don’t tell me all the glorious details then, Angelcakes. Just too bad it didn’t happen sooner so I could’ve collected that fifty bucks from Lloyd in accounting.” 

Lorne ignored Angel’s indignant grunt and went to lean against the kitchen table. Angel’s gaze lingered on the empath a second longer, disconcerted that he couldn’t quite gauge his emotions.

Once everyone settled, Angel stood before them all, the weight of the mission settling upon his shoulders once more and making him all business yet again. 

“This may come out a little pretentious, but...one of you will betray me.” Everyone looked over at Spike as he raised his hand, that wry look on his face, but Angel rolled his eyes and continued. “Wes.” 

Wes looked over at him, confused no doubt by his newly restored memories. His eyes narrowed as he waited for Angel to explain.

“Oh.” Spike deflated slightly but carried on, determined to push Angel’s buttons with his little passion play scenario. “Can I deny you three times?”

Angel could feel through the bond that Spike wasn’t serious, his emotions playful. No doubt just trying to keep the mood as light as possible in the given circumstances, so he refrained from growling at the blonde and kept his focus on the task.  

“Vail’s the sorcerer of the bunch. You know that game. You’ve seen his place. He believes you’d make a play for my spot.”

“That’s not very flattering.”

“It’ll get you in the door.” Angel turned his attention to Illyria as Wesley frowned in resignation. “Illyria, Izzerial the devil...and three other members of the Circle dine together almost every night.”

“I’ll make trophies of their spines.” The glint in her eyes left Angel suppressing a shudder and making a mental note to keep from getting on her bad side again.

“Good to have you on the team. Gunn-”

“Yo.” 

Angel could smell the trepidation that threaded through the grim determination that rolled off Charles, the young man hiding well how badly he needed to make tonight count for something. Angel understood all too well the lingering need for penance that he hid behind his seemingly composed state. He hoped Gunn wouldn’t let that need goad him into being too rash, hoped he wouldn’t get himself killed in his search for redemption.

“Your friend, Senator Brucker, has a campaign office in West L.A. You already know she’s pure hell spawn, and she tends to surround herself with vampires.”

“I was hopin’ it’d be vamps. Haven’t dusted nearly enough this year.” Charles turned to Spike, his hand out in placation. “No offense.”

“It’s alright.” Spike could feel the worry coming from Angel as he had spoken to Gunn, and shared in the elder vampire’s hopes that the boy wouldn’t be too rash in his actions. 

“Spike.”

“Right. First off, I’m not wearin’ any amulets.” Spike pushed himself up off the couch to face Angel directly. The two of them may have been closer than they had ever been in his entire unlife, but that wasn’t going to stop him from getting his digs in where he could. “No bracelets, brooches, beads, pendants, pins or rings.”

“Fine. All you need is a rattle.” A small, nearly smug grin pulled at Angel’s lips as he spoke.

“Ah, the baby.” Spike had been itching for a fight for a few days now, and this promised to be a good one; the Brethren were no small clan, they were sure to put up a ruckus at any attempt to take away their future sacrifice.

“And the legion of the Fell Brethren. I want the kid returned to his mother and the foster family dismembered.”

“Done and done”, Spike agreed as he returned to the couch.

“Archduke Sebassis has over 40,000 demons at his command.” Angel paced around the small space as he spoke, keeping his emotions carefully guarded from the non-humans in the room, especially Spike. Better to let them think he was simply taking on the old demon. “Other members of the council fear him. He’s the key player, so he’s mine. Lorne-”

“I’m not a fighter, Angelwings.” Angel paused in front of him. “Never had the stomach for it. Looks like I’m your weak link.”

“I just need you to back up Lindsey.”

Off to his side, Wesley spoke up.

“Still can’t believe you brought him into this.”

“He’s a part of this.” Angel paced again, feeling less like Patton rallying his troops and more like Leonidas condemning his warriors with every passing second and had to remind himself that they had all chosen freely to follow his plan. “It’ll be just as dangerous for him as it will be for everyone else on our team.” 

Clear that Angel was finished doling out their various tasks, everyone began to stand and ready themselves to leave. Charles, looking as nonchalant as possible with his hands in his pockets, caught Angel’s attention.

“So I guess we’re not goin’ back to the office after this.”

“The alley just north of the Hyperion. Everyone who makes it meets there. We do any damage at all, the Senior Partners are gonna rain hell on us. So be ready.”

Spike gave a nod of his head and headed into the kitchen for a beer as Lorne approached Angel.

“Hey, uh, Ange - I’ll do this last thing for you, for us, but then I’m out.” And there it was. The secret Angel had felt Lorne trying to hide. “And you won’t find me in the alley afterwards. Hell, you won’t find me at all. Do me a favor. Don’t try.”

Angel felt the loss of him already as he watched Lorne walk out of the apartment ahead of the others. He knew he owed it to the empath to honor his request, and hoped he made it through the fight with Sahrvin to enjoy his newfound lease on life. He also made a note to keep an eye out for any new acts in Vegas that might boast to be home to the green demon in case Lorne gave in to the temptation of fame again.

“Day went by fast, huh?”

Gunn, Wes, and Illyria headed to the door as Angel and Spike watched on, Spike drifting closer to Angel as the others spoke.

“Try not to die. You are not unpleasant to my eyes.”

“Uh, thanks. You...try not to die too.”

Angel quirked a brow over at Spike at that exchange and Spike merely smirked back at him. Neither vampire even wanted to try to work out Illyria’s thoughts. The three fighters by the door looked between each other, Wes and Gunn shaking hands with a sense of finality that spread across the room.

“Later, then”, Gunn spoke directly to Wes as he left, the shared grief over the woman they both had lost palpable between them, a bond unlike any other.

Wes turned back in the doorway and cast a meaningful look over at Angel and nodded imperceptibly, before he and Illyria followed Charles up the stairs. Angel relaxed minutely as Spike stepped up next to him to watch them leave.

“What do you think all this means for that Shanshu bugaboo?” Angel folded his arms as Spike spoke, his mind flitting back to the meeting with the Circle. “We make it through this, does one of us get to be a real boy?”

“Who you kidding? We’re not gonna make it through.” 

Spike scoffed, able to tell that Angel didn’t mean it.

“Well, long as it’s not you”, he teased, smirking when Angel rolled his eyes. 

“Doubt this would even count as the apocalypse it refers to anyway, Spike. We’re going to be the focus of the destruction, not the world. And, even then, we haven’t lived through the countless plagues mentioned in the prophecy.”

“Mm, true. Though, I think the Whirlwind may have counted as one of said plagues, given the body count we racked up.” Spike could smell the tension rolling off of Angel in thick waves and gave him a look-over, not ready to force his gaze away yet. “Say, you think we got a few minutes before we have to part ways? You seem to be in need of a bit of relaxing, luv, and I could do with a refresher of what it is I’m fighting for.”

Angel let out a soft growl, nostrils flaring as he scented Spike’s growing arousal. Before he knew it was coming, Spike found himself laid out on the threadbare couch, Angel hovering over him as he settled between his legs.

“Think I can spare ten minutes.”

“You’re not goin’ after Sebassis, are you? Not if you’ve got even that much flexibility in your schedule.”

“Always were so astute, Will. No, the Archduke’s already dead by now; it’s Hamilton I need to dispatch, now did you want to talk some more, or,” Angel palmed at Spike’s groin, pulling a moan from the blonde’s lips, “did you want to use the next eight minutes and thirty seconds helping me ‘relax’?”

“Fuck, Angel, what is it with you and bloody couches…”

Angel can smell Spike’s blood, even over the rain, feels the pull of the Claim urging him towards the end of the alley. Spike can hear Angel’s light footsteps, can smell the blood, his and Hamilton’s, and Connor’s lingering scent. He hopes the boy is safely away, for Angel’s sake. Family means everything to Angel just as it does him, even if the elder vampire was more reluctant to admit it, and Spike couldn’t bear to think about what would happen if they were to pull through this just for Angel to find out his son was lost. He waits till he hears the faint clink of chain-link as Angel reaches the fence before stepping out of the shadows. 

“Boo.”

Angel turns to face him, relief etched on his face. Spike steps up to him, leaning up to flick his tongue over the cut on his cheek to clean away the blood there before nuzzling him briefly. Angel’s fingers slip through his as they pull apart, dual purrs of reassurance just audible over the sound of the rain, each one trying to put the other at ease despite their own building discomforts as time passes without the others appearing.

“Anyone else?”

“Not so far. You feel the heat?” Spike can feel Angel’s nervousness wafting off of him, the rain doing nothing to temper the adrenaline rushing through them both, and presses closer to him.

“It’s comin’.” 

Angel dips his head to capture Spike’s lips in a fleeting kiss before pulling back. Spike tilts his face up into the rain briefly before speaking again. The Claim is screaming at him to drag Angel away to safety but he tamps it down, assures himself once more of the elder vampire’s ability to hold his own.

“Finally got ourselves a decent brawl.”

They’re so focused on each other, assessing their wounds, their emotions, they fail to hear or smell Gunn’s approach until his voice fills the air.

“Damn!” They both turned their heads to see Charles jogging up the alley towards them. “How’d I know the fang boys would pull through?” 

Angel and Spike hurry towards Gunn as he slows, his face drawn up in pain. 

“You’re lucky we’re on the same side, dogs, ‘cause I was on fire tonight. My game was...tight.”

Gunn came to a stop as they reached him, and they helped him to sit back against the alley wall, the smell of his blood reaching their noses over the rain. Gunn clutched his side with a grimace, blood seeping through his fingers.

“Supposed to wear that red stuff on the inside, Charlie boy.” Spike and Angel share a worried glance.

“Any word on Wes?”

Spike shook his head just as Illyria dropped from the roof of the building on the opposite side of the alley, landing in front of the battered trio.

“Wesley’s dead.” The three of them looked down in dismay. Spike and Angel both smell the faint trace of tears coming from her, and feel a pang of sadness and more than a little surprise at Illyria’s display of emotion. “I’m feeling grief for him. I can’t seem to control it. I wish to do more violence.” 

Spike hears the shouts and cries of the Senior Partners demon hordes growing closer and looks over at her, hardening himself for the closing battle. 

“Well, wishes just happen to be horses today.”

Angel looked up and beyond Spike, and sees the giant horde entering the alley. Various demons and monstrous creatures are making their way closer to them, boxing them in.

“Among other things.” Angel looked up at the sound of a loud screech and spotted a dragon flapping its leathery wings overhead.

“Okay. You take the 30,000 on the left”, Gunn’s voice quavers despite himself as he tries to be glib about the insurmountable odds before them.

Illyria wonders at the young human’s surprising conviction as he attempts the joke.

“You’re fading. You’ll last ten minutes at best.” 

Charles struggles to stand as the others face the demon army standing at the ready less than thirty feet away. 

“Then let’s make them memorable.”

The four of them take their stance across the width of the alley, steeling themselves for the fight.

“And in terms of a plan?” Spike directed his question at Angel, memories of past battles leading him to defer to the brunette.

“We fight.”

“Bit more specific?”

Angel stepped out in front of the others, doing his best to provide a protective shield, his every nerve tuned towards Spike’s position just slightly behind him and off to his right. 

”Well, personally, I kinda wanna slay the dragon.” The horde rushed towards them, and Angel braced his stance. “Let’s go to work.” 

He raised his sword as the army fell upon them, his Childe and the last vestiges of his family stepping into place beside him.

~~~~~

@thewhiterabbit42​ @prose-for-hire​ @highonbandcandy​ @laurensshitpost​ 

[anexplanationofunfortunateevents]

the voting ends today but the fight almost certainly does not

Republicans are filing increasingly desperate and ridiculous lawsuits trying – emphasis on TRYING – to have votes thrown out because they’re big old losers who know they can’t win legitimately.

If you’re the kind of person who can get into the weeds of federal court filings on elections, you probably already have your hair on fire. If you’re not, I don’t recommend picking up the habit right now. It’s just going to make your head swim. These are so incoherent and meritless that even our corrupt federal judiciary and plenty of conservative state judges have frequently brushed them off. I get the sense that Trump’s lawyers are more hoping to win those cases than trying to win them. What they seem to be trying to do with these lawsuits is some mix of the following dishonest things:

depress turnout by making people feel like he can just have their votes thrown out so why bother;

set something, anything, up on track for the Supreme Court, which Trumpworld is (not unreasonably) confident they have sufficiently corrupted;

create a general sense that there’s some authority other than the voters who get to decide this election.

That is what makes me think Trump’s plan to barricade himself in the White House and tweet out a declaration of victory the first moment Fox News reports a good exit poll for him is only mostly about his pathetic need to self-soothe with an autocratic display. He’s also making one last go-for-broke play for the public narrative. He thinks – again, not unreasonably – that if he says he won, then he’ll get a bunch of “Trump Declares Victory” headlines and chyrons, which puts a thumb on the scale in terms of how people frame any resulting developments in their own minds. It’s not a good strategy, it’s more of a hail Mary, but it’s the only potentially helpful option he’s left for himself.

All of this has, once again, summoned the specter of the 2000 election.

We can’t look one day into the future. But we might be able to prepare ourselves for it if we look about twenty years into the past.

There’s kind of a fable that’s built up around the 2000 Florida recount that Republicans were just tougher and savvier and wanted it more, while Democrats clumsily Ned Starked everything up. It’s important to reject that premise as fundamentally abhorrent. In a functioning democracy, campaign strategy is irrelevant after Election Day, because voters are in charge. The Gore campaign, to its credit, was buying into the basic premise of democracy, and had therefore planned their campaign around trying to win an election fair and square. When you punish or condemn people for that, you are ceding ground to the fascists and agreeing to fight on their terms.

The Bush campaign was just fundamentally not operating from the premise of democracy, but from the premise that elections are merely a weak opening bid from the electorate. Before anyone even knew there would be a recount, they had already gamed out a scenario where they could win even if they lost. The contingency they’d planned for, that struck them as most likely, was actually that Gore would win the Electoral College but Bush would win the popular vote. They planned out a whole pressure campaign to create enough of an uproar to give some friendly Republican state legislatures somewhere just enough of an excuse to award electors to Bush even if their constituents had voted for Gore. That wasn’t the scenario they ended up facing, of course. But when you do those kind of war games, you have to think about what your opponent would do, which means the Bush team was ready to hit the ground running with a whole bunch of things they had been expecting Gore’s campaign to do. The core point of whatever they were going to do was always to create an excuse for the nuclear option of having Republican state legislators send Republican electors to install George W. Bush no matter what their voters wanted.

One major difference between then and now is that generation of Republicans knew what they were doing was abnormal and wrong, so they kept it under wraps. Now they’re so high on their own supply that they brag about it to The Atlantic, because they genuinely don’t realize that people will object and try to stop them if they give up the element of surprise.

In 2000, the nuclear option of state legislatures just ignoring their voters to install Bush was not something the Gore campaign could have reasonably foreseen, and even if they did have an in-house psychic to warn them about it, it’s not something they could have realistically stopped except by winning with the biggest margin possible, which they were already trying to do. In 2020, Republicans are basically trying to run the same play, but against Democrats who very much are as prepared as they could possibly be, and by “Democrats,” I mean Democrats at every level. Inside the campaign, Biden campaign senior adviser Ron Klain ran Gore’s recount effort in Florida, and is therefore the last person to have any illusions about the opposition. Their lawyers are fucking beasts. Outside the campaign, Democratic voters have already voted, dragged their friends out to vote, and are amped for whatever fight tomorrow brings.

And, unlike 2000, any formal government processes are going to have to go through House Speaker Nancy D’Alessandro Pelosi, and honey, she is not having it. Remember, Pelosi has already thwarted not one but two Trump regime connivances to steal elections. In 2018, she successfully deterred any attempt to undermine Democrats’ midterm victory. And with her crisp, digestible, precision strike impeachment strategy, she neutered the HUNTERGAZI plot that Trump had every intention of using to sabotage the election this year. (God only knows what other schemes she headed off by making an example out of the pressure campaign against Zelensky. Any foreign leader or official who might have been tempted to cave under similar pressure by Trump got put on notice that trying to appease him quietly was not going to make their lives any less complicated.) No wonder she felt emboldened to tell the Trumpist wing of the Supreme Court to sit their asses down if they know what’s good for them.

What Democrats – and other small-d democrats and progressives – can do, we’re doing. You need to take heart from that, and brace yourself for a couple of stressful weeks.

Unfortunately, we can’t control everything. We can’t control what Trump will do to seize the narrative, and we can’t do much about how the press responds. And again, I’d point back to 2000 as a cautionary tale. Did you know that most of the networks actually called the race right, and they did it pretty fast? It’s true! Early-ish that night, they called Florida for Gore. And, as a subsequent investigation showed, Gore got more votes in Florida! But the ballot count was tighter than it should have been – a lot of registered voters who were likely to have preferred Gore were kicked off the rolls in a racist purge – so they did a reasonable thing and retracted the initial analysis to say the state was too close to call.

I did say most of the networks. I’ll give you one guess which was the outlier. John Ellis – head of the decision desk (ie, the decision of when to call a race for one candidate or the other) at Fox News and first cousin of candidate George Bush and Florida Governor Jeb Bush – somehow knew something about the Florida vote count that the Associated Press didn’t. Late that night, as Gore’s numbers were actually ticking up, Ellis called Florida for Bush. (I might’ve been more circumspect making those implications five years ago, but these people have forcefully rejected the benefit of the doubt.) The other networks, embarrassed by the earlier retraction and exhausted after a long night, leapt after Ellis like lemmings in five minutes flat.

This created a narrative that seamlessly dovetailed with the Bush campaign’s evolving strategy: a Bush win was a fait accompli, so why was sore loser Gore insisting on this recount, wasn’t it taking way too long? Of course, the truth was that nobody actually wins an election before the votes are counted, so if Bush really wanted to get this over with, why was he so resistant to having so many votes counted even once?

Because, of course, while Bush’s top campaign people were out in front of the press loftily insisting that this recount was an irrelevant waste of the country’s time and attention, Republican lawyers were down in Florida doing everything they could to run out the clock. Deadline after deadline loomed and then passed with a bunch of Federalist Society hacks badgering and haggling over every single ballot. Said Federalist Society hacks included John Roberts, Brett Kavanaugh, and Amy Coney Barrett.

So legal correspondents and voting rights advocates, unfortunately, aren’t crazy to have their hair on fire about the Supreme Court once again doing what happened next in 2000: the court ordered all the counts to stop until arguments that it scheduled for the day before an arbitrary deadline. Then they handed down a decision that even they knew was so incoherent and indefensible that they said it wasn’t supposed to be used as precedent in any other case, even though the Supreme Court’s job for over two hundred years had been to hand down rulings that lower courts could use as precedent.

(Seriously. Guys. If Doc Brown ever tosses you the keys to his DeLorean, your mission is to go back to 1999 and run Chief Justice Rehnquist over with it. Then – and this is important – back up and run over him again. Twice. Then you can go buy stock in Google or feed Trump to zombie vampire bats or hit up a Borders or whatever.)

If you’re not really familiar with this story, you’re saying “wait, what? Why did people stand for this bullshit?” FAIR QUESTION. There are a lot of reasons, though no excuses. One reason that’s been previously underrated, I guess, is that Bush hadn’t spent the week before the election running around telling everyone who would listen that “what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna make ourselves a huge pain in the ass while people are trying to count votes, and then we’re gonna whine about, ‘why is it taking so long to count all these votes?’ Heh heh heh.”

If he had … well, I’m pretty sure at least 538 Floridians would have been alarmed enough to make a better choice than they ultimately did.

I always want to be able to share an action item. This time, I can’t. (Unless you can vote but haven’t yet, in which case, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON TUMBLR, GET YOUR ASS IN LINE AND STAY THERE.) I don’t know what the world is going to look like six hours from now. It’s entirely possible that there’s a Biden blowout big enough that Trump just gives up and flees the country. But assume we’re not going to get to take the easy way out of this. Get organized and stay fired up. WE RIDE AT DAWN, unless Florida and/or Texas breaks our way by 10:30, in which case, WE DRINK AT 10:31.

[flowerbeom]

Go For Broke | 03

Im Jaebeom x Older Female!Reader

Genre: Fuckboy!AU, Aspiring Songwriter!AU, Slow Burn, Angst/Humour/Smut (loads)

Warnings: Incredibly mature themes, Swearing, Explicit smut scenes.

Word Count: 3.1k

Concept: Premier fuckboy Im Jaebeom is used to getting his way.  Though, he wants more, he craves more. He wants his music to be heard, he wants his music to be loved. So when he learns that the attractive woman he buys records from has an connection that’ll get him into the industry, he uses every trick in his book to get in.  Seduction is his game, and he plays to win.

A/N: The ride continues.... Also this chapter is dedicated to my honey, Valentina. Happy birthday, gorgeous. 

All GIF credits for this series go to @defsenses.

→  Mood Board →  Series Index

Jaebeom palmed the beads of sweat that rolled down the edges of his brow that collected at the corners of his mouth. Sitting flat on his ass, he was bent over, head almost between his knees; Jaebeom fought against his rapid heartbeat to make his chest rise and fall slowly to catch his breath. His entire body tingled, as if he could feel his blood racing through every vein and tried to blink away the little white dots that were invading his field of vision. His arm shook when it lifted the bottle of water to his lips. Jaebeom grimaced when he had to palm away sweat and whatever he couldn’t pour into his mouth. He was done. 

It took two hours. Two hours for Yugyeom to teach Jaebeom the choreography he had been diligently creating for the last week. It took two hours because Jaebeom only had two hours. He had work that morning. And despite the absolute confusion Yugyeom felt carve into his face when Jaebeom called him at five-am to ask him if he was at his studio and if he was free to ‘hang out’ - which always meant that he had some issue he rather not talk about but needed to be around someone so he could figure it out in his head and dancing just so happened to be the best method to do that  - Yugyeom happily told him to come down. 

And Yugyeom knew that, it had been that way for years. So, in front of fogging mirrors and music that was probably too loud to be playing before the sun had even fully risen, Yugyeom taught Jaebeom every step he had poured blood, sweat and ramen flavoured tears into. And by the end of the two hours, Jaebeom hit every one of them perfectly. Yugyeom was impressed. Jaebeom was exhausted. So he crawled to the shower. Yes, crawled. He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. Yugyeom had seen worse. Much worse. 

On two feet, Jaebeom returned to the studio to find Yugyeom sitting on the floor; his long legs crossed beneath him - the straw from his juicebox sitting perfectly in the centre of his perfectly pursed lips. Roughly rubbing the towel through his hair, Jaebeom waved a dismissing hand when Yugyeom looked up and pointed a suggestive finger towards his juicebox; Yugyeom was all the sweetness Jaebeom needed that morning. 

Jaebeom awkwardly flopped to the ground, legs spilling out in front of him before neatly folding them beneath him. He heard Yugyeom hum in his throat, an excited pitch that made him lift his eyes from his otherwise blank phone to Yugyeom’s otherwise occupied expression.

“Hyung, are you free Sunday? Youngjae-hyung wants to go bowling.” Jaebeom’s eyes dropped to his phone again, still blank. 

“This Sunday, you mean tomorrow?” Yugyeom nodded with the full axis range of his neck. “I can’t, sorry.” 

“Oh, that’s okay!” Yugyeom’s smile was proof he didn’t really mind, his eyes disappearing behind the swell of his cheeks. “Are you working?” 

“No I’m meeting someone.” Yugyeom’s playful innocence couldn’t let it go. 

“Oh what for?” Jaebeom closed his eyes for a moment, pulling in a shallow breath that stung his teeth before releasing it through his nose. 

“A, umm..” Jaebeom didn’t know what else to call it. “I’ve got a date.” 

"A date? Hyung that's so cool! I wish I had time for dates, I don't even know what day it is.” A verbal tidal wave was coming, and Jaebeom braced for impact. 

“Is she pretty? I bet she's pretty. I mean look at you, of course she'd be pretty. Not that I’ve been looking at you, I mean you're attractive, but I’m not into you like that.” Yugyeom paused for breath, then saw Jaebeom’s jaw drop slightly and Yugyeom’s eyes shot open. 

“But if I was, then of course I would be! You're really pretty for a man! Not saying that men can't be pretty, but you're like extra handsome. You're just very appealing, so obviously the girl you're going out with would be pretty. Unless you're shallow, but you're not. Right? You're not shallow, of course you're not shallow but I bet she's still pretty. Should I stop talking now?" 

Yugyeom’s lips were pulled back in a toothy grimace as his shaking eyes tried to read Jaebeom’s expression. Jaebeom’s right eye was twitching, his mouth fallen open in disbelieving awe at all the words that tumbled out of Yugyeom’s mouth. Though, at the very corner of his lips was the faintest trace of a smile. Yugyeom’s tension released when Jaebeom’s chest emptied with a gentle sigh. 

“No, you’re right.” Jaebeom’s eyes veered from Yugyeom’s soft gaze to the very corner of his memory. “She is pretty.” 

Saturday’s were busy, they were always busy. But by eleven in the morning, the steady stream of customers that flowed in and out of your store had already left you wishing you had hired that sprightly little nineteen year old who came in three months prior asking for a part-time job but refused her because you knew she only wanted the job because of the good looking waiter across the street who had caught her eye. You had seen the exchange of looks and one-sided flirtatious banter before she walked in that day. And sure, Jaebeom did look exceptionally good that day, but you weren’t going to put yourself through that potential headache; no matter how much help you needed at that moment. 

Though despite how busy it was, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. As if you could feel the burn of scrutinizing eyes and it made you tense; rattling you every time you turned away from the front door. 

While ushering a customer to the shoegaze section, you felt a chill run up your spine; the burning sensation replaced rather quickly with ice. Turning sharply, you caught the eyes of a beanie-clad, gentleman whose posture was straighter than anything you had ever seen before and watched him avert his gaze clumsily onto his phone he was juggling equally as clumsily in his hands. You squinted, confused and a little uncomfortable but let your head follow your body as you turned to answer the shoegaze-loving customer’s question at the counter. 

It was midway through putting through the sale when you could feel eyes on you once again; sharper, more intense than before and it made you shiver. Lifting your gaze from your hands as you gave Mr. Shoegaze his change, you braced for clumsy eyes but found alarmingly bolder ones instead. 

“Kid...” Jaebeom slid his shoulder across the door-frame to let Mr. Shoegaze pass, a flat white balanced perfectly on the saucer in his hand. You went to speak, but Jaebeom pushed off his shoulder to approach the counter, placing the coffee down - almost directly into your hand. 

“Yes, I know you asked for these to come in take-away cups, but you know Mr. A..” Jaebeom delayed when you nodded meekly. 

“He likes it when you return the cup.” His tone dry. 

“And I bet he likes watching me leave even more.” Said directly into the lip of the cup as you took a sip; smirking when you caught Jaebeom bury a laugh behind a cocked brow and hollowed cheeks. You stopped yourself from imagining the glances Jaebeom spared you whenever you walked away from him. On the other hand, Jaebeom let his imagination take reign. 

Jaebeom slowly slid his hands into the pockets of his apron as his eyes wandered from your hands that wrapped delicately around the cup to your eyes that seemed to blink in slow motion.

“About tomor..” 

The rest of Jaebeom’s question stuttered to a halt in his throat when you quickly placed the cup down and shifted your focus to the group of customers that entered the store. You watched them quietly approach racks they seemed be accustomed with and sift through records like regulars. And after a second of inspection, you realised - they were regulars. Picking up the cup, you took another swig of caffeine you seemed to have really needed and let your eyes swing back to Jaebeom. 

“Sorry, you were saying?” Jaebeom exhaled thinly. 

“About tomorrow, have you decided where you wanted to go?” You saw his jaw tick though his eyes were soft. Black pools of undiscerning warmth that unnerved you as you stood across from him. 

“Ahhh, no. Sorry. I’ve been really bus-” And as if cued by the universe to show just how busy you were, a customer approached the counter with a bundle of records in hand, cutting off your explanation and leaving Jaebeom to shuffle back towards the door. All you could do was mouth apologies as you juggled vinyl and cash. 

“Hi - Sorry - just those ones today? - I’ll message you - Yeh, no problem!” Jaebeom took in a sharp breath and let it out laboriously through his nose; vexed - but nodded; resigning again to waiting for you to message. Something he had never done with anyone before you. Jaebeom felt his neck flare at the thought as he watched you for a moment before he turned slowly out the door. 

Crossing the street languidly, Jaebeom almost made it the couple at table three who waved at him gingerly to take their order before he felt a hand cup his shoulder. Jaebeom shifted his weight onto his back foot and angled his chin over his shoulder; his eyes catching your body glide around him to stand in his path.  

He felt your hand slide under his to lift it, turning over his palm to place the cup and saucer in it. Jaebeom tensed, possibly for he suddenly understood what made Mr. Abramski love denying you take-away cups; seeing you that close was unraveling. Your smile was kind, as if you had seen the flush of irritation swarm Jaebeom’s face when you had sent him off.

“Hey.” Hand still cupping the underside of his. 

“Hey?” Jaebeom’s eyes flickered and you drew back your hand, pulling at the hem of your t-shirt for no reason other than to wipe the warmth of Jaebeom’s hand off of it. 

“Sorry about before.”

“It’s fine.” Your eyes locked in his gaze and it made you forget what you ran across the street to say. Jaebeom’s head tipped slightly, a physical cue for you to finish what you started; but you had never really looked at him before. That sprightly nineteen year old was onto something after all. Jaebeom’s head tipped further and when you still didn’t speak, he swallowed slowly enough for your eyes to follow his adam’s apple carve down his neck. 

“I should really get back to work.” But Jaebeom didn’t move, his feet stayed planted directly across from yours. A gesture of fortitude not lost on you. 

“Yeh, shit sorry. But about tomorrow…” Jaebeom’s straightened, minutely, but enough to make you bite the edge of your lip. 

“Umm, meet me on the corner of 12th and Hoyeon Avenue, in South District. There’s a bar there I like. Okay?” The edge of your lip was between your teeth again, and Jaebeom tugged on his sanity that got hurled through a metaphorical window when he caught himself staring at it for more than a few seconds. 

“Is around eight alright?” You asked before he could respond to the first suggestion, acutely aware of the large European owner beckoning from behind the coffee machine and the beanie-clad sir obviously watching your interaction from behind his breakfast burrito whilst failing at trying not to seem obvious. You hummed through pouted lips and Jaebeom twitched at the sound.  

“Ahh yeh. Yeh, that sounds good.” Jaebeom raked back his fringe before leaving his hand to rest on the back of his neck; eyes cast to the horizon. “12th and Hoyeon. Eight o’clock. Sure.” 

Flatly tapping Jaebeom on the arm as you grinned with satisfaction, you jogged back to your store; bowing apologetically for making a regular wait to speak to you. Jaebeom finally moved, tearing his eyes away from your hospitable smile and towards table three; but was stopped by clumsy eyes. 

“Smooth.” Jackson condescended. Jaebeom glared.  

“You have avocado on your nose.” Jackson scraped the back of his hand across his face.

“What the fuck, man!” Jackson, marred with embarrassment, threw a questioning scowl at Jaebeom. He only replied with a shrug, choosing to ignore Jackson hurl curses under his breath. 

He was nothing but absentminded for the rest of his shift, repeating the address he was given in his head over and over again. Jaebeom knew exactly where you wanted to go. He knew it all too well. 

Jaebeom checked his reflection in the window of the umpteenth empty store he passed on his walk to meet you. Pulling the sleeve of his white long-sleeve shirt out to show beneath the cuff of his denim jacket. Jaebeom gave his outfit of choice another once over; from his low profile white sneakers to the black slacks he opted over jeans. Jaebeom wasn’t sure why he was being so critical of his appearance, or why he had spent the majority of that day cleaning his already clean apartment all so he didn’t spin out of control just staring at the clock until it was time to get ready and leave. 

Jaebeom didn’t know why he cared at all. This date, this whole thing with you, everything about you was a business transaction. Nothing more. A simple manipulation of lust and longing to get what he wanted. But Jaebeom knew deep down what would happen if he wasn’t careful. 

Jaebeom carded his hands through his hair and down his cheeks before slapping them hard against his face to knock him back on track. You would not win. Firmly pulling down the front of his jacket, Jaebeom steeled himself with a thick inhale only for it to hang suspended in his throat when his phone began to ring in his pocket. A thin sigh floated through his lips until he saw the name on the screen; a quiet smile replacing his frown.

“Hey Dad.” Jaebeom turned away from the window, his feet leading him without thought. 

“Yeh, I’m good. You, you alright?” Jaebeom laughed, unabashedly; in the way only his Dad could make him. 

“Yeh, yeh sure. I bet. Anyway, how’s the tour?” Jaebeom cast his eyes to the shifting moon in the distant sky; still veiled with the glow from the setting summer sun - only showing the very boldest of its charms. Jaebeom turned onto Hoyeon Ave without realising he was even there. 

“Dad, that’s amazing. I told you! And no, come on. We talked about this already.” Jaebeom pulled his index finger along the bottom of his nose, fingertip grazing across his cheek; a childish tick he never grew out of. 

“No, Dad. I want to do it on my own. I appreciate the offer, but I want it to be because I made it. Not because I’m your son. Please. Just let me try.” Jaebeom fiddled with the chain of his necklace, fingertips gliding along the silver while his thumb traced the edge of the pendant. 

“Okay okay, maybe! Next time you’re in town. How’s Camille?” Jaebeom crossed 14th then found his feet frozen midway to 13th. 

“What do you mean she left you?” Jaebeom’s free hand lifted to his nape, fingers rubbing the top vertebrae aggressively as he listened to his father. Concerned lines etched between his brows, his foot kicking loose pebbles across the pavement; his father’s sadness soaking into his chest. 

“Dad, I--, I know you don’t want me to say this, but I told you not to take her on tour with you. I knew she wasn’t going to stick around. Da-- Dad. Dad, come on.” Jaebeom raked back his hair with more hostility than before and let his head fall back; a silent plea to the heavens.

“I’m just sick of watching you get hurt, Dad! I’m sick of watching you get your heart broken! Ever since Mum di--..” Jaebeom slapped a hand onto his mouth, muffling the groan in his throat and tore at his face under the grip of his fingertips. Tears threatening to fall. 

“No, no don’t you dare put this back on me.” His voice had lowered to a thin sabre, piercing quietly through the air with as much viciousness a man fuelled by anguish could be. His feet began to move again, marching down Hoyeon Ave, unaware how close he was getting to the corner of 12th. 

“Dad, this isn’t about me, I’m fine.” And then Jaebeom saw you. Standing beside a lamp-post, leaning one shoulder against it; one ankle crossed over the other, both hands resting in the pockets of your leather jacket. Jaebeom’s body shivered to a halt; a restless calm washing over him and tilted his head into the phone placed against his ear. 

“Yeh, I know. I miss you, too.” A playful breeze lifted your hair off your shoulder; strands caressing your face and Jaebeom watched you rock your head back to shake your hair behind your shoulders. His eyes followed your face as it angled to the horizon, the amber and magenta hue of the sunset painting your face in golden light. Jaebeom thumbed the edge of his bottom lip, a breath slipping past it. 

“I love you too, Dad.” Jaebeom’s hands dipped into his pants pockets, burying his phone deep into the fabric. Upon taking a step off the curb, Jaebeom met your eyes as they lifted to spot him crossing the road. He smiled, almost too tenderly and watched you step away from the lamp-post towards him; the hem of your crimson red dress dancing across your thighs as you approached. 

Jaebeom could hear your leather boots click against the pavement in high-definition; the intensity of your stare keeping his eyes glued on your face. Jaebeom forced his smile to drop to leave a smolder to paint across his face; eyes alluring, his expression matching yours. 

You met a foot apart, the peak of your lips outlined by honeyed-light and Jaebeom fought the urge to stare at them. He bit down his tongue's desire to push a swallow down his throat when your mouth opened; the deep pink plumpness of your lips curving to speak. 

“Hey, Kid.” Jaebeom’s eyes flickered for the split second you bit your bottom lip. “Ready to go?”

With a tick of his jaw and the sound of your voice edging him on, Jaebeom was ready.  For you, he had to be. 

[sholiofic]

I'd really love any alternate-POV snippets for Black Water Rising? The tension and character interactions and just everything about that one is /amazing/.

Link to the original story: Can be read here, for context.

Since the entire fic is in Peggy's POV, we never got to see the Jack or Daniel scenes when they're not with her. So this is their side of the scene after Peggy leaves them alone, before Jack swims to the hangar, when he tells Daniel the Okinawa story.

(And thank you!!)

---

"So, Daniel," Jack said, floating just below him. "I'm basically a shit."

"Gee, really?" Daniel glanced up; Peggy was walking away briskly, the bobbing light of her flashlight reflecting across the wet floor until it vanished into the nearest hallway. "I hadn't noticed."

"Ha ha. You're a riot."

Daniel tried to rearrange himself on the floor so he could see through the bars more easily. He couldn't crouch; he had to sit flat on the floor, while water drained around him into Jack's crypt. A ticking clock, counting down.

It occurred to him that just now might be the first time Jack had ever called him by his first name.

"You know, whatever you want to say to me, I dunno if it's worth the time you're wasting here," Daniel said. "Peggy's idea is only going to work if you get moving."

"I know," Jack said through chattering teeth. Floating on his back in the water, he looked like a drowned man already, ghost-pale in the beam of Daniel's flashlight. "But there's something I need to tell you. In case ... you know."

Daniel didn't bother with reassurances or platitudes. They'd both seen combat; they'd both been the recipient of deathbed confessions before. He'd never noticed Jack being especially reticent in front of Peggy, but clearly whatever he had to say was something he didn't want her to know about. Daniel had a feeling he probably didn't want to hear it either -- He got some girl in the family way and he has a kid in England? He's not really Jack Thompson, just a guy in the service who took the real Thompson's credentials -- Okay, the cold was making him loopy now.

But whatever it was that was weighing on Jack's mind, there was really only one thing a guy could do when confronted with that sort of confession. And Daniel's discomfort -- flat on his ass in ice-cold water, muscles cramping with cold, hands chewed to bruised dog meat from the digging he'd been doing -- paled in comparison to his need to bear witness in what might be Jack's final minutes of life.

"I'm listening," he said, when Jack went silent. "Go on."

Jack sucked in a breath. "So, the Navy Cross. The war hero thing. All of that. You know?"

"There's no way I could not know, Jack," Daniel said, and he couldn't stop a short laugh. "You talk about it all the time." Though, come to think of it, it hadn't come up since Dooley died and Jack got the promotion. Maybe all that talk had been less ego than bluster, trying to cement a place for himself among the men in the bullpen. Not that it made it any less annoying --

"It's a lie," Jack said. "It never happened."

The words fell into a sudden silence, broken only by the thousand subtle variations on water splashing, dripping, falling around them, filling up the world, flooding Jack's grave.

"How so?" Daniel said. There was no time to -- react, really; he had to get whatever Jack needed to say out of him, before all their time was gone. "You made it up, never got the award, or what?" He'd met people like that, of course. There were always people who lied about things like that. Flatfeet who served out the war in a Jersey shipyard and then made up a big story about how they ran across two miles of enemy fire, took out a Jerry machine gun and saved their whole squad.

But usually they were pretty easy to spot. Jack was a braggart, but he'd never struck Daniel as that particular type of fraud. And Daniel had seen the Navy Cross; Jack used to show it around.

"The award is real," Jack said. "They pinned it on me and all. It's just that I didn't do what they think I did." He took another deep breath and kicked himself around in the water, maybe trying to see Daniel more clearly, but there was no way he could see him, not from down there. "It was for ... conspicuous heroism in battle. Saved the lives of every man on my team. Except I didn't. What I did was ..."

He paused again. They didn't have time. But Daniel didn't have the heart to do more except carefully prod him along. "What'd you do, Jack?"

"It was on Tsuken Island," Jack said. He was looking at nothing, staring into the dark. Maybe seeing it all over again, the way people did. "In Okinawa. At night. Six enemy soldiers, walking into my camp. I was on night watch, fell asleep, woke up just in time to shoot 'em before they got us. Just one problem. White flag. They were surrendering. I just didn't know it 'til it was too late." He let out a sharp sort of laugh, cracking in the middle from cold, and maybe something else. "Buried the flag. Took the medal. Took the honors. You got anything to say to that, Sousa?"

"I don't know," Daniel said carefully. His mind was blank, his view of Jack tilting, reassessing. "It was ... chaos over there. Things happen."

"That's all you got to say about it? I brought that up in your face all the time. So now you know. The big war hero's a coward. Nothing to say to that? C'mon." Jack's voice had that sharp fighting edge. "You're the expert, right? There's one war hero in here, and it ain't me." His voice cracked. "You're the real deal."

That was what got the anger started, a slow building burn. "For God's sake, Jack, you think getting shot makes me a hero? You were there same as I was. You know what it's like."

The laugh that came out was a shade softer, a little more genuine. Jack swam closer, holding on the bars with a white-knuckled grip. The air space below the grate was nearly gone. "Carter knows," he said quietly, and there was another sideways tilt to the solid floor under Daniel, another surprise. "Didn't mean for her to, but, you know. Carter."

That startled a laugh out of him, too. "Yeah," Daniel said. He didn't know how he felt about this. Didn't know what it meant. "You tell anyone else?" he asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Just you and Carter."

All Daniel said to that, all he really could say, was, "You gotta get going, Jack."

"I know," Jack said through clenched teeth. He turned, kicking himself around in the water. Daniel moved his flashlight beam without really thinking about it to illuminate the water around Jack, picking out the place where the ceiling dipped to meet the water. Maybe there was an inch or two to spare yet. It looked impossible for any man to fit through there.

Jack hung there in the water, visibly bracing himself. Daniel couldn't help wondering how much of his deathbed confession was just stalling. Swimming through those flooded hallways in the dark -- he couldn't even imagine it.

There were a thousand kinds of courage and a thousand kinds of cowardice, and one thing about war was that it made you look into the face of all of them.

"Hey," Daniel said. Before he could come to his senses, he passed the flashlight down through the bars, butt first, the beam skipping off the ceiling. "Take this. I don't know if it'll work for long underwater, but it's gotta be better than nothing."

Jack took the other end of the flashlight automatically, and looked up at him, his face an odd mix of guarded and open. He made a sort of tokenistic shove, trying to push the flashlight back up toward Daniel. "You're wasting it on me."

"Jack, damn it, you know we don't have time to argue about it." Daniel passed the radio down after it. "Take this too. You get trapped somewhere, call us and see if we can guide you."

"It's not going to work," Jack said, looking up at him, three fingers curled around the flashlight and one resting on the radio. "None of this. You know that, right?"

"Not if you don't get moving right now, it won't."

Jack started to say something, shook his head, and jammed the radio into a pocket, under the surface of the water. "Here goes nothing," he murmured, took a deep breath, and dived.

The flashlight's beam was instantly watery and splintered, illuminating, for a moment, the concrete floor under eight or nine feet of water. Jack's legs and feet flashed, and then he was gone under the overhanging ceiling below, and Daniel was sitting alone in darkness growing ever more dense and oppressive as the light faded.

He sat there until the inevitable plunge into absolute darkness -- though whether it was because the waterlogged flashlight had stopped working, or because Jack had turned a corner, he had no way of knowing. Then he felt around for his crutch, braced it on the floor, and levered himself to his feet.

The darkness was very, very ... dark. He had a mental vision of turning the wrong way, putting his leg through the bars of the grate in the floor, and plunging up to his crotch between the bars. Losing the artificial leg, losing the crutch, breaking the other leg ...

Knock it off, Sousa. We've got more than enough trouble without borrowing some.

He felt his way carefully, feeling out with his good foot and sliding the other forward, but he didn't start breathing easier until he felt a wall in front of his groping left hand and knew he was well away from the grate.

He very deliberately didn't think about Jack, except to send a silent hope or maybe a prayer that way. Get out of this, you lying son of a bitch. We'll talk about the rest of it later. Just get out of it so I can chew you out as you so richly deserve.

Just get out of it.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes (Chapter 17)

Happy Friday! Did y’all miss me last week? Oh yeah- I made a thing. 

There isn’t much to say before this chapter. I want to thank @winterisakiller for keeping me grounded and listening to me complain about how hard writing is. Also, for keeping me from killing all the characters. A river of blood, she has prevented. And on the other side of the coin, I’m thanking @tnystrk-exe who encourages me to not back down from the darkness that is this world. 

Chapter warnings: A minor PTSD event and hunting. 

Lord knows I run on Ko-Fi. Check out the Masterlist for prior chapters!

Chapter 17- A Birthday With no Cake

November 7th,  15 weeks post Decimation

Her breath froze in her chest as the world felt like it shattered around her. Deanna’s vision seemed to close in, focusing on the single point where the date was displayed on the phone’s screen. Even after the screen went black, she stood there frozen.  

The world ticked on around her. With robotic movements, she pulled the pan off the bread and turned off the stove. She wouldn’t remember later but she put the lid on the pot. Her knees wobbled as she walked backward, not even noticing the ache in her ankle as she flopped down on the dinette bench.  

That’s where Clint found her some time later. The blanket was bunched against her chest and her whole body was curled around it. Her sobs rocked through her body and he was at a loss over what could have caused them. Looking around, he saw a loaf of bread that looked damn near perfect and the smell of stew- far better than out of the can- was heavy in the air.  

“Dinner smells good, Babe.” He said.

It was a dumb thing to say, he knew it even as the words left his mouth. But what else was there to say? He knelt in front of her, wrapping his hands around her ankles. He sat, rubbing his thumb along the ridge of bone under the fabric. After waiting for a moment and giving her the chance to acknowledge him, he realized she wasn’t going to.

With a soft grip, he pulled her legs down, uncurling her. He was mindful of her ankle as he set each foot on either side of his legs. She didn’t fight him as he slowly moved her limbs. His hands moved up, strong fingers rubbing her thighs. He hooked her hair behind her ears as she moved the blanket to her face, hiding in it even as she continued sobbing.  

“What is it?”  

“He should be here.” She croaked out. The words were almost lost in her watery sobs.

“Who?” Clint’s mind was reeling, working overtime to try and figure out what could be happening as it became clear she wasn’t in a condition to answer. On the table was the stuffed fox, largely discarded at the moment. All her pain and desperation was centered on the blanket. “Frankie?”  

“Birth-birthday.”

“It’s Frankie’s Birthday?” Clint asked, glancing back at his phone. It was the only thing that was keeping track of the date in the RV before giving her his full attention. “Hey, hey- I know it hurts.”

She rocked forward, starting to lean into him. She seemed to melt into him, nuzzling her face into the crook of his neck. There was no shame in it. Clint leaned back, falling on his ass lightly and bracing his back against the counter. She slipped off the bench and into his lap in a limp puddle, clinging to him.  

He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly to him. There wasn’t anything he could say to make it better. It was useless to try. If they were lucky, in a little while the sobs would ease, she would calm and while the sadness would remain- it would always remain- they could begin to move on.

“I’m sorry.” She whimpered.

“It’s fine, Babe.” He rubbed her back as she slowly calmed. “Just breath. I know it hurts.”

“I’m sorry.” Leaning back, she looked at him and Clint hated himself for how beautiful he found her. He hooked some hair behind her ear instead of telling her so.

“Don’t- There isn’t anything to be sorry for.” He whispered.  

“You’re not breaking down, crying over the littlest things.”  

“I’ll have my turn. It’s just a matter of time, I’m sure.” He was silent for a moment. "It's not a little thing, anyway."  

She sniffled as he helped her to her feet, leading her to sit again on the dinette bench. “You have it so together.”

“I really don’t. I put on a good front, I know. I smile and laugh and act like I’m okay. But honestly, I can hardly spend any time in the house alone.”

“Right.”

“Right.” He said, though she gave him a look that showed doubt. “I’m telling the truth! Anyway, sit. Let me bowl up- you’ll feel a bit better after you eat. And after we eat- we can welcome Tony and his ladies to the chicken coop.”

He was right. After she nibbled at the food for a while, she began to feet a bit better. It didn’t take the hurt away, but once she calmed down it was a duller ache. She clutched the blanket in her lap, even as she finished her bowl. It was halfway through the bowl that she began to feel the pangs of hunger resurface.  

She didn’t want to eat, not really. But she did eat a second bowl and another slice of bread. Each bite was taken with robotic movements as they ate in silence. When the bowls were again empty, Clint made quick work of putting up the remaining stew. The remnants of the bread were stowed away in the breadbox that now sat on the dining table.  

The chickens settled into their coop quickly and by the end of the second week, the hens had begun laying. When Clint went into town to source chicken feed, Deanna came with.

It was the first time she had left the property since Clint had brought her there. It felt strange leaving. As soon as they passed through the gate surrounding the land, she felt on edge and exposed. The weight of Clint’s hand settled over hers, fingers weaving their way between hers.  

Looking at him, he offered her a smile. It wasn’t that wide grin he had been giving and she was thankful for it. It was an honest smile, small and reassuring. Only when she let the tension from her shoulders fall, did he bring her knuckles to his lips.

“It will be fine.”  

“I know.” She said, though she still worried.  

They each had a gun, loaded and at the ready in case they encountered other people. Trust walked around in the back of the truck, unworried as it rocked over the dirt road. The radio scanned the airwaves, finding very little of anything. On the AM channels there was some government broadcasts filling the airwaves. They were all prerecorded and playing on loop to remind anyone hearing that they are a part of the United States of America. As Americans they were expected to act like with honor.

It was just talk, according to Clint. He’d been out almost many times in the last few weeks and hadn’t seen any sign of the world righting itself. When Deanna pressed him for more information, he admitted that the last time he had spoken to Natasha that the government was still in shambles.  

The President of the United States did survive the decimation but most of the first family were believed to be dusted. Many high level politicians were still unaccounted for, leaving the House and Senate incomplete. The Vice President had also made it out of the Decimation but died a few weeks later due to what had appeared to be a heart attack.

The government was struggling to locate and consolidate all the surviving members of the high ranks. The military was as fractured as the rest of the government with members at all ranks having gone either to dust or just plain missing. They were hardly managing to maintain control over the eastern coast where a majority of the American population had been located. While the promises of aid to the rest of the country kept coming, nothing had materialized yet and likely wouldn't for a while still. Martial Law was technically in effect but there simply wasn't enough resources to execute and enforce it.  

It was hard to think about what it would be like once the government did take control again. It seemed like something far off, if it would ever happen at all. What would that mean for her? Who even would be the owner of the house she had left behind? Would she be charged for past mortgage payments?

“You’re worrying.” Clint announced.  

“Am not.”  

“About what?” It was clear that he wasn’t going to let it go. It was one of the many things she found endearing about him, though sometimes it did drive her up the wall.  

“Dumb shit.” The look he gave her as they turned onto what had once been a main road made it clear he was fishing for a proper answer. “Mortgage payments.”  

He laughed, “If the world ever rights itself enough for anyone to give a shit about your mortgage- I’ll pay it.”  

“Have you lost your mind.”

“Hey- I can afford it! And it’s not like I’ll be putting anyone through college now.” His joke fell flat the moment he made it. He tried, but it was still too soon for both of them. Perhaps it would always be too soon.

“Yeah.” She whispered and they fell into silence for a good while.  

~~~~~<3

“Is that a turkey?” Deanna had never actually seen a wild turkey before. Sure, she knew what they looked like, in theory but seeing one in person was different. Especially just meandering down the highway after they had spent three hours driving around rural back roads looking for them.  

“Son of a bitch, it is.” Clint quickly pulled the truck over, not daring to get too close and scare it away. “Trust, keep that barker turned off.” He pointed at the dog in the back seat in warning.  

Trust only cocked his head at them before laying down. Poor dog was tired. It had been a long afternoon of running around and exploring and now he wanted nothing but a nap.  

Slowly, Clint and Deanna slipped out of the truck. They left the doors open. The one turkey was joined by a second and a smaller third.  

“Gun or bow?” Deanna asked, having snagged the bow and a few arrows on her way out. Clint had his own bow over his shoulder.  

“Bow. Gun would scare them even more if I miss.”

"You never miss. That's your thing." She chuckled as he crouched down, placing his arrow and began to draw the string back before looking at her and changing his mind.

“What?” She didn’t like how he was looking at her.  

“Get into position and take aim. You try and get it.” He whispered.  

“I’m not going to hit it.” She harshly whispered back. “And then they’ll all run and we won’t have turkey.”

“Have some faith in yourself, wont you?” She rolled her eyes at him, “Plus, if you miss, I’ll probably be able to shoot it before it gets away. Maybe.”

“See! Even you think I could miss.”  

“It’s just in case. I want turkey, dammit. I think you can do it.”

“If you want turkey, you shoot it.”  

“Or you can shoot it and we can have turkey.”  

“Jesus Christ.” She didn’t want to do this. Shooting a target was one thing and while she was getting better, she was no marksman like him. She’d only make a fool of herself in front of him. Still, she took position. “This is a shitty idea. Why do you want me to do it?”

“I’m testing you.” He hummed. There was something he had learned about people a long time ago. He’d taught more than a few people archery while in the circus and there were three types of students. The first type learned well and could hit a target easy.  

The second type… well, they learned but it was slow going. They thought too much. They worried too much and with a target, they had all the time in the world to worry. But give them a time limit and real world consequences, they all of a sudden managed to pull talent out of their ass. It was fascinating and frustrating to teach these type of people.

There was a third type- the simply untalented who would always just be okay. The question was, what type was she? Now was as good of a time to find out than any other. And the pressure of a turkey dinner was far better than nothing. In truth, he could easily take all three turkeys down should she miss her shot but that didn’t matter, she didn’t need to know that they were going to have a turkey or three without a doubt. It was that doubt, that pressure he was counting on, after all.  

Her form was better. She didn’t have a wrist guard on or any gear for that matter but she didn’t seem to notice after the initial worry. He watched as she nocked her arrow. Tension rolled of her in waves as her shoulders squared.

He watched as the world fell away around her. There was a focus in her form that wasn’t there when she was taking aim at the shed wall. Determination burned in her eyes and yet, he was sure she didn’t realize it.  

She stood, a woman frozen once she had drawn the string back. The arrow rested right above where her hand curled around the bow. The wind blew, carrying dust and grass across the road. It lifted and rustled through her brown waves but otherwise, she remained frozen. A deep breath was calmly pulled in through her nose. Her lips parted and he watched the slight fog of her breath slip between them. Careful, measured and controlled. As the last wisp of breath left her lungs, she released the arrow.

It sailed through the air, aim truer than he had honestly expected. There was a yelp as the string hit her wrist and she dropped the bow but he paid it no mind. He was far too focused on the arrow.  

It took only an instant but it was done. She had hit her mark with deadly precision he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t instant kill. The bird made it a few steps with the arrow lodged through it’s chest before it collapsed.  

The other two birds were quick to panic. Clint didn’t give them a chance to go far. In a blink of an eye, he sent arrows through the heads of both other turkeys. That would keep them fed for a while yet.

As the feathers settled, she stood motionless. “Did you get them?”

“Two of them.” Clint smiled.  

“But there are three...”  

“There are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You hit your target.” Clint grabbed her hand and dragged her behind him.

“I hit it?” She asked only to have Clint grin at her. “Holy shit, I hit it!”  

She was stunned as he first showed her the two smaller turkeys that he had taken down. Each had an arrow through the skull. It was a clean shot and a quick kill. She nodded when he pointed out that those two he shot before he held up the third one. It was the largest of the three birds and the arrow was lodged in it’s chest, tip extending out of the other side.  

“I did that.”

“Yeah.” He set the bird aside and wrapped her up in his arms. “You did. You just needed a push.”

“How did I do that?” She mumbled into his shoulder even as he rocked her in his arms. “I can hardly hit the target on the barn.”

“You’re overthinking it when we practice. Trying too hard and getting caught up in your head, probably.” He held her out to him and there was an excitement that radiated off of him. He was like a giddy child. “Who would have guessed it? You’re a fucking natural shot!”  

“I did it. Holy shit, I did it.” His excitement was rubbing off on her and a smile slowly blossomed.

“You’re a natural!” Clint announced as he started dancing to music in his head, pulling her with him as he swayed and spun. In a smooth movement, he pulled her closer again and leaned down. Before she could think about it, his warm lips were on hers.

It was a sweet kiss, innocent and chaste. While they had flirted a lot over the last few weeks, what they had felt like friendship more often than not. This was the way with Clint Barton, it was hot and cold. He’d call her ‘Babe’ and offer intimate little touches during the days. He would hold her at night but that was more often than not as far as thing went.  

It wasn’t often that he kissed her. Yet, she lived for these moments. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to let him lead whatever it was they had but at the moment, she wasn’t thinking about that.

“I did it!” She was all but bouncing in his arms as he danced them around on the dusty road. They were feeding off each other’s excitement. “We can have turkey and dressing!”

“And sweet potatoes!” Clint added, just as excited as she was.  

“And sweet potatoes!” She agreed, throwing her arms up and around his neck.  

She pulled herself to him as the wind gusted around them. His arms wrapped tighter around her. There was an unspoken weight that was lifted off of them. It was something neither of them could explain yet having turkeys, knowing they would have something that could almost be a normal thanksgiving dinner was a great comfort.  

She kissed him again without thinking but he didn’t seem to mind. Maybe it was the excitement but it felt like they were the only ones left in the world. It felt like the Decimation and the families they used to have was a lifetime ago.  

“If we swing to the east before heading home, there’s a pretty decent sized town. Maybe we can find some cranberry sauce or marshmallow fluff?” Clint suggested as he finally pulled himself from her.

With turkeys stored in the cooler in the back, they were on the move again. It was a minor miracle when they stopped at a truck stop for fuel and Clint was able to get the generator behind the shop running. The pump accepted his credit card as if life was normal.  

Inside the shop, Deanna found the shop shelves fairly stocked. The cash register had been broken into and emptied but she didn’t pay that any mind. If someone thought they could benefit from money more than overpriced boxes of dressing and food, by all means.  

She took her time, loading up a hand basket with as much as she could carry and hauling it outside. They made slow and steady work loading as much food as they could from the store into the truck. Trust ended up sitting cramped on the back seat as the truck bed was taken over.

~~~~~<3

Tag List:  @usedtobegoodfriend96, @0-0-0-0-0-0-0-7, @theoneanna, @alexakeyloveloki, @toozmanykids​, @j-u-s-t-4​, @missaphrodite23​, @bambamwolf87​, @nonsensicalobsessions​, @tinchentitri​, @carissime72​, @xoxabs88xox​, @queenoftheunderdark​, @myoxisbroken​, @wegingerangelica​, @coyotesongwriting​, @faemapfae​, @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​

Tag list is always open as is the ask box. 

[agent-yolk-writes]

Friends Like You and Us - Venom!Reader - Ch. 4

And we’re back! First AO3, then Quotev, now finally Tumblr! Good thing for post resets.

In today’s episode, we jump straight back to the present to meet the last member of the B-Team. Venom has a plan for once, the Reader is Absolutely Done(tm) physically and emotionally, and what Aunt Mary doesn’t know who her nibling is bringing into their apartment while she’s on a business trip won’t kill her...yet. 

(Nibling is the gender-neutral term for niece/nephew, the more you know)

Note: If you’re using this to teleport to the AO3 version I would like to give a heads up that the italics for some reason stop working when the Reader meets Peni. I don’t know how to fix it, so it be like that sometimes. Enjoy!

Previous Chapter | Start from the beginning | AO3 version

...

Indeed, it did get weirder.

You didn’t realize that the hunt for your next meal took so long. The sun just...got ahead of you. The shadows in this creepy part of the city started stretching, covering everything in its path. You thought your eyes were playing tricks when you saw another pair of Spider-man’s white eyes in the darkness behind Ham. The tingling sensation faded as the shadow started moving, revealing that it was an actual goddamn person.

Despite being a self-proclaimed ‘superhero’ for almost a week now, you aren’t getting paid enough for this.

You rubbed your eyes expecting this weird dizzy spell would go away, but upon opening them again they were still standing there staring at you.

“Don’t worry, I get that all the time.” Ham commented. He eyed his taller companion and nudged him on the thigh. “C’mon man, you can’t just stand there menacingly forever.”

“...”

Should I just go or-

“You got some nerve stealing the glory of someone else’s hard work.” Great, he also sounds familiar. Is this some reunion you didn’t get the memo for?

“Well you certainly can’t leave them here to waste!” You rebutted as you stood up. “Someone’s gotta clean up, and it might as well be us.”

“There’s no us in this, missy.” He rebutted.

“That’s not what I-Ugh, whatever!” You shook your head in your heads in frustration before looking back at them. “Look, we’re not going to get anywhere bickering like this.” You motioned your hands to the two. “You guys are out of place, clearly. Let’s discuss this somewhere else before-“ On cue, the sudden wail of police sirens announced their presence as they block off the only ground entrance out of here. Venom instinctually covered your ears to block out the loud sound. “...that.” You sound of your croak almost sounded not human.

The two looked at each other. While you were right that this isn’t the ideal spot for an interrogation, you’re still not in the clear of their suspicions.

“Alright. Let’s skedaddle then, but you’re not out of the hot seat yet, missy.” The brooding spider detective said, shooting a spider web and letting it pull him up. You couldn’t help but groan, he speaks like a dad in a cartoon.

Ham nudged you deeper into the alley. “C’mon kid. It’s quieter up top.” You could feel Venom trying to dig your heels into the dirt, but at this point, it was too dangerous.

~

Spider-Ham, also known as Peter Porker, was in fact not a pig at first. According to him, he was the spider bitten by a radioactive pig that later became his aunt. He told you not to think about it too much. In his world, everyone has been anthropomorphized into an animal. He works at the Daily Beagle where they work him like a dog trying to sniff out the latest scoop. He was just finishing a fight with a mad scientist lobster before he got snatched between dimensions. The more he talks, the more vocal your thoughts are trying to figure out where have you heard his voice before. A thought passed somewhere about what you might look like in his world.

His black and white companion was Spider-Man Noir, also known as Peter Benjamin Parker, who lived in a monochromic version of Earth in the 1930s. He used to investigate stories for the Daily Bugle and during that time a spider that resided in an exotic statue from Africa escaped and bit him. After the betrayal and death of his mentor Ben (“Not to confuse ya with my uncle Ben, who also bit the dust.” He explained.), he decided to become a P.I. and fight Nazis along the way. You liked this guy already, and yet he also sounds so familiar.

To think just half an hour or so, you were about to metaphorically throw hands and eat heads…

And we still didn’t eat them.

Yea, I’m a bit disappointed too. I’ll make it up later.

Those poor criminals, wasted. Handed to the police before you could even nibble on a finger. If Venom starts to act up like a grumpy child, it’s on them. After the small buzzing in your ears died down, all you’re left with is that dull throbbing in your head that you get with migraines and hunger from both you and your companion. It’s not your fault the universe slapped a literal man-eater on you.

Then again, after the whole exposition dump they piled on you, you felt a little guilty sprinkling your truth with little white lies on top. By the way your companion was treated by his not-so-friendly superhero, you could only assume that it’s mutual throughout the alternative universes. Better play it safe and claim you built your suit out of some nanotech that was laying around...somewhere. You even ‘pulled down’ your mask as a sign of trust.

You regained your focus when Venom used your limbs to jump between buildings to catch up with the eccentric duo. You haven’t really kept in touch with the whole lore of superheroes. They didn’t involve you, so you didn’t get involved. It wasn’t going to be the end of the world if you didn’t reblog five different gifsets of the same skit Tony Stark was in on Sunday Night Live. If they’re taking you to some secret spider cave, then it’s news to you.

Speaking of which,

“Sooo,” You decided to break the ice. “Where...exactly are we heading to?”

“Our own little Hooverville.” Noir answered. “It ain’t much, but it’s the best we got at the moment.”

“Plus we already have someone guarding the helm while we searched for more folks like you!” Ham added.

“You’re telling me there’s another one of you guys?” You held your hands up and counted the total number of spider heroes, not including yourself.

“And together, we make quite a ragtag bunch.” Ham continued on. “Who knew you could make a robot shaped like a spider?”

“Don’t forget the fact it’s small enough for that kid to get in and out with ease and her fingers still intact.” Noir added.

“Who...is this…’person’ you’re talking about?” You questioned, trying not to assume to worse.

“Don’t worry, she’s a sweetheart.” The detective added. “She’s got spunk for someone her size.”

Oh god, Venom.

What?

If this is an actual child I swear-

~

“Welcome back!”

You had to give your eyes a good rub to process what you were seeing. In front of you was indeed a small mecha shaped like a spider. The red and blue metal pieces clash together but at the same time was fitting for something like it. The small figure that was tinkering one of the robot’s legs when you arrived. As they stood up and you finally get a good look at her, you wanted to go apeshit over the fact that, indeed, it’s an actual child piloting a robot. You’ve seen like two movies that basically told you why it’s a bad idea for a kid to pilot a destructive machine in the first place.

You can tell by her appearance alone that she too is from another universe. You couldn’t describe it, but her dimensions seem...rather flat? No, that’s not the right word. Whatever it is, Ham has it too. You thought it was just Ham being Ham up until now since, after all, he's a walking, talking, crime-fighting pig you see in cartoons.

“Hey kid, hope there weren’t any scuffles while we were gone.” Noir was the first to greet her as she ran up to him.

“Nope! It was quiet as a mouse.” Was her response. She peered around his brooding form and met your eyes. Her eyes managed to grow even bigger as she approaches you excitedly.

”Hello! You must be the one we were sensing!” She grabbed your hand, giving it a nice shake. “I’m Peni Parker, and that over there is my robot SP//dr!” As if on cue, SP//der’s faceplate lit up and gave a friendly wave. Out of politeness, you waved back while ignoring the spidey-sense going off threefold.

Peni Parker...Peter “Noir” Parker...Peter Porker...Not to alarm anyone, but you think there’s some kind of pattern going here, and you’re the outlier. Well, at least Gwanda is with you for this one.

”H-Hello, Peni…” God, why are you acting so awkward all of the sudden? ”I’m (First Name), hero name TBA.” You shot your arm out awkwardly, letting the small girl take the reins in the art of the first handshake. You wonder if she can sense your weirdness with that firm grip of hers.

“So, now what?” Ham was the first to break the silence before it got weird. “We’re basically sitting ticking time bombs until we figure out a way to get back home! New kid!” He pointed at you, making you jump at the sudden action. “You got anything new to contribute?”

Shit! Shit! No one told me this was a quiz! Vee!

...We have an idea. Cover us.

Huh?! You have a-

Venom assumed control of your body, shrugging off your backpack to find your phone. Your phone? What could there possibly be on your...Oh! You have...some sort of an idea on what he’s doing! Maybe.

“Actually,” You started, bracing yourself like you’re stalling for time on an in-class presentation. “I heard a rumor the other day online…” Subtly, Venom pulled back the tendrils over your thumb so your phone can scan your print. “Somebody on a high-rise took a picture of the area-passwordiscapitalqwerty-where Spider-Man died. Can’t guarantee that-yesallcaps-you’ll see the body with this quality though.” Now if you can only find said photo if the mods of that subreddit didn’t remove it first. Ugh, this public wifi sucks ass. Who's hoarding it at this hour?

It doesn’t help that your hand is visibly shaking as your phone struggles to detect any pressure from your sweaty appendages and three sets of eyes that are on you expectedly aren't making this any easier. To make sure karma knows it's laughing at you, your phone slipped out of your grip at the most inopportune moment. Your case had taken some beatings in the past, but you know for sure by the sound of the landing that it was time for it to be replaced. You just stood there frozen, wondering when the panic attack kicks in.

Instead, your tingling skin is your only warning before your muscles went out of control. It felt like you were being ripped from the inside out and then being ripped outside in twice fold. The pained garble coming out of your mouth was either coming from you or Venom. It was tough to see with your spotty vision, but it looks like your newly befriended companions were going through this too in various states of pain.

After a few seconds, the out of body experience ended. You know immediately that trying to get up quickly will kick you in the ass right after.

You good, buddy?

Peachy.

Figured.

When you patted around and found your phone, you couldn’t help but grimace at the sight of new cracks branching over your screen.

”Son of a bitch…” You couldn't help but swear out. ”You know what? This would be better if I did this at my place, yeah?” Digging your hands into your face you inhale, waited, and exhale slowly. When you looked up, they were still staring at you with concerned eyes. “What? It’s my first week on the job, can you give me some slack?”

~

While you knew your aunt was a few hours away somewhere upstate you couldn’t help but pray that she doesn’t decide to come back home in the darkness of the night. If Penn Station was closer, maybe you could’ve caused some delays on the Amtrak. Didn’t help that you now have guests sheltering in your apartment clearly not built for four heroes of various sizes that had to get inside through the window. You hope no one in the next building over calls the police. You all even put a tarp over SP//dr, much to the dismay of the robot, to make sure it doesn’t end up on your social media timeline later on. At least Mr. Davis wasn’t there when you unlocked the door manually.

“It’s nothing much, but it’s the best I can do. Make yourself at home.” You didn’t need to say that twice. Almost instantly they go around poking and observing whatever they can. “Can I...get any of you something to drink?”

“An egg cream for me.”

“I’ll take some juice, please!”

“Rum and coke. Shaken, not stirred.”

You have no idea what an egg creme is, there’s only vegetable juice in the fridge, and there’s certainly no alcohol in this apartment. You’ll make it work somehow.

Keyword: somehow.

Do pig-spiders even need to get drunk in the first place? According to Google, egg cream is just a fancy way of saying milkshake. How old are these people exactly?

[inkedsevans]

showdown. | fabrevans

WHO: sam evans & quinn fabray ( @quinnofcastleport )

WHAT: sam finds out what happened to james thanks to quinn & stacy’s plan. whew. 

WHEN: 11/25; monday afternoon

WHERE: the maggie

Quinn felt like she'd been bracing for impact all day. Actually, from the moment she'd driven away from the facility - the swipe of the black credit card her father hadn't really bothered her, not really, though she knew it would come around eventually. 

What bothered her was Sam. 

She'd made her peace, or at least told herself she had made her peace with Sam not wanting to speak to her anymore over it. As she methodically wiped down the Maggie's bar, she reminded herself that mattered less than James getting help. 

She finished her deep clean and moved on, picking up the inventory clipboard and her pen. She had to know how many glasses that punk replacement had actually dropped, and she had to keep herself busy, because Sam was due any minute, and she couldn't keep staring at the door like that. So she brushed her jaggedy pink hair behind her ear, set the clipboard down, and started to pull (freshly cleaned) glasses down to count. The more she could do before Sam ordered her out of his bar, the better.

The day had been uneventful and short, with only a few clients on the books at the shop so Sam opted to cut out early. If he were lucky, he could manage to get a nap in before having to make his way to the Maggie for the evening. He reached the house in record time, stepping into the silence and finding nothing unusual about it. It was always quiet.  It could use some dusting, no doubt yet another thing he'd have to tackle before the holiday. Stacy would be home and the last thing he wanted was her, seeing how things had moved further into disarray. In the kitchen, he found a glass on the small table, half full of whiskey and a ring of melted ice around the base. That, that was unusual. His father almost never walked away from a drink, unless he had another nearby. It prompted Sam to look in the living room, but found no trace of glasses or bottles. It was possible James had retreated to his room but that was empty as well. Bed rumpled, curtains drawn, a stale smell of liquor and sadness emanating from it that Sam didn't linger long. He'd searched the whole house and called around to some of James' friends, the ones he hadn't managed to alienate, but no one had seen him. Sometimes, James would take walks, leaving the door unlocked, and glass in hand. Just to really give the town something more to laugh about. The headache was already forming when Sam got back into his truck, driving to all the spots his father frequented. The bench in Knights Park where James and Maggie ended their first date. The diner, where thoughts of Tina and the last time he managed to discover his father in a place where he shouldn't have been (sprawled on their front porch) hit him. The last stop and ideally the place where he would've most likely been, Sam reached the Maggie, finding not his father but...Quinn. Resurfaced, clipboard in hand, and sporting pink hair. Sam was momentarily confused at the sight, of her (and her hair) before he spoke. "Is he back there? I've been all over town and no one's seen him...can't decide if that's good or bad."

Quinn looked over her shoulder in time to catch the look on her face, which she would've been amused about, in other circumstances. 

"It's a good thing," Quinn answered, keeping her voice soft as set her pen down on the clipboard. "He's in treatment." Quinn took a folded piece of paper out of her back pocket. "This is the address and room number." Quinn held Sam's gaze, determined not to shrink or stutter. "I took him last night. He's there for at least 30 days, probably longer, depending on how it goes." Quinn swallowed. 

"He's doing it for you. And for Stacy." Quinn hesitated. "And your mother," she added something like a smile ghosting her face,  "because he knows Mrs. Evans would've kicked his ass already. His words."

"What?" Sam, who was still stuck on the fact that Quinn's hair was pink (seriously, when the fuck did that happen?) had to mentally run the tape back. Olive-colored eyes narrowed as he moved closer, noting the folded paper in her hand as she spoke of an address and a room number. For treatment. 

His reaction was slow to build, confusion giving way to anger, the heated sensation of it spreading the more Quinn spoke and he barely let her finish, the mention of his mother snapping him into focus and his gaze hardened. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He was gobsmacked by it all. 

The boldness of her butting in and the casual way she upended his life, as it were as easy as ticking off a box on her checklist. Sam would not be surprised in the least if that fucking clipboard actually had a 'butt in' written somewhere. The audacity of it all, as if his father was something to be handled, as if it were her problem, and then to bring Sam himself into it...and Stacy.... "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Your friend," Quinn answered evenly, resolutely refusing to flinch. Boys who got loud were the worst. 

"I spoke with Stacy. She and I agreed this was the only card left in our deck. He can't keep doing this. You can't keep doing this, and please don't tell me you can, because that would be insulting to both of us." 

Quinn let out a slow breath and resisted the urge to cross her arms, to ruffle her feathers and raise her hackles. She would not be angry with Sam. She simply refused to be. 

"He knows, I know, Stacy knows, you know that it's not fair or right to strap this to you like a big, boozy anchor. It's not right. So he's trying to correct himself so that you and your sister have a hope in hell of ever getting out."

It was the thing he hated, what Quinn had always done, even when they were younger. Speaking in that bossy way she had, as if everyone else were merely the pieces she had to move to suit her needs. It grated him then, but over time, it hovered been irritating and amusing.   But today it needled him. He didn't need her pushing her way through, behaving as if she were the only one who knew best, roping his sister into her nonsense and then pretending like she cared. "You disappear for weeks, with nothing but a text, and then show up pulling a fuckin' move like this without telling me.  And you drag my sister into it? And I'm supposed to think you've got my best interests in mind? Seriously? That's bullshit, Quinn." Sam took a deep breath, his tone still hard and flat, voice rumbling in that quiet, angry way he hated to be. "Whatever the issue with my father is, that's my business. I was already looking into some places Hunter gave me a list of. Which you would've known had you bothered askin' instead of doing what you always do. How the fuck is hiding this from me helping? What, did you need to be the one who saved my father from himself? First the bar now the owner? What the fuck else are you planning to overhaul in my family's life? Just so I can know when to move out of the way, since apparently you're the one calling the shots now."

It took a godly amount of restraint to keep from rolling her eyes at him, but she did resist the urge, if just barely. She let him snap at her, fine, sure, and moved around out from the bar to stand properly across from him, nothing in between. "Tell me this," Quinn said, "tell me what 'having your best interests in mind' would look like. If not this, what? Letting you skulk around like a bad Sam impersonator for the rest of our lives? Letting your sister tell me that this needed to happen and proceeding to do absolutely nothing in response? Which, just so we're clear, I didn't drag Stacy anywhere, and haven't since she was ten years old and I wanted to go shopping and babysit at the same time. She's an adult. We had a conversation, one that wouldn't have been the least productive with you and me, or with you and her. So was I supposed to argue with you about it, even though you apparently already knew it was true?" Quinn snorted. "That's the bullshit part, Sam. That you're pissed that you weren't 'the one who got to' kick his ass to get clean." Quinn used the air quotes, and then she did roll her eyes. "It doesn't matter who kicked what. It matters that he got into the car instead of knocking back a shot. It matters that he's actually following through with it. There's no 'credit' except his credit for getting up and making a change." She rested her hands on her hips and met his gaze. "Furthermore. You are my business, as long as you are my friend, Sam. You know that. You know I wasn't trying to sneak anywhere or hide anything. I'm standing right here. You know that if I was really trying to be underhanded about it, I'd be underhanded, and no one would know anything about it for a very long time." Quinn sighed, her expression going just a little soft. "I understand that I--that I disappeared on you. I understand that I hurt and disappointed you when I did that. I apologize for that, Sam, I do. I won't apologize for doing what needed to be done."

"Everybody's an adult, who can make decisions. Except for me. I'm the one that's gotta be handled around the issue and shut out of the big kid conversations? You did something with my father and didn't even fuckin' discuss it with me, and took it to my sister like I'm some irrational asshole and I need to be grateful? 'Cause he actually went with you? Do you even hear yourself?" Sam could feel himself getting worked up and he took a step back, needing to put some distance between them. "You're never fuckin'  sorry, Quinn. So I don't ever expect you to give an actual fuck about invading my family's space or guilt tripping or threatening my father into following your orders. You overstepped. Plain and fucking simple. I don't give a shit what you talked about with Stacy. You had no right to do what you did. And if you didn't want to swoop in and play savior, answer me this: Who's footing the bill for this massive change? 'Cause my sister's a broke college student and no one bothered to clue me in on anything. So unless my father managed to hit the numbers in the time it took for you to drive him to this life changing facility, I'm guessing this sober sweat out is sponsored by the bank of Fabray ." Sam scoffed, shaking his head as he pushed out a tired, bitter laugh. "We should be so lucky. Castleport's favorite daughter, returning home and making my family her personal fuckin' charity case for the holiday. I'll look out for the write-up in the Gazette. I know how your family's paper loves to keep tabs on my old man's public antics."  Sam stalked past Quinn to move behind the counter, his face hard and expressionless as he threw a passing glance in her direction. "We're done here."

Quinn could have snapped back. She could have argued each and every one of Sam's points until they were both furious and going for the jugular. She could see it - she could feel it, the words heavy on her tongue, exactly how she'd fight it. Fight him. How she'd say, oh, you think you're angry now? You think we're done? We're just getting started, Evans, and don't think you can go round for round with me about this, because she was Quinn Fabray, and Quinn Fabray didn't lose arguments. No, Quinn lost friends. Quinn lost family. Quinn lost jobs and boyfriends and futures and pasts. That was part of who she was, part of how she was, and she'd accepted it a long time ago. Fabrays were lonely creatures by nature, the sort that never really ever had the capacity for anything like companionship. They were built, on their best days, for partnership, but even that was a stretch, a rarity. Frannie and her husband were outliers, and even then, Frannie made every important decision for the two of them. Quinn was just so damn tired of losing things. She was so, so tired of trying to do what was right and getting screamed at for it. She was just tired. "It wasn't an order," Quinn said, without bothering to turn around and look at him, because if she did, she'd probably lose it. "And you're not a fucking charity case." Maybe that was what she was angriest about. Or maybe it was the mention of her family and their finances. Or maybe it was the accusation that Quinn didn't actually care. Because she did. "I do hear myself. I never heard myself tell you you had to feel anything." Now she did at least tilt her head toward him, slightly over her shoulder, though she kept her gaze firmly fixed away from him, because her nails were digging into her skin in a bad way, in a way that told her to just walk the fuck away, to walk away from the whole damn friendship because it was crashing and burning anyway and as per usual, it was her fault.

She was really tired of losing people, but away was the only direction people walked anymore, so she turned around to look at him. 

"You don't care what I talked about with Stacy - fine. I'm not sorry - sure. I don't care about invading your family's space - you're three for three. I'm a rich girl who's just here to flaunt how together her life is, how much I love taking people under my wing, as long as I get my name in the paper or mentioned in someone's early Sunday gossip. If that's honestly what you think is true about me, then maybe we are done here." Quinn's nails dug deeper into her skin. Focus. 

"But that's - frankly, I knew that. I knew doing what I did might make us go back to whatever we were before. Or worse. I accepted that. It was less important than the good this will do you in the long run, whether or not you ever say so out loud or even to yourself. If you keep throwing a tantrum about this for the rest of our lives, so be it. I'll walk out that door and not look back or so much as darken your doorstep again if that's what you want. I'm willing to do that not because I don't care about you or this place, but because I do, and I know that in the long run, this will help. Even if he can't stick with it. Even if it's not lifechanging. I'm willing to do it because I know if the situation were reversed..." 

Quinn trailed off and shook her head. 

“Never mind. I'm sure you'd be perfectly respectful and let me have all the space I needed to drown myself in guilt and the appearance of responsibility while the misery chipped away at my soul. But - well, I guess I wouldn't have that problem, because I'm Princess of Castleport who doesn't know what hard work or suffering is like, and everything I do is either calculated, careless or intentionally hurtful, right? You wouldn't ever need to do anything like this, because Quinn and the Bank of Fabray don't have any real problems, so I just want to glide in, wave my magic wand and fix other people's, specifically people who I don't care about and who I'm secretly just using for...attention, I guess, or the rush of pretending at being a good person or...whatever it is you think motivated this. You, known for being so level-headed and wise, would never dare overstep with me if you thought it would help me and that I was too stubborn to take the steps myself. You'd never be so...what, hateful? Disrespectful? Insert whatever adjective you like, I don't care. If you don't want him there, you have the address and a car. Go get him, if you don't think this will actually help him, and you, and Stacy. If you genuinely think it was a mistake, go undo it. Tell me to get out or tell me to finish the inventory and I'll do whichever one you like." 

She let the challenge hang there for a long minute and tried to ignore the regret she already felt creeping around the pit of her stomach. 

Goodbye, Sam. It never made sense that they were close anyway, did it. They shouldn't have been. Maybe this was just the natural order coming back to itself. Maybe Sam was just a blip, a glitch - someone whose feelings she'd been apparently only imagining to understand all these months. Maybe Sam hadn't actually seen her the way she thought he did. It was a disquieting thought, but one she had to wrestle with - maybe he was the one who'd had her fooled, instead of the other way around. 

And people thought she was a good actress.

Sam's jaw tightened, teeth clenched so tightly it felt like he'd snap in half if he didn't ease up. He pressed his palms to the bar, needing that bit of grounding as Quinn spoke, completely twisting his words and if Sam wasn't so damn furious he'd probably be impressed by the spin of it. "Knock it off," he told her, broad shoulders as he pushed off the counter. "Don't tell me you care about me and then dismiss my feelings to a tantrum 'cause you're not getting the reaction you wanted. What did you think would happen, Quinn? You went behind my back. I don't care how great the good was, I would've never--" His words caught in his throat, and he took great care to swallow down the rising emotion.

"I never said your life was together. Or you didn't have problems. Otherwise you would've never been back in this bar or have that hair and no one, not even your parents, I'm guessing would've heard from you in months. But you made me feel like this project you had to take on. And maybe if the situation were reversed, I would've reached out to you. But you didn't do that. You treated me like an obstacle, instead of the friend you apparently give a shit about. And you can justify it however you want and explain it whatever way's gonna ease that guilt and call me a hot headed asshole, but I would've never made you feel this way." Useless, as if all the work he'd been trying to juggle, and the effort it took to maintain everything, to keep the bar afloat, to manage his father, look out for his sister, boiled down to nothing when someone else, someone he once trusted could yank the rug out from under him. Could make the burden he carried for years disappear with a swipe of a card. As if it were that easy. And he supposed it was with money and connections. And that gnawed at him, the anger and bitterness rising in his throat, tasting sour. "What's done is done. You did what you wanted, like you always do." He pushed the paper back at her, uncaring about the location, the name of the place, or how long James would be there. "I didn't have shit to do with this, so we'll just keep that energy. You can take Stacy if you want, since y'all are making the decisions now. Whether it helps or doesn't, it's not my problem or concern. You started this. You can see it through. I'm done."

Quinn sighed. He was probably right. Because friends don't make friends feel 'this way'. Sam was much, much better at being a friend than she was. And she had treated him like an obstacle, because he sort of was one, since he already had too much on his plate to give it the attention it needed, and anyway he would've just told her to fuck off, which was counterproductive. 

Quinn took the paper, tucking it back into her pocket. "Fair enough." Her voice came out flat, and she couldn't argue with him. She knew he'd be upset, angry, furious - there wasn't any point in trying to change that. 

It would just make it worse. She would just make it worse. 

She let the silence drag, then shook her head. "I'm going to do inventory," she said, only getting close enough to him to grab her clipboard and pen. "I'll be in the back if you need anything." 

With that, Quinn made her way past the bar and into the stockroom, determined to keep the shaky feeling in her hands and the terrible disappointment in her heart to herself, at least until she was alone.

Sam refused to look in Quinn's direction, hearing the slide of her clipboard across the bar when she went to collect it, and the sound of her footsteps retreating to the back. There was a headache forming behind his eyes, the throb of it all pounding at his temples and making it hard to see. And he hated that his initial gut reaction to feeling so keyed up and crappy was to consider taking a shot of something. The last thing he needed, in the moment or in general, considering where his father currently was. He was still wearing his coat, and he dug his hands into pockets, fishing out the keys for his truck. There was no way in hell he'd be in any shape to deal with customers today. He'd get Marie to come in or see if Alexis was free. Anyone but that new kid, Barry and his goddamn butterfingers. Moving from behind the bar top, Sam headed for the door, remembering to lock it behind him. It had seemingly gotten colder in just that span of time he'd been inside but he'd rather be anywhere but the bar at the moment. He'd settle things with a replacement and then take the night off. Take a drive somewhere. Anything that would help clear his mind.

[minhoinator-writes]

Pairing: Kim Kibum/Choi Minho (side: Kim Jonghyun/Lee Taemin)

Rating: N/R

Word Count: 14,647

Links: AO3 // AFF

Summary: The morning is still far away / And I didn’t fall asleep... Laying on this flat sofa / I have too many thoughts, I can’t sleep tonight...

A/N: this is based on my crack theory that “I’m Home” is a response to “One of Those Nights”

Chapter 1: One of Those Nights

The ticking of the clock was too loud, and Kibum couldn’t sleep.

Everything was too loud after the lights were turned off -- the clock, the settling of the house, the wind outside, the static from the muted television. Hell, even the silence.

It was too loud; too much.

Kibum rolled over on the couch, staring at the drama rerun as it played on the screen. It was nearly impossible to get comfortable enough to sleep out here. But, if he slept in his own bed, his mind would betray him with thoughts of...him. Kibum closed his eyes, sighing heavily before he opened them again.

It had been almost six months since he and Minho had broken up, and five since they had last seen each other on the subway. He had been doing fine, until that day...until he saw how run-down Minho looked. Thinner than either of them liked with prominent eye bags, distracting Kibum from fully meeting his ex’s eye.

Why? Why had Minho chosen his job over him? In hindsight, perhaps an ultimatum hadn’t been the way to go, but at the time, Kibum had thought that Minho would have picked him.

He hugged himself a little tighter, inhaling the trace of Minho’s cologne that was still on the hoodie he was wearing.

”Come on, please?”

Minho laughed, holding up the small bottle of Memo Inlé to his old sweatshirt. “Why, though?” Kibum rolled his eyes, which made Minho chuckle before he pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll do it, baby, don’t worry. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

“You’re just leaving for New York tonight and...and I’ll miss you… Stop looking at me like that,” he said, as Minho’s expression softened. Kibum averted his eyes with a smile when Minho started spraying the cologne.

“You know,” Minho said, as he leaned across Kibum to set the hoodie on Kibum’s side of the bed. “There are several ways I could make sure you remember me while I’m gone.”

Kibum leaned back against his pillows, his smile growing. “Several, huh?” Minho hummed as he nodded, and rolled over so that he was laying completely on top of Kibum. His breath hitched as Minho started trailing kisses from his neck to his bare chest. “Do we have enough time?”

“Well,” Minho propped his chin on Kibum’s sternum, giving a smug smile. “If we don’t, then we can always pick up where we left off when I get home. How...does...that…sound?” he asked, punctuating each word with another kiss down from his chest to his stomach to his thighs until he was laying between Kibum’s legs.

He didn’t give Kibum time to answer his question.

Kibum shook his head, refocusing on the drama as the credits rolled. It wouldn’t do to reminisce about the sex...and how good it always was… Because it wasn’t just the sex he missed, he missed everything. The god-awful songs Minho would sing in the shower when he was getting ready for work, the coffee and breakfast in bed on the weekends, the organized clutter around the house, just...his presence.

The house felt so empty, now.

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, opening up his kakaotalk and then the messages between him and Minho. He read the last few, the stilted exchanges from after they broke up. Then, he started to type...not that he was intending to send it, of course, but he just needed to write what was going through his mind. His thoughts were meandering, but he wrote them all as they came, closing the app when he finished.

Blearily, he stared at the tv as the late-night home shopping show came on, watching the hosts ooo and ahh over gaudy jewelry until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

- - - - -

“Where do you want to hang the streamers?”

“Streamers?” Kibum asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice. Both Jonghyun and Jinki watched him with wide eyes as he came out of the kitchen. “Why the fuck would you have streamers?”

“Because...it’s a...birthday party?” Jinki said, his gaze flicking between the other two as if he was unsure now what was actually happening.

“For a grown ass man…”

Jonghyun scoffed. “Pretty bold of you to assume that Taemin wouldn’t like streamers and balloons for his birthday. As the resident expert of what Taemin likes -- “

“Because he’s your boyfriend.”

“ -- I can confidently say that he would very much enjoy these. As well as sucking the helium out of the balloons that I have to go pick up...with the cake…”

“As long as there’s no helium in the cake,” Jinki said as he stood up on the couch to pin the streamer to the ceiling.

“Tape! Use tape!”

He dropped his arm, the streamer in his hand fluttering to the floor. “I’m not tall enough, anyway...I miss M -- “ Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a sharp look from Jonghyun.

As he had only been half-listening, Kibum glanced up at the awkward silence and squinted when Jonghyun gave him an uneasy grin. “What.”

“Jinki was about to say...the M-word.”

“Mud-blood?” Kibum frowned, looking up at Jinki. “I didn’t know you’ve seen Harry Potter…”

“What?” Jonghyun laughed. “No, Minho. He was about to say Minho.”

“Oh...oh, I mean...I’m fine, you can talk about him. I’m doing better, really…” he added when the other two looked unconvinced.

Jinki cleared his throat. “Where, um, can I find the tape?”

“Mi -- the office. The second bedroom,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to the dim hallway. Jonghyun twirled a bit of the streamer around his finger, and Kibum sighed. “Honestly, I’m okay. I wrote out my thoughts last night, and I think that helped a bit.”

“Where?”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it up. “You can read it if you want to,” he said as he unlocked his phone. He cut Jonghyun off when he started to protest, opening the kakaotalk app. “I really don’t mind. It’s not a big de…”

Oh, fuck.

He had sent it. He had sent the message. Shit.

And, if that wasn’t already bad enough, Minho had read it, too. And not responded.

“Oh...my god.”

“What?” Kibum couldn’t respond, he could only pass the phone over to Jonghyun and sink into the couch as he read the text. “Oh no...Kibummie...were you drunk?”

“I wish! Then I could have an excuse!” He covered his face with his hands. “This is the worst possible scenario…”

“I found the tape!” Kibum didn’t move his hands, but he saw Jinki come around the couch through the slits between his fingers. “Do I even want to know?”

Kibum just groaned in response before finally sitting up and taking his phone out of Jonghyun’s hands. “I need more coffee. You guys -- ” he gestured to the room, hoping they would pick up on his wanting them to continue decorating.

He trudged into the kitchen, his heart heavy as he started to make another pot of coffee. Why hadn’t Minho responded? Did he really mean that little to him now? Did he ever?

“Do you know what I love most about you?” Minho asked, his fingers carding through Kibum’s hair as they caught up on Sky Castle.

“Hm?” He looked up when Minho didn’t answer right away and found him watching him. “What?”

“I swear, I had an answer, but now I just want to say ‘Everything’.” Kibum tried to suppress a smile but failed. “I can’t help it. You’re too amazing and I love you too much.”

Kibum squirmed, turning his head on Minho’s lap so he was facing the television. “Why are you so sappy today?”

“I missed you, so I’m allowed! Plus, you love it. Would you rather I be working?” he started reaching for the cascade of papers spilling out onto the coffee table. Kibum grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together before holding their hands against his chest. “Oh no,” he said drolly, a smile in his voice. “Now I’ll never meet my deadline...”

“What a terrible thing, I’m so sorry,” Kibum said, just as sarcastically, kissing the back of Minho’s hand when he chuckled. After a moment, Minho shifted, and Kibum glanced away from the television. “Do you really have to work?”

“I probably should, yeah. But I can finish watching this episode, don’t worry,” he said, squeezing Kibum’s hand. Kibum nodded with a sigh as he looked back at the television.

He did love him, at one point, at least. That much he knew for sure. Kibum just wished that he could let go of Minho as easily as Minho had let go of him...

- - - - -

7:55 // Do you at least have coffee for me?

Kibum looked up with the subway pulled into the station and quickly pocketed his phone as he made his way onto the train with the jumble of people. Hopefully, Taemin would remember to look at his phone sometime between now and Kibum’s next subway stop. He sucked his teeth at the man who had just bumped into him without apologizing.

Suppressing an exasperated sigh, Kibum reached up and grabbed one of the overhead straps before the train started moving again. “It’s too early for this bullshit,” he mumbled under his breath, bracing himself as the train started. He scanned the faces in the crowd around him, his gaze trailing back when he thought he spotted someone familiar in the car just ahead of him.

He blinked, disbelieving. Minho? Kibum instantly averted his eyes, turning around in case he had seen him...only to look back a moment later. Minho was still staring off into space. Even at this distance, Kibum could tell that his usually bright and cheery eyes were dull...almost lifeless.

It was a wonder Kibum could recognize him at all.

And, it wasn’t as if Minho didn’t know his job was soul-sucking...he made that comment multiple times in the years they were a couple. As sad as Kibum was to see him like this, anger flared up within him as well. If the train hadn’t been moving, he might have barged into the next car and demanded Minho explain his decision.

But then, Minho yawned, and his eyelids drooped further still. The heat of Kibum’s anger dissipated. Was this his life, now? Just the constant drudgery of work? Jinki had mentioned that he had tried several times to hang out with Minho, after work, and while Minho always said he would, he would also always call several hours later to say that he had gotten caught up at work.

Kibum looked up when the woman over the intercom announced the next stop, and then back to Minho to find him rousing himself. Their eyes met briefly, but Kibum looked away and didn’t see if Minho kept looking at him or not.

The train came to a stop, and Kibum kept a hold of his strap while others exited, watching for Taemin to get on. He waved when he spotted him, and Taemin barely made it onto the train before the doors closed. “No coffee?” he asked once Taemin made his way over to him.

“No?”

“I swear to God, if you don’t start reading your texts...”

“I do!”

“Not just the ones from Jjong.”

“I don’t!” Kibum scoffed, looking over Taemin’s head to where Minho had been, only to find him gone. “Besides, we can always get some coffee at the cafe.”

“I suppose.”

Luckily, Taemin was able to distract him with their ongoing discussion about new choreography to teach the trainees. Once they were off the subway and had their coffee, they went upstairs to the dance studios, splitting up when their groups arrived. He worked with his first group, perfecting their technique and correcting their movements until their session was up.

It would be fifteen or so minutes before his next crew would arrive, so Kibum took the time to stretch his limbs while he waited. He glanced around the room before he met his own gaze in the mirror.

He hadn’t noticed Minho standing there while he practiced the new choreography in their bathroom mirror. Not until he cleared his throat. Kibum glanced over at him, his face instantly turning beet red as he looked back in the mirror. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Minho said, his amusement evident in his voice as he moved behind him in the bathroom to inspect his own appearance before he left for work.

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

Minho adjusted his tie pin, making eye contact with Kibum in the mirror. “Maybe I was thinking you’re the cutest, you ever consider that?”

“Were you?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not,” he added with a twinkle in his eye as he turned to Kibum, raising his eyebrows in question.

Kibum reached up and adjusted the knot of his tie before patting his chest. “Have a good day, I’ll see you later.”

He cupped Minho’s cheek with his hand as he leaned in to kiss him goodbye. “Missing you already,” he said, smiling into another kiss before he left Kibum’s side.

The door to the dance studio opened, and Kibum blinked as he looked away from the mirror. He scrambled to his feet, bowing in greeting to the trainees as they filed into the room.

“Alright.” He cleared his throat, trying to drive any thought of Minho from his mind. “Let’s pick up where we left off.”

- - - - -

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Kibum leaned against it, and let out a heavy sigh. Lights from the city illuminated the darkened living room, and Kibum kicked off his shoes and shucked his jacket before he flicked on the lights.

His house was still in disarray after Taemin’s surprise party -- twisted streamers rocking back and forth because of the ceiling fan, the helium balloons drooping as they started their slow descent, and the mess of confetti covering everything.

It’s not like it mattered, that his house was a sty. He was the only one who ever saw it anyways...

Huffing, Kibum stepped forward, grimacing at the confetti that stuck to his bare feet. He went over to the side table and turned on the television, instantly relaxing at the sound of static and someone else’s voice filling the empty space. The fridge light was bright as he opened it, and he leaned against the door. “Fuck, I need to get groceries.”

There was literally only two plates of Taemin’s leftover birthday cake. Kibum grabbed one of the plates and went back into the living room, swiping some of the frosting and sucking it off of his finger as he plopped down on his couch. While he didn’t necessarily enjoy Running Man, he wasn’t in any mood to change the channel.

It had been...almost a week since he had seen Minho in the subway.

If he had been having a problem keeping Minho off of his mind before...it was nothing compared to how he was now.

Quite frankly, it was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.

Maybe he needed to ask one of the others to set him up on a date. It was time, right? Seven months was long enough..he was just being pathetic at this point. He set his plate of cake down and pulled out his phone, checking the last message he sent him.

Still read. Still not responded to.

Kibum pursed his lips, tossing it into the pile of confetti on the couch. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d talk to Jonghyun about a blind date. He started brushing the confetti off of the couch so he could lay down. After a second, he stopped.

No.

It was time to actually sleep in his own bed, not the most uncomfortable couch on the goddamn planet. He grabbed his phone and stood, freezing mid-step when he heard a knock at the door. 11:46? Who the hell would be coming here this late?

Slowly, he approached the door, peeking through the peephole. Wait...Minho? Kibum leaned back, rubbing his eyes before he looked through again to make sure. Yep, it was him.

He jumped when there was another knock at the door.

Kibum, pressing his hand to his chest to soothe his erratically beating heart, took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. Once he pulled the door open, Minho immediately met his eyes. He still looked exhausted but perked up as Kibum leaned against the door jam. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey...”

“Can I come in?” Minho asked, his eyebrows raising. Any defenses that Kibum had been building came crashing down, and he pushed the door open a little wider.

Chapter 2: I’m Home

The figures on the sales report blurred together and Minho rubbed his eyes, attempting to refocus. It wasn’t like it was that late. He grabbed his phone, blinking slowly when he tapped the screen. Okay, so maybe it was. Still, he should finish reading over these reports, since he had that meeting with investors in the morning.

Yawning, Minho tossed his phone aside and stood, heading for the kitchen to make himself yet another cup of coffee. He tied his robe loosely around his waist, and he found only find one of his slippers on his way to the kitchen. The clock on the oven blinked 3:05 when he glanced at it on his way to his Keurig. He found the darkest roast he had and popped the pod it and started it brewing.

He grabbed the full cup of coffee, and replaced the new pod with a new, lighter roast. Minho doctored his coffee to his liking before the other cup finished brewing, and he stirred in the two teaspoons of sugar, just the way…

Oh, right. Kibum wasn’t here.

Maybe he should just go to sleep. Play catch up tomorrow.

He held the coffee cup over the sink, poised to pour it down the drain.

”Minho?”

He grinned at Kibum’s incredulous expression, holding up the coffee he had gotten for him. “Surprised?” He glanced down the hall when Kibum tried to peek over his shoulder. For the moment, there was no one to watch out for. “We’re good, I think.”

Kibum nodded for Minho to come inside his dance studio, taking both coffees from his hands and setting them on the chair halfway across the room. “I thought you weren’t going to be back until tomorrow?”

“I took an earlier flight,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “I missed you too m – hey…” He couldn’t help his dopey smile as Kibum slipped into his personal space. Kibum wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist, pulling him just that much closer. “Did you miss me, too?”

“Maybe a little,” Kibum muttered into his skin as he left a trail of kisses up his neck. Minho couldn’t hold back his sigh, and Kibum chuckled as he leaned away to look into his eyes. “When do you have to go back?”

“To work?” Kibum hummed his answer, his eyes dropping to Minho’s lips for a second. “They still think I’m in New York.”

Kibum’s gaze instantly flicked up to meet Minho’s eyes. “Oh?”

“So…that means I have tomorrow off…”

“Hmm…we’ll have to think of something fun to do.”

Minho smiled when Kibum’s cheeks dimpled, and he carded his fingers through the hair on Kibum’s neck. As he leaned in, he stopped a fraction away from Kibum’s lips. “I’ll see you after you get off, baby.” Closing the distance between them, Minho kissed Kibum, smiling as Kibum pulled him closer, the kiss deepening…until…

The doorknob beside them jiggled, and they instantly broke apart. Kibum wiped his lips as Minho went over to grab his coffee from the chair. He smiled at the trainees as he passed them on his way out the door. “Who was that?” one of them asked Kibum.

“My roommate,” Kibum started to say as Minho closed the door behind him.

Sighing, Minho set Kibum’s cup of coffee aside and took up his own. He flicked the kitchen light off on his way back to the living room, taking an experimental sip of his coffee as he made his way back to the couch. He took another sip and glanced at his phone before he started to arrange the reports on the coffee table.

Wait…he had a notification?

He stared at the blinking orange light for a second. Who would be texting him right now? Maybe work…actually, probably work. His sense of duty was the only reason why he put down his coffee and picked up his phone.

But…it wasn’t work.

The Yeobo with the blue heart emoji after it burned into his eyes. Why had Kibum texted him? After all this time?

The Yeobo was a joke he had made almost a year ago when he had gotten home from work to find that Kibum had dinner waiting. It had embarrassed Kibum, which was adorable. So, he made quite the show of changing his name for him on kakaotalk, and…after they broke up, he hadn’t had the heart to change it back to Kibum.

Oh, he tried to several times, but every time he did, he would read through their old messages and he just…couldn’t.

The screen went black, and Minho unlocked his phone, immediately opening the message.

Yeobo 💙

3:07 // Honestly it’s stupid. It’s stupid how much I miss you. Even though you’re not here beside me, you are. Will I ever be able to get rid of you? As much as I want to or would like to, I can’t. I think you’re a part of me and you always will be. Do you miss me, too? Even a little bit? I hope so. I hope I irritate you with how much you think about me and I hope you remember us. What we were. What our future could of been. I’m trying hard to be strong, but the nights are long without you here. So are the days. Maybe I’m just lonely.

Minho’s grip tightened around his phone as he reread the message again and again. Did Kibum mean to send this? It didn’t seem like something he’d willingly admit unless he was drunk.

And even then.

Still, Minho started typing a response. I miss you too, so much it hurts. I wish we had never ended… He stopped, letting out a sigh as he started to backspace. Even though Kibum sent it, it felt like an accident. Like, he didn’t intend for Minho to read it. So, Minho exited out of the app and set his phone aside. He grabbed his coffee again and picked up the stack of reports.

* * * * *

Ring-ring…Ring-ring

Minho stirred, stretching to fumble with his alarm clock. With a shiver, he dropped his head back on the throw pillow, curling in on himself for a little extra warmth.

Ring-ring…Ring-ring

Yawning, Minho peeked over the arm of his couch, locating his phone before he picked it up. “Hello?”

“Oh good, you’re awake,” his father said into the receiver. Minho held back a scoff. Barely… “I wanted to discuss the meeting before you get here.”

Minho closed his eyes, setting his phone on his lap as he sat up. “Okay,” he said once he held up the phone again.

Why was his father so chipper in the morning? Maybe his secret was that he actually slept at a normal time. He listened as his father talked on and on about his expectations for him during the meeting, and switched from the living room phone to the one in his bathroom.

Minho looked into the mirror, his fingers tracing the bags under his eyes. He set the phone down, filling his hands with cool water and splashing it over his face. Hopefully, that would help. He picked up his phone again as he brushed his hair back with his fingers as his dad kept talking.

“Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll do my best.” He flinched at his tone and braced himself as his father went silent on the other end.

“You haven’t been spending time with that Kibum again, have you?” When Minho didn’t answer him right away, his father took that to mean that he was. “I didn’t have to promote you, you know. You’re lucky Minseok started his own company so that you could do something with your life.”

“Father, I haven’t…I haven’t been.”

“I’ll see you when you get here.” The click on the other end signified the end of their discussion.

As much as he wanted to throw the receiver across the room, Minho walked it over to its place on the wall. He went into his walk-in closet, then, inspecting the sparse assortment of suits hanging there. Minho reached for the gray Givenchy suit, caressing the darker stripes with his thumb.

“I swear, if you don’t at least try on this fucking suit, I will dump you.”

Minho looked around, checking to see if the attendants were paying them any attention before he booped the tip of Kibum’s nose. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Okay, you’re right…but…think of the baby,” Kibum said, jutting his bottom lip out in the barest hint of aegyo.

Minho threw his head back, laughing hard enough for Kibum to shush him so he didn’t disturb the other customers. “Fine, I put it on, but just for you.”

“Why won’t you buy it?” Kibum asked as he trailed behind Minho on his way to the fitting room, sitting outside when Minho closed the door behind him

“My father said not to be too flashy with what I wear.” Minho smirked when Kibum started to laugh as he slipped out of his t-shirt and jeans. “Don’t you start.”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t see what’s so flashy about wearing black all the time.”

Minho zipped up his slacks, glancing at the closed door. “What? You think I should change?”

“I think…you should wear what makes you happy and confident.”

He finished tucking in his shirt then undid the top button before he shrugged on the jacket. “What do you think?” he asked, opening the door to let Kibum see. His boyfriend sat still, staring unblinkingly at Minho where he stood in the doorway. Minho could feel a smile curl his lips upward, and he unbuttoned the second, tugging at the collar to let just a bit more of his chest show. “Do you have any thoughts, or…”

“I…think…that we should buy this and go straight home.”

Gulping, Minho let go of the Givenchy suit, grabbing his plain navy one instead.

* * * * *

It had to be a trick.

His eyes must be deceiving him. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t gotten a whole lot of sleep last night, so perhaps his brain had conjured up exactly what he wanted to see. Who he longed to see.

Kibum was there, just in the other car on the subway. Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds, and he looked away. But it was him. Looking healthy and as beautiful as ever. He blamed the tears stinging his eyes on his exhaustion, even if he knew that was just a lie he was telling himself. He blinked, driving them away, as the other passengers started to deboard the subway.

Oh, right, this was his stop. He had a plane to catch.

The journey to the airport, and even through security as well as boarding the plane, passed by in a blur. He had done it so many times, now. Too many. Minho stuffed his carry-on bag into the overhead bin, not even reacting when something fell out of the side pocket, bouncing off of his arm and onto the ground. He slid into his seat, slowly reaching down to grab it, only to find that one of the stewardesses got to it first.

“Is this yours?” she asked, holding up the little black box.

“Yes,” he said, his voice almost too quiet for her to hear, judging by the way she squinted an leaned closer to him. He held out his hand, and she placed it in his palm.

The ring box bit into his palm as he tightened his fist around it in his pocket. “Please, Minho, sit. We have a lot to discuss.”

He stared at his father, a silent plea in his gaze. A silent plea that was being firmly ignored. Minho took a deep breath, steeling himself, and sat down in the armchair opposite his father. “How did you know?”

“Your mother saw you two. At the mall. She said that you and…he were hanging all over each other.” Minho averted his eyes, his face heating. “I think it goes without saying that we don’t approve of your little tryst.”

Wow, what a huge surprise…He had no idea that would be the case.

“Do you…love him?”

“More than anything in the world,” Minho answered without thinking. His eyes widened a second later…he probably shouldn’t have said that… “What do you want from me?”

“What do I want with you? Nothing. ‘What do I expect from you?’ should have been your question.” Minho gritted his teeth, refusing to ask. “I expect that you’ll break it off with him immediately, and never see him again, or – “

“Or?”

“Or I will tell his boss that Kibum is a homosexual. I am friends with Sooman, after all. I’m sure you remember that.”

He did. Fuck…

“As long as you do that, I’ll keep the information to myself. I wouldn’t want you to cause any more shame on the family, as it is.”

Minho cursed himself as tears filled his eyes. Stay with Kibum, and risk poverty and ostracization for them both. Let him go, and rest assured that Kibum would be safe. When it came down to it, the decision was easy.

“Okay,” he said, raising his chin as he met his father’s eyes. “I’ll do it.”

The stewardess walked away, and Minho’s gaze slipped to the ring box. He remembered that day vividly – the day he had bought the ring. Jinki was there with him, as Jonghyun and Taemin could not be trusted with any secrets ever. It was a hard decision, narrowing down his choice for the perfect ring for Kibum. In the end, he decided on a thin silver band, five tiny diamonds etched into the top.

Honestly, it had been an impulse buy. He and Jinki had been at the mall to pick out a new coat for Jinki before the winter hit on one of Minho’s rare days off. But when they passed by the jewelry shop, Minho couldn’t help but stop and look at one of the rings that caught his eye, and they ended up scouring the selection to find the perfect one. He hadn’t been planning on proposing, not quite yet, but now that he had the ring…why not? Jinki entertained him for the rest of their time at the mall, coming up with ridiculous scenarios for Minho to propose.

He had almost forgotten that he carried it with him, still. It was a little piece of Kibum – even if he wasn’t aware of its existence – a little reminder of what they could have been.

The flight attendants started their safety spiel as the plane started to taxi onto the runway. Minho leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing. Hopefully, he would dream of happier times.

* * * * *

Deliberations in New York took longer than they needed to. They always did.

Minho opened his eyes when the elevator dinged, stepping forward and down the hall to his condo. His briefcase swung back and forth at his side, tapping against his leg as he fished in his pocket for his keys. Once the door was unlocked, he trudged inside, tossing the briefcase on the nearby sofa. He flopped down on the other, tucking himself easily into the curve of the couch.

If it wasn’t already enough – the neverending hours at work, the long flights, the general lack of sleep, the soul-crushing silence of the empty room – he hadn’t been able to get Kibum off of his mind. Not since the subway.

If he could only…see him again…speak with him one last time…beg for his forgiveness…then he might be satisfied.

He didn’t dream of happier times. Not on the flight, not when he tried to sleep in his hotel room. Not ever.

”So,” Kibum said, his previously impassive expression faltering with a quiver at his chin. “Which will it be?”

“Kibum…I – ”

“It shouldn’t be a hard decision, Minho. Me…or your job.”

Minho gulped, his shoulders sinking as his gaze fell to the floor. Ah, his time was up. When his father told him to break it off, he tried. He genuinely did. It was just…wanted to be selfish. To live on borrowed time, for a while. He knew their days were numbered, and he wanted to savor every he could with Kibum, memorizing everything.

But it was over now. He had driven him away.

He took as many hours as he could at work, barely making any time for Kibum. His Kibum. The sudden productivity from his son seemed to surprise Father, and he got a promotion at work. And with that, came more flights to and from the states and more responsibilities…and less time with his boyfriend.

It was only a matter of time before this day would come. When he’d have to say goodbye.

Not that he was ready, of course. But it was time.

Minho met Kibum’s eyes and held his gaze, burning the curves and lines of his face into his memory. “I’m sorry.” Kibum’s bottom lip quivered until he clenched his jaw, turning his face away from Minho. It took a moment for Minho to summon the courage to stand, to walk past Kibum on his way to the door. “If I could make one last request,” he said, his voice quiet in the strained silence stretching between them.

When Kibum didn’t answer, Minho looked back and found that he hadn’t turned his head to watch him go. But he was listening.

“Please, don’t hate me.”

As he opened the door, Kibum’s head twitched toward the noise and Minho froze, waiting. “That’s the thing. I could never hate you.” And, with that, Minho closed the door behind him.

Minho rubbed his eyes, driving the reverie away.

It’s not like he could do anything about it. He couldn’t go see Kibum, which meant he couldn’t apologize and try to make amends. It would be pointless.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out, the ring box falling out with it. As Minho sat up, he took up the ring box and opened it. He stared at the gems, and they seemed to stare back, teasing him, taunting him. Minho snapped the ring box closed and carried it with him to his closet, setting it down among his glasses..

Maybe, his traitorous mind thought, and he pushed it away as he stood in front of his suits. What if, it continued as Minho pulled out the Givenchy suit. He had yet to wear it, to work or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he had stripped out of his travel-worn suit and slipped into the designer suit. Why he put it on, he wasn’t sure.

“You’re being selfish,” he said to his reflection, as he adjusted his tie pin. Was it worth throwing their safety away? Just for a moment of weakness? He dragged his hand across the nape of his neck, sighing heavily, as he stared at the ring box. It didn’t matter that he felt like he was deteriorating on the inside. It didn’t matter that his heart ached every second they had been apart.

It didn’t matter what he wanted. Or needed.

Minho grabbed the ring box, taking it back into the living room and sinking into the sofa. He had to be strong…for both of them. As he flipped the box over in his hand, his mind wandered to the text message Kibum had sent him.

I think you’re a part of me and you always will be.

No matter how much he tried to be strong, he was always so weak, when it came to Kibum. His fist tightened around the ring box, and he shot up from the couch, running for the elevator.

“Where to?” the taxi driver asked, suppressing a yawn as Minho buckled up.

Home.

Minho rattled off Kibum’s address without a thought, and he leaned back in his seat as the car pulled forward. He stared out the window, watching the city lights pass him by as he took deep, calming breaths.

For better or for worse, he had to be selfish this one last time.

Chapter 3: Unchained

“Can I come in?”

It was only when the door was closed behind him that Kibum remembered the state of his house. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at the back of Minho’s head and waiting for his reaction to the remnants of the party.

“This was for Taemin, right?” Kibum blinked in surprise. “Jinki invited me to come a couple of weeks ago.” That fucker…Jinki didn’t mention anything about the extended invitation. “I was scheduled to be in New York…” Minho’s voice trailed off as he sighed.

“Why are you here, Minho?” He turned around, then, meeting Kibum’s inquisitive gaze. There was warmth there, still, in those tired eyes. Warmth and hope and a silent plea for understanding. Kibum looked down at the spread of confetti on the floor, then brushed past Minho as he followed the path through it to the couch. He sat in his spot, looking up at Minho expectantly. “Well?”

“I didn’t think I’d get this far…Not quite sure where to begin, to be honest.”

“How about sitting down.” He was more curious than anything else, now. Had he dressed up in that suit specifically to see him? Or was that just a random choice for his day at work? Kibum followed Minho’s progress around the room, and he grabbed the remote as Minho sat on the opposite end of the couch to turn the volume down several clicks.

Minho brushed more of the confetti off and onto the floor as he made himself comfortable, pointedly avoiding Kibum’s gaze. He picked one of the pieces up, twirling it around his finger as he looked up. “You could never irritate me.” Kibum’s brow furrowed in confusion. They irritated each other frequently in the many years they had known each other, especially when they were a couple. “Thoughts of you – of us – could never irritate me.”

Oh god…the text message. Was that why he decided to come? Kibum started to apologize for sending that, but Minho continued.

“Those were the happiest moments of my life. The ones with you.”

“Which ones?” Kibum found himself asking.

“All of them.” He gulped as Minho looked down at his hands again. “I missed you so much, ba – Bummie.”

If he could physically reach into his chest and stop his heart from swelling, he would. He needed to be strong, not only for his own sake but also for Minho’s as well. For a moment, his gaze drifted away. “Then why did you leave?” His eyes snapped back to meet Minho’s when he looked up. “Why did you wait so long to see me again, if you missed me so much?”

“I had to.”

“Had to?” Kibum smirked when Minho nodded. “Ultimatums aren’t that serious. You didn’t have to stay away.” Hurt flashed in Minho’s eyes, and Kibum almost broke his stony demeanor and apologized. He knew…he knew he was being unfair. He had been the one to make him choose. The one to make him leave.

“You don’t understand.”

“Is that why you’re here, then? To explain?”

Minho started tearing the confetti in his hands into little shreds, his voice low and quiet as he told Kibum about a conversation he had with his father. The threat of blackmail, of their relationship – and Kibum’s sexuality in particular– being exposed. How he decided to drive Kibum away, to make him want to let go of what they could have been, because he couldn’t.

“I’m weak, when it comes to you,” Minho said after a stretch of silence. “I know I was being selfish, and for that, I deeply apologize, but I knew…when it came down to it, that I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to you.”

Kibum swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Why tell me all this now?”

“When I saw you in the subway,” Minho chuckled, shaking his head. “After knowing that you missed me too, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I saw you. One last time.” Last time…no… “I’m sorry for any trouble I caused you,” he said, standing and bowing to Kibum as he started for the door. “I won’t disturb you again.”

“It’s late.” Minho stopped in his tracks. Just let him go. He’s trying to move on with his life. Don’t ask him to – “Stay. You can always take a taxi or whatever home in the morning.”

Minho turned, hope twinkling in his eyes. “Where will I sleep?” Kibum patted the couch. “What about – “

“I still have some of your old t-shirts…and the blankets are where they always have been.” Minho nodded as Kibum stood, and started for their – no, his room. He grabbed his pajamas, as well as Minho’s t-shirt he wore most often to sleep in, and went back out to the main room. “Here.” Kibum tossed the shirt in Minho’s general direction, glancing over to find him cleaning off the entire couch before he laid the fleece throw down. “Goodnight, Min.”

“Goodnight.”

He’d be a fool to miss the longing in Minho’s voice.

Distracted now, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, completely forgoing his face washing routine. He flicked off the bathroom light and walked down the hall to see that the light and the television were turned off. Kibum stared into the darkness for a moment, before he turned and went into his bedroom.

“You’d think after that couch, this bed would be much more comfortable,” he murmured to himself, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He tossed and turned, curling up around his pillow and then lying bone-straight on his side, then his back, then his other side…then face down.

Kibum rolled over, lying on his back to watch the shadows shift on the ceiling with passing cars. How was Minho faring out there? He could always sleep anywhere, no matter what, so he was probably fine…but…no… He couldn’t bring Minho in here; he couldn’t cross that line. Not yet! Or ever!

His body, however, seemed to have a different idea. Kibum slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to the entrance of the hallway overlooking the living room. “Minho.”

“Yeah?” he whispered after a second of hesitation.

“Do you want to come to bed?”

In the darkness, he saw Minho’s silhouette peeking out over the back of the couch. “Are you sure?”

“If you don’t want to, then…whatever.” He turned and headed back to bed, his heart sinking as he slipped back under the covers. Closing his eyes, he turned over on his side, hoping to force himself to go to sleep.

The bed dipped and rocked as Minho crawled in, being careful not to disturb Kibum, who had started to smile. It only took a few minutes for Minho’s breathing to steady and for the first of his snores to come. Kibum’s eyes stung with tears that he blinked away as he rolled over to face Minho. The city lights from the far window gilded his silhouette, his shadow stretching out toward Kibum.

Minho snored again, and Kibum pursed his lips to stop a chuckle. He didn’t think he would miss that, and yet… Eventually, his eyes drooped, and he nodded off into a restful sleep.

As dawn broke, he stirred, feeling overly warm. Kibum barely opened his eyes, inhaling the fresh laundry scent right in front of his nose. There was just white, and as he looked up, the beautiful tan of Minho’s skin. He was in Minho’s arms, and him in Kibum’s. They were holding each other close, as though even in sleep, they were afraid of letting each other go again. Sighing, Kibum snuggled closer still and closed his eyes, drifting off again.

* * * * *

It was mid-morning by the time Minho woke, and the bed was empty.

Wait…bed?

He opened his sleepy eyes, taking in the familiar room. The random collection of art hanging on the walls, the same covers on the bed, several of the drawers in the dresser across the room always slightly open, and the light on in the walk-in closet. Minho took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking over at the rumpled sheets beside him. Cool now, it seemed. He pulled his hand back, his eyes widening as Kibum walked into the room with just a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Is this a dream..?” Kibum started at the sound of Minho’s voice, his hand instantly going to his towel to make sure it didn’t fall open.

“You’re awake.”

Minho could barely nod as Kibum moved further into the room. He could only stare at Kibum, drinking in the sight of him. This felt too real to be a dream. Minho blinked as Kibum swung the door closed – though not shut – after he stepped into the closet. When he reappeared, he was dressed in dark wash skinny jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. His eyes instantly met Minho’s, his expression softening slightly.

“How’d you sleep?” He asked as he sat on the foot of the bed.

“Better than I have in a long…long time.”

Kibum laced his fingers, folding his hands together in his lap as Minho sat up, mirroring the motion. “So…” Minho raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side. “I was thinking…I should come out to my boss.” He blinked, taken aback. “That way, at least your dad has nothing against me.”

“Will…will you be alright?” he whispered. Unfortunately, he remembered all too well what happened when Kibum came out to his parents. He had been sitting in the other room while they argued with Kibum, trying to make him see how wrong his life was. His choices. He remembered the angry tears in Kibum’s eyes as he stormed out of the room, he remembered the vice-like grip on his hand and he dragged Minho out of the house and to their car.

That had been years ago, and he still had yet to reconcile with his mother. His father, since their divorce, luckily had come around.

“It’s just a job. If I get fired…” he shrugged, meeting Minho’s eyes for a second before he dropped his gaze to his hands.

“But you love that job, right?” Kibum nodded. “Is it worth the risk?”

Kibum looked up, searching Minho’s concerned expression until his attention shifted to Minho’s lips and then to his eyes. “So, I was an idiot, and I didn’t go grocery shopping last week…or the week before…so I don’t have any coffee for you.”

“That’s okay…” He smirked, and before he could think better of it, he said, “Just seeing you gives me more than enough of a boost.” Kibum bit his bottom lip in an effort to keep from smiling too wide. “Too soon?”

“Maybe a little…but I can’t say I mind.”

He smiled then, softly, but enough to make the dimple appear on his cheek. Minho’s shoulders drooped as he sighed. Kibum’s hands were still folded together, his thumbs tapping a rhythm together. Minho clenched his own fists in the sheets, longing to reach out and brush his fingers through Kibum’s hair, that was still slightly damp from his shower. Or, to hold him close in his arms. To feel his warmth, each intake of his breath. Anything to let him know that this was real.

“Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

Kibum’s smile grew. “Do you often dream of me?”

“If I dream, you’re always there.”

He stared at him, his gaze growing tender until he blinked and averted his eyes. “Anyways, I should get going. I’m already almost late for work as it is.”

“Kibum.” Minho shot out of bed as he stood and turned for the door. “Do you want me to come with you?”

A heavy sigh. “Sure.”

Minho rushed to get ready, pulling on his slightly rumpled suit and brushing his teeth with a spare toothbrush before he met Kibum at the door. The journey to SM Entertainment was somber. Quiet. Neither of them seemed to mind that.

Ordinarily, a packed subway would have been irritating, but in this case, the physical closeness to Kibum was a soothing balm on his aching heart. A tingle danced along his skin every time he reached out to steady him, his touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than Minho could have ever hoped for.

They stayed an arm’s length apart as they ventured into the cafe, Kibum instructing Minho to stay there until he came to find him. And…then he left. Minho watched him disappear down a long hallway, long to run after him, to hold him close and give him whatever strength he could.

The minutes stretched on, and eventually, he had to distract himself so he didn’t just fidget until Kibum reappeared. He bought himself a coffee, taking tiny sips of it as he waited.

And waited.

Twenty minutes had passed before Kibum walked into the cafe, meeting Minho’s inquisitive gaze immediately. A subtle nod and Minho was on his feet, following Kibum back down the hallway. Neither spoke as Kibum led them toward the dance studios.

His hands were trembling as he pulled out his keys, and it made it hard for him to unlock the door. Minho reached out, one hand instinctively slipping around Kibum’s waist and the other taking the keys to open the studio. Once inside, he led Kibum over to the closest chair before he hurried back to close and lock the door.

When he made his way back to Kibum, he knelt before him, taking his hand in his as Kibum took deep calming breaths. “I’m okay,” he said after several minutes. “It went better than I was expecting.”

“What happened?”

“I told him the truth.”

“Sooman?”

Kibum nodded. “He said as long as I didn’t let it affect my work and I didn’t try to turn the trainees – “ Minho grimaced. “ – yeah…he said he didn’t care.” Sighing, Minho leaned forward, pressing his forehead against their joined hands. After a minute, Kibum’s other hand patted Minho’s head, his fingers carding through Minho’s hair. “Now, there’s at least one thing that your dad doesn’t control.”

Minho slowly opened his eyes and stared at Kibum’s knee just beyond his nose. God, he really was an idiot…of course that’s why Kibum did this. They would never be able to return to how they were – maybe not today, or tomorrow, but someday – if Kibum didn’t come out first. His father would tear them apart in whatever way he could. Whether by blackmail, which Kibum just annulled, or other means – he would not want to lose his control over Minho.

If Kibum could be brave – marching into uncharted territory unsure of the outcome, for them, for their possible future – then so could he.

“When’s your next class?”

Kibum’s hand stilled in Minho’s hair, dropping to his lap when Minho looked up. “Soon. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to kick you out – “

Minho released Kibum’s hand. “It’s okay. Can…can I see you later?” Smiling, Kibum nodded, and Minho stood and started for the door. “Do you still get off at six?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay.” Minho turned the handle looking back at Kibum for a moment. “I’ll see you soon.”

It wasn’t long until the skyscraper that housed Choi Conglomerate came into view. He stepped inside, breezing through the rotating doorway and walking right past the front desk. The elevator ride up to his office was a quiet one as if none of the employees knew what to say with him present. He raised his chin as the elevator reached his floor, and he walked out, passing Seohyun, his secretary on his way to his office.

“Sir?” she said, following him inside his office. “Your father has been trying to contact you all day.” Ah, that’s what he forgot to grab when he left his condo – his cellphone.

��I’m sorry if it caused you stress.”

“Don’t worry about me, sir. Are you alright? You’ve never been this late before.”

Minho smiled to himself, and Seohyun sat in one of the chairs across from him. “I’m doing better than I have been in a while.”

“That’s a relief to hear.”

Minho met her eyes, and she smiled at him. “Do you know what my father’s schedule is like today?”

She pulled out her cellphone, probably bringing up her messages between herself and Jieun, his father’s secretary. “He’s currently in a meeting, but he wanted to see you whenever you got in. Apparently, he’s not…very happy.”

“Wow, what a huge surprise.” Seohyun chuckled, then covered her mouth when Minho looked up. “Why don’t you go ahead and take the day off?”

“Really?” Minho nodded. “Are you sure?” Laughing, he nodded again. “Thank you, sir.”

“Do something fun! And, Seohyun?” She stopped, looking back at him from the doorway. “Thank you for everything.” She gave him a shy smile before she closed the door behind herself. Once she was gone, Minho called his father’s office, and Jieun answered. “This is Minho.”

“Ah, Mr. Choi. Your father wishes to see you.”

“When is he out of his meeting?”

“He just got back.”

“I’ll be right there. Thank you, Jieun.” He hung up the phone and by the time he made it out the door, Seohyun was nowhere to be found.

As he walked to his father’s office, he thought about what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it, but his mind was coming up blank. Even as he stepped inside his father’s office, he didn’t know how to begin. He walked up to the desk, standing between the armchairs as his father glared at him behind the desk. He was talking on the phone with someone, but he soon cut them off and hung up.

“Where were you? You’re never late.”

“I overslept.” For once in seven fucking months, he had actually slept a normal amount of time. His father started to speak, but Minho spoke over him. “I quit.” Silence rang in Minho’s ears as his father stared at him. “I’m tired and I hate this job. I just want out. Give it to Minseok, for all I care. I know you’d rather that, anyway.”

“Why quit now?”

“I can’t live like this anymore. I’m miserable, and you know it. You exploit it, even.”

“If this is about that…Kibum – “

“Would you do the same for Mom?” His father’s jaw clenched. “If there were obstacles in your way, keeping the two of you apart, would you fight for her?” Minho sighed when his dad grimaced. “I’m tired. I miss him and I’m tired of not being with him. So, I quit.”

As he turned to leave, his father said, “If you walk out that door, I never want to see you again.” Minho picked up his pace, not even bothering to turn around to look at his father one last time.

He felt lightheaded and slightly dizzy as he made his way back downstairs and onto the street. What would he do now? Where would he go? It was only a matter of hours before he would be locked out of his condo, so he made his way there, first, grabbing the few personal possessions that he couldn’t do without. He turned in his key at the front desk, his heart feeling lighter than it had in a long while.

This must be what freedom felt like.

Minho meandered through Seoul on his way back to SM Entertainment, scouring the shop windows for We’re Hiring! signs. He spotted a few, making mental notes of them all, and soon he was sitting in the cafe with a fresh iced coffee, watching the clock as he waited for Kibum.

Blessedly, it didn’t take too long for him to show, his smile growing as he spotted Minho. “Do…do you want to go grocery shopping with me?”

“Of course,” Minho said immediately.

It was just like old times – why wouldn’t it be? Minho followed Kibum around the store, a basket in hand, and pulled things that he pointed at off the shelf. Kibum vented about the dumbass trainees as they shopped, and Minho listened eagerly, adding his own comments when he could and smiling when they made Kibum laugh. They walked home, their arms full of groceries. As Kibum put them away and started dinner, Minho started to clean up the remnants of Taemin’s party. He made good progress before dinner was ready, but after eating and helping Kibum with the dishes, he didn’t want to do much else but sit.

“So, you quit.” Minho nodded, tapping his thumb on the handle of his mug, the tea inside steaming. “What will you do?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I don’t know if I should look for a job or a place to live first…”

“Job.” Minho slowly met Kibum’s eyes, his eyebrows raising in question. “You can stay here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Min. You should know that by now.”

He nodded.

Once he was finished showering, Kibum turned off the TV and met him by the bedroom door. “You can sleep in here, it’s okay,” he said as Minho tried to go past him and into the living room.

“I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”

“I know.” He leaned against the door jam as Kibum looked down at the carpet between them. “I know it’s probably asking too much. I don’t know about you, but…but I’m not ready for anything more right now.” As much as Minho longed to return to the way they were before, he knew that wouldn’t be wise. Patience and trust would be key to navigating themselves back into a relationship like the one they had had. “Even…even so, I missed you.” He met Minho’s eyes then. “I missed you so much, and I don’t want to be…to be apart from you again. It’s up to you,” he said, glancing into the bedroom. “If you want to sleep here, or not. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable at all.”

Kibum swallowed thickly before he stepped inside the bedroom. He had already crawled into bed by the time Minho flicked off the light and followed him inside.

- - - - -

“So, let me get this straight…” Kibum didn’t look up from his phone and the stream of memes Minho was sending him, but he hummed in question when Jonghyun paused. “You’re not dating, but you’re living together again. Sleeping in the same bed – “

“Just sleeping.”

“And cuddling, I assume.” Kibum blushed, scrolling down when Minho sent him another meme. “Basically spending every waking moment you can together for a month…”

“Yeah? And?”

“How…no, why not just date again? Have you guys even kissed yet?” Kibum shook his head, rolling his eyes when Jonghyun scoffed. “If I hadn’t seen Taemin in seven months…”

“The world would end as we know it, I know.”

Min~

12:04 // okay, I have to go back to work now~

12:04 // bye~

Kibum pocketed his phone, rejoining Jonghyun’s rant on how everything good in this world would cease to exist if he and Taemin didn’t see each other every day. “Honestly, you should be grateful to us – “

“Oh, I am,” Kibum said sarcastically as he picked up his chopsticks to resume eating his lunch. “We’re just…taking things slow, that’s all.”

“I feel like slow is an understatement.”

“When you’ve known each other as long as we have, you learn to be patient.”

He stirred his noodles, coating them with sauce before he took a bite. He and Minho had known each other since they were kids in middle school, but they didn’t start dating until their second year of college. Had…had they really been dating for eight years? He hadn’t really thought about it since they split.

No wonder they had slipped right back into their old routine so easily.

It only took about a week for Minho to find a new job, the sales manager at Times Square Mall in downtown Seoul. While it was fast-paced enough to keep Minho occupied and engaged, it was nowhere near the levels of stress and dedication he had to endure at his dad’s company.

About a month had passed since Minho quit his job and their lives intertwined again. Was that enough time? Was he taking too long to make up his mind? They had a solid relationship before the split, trust built and maintained easily. But, even now, he hesitated. It was hard, deciding to make the leap of faith, to reach out and begin things again.

He hated his own hesitation. He hated how each morning when he woke, he snuggled closer to Minho, leeching the warmth and comfort he was unknowingly giving. He hated how he didn’t linger, didn’t wait for Minho to stir and realize he was holding Kibum like his life depended on it. He hated how he doted on Minho, bringing him coffee just the way he liked it as soon as he was waking up, and he hated the sweet, sleepy smile Minho would give him every morning. He hated how easily domestic they were, as though they had never been apart.

He hated that he loved every second of it.

Why couldn’t he cross that line?

Ah, he was terrified. Of what would happen, should they be forced to split again. Those months without Minho were the darkest he had ever faced, and he faced them alone. And now…now that he was back, even though the sun was shining on them again, the darkness lurked in his mind.

Jonghyun just didn’t understand…neither did Taemin nor Jinki. Sure, they were there for him in those months, but they couldn’t understand.

“Speaking of Taemin,” Kibum said, stirring his noodles again. “When does he get back from Japan?”

Jonghyun sighed heavily. “Not soon enough.”

By the time Kibum was home for the night, Minho had been home for a while, judging by the state of the kitchen. Kibum walked in, smirking as he flipped through the recipe book. “Need any help?” he asked, startling Minho, who turned around to look at him.

“No, I think I got it. Thanks, though.”

The fried rice was a bit too crunchy for Kibum’s taste, but he ate it all, thanking Minho for the food. As they cleaned up the kitchen together – Kibum insisted on helping, this time – his mind started to wander to his and Jonghyun’s earlier conversation.

“Min.”

“Hm?”

“Are you happy?”

Minho’s hands stilled in the dishwater, and he glanced over at Kibum. “Of course I am.”

Nodding, Kibum set the pan to dry.

His birthday came and went, Minho planning a surprise party that Kibum was actually genuinely surprised by. After they all left, he even helped Kibum wash the cake and buttercream off his face and out of his hair. His hands lingered, on his cheek and when they cupped the back of his head. They were so close, just a little push and the line would have been crossed.

But, there would be no way to go back, if they did. So Kibum stayed still, his gaze trained on Minho’s lips, wishing he had the courage to leap.

The next morning, Kibum once again woke with the sun, relishing in the warmth of Minho’s embrace. He stared sleepily at the expanse of Minho’s skin just beyond his nose. As his eyes closed, he wrapped his arms around Minho’s waist and nuzzled into his neck. He pressed a chaste kiss where his neck met his shoulder, then another, and another until he reached Minho’s jaw.

Minho hummed contentedly, and Kibum sat back, still in his embrace, to see if he was awake yet. Not quite. He brushed Minho’s wavy hair off of his forehead, watching his face as the morning sun stretched across his skin, setting it aglow. He caressed his cheekbone with his thumb, smiling as even in his sleep, Minho leaned into the gentle touch.

He missed mornings like this, lazy and soft and filled with nothing but their love. This thumb stilled on Minho’s cheek. Love? Yes, love…as if he ever stopped loving Minho, even when they were apart. No matter what, he didn’t think that would ever change.

When Minho finally stirred and opened his eyes, Kibum hadn’t moved away. Minho’s eyes slowly widened when he realized how close they were, that Kibum was in his arms. “Good morning, sweetheart.” Minho’s lips parted, either in surprise or because he had something he wanted to say, but Kibum took it as an invitation and closed the distance between them.

The kiss started slow and lazy…almost tentative. But, as Minho became more awake, it grew hungrier, needier…desperate, even. Kibum smiled into it as Minho rolled them over so that he was on top of him, his fingers digging into his back as Kibum carded his fingers through Minho’s hair. He opened his eyes when they broke the kiss to breathe, Minho pressing their foreheads together.

“I missed you so much, baby.”

I missed you, too danced on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be spoken. But instead, Kibum smirked. “Prove it.”

He was so thankful that it was a Sunday because they had so much to catch up on.

* * * * *

Minho brushed the snow out of his hair before he bent down to untie his boots. It had been a long day at the office, what with the Christmas rush starting. He glanced at his phone before he plopped down on the couch, flicking through the channels to find that nothing good was on. He left it on Please Take Care of My Refrigerator but turned the volume down before he tossed the remote across the couch.

He sighed, picking himself up and going to the bedroom to change into something comfier than a suit. Kibum would be home from work soon, and he knew when the other three would be over for their weekly – when their schedules aligned – game night. He changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, throwing his work socks into a hamper and putting a pair of polka dotted ones on instead. When his phone vibrated, he looked to see that it was just a text from Kibum, letting him know that he was on his way home.

Minho grabbed his charging cord, setting his phone on his nightstand before he opened the drawer. There, with the take-out menus, condoms, and the bottle of lube, was the ring box he had bought so long ago. Almost a year, now that he thought about it. He pulled it out before he closed the drawer, popping the box open.

It was too soon, he knew, to ask Kibum to marry him. Not that they could, anyway, but…someday…someday they’d get there. He’d just have to be patient.

Luckily, that was something he had a lot of practice in.

Smirking to himself, he set the ring back in the drawer and went back out into the kitchen to get the snacks and table set up for the arrival of the others.

Minho’s attention flew to the door when it opened to reveal Kibum, and he smiled as he stomped in, grumbling about the snow. When Kibum looked up from untying his boots, Minho was there, waiting for him to stand so he could hug him. Kibum sniffed a laugh as Minho pulled him out of the entryway and away from the melting snow, hugging him all the while. “Did somebody miss me?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Hmm. Cute.” Kibum kissed his cheek before he took himself out of Minho’s arms. “What games did you pull out?”

“Monopoly…Clue…”

“Let’s start with Clue. We’ll still want to be friends with the others afterward. Plus, we can cheat…”

“You mean observe closely and win,” Minho said, smiling as he put that box on top of the others.

“Yes, of course.” Kibum returned to his side, slipping his arms around Minho’s waist. He held him close, savoring the moments before the other three would arrive and they’d have to play host for the night. Not that he minded, of course. It was just, since they were dating again, he had decided to savor every moment he could with Kibum.

He pressed a kiss to Kibum’s temple, then another when Kibum’s arms tightened around him. “I love you.”

Smiling, Kibum looked up at him. “I love you, too,” he said, glancing down at Minho’s lips before he leaned in. Just as they were about to kiss, the doorbell rang at the same time as someone knocked on the door. Minho hesitated. “They can wait.” Minho smiled into the kiss, the incessant knocking disappearing as he melted into it.

For one blessed moment, the world was just he and Kibum, and nothing else mattered.

Epilogue: Colorful

“When will you be back?”

“Two hours at the latest.”

Kibum smirked,  his gaze slowly taking Minho in as he shrugged on his jacket. He could feel the twinkle in his eyes when Minho met his gaze. “Hurry back,” he said, smiling sweetly from his cocoon of warmth in bed as Minho bit his lip with a sigh. As he left the room, Kibum inclined his head, listening. He was putting on his shoes…the grabbing his keys…unlocking the door…

“Love you!”

“Love you, too!”

The door slammed shut and locked, and Kibum jumped out of bed. Two hours was more than enough time to find his birthday present. Minho said he hadn’t gotten his present yet, but Kibum didn’t believe him.

He scoured the closet, opening the drawers, looking behind clothes, pulling out their luggage and checking inside. Nothing. Kibum hummed after he had put everything back in its place, his eyes scanning the room before he dropped to check under the bed. It was…surprisingly empty. Hall closet, empty. Pantry, empty. Linen closet, empty. Coat closet by the door? Fucking empty.

“What the fuck, Choi.”

There was no way he got better at hiding presents in the time they spent apart; he had always been able to find them, even when they were kids. Kibum walked out of the closet after going through it again, sitting down on Minho’s side of the bed to catch his breath. Where could it be? He glanced at the nightstand, then looked again. It could be something small. His eyebrows raised expectantly, Kibum scooted over, slowly opening the drawer.

Was that…He pulled out the small black box, his breath catching as he popped it open.

Minho was going to propose.

The silver ring was cool against his skin as he slid it on his ring finger. Of course, it fit perfectly, why wouldn’t it? He held his hand out, inspecting the sparkle of the diamonds in the natural light of the room. Was it too soon? They had only been back together for a year – well, almost. The day after his birthday would mark a full year.

No, now that he thought about it, the timing was perfect…barring the fact that they legally couldn’t get married yet. The trust between them had been established again, almost stronger than it was before their split if that was even possible.

Smiling, Kibum slipped the ring off of his finger and put it back in the box, which he then returned to the drawer as if he had never seen it. Thoroughly satisfied, Kibum slipped back into bed, making himself comfortable before Minho made it back from his meeting.

When his birthday arrived, Kibum’s anticipation was high. When would he ask? Over breakfast?…no, but he did get breakfast in bed. Before the other three arrived?…no, but they were making out until the doorbell rang, with the promise of picking it up later. After the candles on his cake were blown out?…no, but Minho did smear frosting across his lips before he started cutting a slice off for him.

Maybe during the actual presents-opening…Kibum decided that must be the case when Minho hurried into their room when Taemin presented the gift from him and Jonghyun.

“What..?” Dog collars? One was a teal and the other a red. He squinted at them, then back up at Taemin and Jonghyun. “I don’t know what you guys are into…but…”

Jonghyun snorted. “No, oh my god.”

“They’d be too small, anyway.”

Minho reappeared in the living room, holding a much bigger box than the ring box. Much bigger. And, it barked. Twice.

Momentarily, the ring was forgotten as Minho came around and sat next to him on the couch. “Are you serious?” Kibum asked, his voice several pitches higher than normal as a tiny red poodle poke its head out of the top of the box, followed by an adorable black one. He took them both out, speechless as they started wriggling in their excitement.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Minho said, kissing his cheek before he took the black one out of his arms, so he could focus on the other. For the moment, the ring was forgotten, as they now had Comme Des and Garçons to worry about and take care of.

Their anniversary came and went without a proposal, as did Chuseok…and Halloween…when Christmas rolled around, Kibum was sure it would happen.

It didn’t.

There was no change in Minho’s behavior, and there hadn’t been since Kibum discovered the ring. He acted as though the ring just…didn’t exist.

Kibum kept glancing at his phone, checking the time as the seconds ticked by. Surely, he’d propose as the clock struck midnight…Minho loved to do romantic bullshit like that, because he knew Kibum would eat it up. But, there were two minutes to go and Minho was making no move. Whatsoever. He tapped Kibum’s foot and Kibum tucked the foot Minho had been massaging under his thigh and set the other on Minho’s lap so he could start on that one.

Maybe he already had the ring in his pocket? He watched him carefully, sighing when Minho’s eyebrows shot up with a smile. “Happy new year!” As he looked over at Kibum, his smile drooped. “Did I do something wrong?”

Huffing, Kibum got up and went into their room, being careful not to disturb the sleeping puppies as he grabbed the box from Minho’s drawer. He went back to the couch, holding the ring box up. Minho’s eyes widened as he sat down.

“Did you buy this just because you liked how it looks in your drawer?”

“What?” Minho scoffed. “No.” Kibum sighed, and Minho’s expression softened. “When did you find it?”

“The day before my birthday.”

“Ah…”

“Were you ever planning on proposing, or..?”

“I mean,” his eyes dropped to the box in Kibum’s hands before he met his eyes again. “I bought that a while ago, so it’s been at the back of my mind for…”

“When?”

“Hm?”

“When did you buy it?”

“Sometime in 2017, I don’t remember exactly.” Kibum deflated a little, and he looked at the ring box. So, before the split. And he kept it that whole time. “I didn’t think you’d want to be engaged until we could legally get married. That’s why I haven’t proposed yet.” Kibum fixed him with a droll glare that made Minho laugh as he leaned forward, taking the box out of Kibum’s hands. “I see now that I was wrong.”

He popped the box open, and Kibum instinctively looked down at the ring before he met Minho’s eye again. “Kibum…”

“You don’t have to if you’re not ready, sweetheart, I’m so – “

“Will you marry me?” he asked, his eyes smiling. “Will you live forever with me?”

Tears stung Kibum’s eyes and he sniffed, blinking them away. “I don’t know, this is so unexpected.” Minho’s face scrunched up as he laughed, leaning into the couch, and Kibum couldn’t help but grin. “Of course, I will.”

Minho scooted forward, slipping the ring on Kibum’s finger. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” he said, leaning forward to kiss him.

Kibum laid back, pulling Minho with him as they relaxed into the couch, their kiss turning lazy as Kibum threaded his fingers thought Minho’s hair, his thumb and forefinger lightly rubbing Minho’s earlobe. “You know,” he said, turning his head with a sigh as Minho started to kiss him along his jaw. “You could make it up to me.”

Minho chuckled before he pressed a kiss just below his ear. “I’ll do my best,” he whispered, his low voice sending a shiver down Kibum’s spine.

- - - - -

It started off as a joke.

They were in the supermarket, shopping for groceries, when Kibum said, “You know, this would be a good place to get married.” Minho had snorted at the time, which made Kibum grin. “Because of the aisles.”

It was a shame they were in public, because Minho would have kissed him for making that stupid joke. Instead, he just laughed and grabbed their favorite wine from off the shelf. It became a running joke, then, whenever they went out to find the perfect place to get married.

Not that they could, or really even would, but it was a nice thought.

Within the week that followed their engagement, Kibum bought a ring for Minho, making it officially official, as he liked to say. It matched Kibum’s ring, and he couldn’t help but smile every time he looked at it. Like he was doing now.

“Thinking about your husband?” Jonghyun asked as he slid back into his seat across from Minho, passing him his coffee.

“We’re not married, Jjong.”

“So?” Minho glanced up at him before he grabbed his coffee. “Fuck the government, honestly.” Minho almost spat his coffee out. “Who cares if you can’t be legally married? You guys are more married than my parents are.”

“Yeah, because they’re divorced.”

“Taemin’s parents, then.” Minho nodded, conceding. “You could always have a ceremony, and then when you legally can do it…”

“Do you think he would go for that?” Jonghyun leveled him with a glare. “Okay, I know, stupid question…I just don't…” Jonghyun’s eyebrows raised, and Minho sighed. “I don’t want to fuck up again. Or disappoint him. I've…” he twisted the cup around on the table, avoiding Jonghyun’s eyes. “I’ve hurt him so much already – “

“Hey, look at me.” Jonghyun waited until he did. “If it had been up to you, you never would have left him, right?” Minho shook his head. “And you know he doesn’t hold it against you at all?” He nodded. “I totally get why you’re anxious about this, but I’ve never met anyone who rivals your love for each other.”

Minho cleared his throat as he gave Jonghyun a small smile. “Not including you and Taemin, I assume.”

Jonghyun waved his hand between them dismissively. “That goes without saying.”

“Of course.” Minho let out a deep breath before he took a long drink of his coffee. “What if…” Jonghyun perked up, an eyebrow raising in question. “…we surprised him?”

He held up his hand before Minho could say another word. “Leave it to me. I know the perfect place.”

“Oh?”

“What about this Tuesday?” Minho’s brow furrowed for a second before he realized what day it would be. Their first anniversary – May 25th. That would only give them four days to prepare.

“Can you do it by then?”

Jonghyun already had his phone out, checking his and Taemin’s schedule, probably. “If you can get Kibum to Yeouido Park by like…seven – “

“At night, I hope.”

“Twilight is the most romantic time of day. Anyway, yeah, seven…we’ll make sure you find us.”

Minho laughed. “You’re not even gonna let me in on it?”

Jonghyun gave him a smug smile as he sipped his coffee. “Absolutely not.”

“I assume you’ll want the same treatment when you finally propose to Taemin.”

“Obviously.”

The days until their surprise wedding dragged by, and Minho could barely contain his excitement. He was almost constantly distracted, which did not go unnoticed by his coworkers or Kibum himself, though his fiancé didn’t comment on it. No, he just gave him suspicious looks whenever Minho seemed too cheery or on edge.

On the day of, Jinki called him when he was out taking the kids – Comme Des and Garcons – for a run. Both he and Kibum had taken the day off to celebrate their anniversary, but he had left Kibum tucked in bed with a book and a kiss goodbye before he decided to go exercise for a little while. Anything to get rid of his pent-up energy.

“Seven, right? That’s when you’ll be there?”

“Like, at the park at seven? Or at the location by seven?”

“Uh…” he voice trailed off for a second. Probably checking his texts. “The location.”

“So…”

“Just take the first right at the fifth entrance and you’ll be able to find us. Taemin is setting up markers for you to follow.”

Minho stopped walking, tugging lightly on the leashes to get the puppies to stop walking for a minute. “I can’t believe you guys are doing this for us.”

“Of course, man. Anything for you two.” Garcons barked at another dog as it passed, Comme Des joining in. Minho shushed them. “Dress nice!” Jinki said as he hung up the phone. Minho pocketed his and finished his run.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called out as he stepped inside, smiling when he heard Kibum snort in the other room. He unclipped the puppies leashes and looked up to find Kibum emerging. “Hey, so I had a thought…”

“Wow, I’m so proud of you.”

“Shut up. What if I told you that I made a reservation at Ole tonight?” Kibum’s eye brightened, and Minho’s smile grew. “It’s for eight, but I was thinking we could walk around the park a little bit before that.”

“That sounds like a ploy to get me to exercise.” Minho laughed, hanging the leashes up on the hook in the coat closet. “I’ll do it, but I’m still on to you.”

“Are you, now…” Kibum inspected him, a small smile gracing his features before he nodded once. It’s a good thing Minho would never cheat because Kibum would catch him within minutes.

When it came time to leave, Minho stopped Kibum at the door, straightening the knot of his tie and kissing his cheek before they walked outside. His palms were sweaty, and he tried to resist the urge to wipe them off on the knees of his Givenchy suit. He knew…he knew he was anxious for no reason, but that didn’t stop him. Kibum seemed to sense his mood since he frequently glanced over to check on him as he drove.

They reached the park with five minutes to spare. Kibum linked his arm through Minho’s and set the pace, walking leisurely down the path through the forest. His eyes were on the sky, and he made a comment about how beautiful the sunset was going to be. As much as Minho wanted to look up and admire it for himself, he couldn’t. Instead, he scanned the bushes and trees and the tiny fences lining the path for any sort of marker that Taemin would have left.

He almost stopped walking when he saw it – the teal ribbon tied around the branch of a tree. There was another one, just down the path, so Minho guided Kibum toward it and found another a few meters ahead of them.

Just ahead, strings of lights wrapped around the columns of the pavilion overlooking the pond flickered on. It captured both of their attention, Kibum leaning toward Minho to say, “That’s new.” As they drew near, a soft piano song started to play, that Minho soon recognized as Yiruma’s “It’s Your Day.” Minho bit back a smile, glancing over to see if Kibum realized that the shadowy figures in the pavilion were their friends.

When he did, he stopped in his tracks, his grip on Minho’s arm tightening. “What…”

“Come on, come on, hurry,” Jinki said, glancing both ways down the path. They picked up the pace, Taemin passing his phone to Jonghyun for a second – was he filming this? – so he could stick bunches of wildflowers in their lapels.

“Stand over here,” Jonghyun said, guiding Minho and Kibum under the pavilion, away from the path. Jinki stood at the far end, keeping watch to make sure they weren’t disturbed, and Taemin took his phone back from Jonghyun, staying at his boyfriend’s side so he could film.

“We’re gathered here tonight – “ Jonghyun started to say.

Kibum laughed silently, latching onto Minho’s shoulder for support. “Is this what you were planning?” Minho just smiled and reached out to straighten Kibum’s flowers.

“ – and it may not be official, but when has that ever fucking stopped us before.”

“Jjong, honestly,” Jinki murmured behind them, and Taemin started to laugh.”

“Choi Minho.” Jonghyun looked up from the script on his phone at him. “You are becoming the husband of Kim Kibum. Do you promise to love Kibum, to respect him, take care of him, in joyful and in hard times, in healthy times and in sick times, every day, forever?”

Minho swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yes, I promise.”

The piano music stopped playing, and Jinki quickly fished his phone out of his pocket, starting it again.

“Kim Kibum.” Minho looked over at him, smiling as he brushed away Kibum’s tears with his thumb. Kibum took his hand then, squeezing it tightly. “You are becoming the husband of Choi Minho. Do you promise to love Minho, to respect him, take care of him, in joyful and in hard times, in healthy and in sick times, every day, forever?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Perfect.” Kibum let out a watery chuckle, and Minho stepped a little closer to him, his cheeks starting to hurt from smiling. “Then, by the power vested in me by absolutely nobody, I pronounce you husband and husband.” He gestured between them, tears welling up in his own eyes. “You can kiss each other now.”

“I can’t believe you did this,” Kibum whispered as Minho pulled him into his arms, and he smiled as Kibum wrapped his arms around him, kissing him tenderly. He broke the kiss faster than Minho was expecting, though it could have been because of their small audience, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his arms tightened around him, rubbing Minho’s back.

Minho closed his eyes with a smile, leaning into the embrace. “I love you…so much,” he said, turning his head to kiss Kibum’s cheek. Kibum hummed contentedly, and Minho sighed. He didn’t think he would ever or could ever be this happy in his life.

And yet, he knew this was only the beginning of happier years to come.