#SKJDEJDJEKDJDJJ AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! THIS IS INCREDIBLE

[celosiaa]

Hi Connor, I hope you’re doing okay!!!!! 💖Thank you for letting me write this lil fic for your post about leaf pile shenanigans!!!!!! Everything you write, draw and headcanon for the Emmaverse is so perfect and I am so excited to write something within this beautiful AU. This got away from me a bit, but I hope it brings you some joy and you can vicariously enjoy the great outdoors through Jon, Tim, Martin and Emma’s mischief 🍁

From the front window of their new house, Martin has watched the tree turn from a bare-boned thing to blossom to vivid leaves firm even against summer storms. The tree has grounded him through sleepless nights with Emma since her arrival last year, through Tim and Sasha’s return to their lives, through Jon’s nightmares. A lighthouse against the Lonely. The house surveyor had told them to cut it down, unsure of how deeply its roots might reach, but Martin couldn’t bring himself to make the arrangements. He feels that he should give it something back, a repayment for its solidity, and so he has tended to it through the seasons with gentle dedication.

Alas, the leaves are a hazard now that they’ve turned orange and fallen. The rain turns them slippery, and Martin doesn’t want Emma to trip on them when she bundles him out of the door on the mornings he gets to take her to nursery, excited to have her Dad there after a long stint of nightshifts. Nor does he want them to disrupt Jon’s journey to the car on the days that his joints are stiff and he needs his cane. So he sees raking the leaves as part of his duty both to the tree and his family.

Martin falls into a happy and methodical reverie, until Tim interrupts: “You missed a spot.”

Tim is sitting with Jon on two rickety camping chairs they’d dragged out of the garage, ostensibly so they can watch Emma and an off-duty Iris play on the lawn. They’re both holding cups of tea, steaming in the cool, clear autumn air, and they have—until now—been catching up about work. It’s a busy time for them both: Jon is welcoming the new students, and the fire department are running their usual campaigns about safety with Halloween decorations and fireworks. Recently, Tim’s team even payed a visit to Emma’s nursery school to give a presentation, which she had gushed about for weeks afterwards.

Now, though, they seem to be up to something. As glad as Martin is to see them getting along, after so much and so long, he’s not sure he likes the matching mischievous looks on their face.

Martin pauses, leaning on the rake. He’ll humour them, just this once. (It will happen again, of course, but Martin always likes to pretend it’s a one-off.) “What do you mean, I’ve missed a spot?”

“He’s right,” Jon says, schooling his expression into one of seriousness, although the roguish glint lingers in his eyes, “By the drain.”

Martin doesn’t look, still playing along with his most petulant expression. “I started by the drain. It’s spotless.”

“We would never criticise your immaculate raking technique, Martin,” Tim promises, as if offended by the implication.

“We just wouldn’t want Mrs Jenkins complaining about her driveway flooding again,” Jon adds solemnly, placing down his tea, “Are you sure there are no leaves by the drain?”

“I’m one hundred percent sure,” Martin insists, trying not to smile and let on that he’s onto them.

“Because I can count at least seven from here,” Tim says, also balancing his tea on the concrete by his feet.

Jon tilts his head. “I would say eight.”

Tim nods exaggeratedly. “Jon says eight. And he remembered to wear his glasses today, so I trust his judgement.”

Only because Martin physically put the glasses on Jon’s face this morning, while Jon was going through the process of making cinnamon porridge half-asleep and on muscle memory alone. But Martin doesn’t mention this to Tim. Not that Tim isn’t well aware of Martin’s fussing, having—along with Jon—been bundled into a coat and scarf and gloves before being allowed to sit outside, justified by worried mentions of asthma flare-ups and ear infections and setting a good example for Emma.

Martin places a hand on his hip, still leaning on the rake. “Eight, you say?”

Tim and Jon nod in unison.

“That does sound like quite a lot of leaves,” Martin continues.

“You can never be too careful,” Jon says.

“Sometimes, the worst hazards start off small,” Tim tells them, “I would know.”

Martin quirks his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should check the drain, then.”

Jon nods, just once, managing to still look very serious. “Perhaps you should.”

“Well, then,” Martin sighs, taking his weight off the rake and beginning to turn towards the drain at the end of the driveway they share with their neighbours. He makes sure to speak loudly with his back turned. “Where on earth are these eight stray leaves?”

There’s the sound of a scuffle behind him, the camping chairs creaking and skittering on the concrete driveway, and a breathless laugh as Tim and Jon’s feet hit the ground in unison. There’s not much space between the camping chairs and the leaf pile, so Tim and Jon’s run-up is short but effective.

Martin turns just in time to see them launch themselves into the leaf pile, and he’s glad he constructed it on the grass rather than the concrete, because Tim and Jon don’t always think things through when they’re being competitive. Their landing is significantly cushioned, at least, and they end up on their backs, pillowed by red and orange leaves. Jon blows one out of his face and Tim laughs, loud and carefree, the sound echoing against the house.

“I won,” Tim declares.

“You did not,” Jon protests.

“Oh, I very much did.”

“Tim, if you are suggesting that—”

“If I’m suggesting what? That I was the county best at long jump between the ages of eight and eleven, and that gave me a natural advantage in this particular competition?”

Jon props himself up on his elbows on the leaf pile and looks imploringly at Martin, his glasses askew and a leaf stuck by its stem in the left hinge. “Martin.”

“I couldn’t possibly have seen who won,” Martin says, “I was busy inspecting the drain, which—like I said—is spotless.”

It’s at this moment that Iris lets out a slightly confused woof, as Emma abandons the mudpies they’ve been making together to copy her Baba and Uncle. She squeals, her little legs moving at full speed as she waddle-runs towards the leaf pile.

Martin’s too far away. He drops the rake, shouting, “Emma, no!”

But, of course, she doesn’t listen. She has a very specific mindset when it comes to times like this, an unshakable determination: Emma, yes. She runs to the leaf pile, stops clumsily in front of it, and then promptly jumps into its depths. Or, more accurately, she falls face-first into the pile, arms outstretched, her red wellies only just leaving the ground, and disappears through an Emma-shaped hole between where Tim and Jon are lying, looking somewhat dazed by the turn of events.

There’s a breathless moment, a frozen snapshot when the chilly late-afternoon turns momentarily sinister, all long shadows and suspended breezes. Martin doesn’t move, doesn’t hear the echoing clatter of the rake, until there’s a flurry within the leaf pile and then Emma emerges with a raucous giggle.

Everything rushes back into motion, the autumn colours warm and the moment welcoming again. Emma has popped up from the leaf pile like a meerkat from the ground, inspecting her surroundings, an image that is reinforced by her knitted hat with the attached bear-shaped ears. There’s a bright grin on her face, and a lyrical quality to her laugh that tells Martin she’s excited rather than hurt or afraid. Iris is circling and snuffling around the leaf pile, somewhat confused but not overtly concerned, and Jon smiles fondly as he picks leaves from the wool of Emma’s hat while Tim shakes with the force of his own laughter.

Martin’s breath whooshes out of him in relief and he finds himself laughing too, a little breathless. “God, Emma, you—please be careful, sweetheart.”

“I win, I win,” Emma says, clapping her hands together. Her mittens make her applause sound padded and soft.

Martin gives Jon a long-suffering look. Jon looks back, half-apologetic, half-look how happy she is, habibi. And it is true, Emma looks happy, rosy-cheeked and still laughing as Iris now makes her way into the leaf pile, too. It’s adorable. Martin’s losing sight of the possible dangers in favour of the cuteness, the fact that everyone is just fine. Better than fine. They’re happy, all of them.

“Alright, I concede defeat,” Tim announces, “Emma gets the title of Ultimate Leaf Leaper.”

Emma squeals in delight again. Jon pulls her further out of the leaves so she can sit on his lap, giving her a kiss on the cheek before he goes back to picking leaves out of her hat. Tim lifts his hand and Emma reaches across to give him an enthusiastic high five. Martin thinks he is going to melt into a puddle from the joy of it all.

“Stay right there,” Martin says to them, all thoughts of raking abandoned now, “I’m getting the camera.”

*

Later that night, they’re propped up in bed—Jon reading a battered library book about syntax in 19th century literature, and Martin clicking through the photos he’s uploaded from the camera to his laptop. Emma is fast asleep in her bedroom, after a bedtime story about a hedgehog making a home from leaves that Martin hopes will dissuade her from jumping into any random leaf piles she sees out and about, although he promised she can still play in the ones they make outside together.

“I’m definitely emailing this one to Sasha,” Martin says, angling the laptop towards Jon.

Jon folds the book carefully closed and looks at the photo. Tim and Jon are both half-engulfed by the leaf pile, with Emma sitting in Jon’s lap and Iris doing her best to likewise perch on Tim. They’re all grinning at the camera, bundled up in their coats and scarves and hats. It’s adorable.

“She’ll love it,” Jon agrees.

“It’s a shame she couldn’t come today.” Martin chews his bottom lip, shutting the laptop. “I don’t think we have any recent photos of her.”

“You’re not in it either,” Jon murmurs.

“Oh, well, I—someone had to take the photo.”

“Remind me, then,” Jon says, leaning over and kissing Martin’s hair, “To ask someone to take our picture when we go pumpkin picking.”

“Since when are we going pumpkin picking?”

“Since Emma told me she wanted to and I spent two hours Googling places nearby.”

“Not spooky—?”

Jon gives him a withering look. “Not spooky Google, no.”

“Good.” Martin smiles, a little shy. “We’ll get a family photo, then. At the pumpkin place. And we can frame it. And put it on the wall next to this one, and the one I’m going to take of Sasha and Tim next time they come over, and—oh, and that one of Emma on her first day at nursery I keep meaning to get printed!”

Jon smiles softly. “Our family.”

“Our family,” Martin agrees, “I’m really happy, Jon.”

He’s so happy he’s not sure what to do with it. He’s scared it will disappear, like fog through his fingers. He’s scared he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t tell Jon any of this, but Jon seems to understand, to feel it too.

“So am I, Martin,” Jon says, “So am I.”

Martin thinks of the tree, of its changing leaves, its vulnerability to the seasons, the way it antagonised the previous tenants of the house. And yet it’s still there. Martin thinks of his contentment in the same way, as he falls asleep next to Jon: a thing that might change, might grow, might retreat sometimes while blossoming at others, but it has deep roots, and he has no plans to cut it down any time soon, not anymore.

There we go!!!! I played Emmaverse bingo with myself with how many headcanons I could remember and get in here, but I’m sorry if I forgot anything or if the ages/order of events are a bit muddled!!!!! Thank you again for letting me write this, I had so much fun!!!!💖💖💖