#get fed up and diy my own fics

[wimble-warcrime]

whenever I imagine story plots involving romance of any kind, I always imagine the mc absolutely not picking up what is being put down. oblvious bordering on autistic cause that's how I am with romance. and the only way mc actually finally gets it, I when love interest grabs them (consentually) and shakes them while yelling their intentions at them. I want more of this in fanfiction. more autistic coded mcs / love interests where the only way they will reciprocate romantic affection is if you look them dead in the eyes and "kiss me goddammit!"

[hazelandglasz]

Memes and Hot Chocolate Therapy - A Sam Wilson Birthday Bang Fic

Memes and Hot Cocoa Therapy

Fic by @hazelandglasz

Art by @daisyridlay

Pairings : Sam Wilson / Steve Rogers / James “Bucky” Barnes, Sam Wilson & Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Sam Wilson loves his blog, his corner of life hacks, recipes, and DIY. He also loves to follow blogs about puppies, recipes, and memes. When he finds a blog that manages to dig up ancient relics, he can't help but be curious and sends an ask to the blogger--more accurately, bloggers. Aka this is the fic where Sam, Steve, and Bucky are ridiculous bloggers who fall in love without even meeting because of how ridiculous and sarcastic they can be. When they meet, sparks fly.

Written for @samwilsonbirthdaybang !!

Sam closes his eyes and rests his head against his apartment door. Working at the VA is rewarding, and much needed for Sam’s own balance, don’t get him wrong. That being said, some days are tougher than others, and today calls for some serious blogging to make him feel better.

He’s tired, exhausted even, but the low purr of the old laptop coming back to life is already like a siren song, a balm on his frayed nerves. While Sam’s computer slowly lights up, he goes to his kitchen to fix himself a serious “pick-me up”, Wilson style.

On his kitchen windowsill, a couple of pigeons coo at him and Sam brings them a handful of chopped up edamame beans--he always keeps a bowl of them for his friends with feathers. He smiles at the birds before pulling out a pan from a drawer. Next, Sam gets all the ingredients he needs: milk, cocoa powder--the good stuff, not the one he puts on top of his tiramisu--, cinnamon, grated coconut, vanilla (beans, no extract--seriously taxing days call for serious hot cocoa), and the honey.

Sam is about to pour the milk into the pan when he stops and thinks. What better post to make on “Sam’s Guide to DIY” than his mama’s cocoa? He takes his phone out of his pocket and gets to work.

One of the best things about his apartment is clearly the kitchen space: great appliances, lots of tabletop space, but more importantly, wonderful natural lighting.

It allows him, even at dusk, to take pictures of the pan and the different ingredients in a way that will barely require any adjustment. Twelve minutes later, his cocoa is ready, the pictures are ready to be posted, and now , Sam can finally indulge.

His blog is his pride and joy, a melting pot of life hacks and feel-good selfies, Sam’s harbour from the storm that life can be when years of war are breathing down one’s neck, carefully crafted and fed with tasteful posts. But the rest of Tumblr? That’s his chance to put said life away, if only for a couple of hours.

Sam follows many different blogs, and he has no shame about it. Puppy owners’ accounts, recipe and body positivity blogs--they all constitute Sam’s dashboard.

And there’s another kind.

The Meme Blogs.

Sam has spent many sleepless nights finding an improbable escape within the ridiculous yet hilarious waves of memes.

In his opinion, none of them are beneath him; sure, sometimes Sam comes to the conclusion that he is, in fact, too old for this shit because what exactly is funny about goats and minerals? He certainly doesn’t know, but you know what, you do you.  

It’s always entertaining, that’s for sure.

And in the sea of blogs dedicated to memes, one in particular never fails to capture Sam’s attention, if only because its author seems just as puzzled as he is by the velocity of the meme life cycle.

“Memetymology”.

It’s a blog dedicated to finding the origins and multiple evolutions of a meme, through charts and surprisingly sarcastic commentaries.

Sam has so much love in his heart for whomever runs it, it’s bordering on a crush at this point.

The Memetymologist is funny, witty, and Sam cannot help but be intrigued by one of the blog’s specific goals.

He can’t help but wonder why, but more importantly how , the blog always seems to find the oldest of memes, their source, and how they came to rise from the Internet’s underbelly.

He’s talking relics, here-- prehistoric memes that are at the very source of meme culture.

Truth be told, Sam is fascinated by the Memetymologist’s focus in this matter.

So far, he has kept his admiration (and growing crush) to himself, simply reblogging what he considers to be the best analysis for his followers.

But this time, he cannot contain himself. Sam has to send the blogger a message to express his admiration.

Finding a parallel--documented and argumented--between the Mother of all Memes, Kilroy was here , and Shia Labeouf’s inspirational speech meme was a stroke of genius that Sam has to salute.

“That analysis was amazing, but how on Earth do you find these relics is even more remarkable”, he types. “Thank you for bringing back Kilroy too--as a vet, it was a sign that we were not as alone as we felt.”

He hits send, hoping nothing.

This blog easily has thousands of followers; they must get hundreds of asks every day.

His message is merely a congratulatory one--it doesn’t call for a reply of any kind.

That being said, without even bringing up memes, talking about the sense of belonging most soldiers find in seeing the little graffiti, even today, would be a good subject for his next meeting at the VC.

Thank you, Memetymologist, Sam thinks as he opens a Word document to start preparing his speech.

---

A message awaits him the next morning.

“From two vets to another, our pleasure. Care to share that cocoa?”

---

There is a bounce in Sam’s steps throughout the whole day, even as he enters the Center and does his “rounds” with the recovering soldiers. Whether it’s physical or mental, war leaves its scars on every person it touches.

“We have newbies,” Natasha whispers to him as he gets ready for his reunion.

Natasha’s past in the army is a bit blurry, to say the least, but her dry sense of humor is often the buoy Sam needs to keep on going.

That, and she is a remarkable sparring/cuddling partner.

“Newbies?”

“Back row, near the exit.”

“Hm--the brunet and the blond?”

“Spot on. Though I would have called them Summer and Winter Treats.”

“Nat …”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Sam wishes he could tell her that she is wrong, but words fail him as he looks at the two newcomers.

Both are tall and buff--though the blond one is definitely taller-- with that look in their eyes that speaks of horrors Sam knows only too well.

A look that says that they will never be the same, but they won’t let their past take them down, darn it.

A vulnerable strength, so to speak, and if Sam is already turning into a poet over them from a distance, he’s capital S Screwed.

Blond and Tall looks towards the podium with a slightly questioning look before turning to his companion, reaching for him. Dark and Buff has his eyes downcast, hunched forward in his seat. Even from his vantage point, Sam can see that his left hand is a prosthetic, and he winces in sympathy.

Not all wounds are visible, and every person in the room has had to rebuild their lives around something they lost on the battlefield, find a way to feel complete--it’s part of their common experience, something they can help each other with.

Showtime.

Sam moves forward, rolling his sleeves as he goes--his own little ritual to get in “mentor” mode. “Good afternoon,” he says, sending his voice across the room as he usually does. “Welcome back for our regulars, I hope the show won’t disappoint, and welcome to the newbies. Promise there won’t be any hazing … from me.”

Some vets relax at his words, even Gabe who’s always so tense. Sam winks at Misty, who just happens to be sitting in front of BT and DB, and she shakes her head at him with a fond smile on her face.

BT raises one eyebrow at Sam before discreetly elbowing his companion who looks up in interest.

Two pairs of very different shades of blue are directed at him, and Sam barely manages to keep himself from humming some Johnny Cash.

Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes I see them everywhere I miss those arms that held me When all the love was there

Yes please .

“Ahem.”

Trust Natasha to keep Sam from getting lost in his own little fantasy.

Spoilsport.

“Today’s show will be about this little guy we’ve all probably seen somewhere,” he continues, launching his projector with the Kilroy graffiti. “I remember seeing it drawn in chalk on a wall when I was in Afghanistan,” he adds, reaching into his own experience to free the speech of those around him. “Though the situation was not ideal,” he says with a pointed look that sends a wave of nods in his audience, “seeing it made me realize that this … nightmare, was not our first time fighting, and that I too could survive this. I, too, could say that I was here and helped my fellow soldiers keep their hopes up.”

Someone--Sam is fairly sure that it’s Old Nick in the back--starts whistling the country’s anthem, and people laugh. Sure, it’s shaky and awkward, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies benevolently, “I thought you guys were used to my rousing speeches by now.”

This time around, the laughter is a little more opened, a little less embarrassed, and even Natasha smiles.

“Now, this is my experience,” he continues, more serious, “and I would never dream of thinking that I know how you feel, but this sense of belonging, of having a purpose, is what helped me get through the worst of it. Who wants to share what, in their experience, helped them?”

The silence is so thick you could cut it with a knife and serve it with a plate of ribs.

Hmmm, I might get a early dinner at the diner. Focus, Wilson!

“Drawing.”

The voice is soft, and a lot of heads turn towards it.

Uh. Tall and Blonde. Look at you go.

No, seriously, Sam would love to watch him go, as sad as it would be to see him leave.

“Hello,” Sam says, focusing all of his attention on the man.

“H-hi,” he stammers back, his fair complexion betraying the sudden pink on his cheek. “I’m Steve--Steve Rogers.”

“Welcome, Steve,” all the group sing-songs in unison, snickering and even laughing outright.

Sam is so proud of those jackasses.

“Thank you,” Steve says, a crooked grin making an appearance on his face. “As I was saying, drawing helped me connect with my--our-- squad,” he says, pointing his thumb at Dark and Buff.

Though Winter Treat suits him better, damn Natasha for putting ideas in his overactive head.

The man glances at Steve before returning his attention to-- oh .

He’s keeping his eyes on Sam--not in a confrontational manner.

If anything, it’s an appreciative look--damn right distracting too, Sam tells himself, focusing on Steve’s words.

“It was a moment of peace in the chaos,” Steve continues, “when I could find a moment and a spot to draw my squad.”

“It was a pocket of home for us too,” Winter Treat pipes up, his voice softer than his appearance lead Sam to think it would be. “When Steve drew us.”

Sam nods. “Because he was drawing you relaxed, or …?”

“Because it was a semblance of normalcy in places where normal didn’t exist,” the man says, looking up to stare at Sam. “A sign that no matter how lonely it felt, even in the middle of the group, something else was waiting and we were not as alone as we felt.”

To have his hastily composed message unknowingly sent back to him makes Sam uneasy for a moment.

“That’s a good thing to remember,” he says to cover his agitation. “No matter how nightmarish our experiences were, we were not, we are not alone in them. Who else wants to share?”

More people seem encouraged to speak up, and Sam lets the meeting run its course like he usually does, only interjecting every now and then to keep the flow going.

Through it all, he catches Steve and his broody friend looking at him intently. They even quietly speak in each other’s ear, all while glancing at him.

More than once, the meeting lulls into silence because Sam was too distracted to notice.

Very flattering, sure, but so very unprofessional of him!

---

The meeting comes to a close, and after sending everybody home with good wishes and homemade toffees, Sam almost starts jogging to get to the diner.

He’s not usually so ravenous when he comes out of a Vet day, but it was a good one, full of positive energy.

That, and he has a craving of a very different kind that has no chance of becoming a reality, so he’ll eat his feelings if nobody objects to his plans.

“Careful, on your left!”

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin but twists his body to let a crazy deliveryboy zoom by him on his left.

“You alright, Sarge?”

Sam huffs a laugh as he looks at the two men walking towards him. “Right as rain, Cap,” he replies as Steve and his friend who is still nameless get close.

“I hope the meeting didn’t scare you away,” Sam says, digging his hands in his pockets lest he does something he’ll regret.

As in, reaching out to see for himself if those pecs are real because damn son .

“Not at all,” Steve replies, a boyish grin on his lips now. “It was quite interesting.”

“Why Kilroy?”

“Buck, manners.”

‘Buck’ frowns at Steve before glancing at Sam. He twists his mouth in regrets. “I’m sorry, Sarge,” he says softly, “I need to … acclimate myself back to normal situations.”

“Nothing to apologize for, …?”

“James. Bucky,” he corrects himself. “Sergeant Bucky Barnes.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Sarge,” Sam says, waving his hand in the air as if to erase the whole past awkwardness. “Civilian life is quite a challenge.”

“Yeah.”

“So, why did you mention Kilroy?” Bucky asks again, and Sam would love to chat with those two fine ( fiii-iiine ) specimens, but his stomach grumbles and he can’t stay.

“Care to join me for dinner?”

Steve and Bucky exchange a look. The type of look that shows years of knowing each other (biblically? One can hope, those two together must look insanely hot. Like, Sahara hot).

“Sure. Lead the way.”

--

Sam’s dinner doesn’t look much, but he knows for a fact that their ribs are the best in the Tristate area.

“Really?”

Steve sounds doubtful, but he’ll eat his words when the plate arrives, and Sam has no qualms about telling him so.

If he knew that it would make Bucky laugh, he would have joked sooner, ‘cause it’s a sight to behold.

“Sorry if I have my doubts,” Steve says, sitting very prim and proper--which only makes Bucky, and in an echo, Sam, cackle even harder-- “but where I come from, the ribs are already top notch.”

“Unless you’re from the deep South like the boss here, wherever you come from doesn’t hold a candle,” Sam replies, leaning back into the leather seat and smirking at the man.

Yes, he is aware that the move pulls at the fabric of his t-shirt over his chest and arms, why do you ask.

Gotta strut the strut and flaunt his stuff.

Bucky’s eyes travel along his arm, so that’s definitely one win.

“Just from Brooklyn,” Steve replies and Bucky cocks his head and smirks like this answers everything.

“Yeah, okay, Amanda’s ribs will get you on your knees and thanking the Lord.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words are softly spoken, but Sam almost chokes on air.

Did …

He …

He did, didn’t he?

When he looks back at them, there is a very alluring twinkle in both men’s eyes.

“Here you are, boys,” the waitress says, startling all of them out of their staring contest. “If you need anything, let me know, alright Sammy?”

“Thank you, ‘Manda,” Sam says, sending her a dazzling smile. She pats his cheek and returns to the kitchen with a spring in her steps.

“Regular here?”

Sam unfolds his napkin. “I practically grew up on Amanda’s cooking,” he replies, taking the time to savor the smell of the smoked meat, the barbecue spices and sauce, and the garlic fries, all blending together into “home”. “Her son and I were partners back in Afghanistan. When Riley was shot, I went home and she put me back together.”

“Through Love?”

“Through food.”

“Ah.”

“Sorry for your partner.”

“Dig in, it’s better warm.” And I need to not think downward-spiraling thoughts .

The look on both Steve’s and Bucky’s faces after their first bite is one Sam needs to cherish: surprise, delight, and hunger, all wrapped into one.

“I bow to this diner’s superiority,” Steve says with his mouth full, which Sam finds way too endearing for it to be natural. “This is … like … like …”

“Like a hug in your mouth,” Sam says, picking up a fry and savoring the taste of garlic and victory.

“Exacty.”

“Sooo,” Bucky says, lazily picking up a fry and lodging it between his lips like some sort of cowboy, “about Kilroy?”

Sam smiles, thinking about his favorite blog. “It came up on a blog that I follow online,” he explains, “and I thought about what it meant to me, and from that point on, built my speech. Why?”

Steve and Bucky exchange a loaded look. “A blog?” they ask in unison.

“Yeah, I’m on Tumblr,” Sam says, his cheeks heating up. “It’s my escape from … everything.”

“Not judging, we have a blog too.”

“What about?”

“I think you know.”

Sam raises one eyebrow. “How would I know?”

“The same way I know you make a mean hot cocoa.”

“And that your kitchen is a work of art.”

It takes Sam a moment to absorb the words, and then his eyes bulge out of his head.

New York and the world may be small, but that small? No, he did not see it coming.

“Memetymologist?”

“RedWingToTheRescue?”

Sam can feel a smile stretching his lips from ear to ear, and what’s even better, that smile is mirrored on the faces of both of the men across from him.

“Why memes?”

Steve leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Same reason you cook, I think,” he says softly, his crooked smile making a comeback.

Is that a dimple? Oh my God.

“We follow you, too.”

Sam would have noticed the blog following him back, and his face must show it.

“Individually.”

“Ah.”

“It’s very comforting.”

“You don’t say.”

“That kitchen is really amazing.”

“Want to see it irl?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself, but the twinkle is back so he won’t berate himself too harshly.

“I wouldn’t dare refuse such an offer,” Steve says, pulling his wallet and standing up in one fluid motion.

Sam’s throat is so dry, all of a sudden.

“The things I’ve dreamed of doing in that kitchen will rock your world,” Bucky adds, a small smile making his eyes crinkle.

Sam gulps as he stands too, and would you look at that, ends up between the two men.

“By all means,” he manages to say, extracting himself from the Buff Sandwich (the Buffwich, if you will) to lead the way.

He believed that today would be a good day, but never did he imagine it would turn out to be quite that good.

---

His kitchen has never seen that kind of scene.

Never.

Sam is never going to be able to cook without having a Pavlovian boner.

Well, that’s tomorrow’s problem, isn’t it, because all of his attention is required right now to avoid dampening the mood with an injury.

“The moment you rolled your sleeves, I wanted to take that shirt off,” Bucky growls against the soft skin of Sam’s neck as he unbuttons the offensive garment, “and worship those arms.”

“Have you looked at yourself?” Sam tears himself from kissing Steve to reply, one hand groping Steve’s chest while the other gets tangled in Bucky’s silky hair.

“Hm-hm, still want to do all the things to your body.”

“Count me in on that plan, Buck,” Steve chuckles as he meets Bucky over Sam’s shoulder to kiss him.

Sam has an hand on both their head and he angles it a little bit to the left, pressed as he is between their bodies.

Oh, he’s definitely in for a treat, wherever this goes.

Ah, treats.

“Summer and Winter,” he murmurs as he alternates between Steve and Bucky’s neck to press kisses and kitten licks.

“Uh?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, that’s--that’s good,” Bucky says. “Sam, can you--ugh, can you move?”

“No.” If anything, Sam presses even more against him, encouraged by Steve who turns him more fully towards the other man.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve says, one hand on Sam’s hip and the other cupping Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky’s eyes are black, with just a ring of blue left in them. “A bit--a bit overwhelmed here.”

“Alright,” Sam says with a sigh, moving back against Steve. “Let’s all relax and use this kitchen for its intended purpose, hm?”

Bucky and Steve give him a perfect salute. “Sir, yes sir.”

Sam smirks, shoving both his guests towards the kitchen chairs. “Wanna try my hot cocoa?”

“I thought we were.”

“You did not just say that.”

Steve snickers into his palm. “I think he did, Sarge.”

“Tsk tsk. No whipped cream for you.”

“Aww,” Bucky says, sitting at the table with his legs wide opened. “I was really interested in getting the cream.”

“He does like cream.”

“Good to know. Only if you behave then.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky repeats closing his legs but sprawling even further into the chair.

Debauched, that’s what he looks like, and Steve, even sitting as straight as he is, is not a lot better.

Definitely my treats .

[avaalons]

Chris Evans Fic: His Girls (Young and in Love Part 4)

We’re taking a bit of an angsty turn! Don’t hate me!

Just be warned that the following deals with issues of postpartum depression.

All parts to this series:

Young & in Love

Part 1: Beard & Glasses & Pushed Back Hair

Part 2: At Some Point

Part 3: The Dogs Aren’t Allowed Upstairs

Part 4: His Girls Episode 1

Part 5: His Girls Episode 2

***

It had been a phone call from his mother that had been the catalyst for his unscheduled return home. A voicemail to be exact. He knew that leaving had been the wrong thing to do in the first place. He’d known since he’d first, very reluctantly, agreed to do the (‘so quick, you’ll be back home before you know it’) press tour. He’d squeezed in a smaller movie after Infinity War finishing up and the release date combined with Annie being two weeks late in making her arrival meant that she was only four weeks old when Chris had to leave for promo. It felt like all he’d done was answer questions about his newly expanded family, when all he wanted was to be back home in LA with them. He knew it had been too soon but you’d insisted that you would both be fine, you would FaceTime every day and that Chris couldn’t jeopardise his career and professional standing with the studio by backing out of the promotional tour. He could have kicked himself as he listened to the voice message in between interviews.

‘Hey sweetheart,’ his mother’s soft voice had that tone that told him she knew she was trying not to worry him but also that she knew her efforts would be futile, ‘I hope the tour’s going well. Sorry I couldn’t catch you in person. As you know, I’ve been in LA the last couple of days and I’m… I’m worried about her, Chris. I can’t say what it is exactly but she seemed almost too bright and breezy, which I know sounds stupid but, it’s like, it’s like I didn’t know her and she didn’t know me, like she was putting on an act. She didn’t seem to actually want to have much to do with the baby. I don’t know sweetheart, something just isn’t right. Was she like this before you left? Give me a call when you can, preferably before you go rushing back home on the first flight out.’

Since the voicemail, he’d discovered that you’d hired a nanny (without telling him in any of your phone calls) and that you’d gone back to work, leaving your six week old daughter with an almost stranger. For all he’d known in your long distance communication, you and the baby were doing great. You sounded like nothing but a doting, excited, happy new mother over the phone and screen. He shouldn’t have ignored that niggling feeling he had that told him he was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Knowing what he now knew, he’d tried to subtly fish for information in his phone calls to you but you were giving nothing away and that in itself convinced him that going home was the only option. Clearly, he was needed somewhere more important than the press tour. Luckily, there was a big enough ensemble cast that his absence could be glossed over.

And that was how he found himself, at nine pm on a Friday letting himself into his own house after a long ass flight, made only longer by his concerns, to find a woman that was definitely not his girlfriend taking care of his child and, apparently, living in his home. A few awkward questions later, Chris had ascertained that Helen was, in fact, a live-in nanny, with decent credentials, he was reassured to see, and that you were out with friends, and had been out most nights since Helen had started her employment, whether for work or leisure.

Eventually, Helen had been given the night off to retire to her rooms and Chris had gone straight to his baby girl’s nursery, watching the calm rise and fall of her chest and listening to her quiet snuffles as she breathed. She was perfect and his heart swelled every time he looked at her. His little angel. He ever-so-gently ran his index finger down her rounded rosy cheek, before kissing his fingertips and pressing them softly against the downy fair hair on the crown of her head.

‘Hi there, baby girl. I’ve missed you so much, Annie. I’m not sure what’s been going on yet but daddy’s home now and we’ll figure it all out, don’t worry.’

He was still in the clothes he had been wearing for the best part of two days, and they smelled like airplane, but he didn’t care. He slumped wearily in the plush armchair in the nursery, propping one elbow on the arm rest, leaning his head in his hand and stretching his legs out in front of him. He looked around at the room in the soft glowing lamp light. You’d decorated once you’d gone in for the twenty week scan and found out that you would be adding another female Evans to the pack and you’d picked out colours at the DIY store together. Chris had insisted on doing it all himself, foregoing an interior decorator.

‘I want to do it,’ he’d argued when you’d tried to tell him he didn’t have to, ‘I want to paint the walls and build the flat pack furniture and put the shelves up for my little girl.’

Your eyes had welled. Who were you to argue with him about that? You’d blamed your tearful outburst on the hormones wreaking havoc with your emotions but really it was just that you couldn’t believe how fucking amazing Chris was going to be as a father and how lucky you were to have him.

So, you had decorated the nursery together, choosing soft pastel shades, the paint tins looking like sugared almonds the day you’d laid the tarps to protect the carpet and prised open the lids with a dinner knife. Chris had constructed the furniture, liked he’d said he would, relishing in the days at home when he could get out the power tools and just build, having made something at the end of the day that was going to make his child’s life just a little bit more comfortable. You’d taken on some of the less labour intensive jobs, given your pregnant state, like framing prints and hanging them in just the right places around the room, selecting ornaments and cuddly toys to adorn the neat white shelves Chris had fixed to the wall, and choosing the soft furnishings for the room, expecting that you’d both be spending a lot of time in here in the future.

Chris looked at all of the things in the room, all the evidence of your mutual enthusiasm for the arrival of your first baby, and the love that you both already had for the life growing inside you. Chris couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to all of that, where it had all gone. He had to admit that he was scared, desperately so, of the possibility that you had realised you didn’t actually want to be a mother.

***

Chris awoke with a start when Annie cried out. His neck was stiff from where he’d fallen asleep in the armchair and he glanced at his watch as he stood. Midnight. He wondered idly if you’d returned home yet as he approached Annie in her crib. Perhaps not, since he hadn’t woken before now.

‘Oh Annie, don’t cry sweetheart. I bet you’re hungry now, aren’t you? Let’s go and get you some milk.’

As much as he hated to hear her distress, he was glad that he could now pick her up and hold her to him for a real reunion. She lay marshmallow soft in his arms and he held her up so that he could drop a kiss on her forehead and breathe in that sweet talc scent before carrying her downstairs to the kitchen. Everywhere was quiet and dark and he had to flick lights on one by one as he moved slowly through the house, cuddling Annie to try and quieten her cries. Helen, he supposed, must have gone to sleep. He went to the kitchen via the family room, pulling the moses basket along behind him. He flicked the kettle on and then lay his angel in her basket while he set about preparing her milk. After opening the fridge to find no expressed milk, Chris let out a deep sigh and a curse under his breath, and went to the cupboard for the formula. But, he thought afterwards, he supposed he should be glad that you weren’t still breast feeding given that you were out most nights, apparently getting trashed. At least you had done that much, whether it was intentional or not.

A short while later, Annie was fed, changed and wriggling happily in Chris’ arms as he cooed and fussed over her, rocking her gently while he paced slowly up and down the family room. There was still no sign of anyone else and the house seemed oddly silent and huge.

‘Come on little Annie, it’s time to go back to sleep or you’ll be tired tomorrow. Will a song help?’

Just as he’d started on his very own lullaby version of a chart song he’d heard everywhere over the last couple of weeks, he heard the key turn in the lock of the front door. Feeling oddly anxious and trying to keep the frustration that had been building since he’d arrived home under control, he continued pacing his path in the family room, waiting for you to realise that he was there.

You must have heard him singing softly because you appeared at the door to the family room, gripping on the door frame and swinging around it, giggling.

‘Chris! You’re home! Look at you all gorgeous and sexy! Missed me that much huh?’ Your words were slurred and loud and at odds with the calmness and quietness of the house. Chris couldn’t help but notice you hadn’t even acknowledged Annie. You were dressed in a short dress and strappy killer heels, smoky black lining your eyes and your hair loose and glossy and tousled in that way he’d always liked. In fact, it wasn’t so very long ago that you returning home like this would have resulted in a long night of the most amazing sex and while he knew that you were drop dead gorgeous as always, seeing you like this, on this night, only made all that building irritation want to burst from him. Control, Chris, control.

‘Something like that. Just keep it down, Annie’s almost asleep.’ His voice was steady, for which he was grateful, but he didn’t look you in the eye.

You’d approached him with that slow walk that you knew accentuated those long legs and made your hips sway. You snaked a hand along his shoulders, wrapping a hand lightly around his neck and tugging him towards you to whisper in his ear.

'Well, I’m going to go and get out of this dress and I’ll see you upstairs for a real welcome home in a little while, okay?’

Chris didn’t respond but you didn’t seem to notice as you sashayed out of the room and disappeared upstairs. Chris purposefully didn’t watch you leave, but focused on the small bundle in his arms, who seemingly hadn’t been affected by her mother’s entrance and whose eyes were now drifting closed as she lost her fight against sleep. Chris felt the heat of frustration and anger in his face, mixed with, he hated to admit, a twinge of arousal. Damn you for showing up in that dress. He knew you, had known and loved you for years. You’d done and been through so much together: bought a house together, travelled the world together, brought a child into the world together but at this moment, he felt he didn’t know you at all. You had completely ignored your daughter, as though she didn’t even exist.

As Chris climbed the stairs, careful not to let his precious girl feel his footsteps, he was sure of exactly two things: one, he needed to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible for the sake of his family and two, there was no way he was getting into that bed next to you tonight.