#last time they gave me a free apple pie with the coffee! it tasted like oil.

[feluka]

mcdonalds coffee is so fucking vile. it tastes like cigarette ash and smells like melting plastic

[ichorai]

pearls and pastries ; j.jk

pairing ; pirate!jungkook x baker!reader (gender-neutral)

summary ; a crew of pirates have been pilfering your village for several weeks now and one particularly keen buccaneer has stopped by your bakery practically every visit; whether it be for the delectable pastries or for the sweet baker he's taken an interest to, jungkook couldn’t say. but there’s a catch - the baker doesn’t know that he’s a pirate.

themes ; fantasy, angst, fluff, pining, slight action, pirate au, baker au, medieval au

words ; 3.6k

warnings / includes ; descriptions of weaponry, stealing (from the rich), jungkook being a sad lovesick sap, pirate!bts, poetic sadness but when do i not do angst lmfao everything i touch turns into written sorrow </3

a/n ; written for the @ficscafe fic exchange event for @sunshinerainbowsbts !! i hope you like it <3 i'm definitely considering writing a part two to this :D

Jungkook wasn’t quite fond of parrots. Well, his mislike wasn’t necessarily directed towards the multi-hued rotund bird itself, but the fact that the wretched thing was squawking out a poor rendition of what Jungkook had announced earlier whilst clambering down the crow’s nest.

“I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery!” the winged devil screeched from atop Jimin’s shoulder, ruffling its bright feathers as if taunting him.

Shooting it the nastiest of scowls, Jungkook reached behind his head to untie the vermilion bandana holding his overgrown locks away from his narrowed eyes. “You better shut that bird up before I toss it to the sharks, Jimin.”

“If I let you do that, I’d also have to throw you overboard. The both of you are equally annoying,” the other pirate snorted in contempt, glancing up at his younger friend striding across the ship before moving his gaze back to the knapsack he was emptying for the pilfer. Out fell several empty bottles of rum, a few gold pieces glinting in the harsh midday sun, two jewel-encrusted daggers, and a worn eyepatch that suspiciously looked to be the same as the one Yoongi always wore over his left eye. “You seem to forget that we’re here to steal from the rich, not buy fancy breads! You’re lucky that Namjoon has half the decency not to kick you off the boat. Jin, however fond he is of you, still calls you a moocher.”

Rouge faintly dusted across Jungkook’s cheekbones as he coughed into his fist, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I steal stuff sometimes,” he muttered under his breath. It was useless to defend himself against someone who saw straight through him.

“Sometimes, my foot!” Jimin scoffed, hiking the bag over his shoulders. “Bringing back a goblet you found rolling down the street doesn’t count, you know that, right?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes to the cloudless sky, far too stubborn to admit that Jimin was right. With not another word, the young pirate clambered off of the large vessel and onto the rickety docks, grunting upon landing. It didn’t bother him much that Jimin was irked at his lack of contribution. They were rich enough as it is; what was the rush?

The air was tangy with sea salt and damp wood as he inhaled a deep breath, setting off for your bakery. Walking there took exactly three hundred and seventy two steps. Jungkook had memorized the shortest route to your little shop, mumbling the numbers under his breath with a growing grin blossoming across his lips. He subconsciously rolled the sleeves of his white tunic down, the fabric concealing the pirate tattoos inked all over his arms.

When the youthful sea wolf stepped foot into your store, a familiar chiming of the bell hooked atop the door echoed across the cream-walled room. At the reverberating sound, your head peeked out from the kitchen situated in the back. An illuminating beam danced on your features, eyes lighting up with mirth at the sight of Jungkook.

It made the muscle within his chest slam against his ribcage, desperate to be freed from its confines because it belonged to you, and only you. He wasn’t quite sure when the sudden fixation for the village baker his crew was stealing from started, but he had acclimated to his own change of heart by visiting you as often as he could.

“Fancy seeing you here today. Are you coming in or are you now my human door stopper?” Your heavenly voice floated towards Jungkook, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sheepish, he shuffled inside, engulfed by the warm scents of chocolate cakes, powdered pastries, caramelized fruits, and toasted almonds. His stomach gave an impatient snarl at the sight of tempting desserts. You had also walked to the front of the counter, dusting your flour covered hands on an apron. Some of the white powder had managed to smudge on your cheek, and Jungkook had to resist the urge to reach over and thumb it away.

“Hi,” he said with the brightest of grins. “I’ve missed you.”

At his bold statement, you suppressed a chortle. “I think you missed those chocolate cream puffs you like so much, not me. What’ve you been up to while you were gone?”

Jungkook hesitated at that. For the short amount of time he’d been visiting you, not once had he mustered the courage to tell you of his true origins. A savage pirate like him shouldn’t even be around the likes of you. You had no idea that he was part of the crew that was robbing your village, and the very thought of you finding out had him terrified. You were a taste of all the goodness in the world, and Jungkook was afraid you’d crumble into ash if he dared touch you. The sinner had no rights touching an angel, after all.

“Visiting family,” he hummed, quick to move on. If you noticed his strange demeanor, you didn’t say anything. For that, Jungkook was grateful. “I brought something for you.”

There was something about your smile that seemed to expel any and all feelings of gloom in a room. Jungkook was no exception to this feat, his knees almost buckling against the soft pink counters. He righted himself by leaning his elbows on top and propping his chin up with a palm. Gods, he didn’t know he was in this deep.

“Oh?” you set your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side. “To what do I owe such pleasures?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “For those cream cheese tarts you made me last time I visited. Thought I’d repay you.” Whilst saying this, he used his free hand to reach into his back pocket, fishing out a string of authentic pearls, adorned with a glimmering clasp of gold the same hue as the sun.

Your smile melted into a confused pucker, brows knitting together in a muted painting of hesitance, yet you ogled the expensive necklace dangling by one of his spindly fingers nonetheless. Where on earth had he gotten such a valuable treasure? “But you already paid me with money. I really can’t take that, Jungkook.”

Disappointment was easily detected as he slanted his lips to the side. “Alright, then.” He tucked the pearls back into his pocket. It surprised you how easily he had complied.

The worrisome atmosphere was quick to dissolve when the bell jangled once more. A small child meandered in with a toothy beam, holding a small pouch of clattering coins in their palm. They were no taller than Jungkook’s midriff, and he liked it a little more than he should have watching a certain softness adorn your features at the sight of the kid.

“I recommend the cinnamon apple pie. Or maybe the brown sugar crepes if you’re looking for something sweeter,” Jungkook said, gesturing to the treat behind the display glass. The child angled their head to stare at the taller man with wonder. “Anything Y/N makes is to die for, though.”

The child excitedly babbled something in return, but you didn’t quite pick up what they had said. You were far too focused on Jungkook’s animated features when he kneeled down to point at some more desserts. Sure, he was a handsome man, you’ve known that since day one. You’ve never really looked at him in this light. It was as if he were carved from pure luminosity, whittled by the hand of the most skilled sculptor. Everything about him was practically perfect; the gentle slope of his nose, the angles of his raised eyebrows, the dappled rouge of his lips, the beauty marks mottling his dewy skin, the dangerous cuts of his jaw, the twinkle of gaiety you found in his irises. With the sunlight filtering through the windows, it basked Jungkook within a golden radiance, the shadows casted along his face only highlighting his best features, doing nothing to aid your fluttering pulse. Has he always been this beautiful?

“I’ll have a slice of apple pie!”

The sudden clinking of coins being dumped onto the counter snapped you out of your trance, and you kindly wrapped up what the child ordered and handed them the paper bag. Both you and Jungkook watched as they smiled in thanks and trotted out of the bakery. Curse his handsome physique.

A little flustered by your earlier thoughts, you busied your hands by sorting the coins the kid had coughed up. Jungkook, ever the kind soul, merely stood with you as you worked, engaging you in entertaining conversations to keep you occupied while your store was empty. Where did the sun go once it disappeared down the horizon? Why did everybody else seem to enjoy the bitter taste of coffee except him? Why did his heart beat so quickly when around you? The last question he couldn’t muster the courage to ask, and much to his perturbation, he already knew the answer. You enjoyed Jungkook’s company very much; to the point where you couldn’t quite remember what it was like before he had sauntered into your life.

Before the both of you knew it, the sun was already setting. Jungkook noticed the way you deflated just slightly when red kissed the sky. It was a telltale sign that Jungkook was long overdue to go back to his ship. Yoongi would have his ass if he was late again. The whole situation was ridiculous, really. He felt like a fairy tale princess running away from the ball before his clothes grew into tatters. Well, in his case, he supposed it’d be pirate-wear.

Your smile betrayed only the gentlest hint of disappointment as you thrusted a bag of warm cookies into his arms. “Take this for the road,” you had said.

And so Jungkook did, smiling like an idiot the whole way back. A part of him absentmindedly wondered what your face would look like when you noticed that he had left the pearls on the countertop for you.

The ship rocked as the young pirate scampered across the deck at a startling speed, flinging the doors to the cabins open. Six older pirates stared at his panting form, a few looking on with unsurprised indifference, most glaring at him in disappointment. Jimin merely stuck his tongue out, his childish way of saying I told you so. There was expectancy in the captain’s eyes, but it waned away at an instant upon seeing that Jungkook carried nothing of value. Namjoon pinched the space between his brows in mild frustration.

Stiffly, Jungkook jerked his arm to thrust the bag in his hand forward. “Cookie?” he asked. Nobody said anything. Jungkook slowly brought his appendage back down, guilt roiling in his abdomen. “I take it you guys don’t want the cookies?”

With a huff, Namjoon stalked forward. “Of course we want the cookies, give me that.” He snatched the bag out of Jungkook’s hands and tossed it to Taehyung, who caught it with eagerness vividly splayed across his ruffled features. “I do have to admit, we’re getting tired of you bringing back nothing but sweets every time we go on raids, Jungkook. C’mon, kid, this is a team effort here. Look, just today Yoongi managed to steal a dozen coffers from a nobleman. The least you can do is try.” True to the captain’s word, there was a mountain of chests and boxes full to the brim with gold coins and shimmering jewels piled to the side of the cabin.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Jungkook nodded in understanding, though not without a miniscule frown twinging his lips. What was a pirate without his treasure, right?

Taking note of his glum demeanor, Namjoon clapped a hand to the younger man’s shoulder. “We’re not mad at you—”

Yoongi snorted at that.

“We just… want to help you help us,” Namjoon finished, ignoring the salty pirate’s quip from behind him.

The youngest man on deck raised his hand to his forehead in an awkward salute. “Yes cap’n!” Shame prowled within his chest; just thinking about the dishonor he brought to the pirate reputation by loitering in a bakery all day, ogling at sugary treats (and the sweet baker, but Jungkook digresses).

A part of him felt even worse knowing that he’d see you less and less, what with the other pirates breathing down his neck. He could only hope that you’d still look forward to his visits, though few and far in between.

Authentic bottles of expensive wines were shoved into his knapsack by Taehyung, lacing chains of aureate crammed into his hands by Hoseok, bars of cold silver wedged into the pits of his arms by Jimin, and more treasures thrown at the youngest pirate to hold as they lithely ran across the village. Being one of the stronger and more agile ones of the group had its downfalls, after all. He was being treated like a pack mule, hauling all the treasure for them. Not that he was going to complain; Jungkook knew that he deserved the rough-housing.

“Hold onto these for me, will you?” Yoongi gruffly uttered as he slid the thick hilts of gem-encrusted daggers into his belt. Jungkook complied hesitantly, but not without a suppressed groan of annoyance. “They’ll sell for more than a pretty penny, so don’t lose them.” The older pirate seemed to be in a grumpier than usual mood, considering he lost his eyepatch and the mottled scar crossing over his eye was on display for anybody to gawk at. It would’ve been worrying to Jungkook if he wasn’t aware of the fact that Jimin was merely prolonging his juvenile game of ‘keep away’, attempting to dance away from Yoongi’s inevitable wrath.

Perhaps being a pirate wasn’t his true calling, because Jungkook found that his mind kept wandering off to the matters at hand—running away from the guards. Though it was a relatively easy task (the guards were quite thick-headed in this village), he thought about the pretty plants dangling from the balconies of a building they jogged by, or the scents of exotic spices carried by the souq market not far from where they were. Most of all, much to his expectancy, his thoughts were centered around you. Had you gotten many customers for lunch rush? Were you lonely without him? How many times have you smiled today? Jungkook was all too fond of your smile.

Blinded by his unsaid affectionate ramblings, he only barely caught on to Namjoon’s quiet, “We shook the guards off for now. Be careful next time, Seokjin. The sun’s about to set soon; we should head back to the ship before it gets dark.”

Jungkook hissed out a small sigh of relief, bending over to catch his breath. Jogging across the village would have been no problem, but running with treasures twice his weight draped all over him was a different story.

When he righted himself back to standing, the sudden pit of shocked trepidation unfurled within his abdomen. There you were, beautiful as ever, but a terrifying sight to see. Normally you’d be the only person he would want to see, but as of this moment, you were the absolute last person he fancied bumping into.

Why now? He had the most rotten of luck.

Today you weren’t wearing your regular apron, but a pair of fitted grey trousers and a soft beige blouse far too large for you, hanging off of one of your shoulders as you cradled a basket of breads and cheeses and other groceries in your arms. It was a simple outfit, but one that made his heart clench nonetheless. The glinting of iridescent pearls draped over your décolletage had his breath stolen away from him as raw sentiment overtook his form. You were wearing the pearls he left for you and you never looked more beautiful. Jungkook, on the other hand, was clad in clothes that practically screamed pirate; a golden-clasped corset tightened about the small of his waist, a tattered white button-up tucked into his dark trousers, worn sea boots covering his feet. A large gun was also slung over the belt cinched around his hips, along with multiple daggers of the like, and not to mention all the riches and jewelry the other boys had thrown at him.

You couldn’t see him. No, it would absolutely ruin Jungkook.

Perhaps dropping everything he was holding in a panicked effort to dash away as quickly as he could was the worst possible thing he could have done to not warrant any attention.

The concerned and confused questions erupting from the other pirates as they whipped their heads towards their youngest comrade went completely ignored. He scampered away from them, lunging towards a shadowed alley and hiding behind a teetering pile of musty boxes. A stray cat nuzzled against his leg, but Jungkook merely shooed it away with a frustrated glare and not-so-subtle shushing gestures.

What a fool I am, the young buccaneer berated himself, pressing a knuckle against his temple in frustration. He waited for another minute, before slinking out from the shadows, peering around the corner to see if you were still there.

No sign of you. Relief seized his chest, but not without the gentlest flower of disappointment staining whatever solace he felt, a weed amongst the roses. Jungkook’s mind was still reeling from the fact that you were wearing his pearls.

Treading carefully, he strode out of the alley, turning the other direction before halting in his tracks completely. A queer, garbled noise tumbled past his lips.

It was you, a confused smile gracing your features, and all Jungkook could think about was how the sunlight was made for you, how you glowed in front of him, how he wanted to cradle you into his chest and murmur confessions of his pure, unadulterated love into your ear. But Jungkook didn’t do any of that. Instead, he merely stood there, as if he was imitating a statue in all of his pirate glory. Terrified, regretful, and ever so angry at himself.

Fate was a cruel game.

The pearls shone prettily on your skin. A reminder of the best mistake he’s ever made.

Your eyes had yet to wander down to fully take in his appearance, for your expression still held fondness for the man that’s visited your bakery so often, still having no idea that he was a filthy pirate, locked into his molten gaze. “I think you dropped something…?” The golden chains dangled loose between your fingers as you held them out to him. Jungkook didn’t take them, frozen on the spot.

It was as if he could pinpoint the exact moment you found out his true origins. Your brows furrowed upon seeing the weaponry strapped onto him, one of his pirate tattoos on display (Jungkook cursed himself for not thinking of rolling his sleeve back down), and the six other men watching in silent despondency behind them. You had always been a sharp one, far too smart for your own good.

Or, perhaps, it's always been obvious. Jungkook was only wishing for the impossible.

“You’re a pirate.”

The statement wedged a stake into his chest, splintering his heart into pieces. When you stepped away from him, confused horror marring your beautiful features, Jungkook knew that it was over.

He lost you.

A flurry of emotions, overwhelming and tumultuous, evidently took over you at his lack of denial. You looked to be just as heartbroken as he was.

“You’re a pirate,” you repeated, dazed. You wanted him to say something, anything. Much to his surprise, you didn’t sound angry. You took several steps back this time. The weight of pearls around your neck suddenly felt choking.

The sudden calling of his name had his head whipping around to look at his captain, watching the brutal exchange with gentle sternness. “We have to go.” The guards’ll be coming soon, no doubt.

Jungkook looked back to you, any and all words lodged in his throat. Despite the fear in your irises, a soft expression of acceptance folded over your visage, for under all his pirate exterior, he was still the same man that you thought so fondly of from your bakery. The look was short-lived however, quick to fade away when Jungkook reached out for you hesitantly. A part of him pondered how a simple baker managed to steal from the stealer. You had robbed him of his heart, and Jungkook didn’t even try to stop you.

Upon seeing you inch away in mortification at your new revelation, Jungkook retracted his arm and pursed his lips. The agony clawing at his stomach was begging to be set free. He wanted nothing more than to get onto his knees and plead for your forgiveness.

I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m sorry I fell in love with you.

His name came out again, this time from Yoongi. That meant it was serious.

“I’ll come back,” Jungkook said, tears rimming the bottom of his warm doe eyes. You watched him start to trek backwards. “I promise.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, like he was swallowing down a knot of thorned ivy.

Before you had the chance to say anything back, he was gone, bounding back to his ship with his comrades. Not long after, the distant barks of guards pursuing them rang throughout the village. You took that as your cue to leave. Swallowing down the urge to cry, you forced your eyes away.

You hoped he wouldn’t uphold his promise, for the both of your sakes.

[clarawatson]

It Only Takes a Taste

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x [Fem]!Reader (GN pronouns, fem coded stuff, but I’m not sure where this is going as a larger work so we’ll say Fem!reader to be safe) Summary: You work at a diner. Aaron Hotchner falls in love with you. We’re not kidding around trying to make us all sound like profilers, just accept the diner life, we love it here. W/C: 1498 Warnings: none yet!  A/N:  First chapter of that diner!au i was talking about here! AO3 ps. I forgot to tag people, so: @willowrose99 & @genevievedarcygranger my beloveds. If you want to get added to the tag list jump in my inbox and i’ll try to remember to add tags every time i post. Where am I in this series?  01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

~

When you first meet him it’s 5am and raining. You’re switching over shifts for your friend, Rita, because she’s been doing night shifts at the diner. This late into her pregnancy she shouldn’t be working, not technically, but she needs the money and she’s got insomnia because of the baby, so she works nights now. There’s always someone working with her, be it Joe (who’s got far too much muscle for a chef) or Lola (who can beat anyone to a pulp with a pie tray). In the early hours of the morning a bunch of tatt’ed bikies come and sit and talk about their extracurricular activities (definitely not legal) because one time there was an armed hold up and the police didn’t turn up until two hours after it had happened. People don’t like holding up a diner full of men who eat their own motorbikes for breakfast.

But when he comes in, he’s not any of them. He’s not even one of Lola’s nightly hook-ups (she needs the money, you don’t ask). He’s too well dressed in a grey suit (or is it black? Maybe it’s black), trying desperately to shove his I.D. badge in his pocket. He has a look about him that says ‘I’m part of one of the alphabet soup agencies’. A smile on his face, dead in the eyes, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He fumbles with his wallet as he squints to read the menu behind the counter. The rain’s stopped dripping from his hair, instead he’s got droplets like his woken with the morning dew upon him.

“Hi love,” Rita coos as she hangs her apron up. She has a look about her that says she’ll eat this man for her breakfast. It’s an effort not to curse those pregnancy hormones some days.

“Go home,” you tell her, swatting her arm. “Put your feet up, rest, sleep while the baby does or some shit.” Rita sticks her bottom lip out and pouts, but she’s making grabby hands for her purse, which is stored where the tea towels used to be. Far too high to reach even when one’s not pregnant. You grab it down for her, ignoring the showering of thank-yous.

The new guy (who is getting more and more handsome by the second) is still looking at the menu. He doesn’t look like he’s going to stop looking and order any time soon.

“Are you sure you’re fine to take the metro in this weather?” you check. She’s rubbing her swollen belly and looking longingly at the booths that haven’t had anyone sit in them for hours now. 

“Wait forty-five minutes and I’ll take you!” Joe yells. He’s slaving over something in the kitchen even though it looks like no one’s ordered in hours. “Wife gave me the car ‘cause of the storm!”

“Forty-five,” you repeat and point her towards the seat that she’s been eyeing off. Rita sighs, nods, then goes out to the seat. “What can I get you?” Usually when addressing the customer you’d add something gentle like ‘sweetheart’ or ‘love’ or ‘dear’ because the customers like it and they come back because they think you’re treating them like a long lost friend.

He bats his dark eyelashes and rubs at his forehead.

“I don’t know.” He sounds tired, balancing on the very edge of exhaustion. He might just fall off into a pit of sleep that he won’t wake up from. Been there, done that. “Do you guys do coffee?”

You laugh and point to the brewed pot beside you. There’s one for each table, free refills with a pie purchase. It’s written in decorative lettering right above you on the blackboard.

“We can put it in a take-away cup. It’s before six so it’s free anyway,” you offer. The last bits a lie, but Joe doesn’t care about a cup or two of coffee going missing. He’ll catch it up later when he flirts with all of the mom’s coming through after school drop off. The new guy nods and pulls out a ten dollar note and shoves it in the tip jar. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he nods anyway. He’s like a broken bobblehead.

“I know.” He goes to the sweets display and searches through it like he’s looking for something specific. Maybe he is. You’ve not seen him in the diner before, and neither has Rita, but maybe he’s one of Lola’s regulars. Maybe you’d judged him wrong. 

“Anything caught your eye?” you ask, leaning over the counter as if you could see it from his angle too. Maybe you do it to show off just that little bit of cleavage. He notices, then looks like he’s done entirely the wrong thing as he licks his lips and blinks like a school boy.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and Rita giggles. You point at her and give her a stern look, but she just puts her hand over her mouth and lies down on the seat. She’s still silently giggling because her belly keeps bobbing above the table. 

“I just…” he has that exhausted look on his face again.

“Long day at work?” The answer is always yes for the people who work at the alphabet agencies. He nods. “Take a seat, grab some coffee, take a minute. It’s only just gone five, you’ve got time.” 

He nods. He looks like he’s gotten his words all mixed up and they’re just sitting in his mouth, refusing to leave. Tongue tied doesn’t exactly encapsulate what looks like is going on inside his head. He sits at one of the chairs in front on the counter, and takes the coffee cup gratefully as you pass it to him.

He’s definitely an alphabet soup man. He sits in this weird stance like he’s countering his weight against a gun. His shoulders are hunched forward as if he spends hours a day doing paperwork. He’s got a nervous twitch in his hands like sitting still is only going to bring the next case.

You think about making a joke about turning on the cellphone jammer, but last time Joe made that joke the whole place ended up swarming with cops. Absolute disaster. No one’s going to do that one again. 

“Cherry, berry or apple?” you ask, grabbing a plate.

“Sorry?”

“Cherry, berry or apple?” Rita repeats from her booth. “For the pie, sweetheart.”

“Uh, I didn’t—“

“Eat it,” Rita growled. You pull a face at her even though she can’t see you. The guy smiles.

“Apple, please.” Well mannered. Sweet. He looks elated as you slide the apple pie to him and hand him the canned cream.

“Not as good as fresh, but it’s better than nothing.” 

He puts a generous amount on his plate. You half think he might like it more than proper cream. Rita leans up just enough to look at him as he digs in, fanning herself playfully before sighing and collapsing back down.

Joe brings out his tray of caramel salted cookies. They’re thick enough to look like cakes with a gooey caramel center, and they usually sell out pretty quickly. The new guy watches them intently.

“How much trouble am I going to get into if I give those to my son?” 

“How old is he?”

“Ten.”

You smile. That’s a good age. “How much do you hate his teacher?” 

He considers this with a gentle tilt of his head. “Not a lot. I’ll give it to him after school.” He pulls out his wallet again and Joe looks like he’s just hit the mother lode as he grabs one of the cardboard boxes. 

“If you really want to spoil your kid, y/n here can write really pretty on top.” You glare at Joe. He shrugs. He’s covered in cake batter and cookie dough, and smells like pancake batter. He’s always smelling sickly sweet, and like a well lived in home, despite looking like the living embodiment of Gaston. “She does it for my wife all the time.”

The handsome man’s phone buzzes. He checks it, then shovels the rest of his pie in his mouth like a starved man. 

“I have to go,” he says. He gives Joe another ten and tells him to keep the change. Joe looks like he’s about to break into a song and dance. You pour a fresh cup of coffee into a take-away cup and slide it across the counter to him. He thanks you a thousand times over then goes. With his cookie.

“Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?” Rita screeches the moment the door shut with it’s little jingle. “I’ll-show-him-my-cleavage-but-I-won’t-ask-his-name?? No wonder you can’t get a date!”

“I’ll do it next time.” Not that there’s ever a ‘next time’ for these alphabet soup agents. They’re always looking for the next place to go to so they don’t have a ‘regular place’ that can be ambushed. 

But in a perfect world... you’d see him every day.

[fridayfirefly]

Retirement

Read Retirement on AO3

Masterlist

For Maribat March Day 21 - Domestic Bliss

The first time Marinette and Garfield ever discussed retirement was before they even started dating. For superheroes, retirement was just a fact of life. One day, if you make it long enough, you'll put down the suit and you'll never pick it up again. Maybe someone will take your place. Hopefully, no one will need to. But no matter how strong you are, not even if you're Superman in his prime, the simple fact was that someday you would retire.

"What do you think you'll do after you retire?" Marinette mused to Garfield. Out of all the Titans, Marinette spent the most time around Gar, simply because the two of them spent a lot of time in the living room. Marinette liked the ambient noise that his video games provided when she worked on her projects, and Gar liked to have someone to talk to while he played. Most of Marinette's current focus was on the embroidery in her hands, as she stitched vines running down the sleeves of her shirt, but she still took the time to start a conversation with Gar.

"I dunno..." Gar glanced up from the game he was playing. "What'll you do once you give up being Ladybug."

"That's a tough question. I used to think that I wanted to run a big fashion company, like Agreste Fashion, but now I think I want something a little more low-key. In my ideal future, I own a little boutique where I make custom clothing. There would be a fabric store and a café on the same block as me, and I would never have to leave the neighborhood."

"That sounds nice. I think I might try going to college and see where that takes me. I applied to Jump City University right before Christmas, and they accepted me. If I went, I would start classes in the fall.”

Marinette’s head jerked up as she gave Gar her full, undivided attention. “I’m going to JCU next fall!” she exclaimed excitedly. “We might have classes together. What are you planning on majoring in?”

Gar shrugged, “JCU has a veterinary program that I'm interested in. I'd be taking animal behavior, biology, chemistry, and a whole bunch of other science classes.”

“That’s so cool!”

“It’s nothing much. I didn’t expect them to accept me, anyway.”

Gar seemed oddly subdued about the idea of going to college. He was a naturally enthusiastic person, which made it very out of character for him to be so dismissive. It worried Marinette. “No, you deserve praise for your accomplishment. Jump City University is a very selective school.”

“I’m not a genius. I’m just me.”

“You’re smart, Gar, I know you are. Getting accepted to JCU is just one of the many reasons why you are brilliant.”

“Are you gonna name them all for me?” joked Gar.

His question was rhetorical, just a joke, but Marinette wasn't finished convincing Gar that he deserved all the praise in the world. “For starters, you can finish any video game in less than a day. Even the ones where you need logic and strategy, you fly right through them. Secondly, you’re a genius when it comes to animals. And it’s not just because of your superpower. You taught yourself animal behavior so that you could blend in with the animals you’re imitating. Thirdly, you pretend not to be invested in politics, but I’ve seen how you keep yourself informed about environmental policies and activism. You really care about the planet. Fourthly-“

"Alright, Buginette,” laughed Gar, a slight blush on his cheeks. “You’ve proven your point.”

Marinette set her embroidery down on the coffee table and moved to Gar's couch. "Is this game multiplayer?"

"Yep. Do you want to play a few rounds?"

"Hmm... I think I could spare a few minutes to kick your butt."

"Please. I'm going to squash you like the little bug you are."

"You wish!"

----------

The next time Marinette and Gar discussed retirement was well after they started dating. They got together in their Junior year at JCU after spending two years in relationship limbo, with both too nervous to make the first move. They finally confessed their feelings for each other after Dick and Starfire locked them in a closet together until they admitted that they liked each other. They graduated college as a couple, with Gar planning on attending veterinary school and Marinette planning on starting up her fashion business. That summer they spent a lot of time talking about the future.

"I've been thinking of recruiting someone to take over as Ladybug," remarked Marinette as she cuddled up next to Gar on the couch.

"Really? Who do you have your eye on?" asked Gar.

"Wonder Woman recently took on a new protege, Cassie Sandsmark. The Ladybug Miraculous already has some connections to Wonder Woman and her home of Themyscira. Her mother, Queen Hippolyta, was a wielder of the Ladybug Miraculous for quite some time."

"If you gave up the Miraculous would you still fight crime?"

Marinette shook her head. "I think it might be time to give up crimefighting. It's been ten years since I took up the Ladybug Miraculous to fight Hawkmoth, and six years since Hawkmoth was defeated. I wasn't ready to give up that responsibility then, but I think I'm ready now."

"When would you give up the Miraculous?"

"Soon. I talked to Wonder Woman about it last week and she's enthusiastic about the idea. I would need to spend some time getting to know Cassie, just to make sure she's a good fit, and Tikki would need to vet her as well, but I have a good feeling that she'll pass any tests of character we put her through." Marinette turned to face Gar. "I didn't want to make any concrete decisions before I talked to you. I know that we've always fought crime together, but I'm ready to move on with my life. I'm ready to retire."

Gar nodded. "I understand and I fully support your decision. I've been considering leaving the Titans as well. I know I could continue living in the Tower and attend veterinary school at JCU, but last week I got an acceptance letter from UC Davis for their School of Veterinary Medicine."

Marinette's eyes widened. "Gar, that's amazing! I remember looking into UC Davis when you were applying, and their program is nationally ranked."

Gar grinned. "The best in the country. It's too good to pass up."

"You have to go!" exclaimed Marinette. "This is your dream!"

"I think I'll send in my acceptance tomorrow," decided Gar. "Maybe we can go to Davis this weekend and scout out an apartment."

"And fabric stores," chimed in Marinette.

Gar laughed. "Anything for you, Buginette."

----------

The final time Marinette and Gar discussed retirement was years later. Marinette and Gar had gotten married and had moved back to Jump City. Marinette opened her fashion boutique, which had very quickly exploded in popularity. Gar started working for a non-profit veterinary clinic, which provided free veterinary services to lower-income neighborhoods. They had both achieved their dreams, and yet neither seemed content with their lives.

"Maybe we just need a change of scenery," suggested Marinette, leaning her head against Gar as they both sat on the beach watching the sunset. "I'm so tired of the city."

"Maybe," said Gar. "It would be nice to have a house with a backyard, rather than just an apartment."

Marinette sighed. "I know that I always said that I wanted to be the owner of a successful boutique, but this wasn't really what I had in mind. I'm so busy that I feel like I never get to spend any time with you anymore. Every day my inbox is filled with emails asking me to sell my company or expand to more locations. I'm tired of it. My passion is for making clothes, not running a business."

"I know how you feel. Every day I encounter another neglectful pet owner who brings their animal to the clinic for help but refuses to listen to me when I tell them that they need to change the way they treat their animal. It's exhausting."

"We could both just quit our jobs and move into the woods," joked Marinette.

Gar nodded, but he wasn't joking. "I've actually been thinking about that. There are a lot of remote regions with a real need for veterinary practices to provide medical assistance for the farm animals out there. I would feel a lot more useful taking care of animals that don't have anyone else."

Marinette turned to face Gar. "I wouldn't mind moving. I've been sending all of the offers to buy my boutique straight to my email archive, but I'm sure if I looked through them all I could find someone who would be able to take care of the business aspect of Ladybug Designs. I could retire from the business and design on my own time, when the inspiration strikes, instead of forcing myself to churn out design after design."

"You really wouldn't mind?" asked Gar, a hopeful look on his face.

Marinette shook her head. "I was serious about moving out of the city. There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while, but I've been waiting for the right moment. I think that moment is now. Gar, I'm pregnant."

The deer-in-the-headlights look on Gar's face was comical, to say the least. Marinette giggled, "Well?"

Gar snapped back to reality, transforming into an elephant, trumpeting his joy. He turned back into himself and wrapped his arms around Marinette. "I'm so happy! This is the best news I could have ever heard, Buginette. Now we have to move. I want our kid to have a backyard and a dog and a big driveway where I can teach them how to ride a bike and a pond where they can swim in the summer-"

Marinette cut Gar off with a kiss. "One thing at a time," she giggled.

"I think this will be the best decision we have ever made," declared Gar.

Marinette agreed. "I think that partial retirement will be good for us."

----------

This was bliss. The feeling of grass under Marinette’s bare feet as she walked back to the house from the lake, hand in hand with Gar. The sound of their daughter's laughter as she danced around them, catching fireflies. The taste of homemade apple pie and vanilla ice cream, eaten rebelliously early as Gar proclaimed, "Dessert before dinner!" The sight of the stars up above them, no light pollution to mask the beauty of the heavens. The sound of Gar's voice, whispering, "I love you, Buginette," into Marinette's ear. And as Marinette settled into her husband's arms, she knew for certain that retirement was the best decision she had ever made.

@maribatmarch-2k21

[inawickedlittletown]

Baked With Love (Destiel fic) - 1/5

Summary: Dean never met Lisa's neighbor, but he knew one thing: whoever it was, they could bake. After breaking up with Lisa, the one thing Dean misses is her neighbor's pie. After finally meeting him, Cas' pie is not the only thing Dean likes.

On Ao3 

------

The weird thing about the end of a relationship was all the little things that suddenly just came to an end. Things like Sunday brunch and dinner dates at restaurants that Dean would have never stepped foot in before. The best things to end were the arguments when Lisa would get mad every single week about Dean’s standing bar night with Sam. Or how often Lisa had expected Dean to get her flowers. In some ways, it was strange to re-calibrate to having free time again, but in the best way. 

Dean found himself at The Roadhouse on a Wednesday night — something that would have never occurred while he was dating Lisa. Wednesday was not his and Sam’s usual night, but his brother met him there anyway. 

“How are you holding up?” Sam asked after they were already a few beers in. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The break up, dude,” Sam said. “It’s been what? Two weeks?” 

The thing that really cemented for him that he’d done the right thing breaking up with Lisa was that he didn’t even miss her. Dean had expected to, but the loss of the relationship didn’t really hurt. It was nothing like his last serious relationship with Cassie and maybe that was why Sam was so concerned. Cassie had broken him. It had been a long time after Cassie before Dean felt like he could do more than a one night stand. It was why Lisa had felt different, Dean had wanted more from her and yet somehow things just hadn’t worked. If he really had to think about it, he couldn’t even say that he missed the sex and considering how bendy Lisa was, that was saying something. 

“I’m alright, Sammy,” Dean said. “I don’t think I actually let myself get attached, if I’m honest.” 

Sam nodded. 

“But, I do miss one thing,” Dean said. He took a gulp of his beer. 

Sam made a face. “Ew, Dean!”

“What? No….I mean, she did yoga. But, no, I miss the pie.” 

“Lisa baked?” Sam asked, his eyebrow raised.

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “No. Definitely not. But she had this neighbor. I never met them, but every Friday they brought Lisa some sort of baked good. Sam, it was the best pie that I have ever tasted. Better than mom’s even. And now, no more pie.”

“Wow,” Sam said. 

The crust had been flaky and sweet. The apples had had a crunch to them and there had been so much care put to the spices and the flavor. Dean had never believed in a higher power and yet eating that pie had felt like a religious experience. 

—

A month after the break up, Dean ran into Lisa. He really should have known better than to stop at the cafe near the yoga studio, but Dean had been desperate for caffeine and it was a better option than Starbucks. While he was there, he couldn’t help but notice the pies on display and so he indulged in a slice of cherry pie. It left Dean on his own at a round table waiting for the coffee to kick in and savoring his pie. It wasn’t an amazing pie, but it was still pie. He was so single-focused on the pie that he almost didn’t see her at first, but then he looked up and spotted her. 

She wore yoga leggings and a sports bra. Her hair was tied back into a neat ponytail and she was laughing with a gaggle of her yoga friends. Dean had met a few of them and he wasn’t ever going to be able to tell them apart. 

As she turned to get into the line, her eyes swept right over Dean and then came back to him. Dean lifted his hand in an awkward wave. He didn’t expect Lisa to do more than similarly acknowledge him, but instead she headed his way. 

“Dean,” she said. 

“Hi,” Dean said back. “How, um, how have you been?”

Lisa actually smiled at him. “I’m alright. We had fun there for a while. And I just wanted to say, no hard feelings.” 

“Good. Yeah. Uh, you too.” 

Lisa pointed at the last few bites of Dean’s pie. “My neighbor came by last night and left me a loaf of banana bread. I had to bring it into yoga class because you weren’t around to eat it all.” 

Dean chuckled. “Your neighbor should open up their own bakery. I would be their number one customer.” 

“I don’t doubt that,” Lisa said. 

“And, uh, you know, since no hard feelings and all, if your neighbor bakes a pie any time soon I am definitely available to take it off your hands. If that isn’t, you know, weird.” 

Lisa actually threw her head back and laughed. “Do you want my neighbor’s number? Get you right to the source?” 

He should have felt weird about it, especially because in the entire time that Dean had dated Lisa, he’d never actually seen Lisa’s neighbor. He’d always pictured the neighbor as a nice older woman who lived alone and didn’t have anyone to share her baking with. 

“Look, Cas is a sweetheart and it won’t be weird or anything.” 

Maybe, it would be less weird than using Lisa as some sort of go between. No matter how amicable their break up had been, Dean figured they probably shouldn’t see much of each other. 

“Alright, then,” Dean said.

Lisa nodded. She grabbed her phone out and a moment later Dean had a text with Cas’ phone number.

—

It was almost a month later when Dean saw Lisa again. This time, it was because she was having car trouble and didn’t know where else to go but to the only mechanic that Lisa knew: Dean. 

Dean co-owned Singer Auto. It had once belonged to his uncle, Bobby Singer. Bobby wasn’t even really his uncle by blood, but he’d been a family friend for so long that everyone considered Bobby family. When Bobby decided to retire a few years earlier, he’d offered Dean the shop. It was Dean that insisted on buying it from him. Bobby had eventually been worn down to selling half the business to Dean. 

Dean ran the day to day, but Bobby stopped in every once in a while — when he got bored mostly — and did a bit here and there. Business was going well. 

Lisa’s car had been in good shape when Dean was dating her, but when she called him up, it was because her car wasn’t starting. Dean talked her through tightening up the battery terminals but the car still didn’t start. 

“You might need a new battery,” Dean said. 

Before Dean could offer to head to her place to jump the battery and get the car over to the shop, Lisa told her her neighbor had just come out and offered to do it. 

“And I’ll just drive it straight over to you.” 

Lisa arrived not long after and with her came a tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies. 

“From my neighbor,” Lisa said. “I asked and Cas said you never called.” 

It wasn’t that Dean had forgotten as much as that he’d felt awkward calling someone he didn’t really know just to ask them if he could buy some pie from them. He was sort of rethinking Cas being an older grandma type, though, what with the whole giving Lisa’s car a jump thing. Maybe Cas was younger than Dean expected, or a woman that knew how to bake and their way around a car. 

“Call Cas, Dean,” Lisa said. “It would be rude not to. Cas is expecting a call.” 

Replacing her battery didn’t take long and Lisa reminded him to call her neighbor again before she left. The taste of Cas’ cookies after they were all gone later that day made him decide that he would call Lisa’s neighbor. 

—

He sent a text instead of calling. He did it early, right between breakfast and leaving for work. A kind of rip the band-aid off type of thing. 

Hi. This is Dean.

And then because that felt like not enough at all. He sent a second: 

Lisa gave me your number because of how much I gush about your pie. 

Hope this isn’t weird. 

And when that didn’t seem like enough either.

Feel free to ignore me if this is too strange to you, but I am very willing to pay you to bake me a pie. 

He read them all over a couple of times before sending one last text. 

Thank you. And promise, I’m just very enthusiastic about pie. 

After that, he just dropped his phone on the couch next to him and groaned. He wanted to take back all the texts. Lisa’s neighbor was going to think he was crazy.

By the time Dean set off to work, he had no response which was probably for the better. 

Work was busy that day. It was a constant. They had a bunch of appointments lined up. Some easy jobs like doing an oil change, but others were more complicated — the type of thing that would take days to finish. Then, there were the people that just stopped by on the chance that Dean or one of his mechanics were free. So, Dean didn’t get to glance at his phone once the whole morning. And because Sam showed up during his lunch, he didn’t look at it then either. 

It wasn’t until he got home, after a long shower to get rid of all the grime and the smell of motor oil that clung to him, that Dean even glanced at his phone. 

Hello, Dean. 

Lisa mentioned I might get a call from you. Your texts were a humorous way to start my morning. It is not weird to be complimented on something I love to do. Baking is a passion of mine. I would love to bake you a pie. Lisa mentioned my apple double crust was your favorite. 

Payment is not necessary. Friday is the earliest I will have time, if that works for you. I’ll have it ready for you to pick up by six. 

-Cas

Cas sounded formal. It was hard to infer age or gender, but Dean supposed none of that mattered when it came to it, not when this Cas person could bake a pie that was rivaled by no other. 

I would feel weird not paying you for all that hard work. Friday is great. Thanks again. 

Dean was going to make sure he gave Cas something for the pie. The whole thing already felt a little strange, but for Dean it would feel even stranger to take the pie for free. 

When he and Sam met up that night, Dean didn’t bring up the whole weirdness with Lisa’s neighbor, but when Sam asked if Dean wanted to do something on Friday night he turned him down. 

“What, you have a date or something?” Sam asked. 

Dean denied it, but his brother didn’t seem to actually believe him. 

—

On Friday, it was Cas that texted Dean first, with an address to the house on the right of Lisa’s, as well as confirmation for pick up any time after six. Dean read the text over his lunch and he texted an affirmative before he got back to work. 

The shop closed at five. Dean went home and got showered and cleaned up. And because it felt like he’d come off as too eager to show up at six on the dot, he busied himself cleaning his kitchen and getting his laundry sorted so he could put it in the wash later. After that, he went through the pile of mail that he hadn’t looked at all week. It was almost seven when he texted Cas to let him know he was on his way. 

Cas’ house looked almost identical to Lisa’s and all the other houses on that street. A neat lawn in the front, a Victorian style with a large porch, a detached garage in front of which sat an electric blue Jeep. Not the type of car that should have belonged to the middle aged woman that Dean had been expecting. He parked his car on the street, feeling just a little strange that he wasn’t pulling into Lisa’s driveway. A glance over there told Dean that Lisa wasn’t home. 

As he walked up, the first thing that Dean noticed was that Cas’ mailbox was shaped like a bee. It was really well made and adorable to boot. 

He gave the doorbell a ring and didn’t wait long for someone to come to the door. As the door pulled open, Dean was startled by a car screeching by. He turned away, looking out as a Honda Civic narrowly missed Dean’s Impala as it drove off. For a moment, Dean had almost stopped breathing. 

“I don’t know how that kid managed to get his license,” a voice from behind him said. A deep, masculine voice. 

Dean turned, slowly. Cas had stepped out and Dean’s breath caught. 

Cas was a man that stood almost at Dean’s height. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes were the bluest eyes that Dean had ever seen, and over a lean and muscular frame, he wore an apron that in cursive letters said “Save The Bees”. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas said and his chapped lips broke into a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’m actually a little behind, so your pie just made it into the oven. But, come on in.”

“Uh,” Dean couldn’t find words. How had Lisa not told him that her neighbor was a guy. A very attractive guy. 

-

Part Two

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Walk Me Home - Ch 10

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension. 

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 1856

Author’s Note: Had some extra time today, so I figured I’d go ahead and post. We’ve reached the end, folks. Thank you to everyone for reading, reblogging, liking, and especially all the lovely comments. A million thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ , @fangirlxwritesx67​ , and @cracksinthewalls​ for helping my story shine. @thoughtslikeaminefield​ , thank you for the lovely image for the story. I hope everyone enjoyed it all as much as I do. 

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. 

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 10

“Sam looks really irritated,” Kimber whispers to Dean. The younger Winchester brother has just excused himself to the restroom, but the diner is pretty quiet, and she doesn’t want to risk Sam overhearing.

“Well, yeah,” Dean says, raising his coffee to take a deep, life-affirming slurp. He doesn’t bother to lower his tone or modulate his pitch in the slightest, and Kimber shoots him an exasperated look. “I stuck him with clean-up duty last night so I could get lucky. Not to mention, our room was the only free one at the motel, remember, so he either slept there or in his car. He’s not irritated, he’s pissed as hell and probably a little jealous.”

“But you didn’t get lucky last night,” Kimber says. 

“Went home with my high school sweetheart, got to see her unmentionables, and spent the whole night in bed with her after eating semi-homemade apple pie. I’d say I got pretty damned lucky.”

She sends an elbow his way, but he’s expecting it and leans back so she overshoots and lands across his lap. She splutters indignantly as she rights herself while he takes another calm drink of his coffee. 

“Seriously, though, he’s not pissed at you. The first few months after we left, the kid wouldn’t shut up about you. He practically worshipped you: hot, nerdy as hell, the whole package. And,” he adds, his teasing expression mellowing to one of genuine appreciation, “you really helped him out with that AP stuff. He got into Stanford because of you.”

“Shut up,” she says, her face heating. “He got into Stanford? That was him, and you know it. I just gave him some resources he didn’t know about, that’s all.”

“And I was able to keep up with all my AP classes no matter where we moved, which was a huge deal to me,” Sam says as he slides into the booth across from them. “You guys talking about me behind my back?”

 “Always,” Dean smirks. “So, what’d you find out?”

“Does the name ‘Jim Weeks’ mean anything to you, Kimber?” 

She frowns, setting her fork down on the edge of her plate. “It does. I helped him out, god, what...eight, nine years ago? He hadn’t been hunting very long, maybe a year or two, and he was investigating some...Let me think, hang on.” She closes her eyes, mentally shifting through years of research, both hers and others’.

“Human sacrifices. There was a symbol carved into all the victims. I helped him find the source, the deity it stood for. It was one of my closed cases; that’s why I didn’t bring it up. He called me a few weeks later, said he’d taken care of everything.”

“Well, he was wrong,” Sam says, his face grave. “I found his journal in the witch’s car. Jim documented you helping him, what you found, where you worked, and then how the case wrapped up. You actually helped him take down en entire coven of witches, guess he didn’t mention that part. Then he went on hunting for another seven and a half years, but a few months ago, he started to write about feeling like someone was watching him, tailing him from case to case.”

Sam pauses, giving her a moment to take in this new information, then he continues.

“Said he was starting to have periods of time where he didn’t remember stuff, would wake up in the middle of the road, in the middle of the woods. He wrote about finding a doll in his car one morning; it, uh..looked like him. Throat was slit, red paint, all of it.” 

Sam clears his throat, flexing his fingers on the table top as he watches her carefully. Dean’s hand closes over hers under the table, and she realizes her fingers are shaking.

“Go on,” she says. She doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next, she really already knows, but she needs to hear it.

“The entries in his journal stop after that. The cover was soaked in dried blood. So...yeah. I did some checking, and Jim died a few months back. The scene was...nasty.”

“So, who was our nutbag?” Dean asks. His tone is rough as he squeezes Kimber’s fingers. 

“I looked into the county records where Jim took down the coven. I don’t think he did too much research into the actual witches themselves; the coven included a family, a mom and dad and a teenager. Jim thought he got the whole coven, but maybe the teenager wasn’t at that meeting? At any rate, the papers from around then talked about the murdered couple’s missing child, and then the kid just dropped out of mention.”

“Okay, Jim was sloppy, and the kid survived, and what...swore revenge? How’d he find Jim again?”

“I found these folded up in the front of the journal,” Sam says, smoothing a couple of newspaper articles out on the table. The edges are frayed and ragged, torn rather than cut. There are dark smears on both, smudges and stains from who knows what, and Kimber’s gorge rises higher the longer she stares down at them.

The first article dates back to the first investigation, showing a grainy photograph of police and federal officers milling around behind crime scene tape. Kimber points to a figure off to the side, suited and facing the camera almost straight on.

“That’s Jim,” she says, her voice quiet. He looks painfully young in the photograph, and her chest twinges. The caption labels him as “FBI Special Agent Gaiman.” 

She looks at the second article, which is much more recent. She notices immediately that the location is the same, the premise almost identical. “Town’s Dark Past Resurfaces After Nearly a Decade” reads the headline. She looks for Jim’s face, spotting it in the crowd once more, despite him aging considerably in the years since she met him.

“He used the same name again,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I mean, he didn’t have much choice, since it was probably the same cops on the case, but still. Probably how the witch found him. Might’ve started up the sacrifices again just to draw Jim out. Anything else in the car, Sam?”

Sam shakes his head, his mouth working as if he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. “More or less standard witch paraphernalia, a couple more knives. I didn’t see anything indicating we have anyone else to watch out for.”

Dean purses his lips, then looks to Kimber. “You doin’ okay?”

Kimber takes the question seriously, doing a quick bit of mental introspection. “Yeah, I think...I mean...Okay, so I’m still queasy, but I don’t feel like someone’s breathing down my neck anymore. I’m going to be jumpy for a while, and I am definitely not going to stop going to my Thursday night classes anytime soon. But, yeah. If I’m not completely okay at the moment, I know I’m going to be.”

“That’s my girl.” Dean leans over, pressing a kiss to Kimber’s cheek. Sam looks away, but not before Kimber catches the embarrassed smile on his face. Dean slides from the booth, strolling casually over to the register and grinning at the elderly waitress, who blushes and giggles as she takes the check from him.

“Dad wouldn’t let him call you,” Sam says quietly. Kimber’s eyes flash to Sam, startled.

“When we left. Dean wanted to. He tried to, but Dad said he couldn’t. Said you were a distraction we couldn’t afford. He absolutely forbade it. They got in a fight, the worst one I ever saw between them when we were kids, and Dad...he...well, he, uh...He put his foot down. And later, after Dad died...I think Dean was ashamed. Maybe. I dunno, but I think he didn’t feel like he could call you after all that time, felt like he’d let you down.”

Sam glances over his shoulder, and they both watch Dean lean down to whisper conspiratorially with the blushing waitress as he hands her his credit card. Dean turns back to Kimber, winking, and her last little bit of heartache flakes off and fades away.

“Maybe don’t hold it against him too much?” Sam says, his best puppy-dog face in place. Kimber has never seen such an earnest expression from a guy asking on behalf of another man before.

“So, what do we have on the docket, Sam?” Dean asks as he rejoins them. Kimber throws her arms around his neck, ignoring the twinge twinge of pain on the side of her throat, and kisses him soundly. He looks startled but pleased as she pulls away, eyes wide and cheeks ruddy. 

“What was that for? I’m just askin’ so I can do it again.”

She clears her throat against an unexpected lump. Behind Sam, the waitress at the register gives her a double thumbs up. “I was just jealous of the attention you were giving the wait staff. Figured you thought I wasn’t paying you enough attention.”

Sam coughs discreetly, his mouth twitching from the effort of smothering his smile. “I actually don’t have any cases for us. I was thinking about going back to the bunker and reorganizing some of those files I‘ve been going through. You know, I could really use your help, Dean. Our inventories could use some alphabetizing, and-”

“Hard pass,” Dean says, flashing his brother a quick, mirthless smile. 

“If you’re looking for something to do,” Kimber offers, then hesitates when Dean turns his focus to her. “Well, I mean...fall break is next week. There’s a harvest festival in town; we have a crafts fair and a big farmers market and a lot of baking competitions. It’s pretty fun. If...if you wanted to stay a little while, Dean.”

...

In the end, Dean stays nearly two weeks. They go to every single day of the festival, during which time, they pick out a new quilt for her bed and Dean makes himself actually sick at the pie tasting event. When he does finally leave, it’s with a promise to visit soon, and their phone numbers saved in each of their cells.

“I will say, I’m not overly fond of watching this car drive off,” Kimber says, hugging herself through the inadequate material of her sweater. The weather has turned genuinely cold, and she wishes she’d grabbed something heavier, but she hadn’t planned on staying outside for so long. 

For some reason, though, she just can’t let go of him long enough for him to get into the car.

Dean rubs his hands briskly up and down her arms, his eyes sad and fond as they roam over her face. Before she can stop him, he pulls off his jacket, draping it over her shoulders and kissing her forehead.

“You look damned cute in my jacket,” he says gruffly. “One more for the road?”

And if her lips are still swollen and throbbing when he puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, if his hair looks like he came straight from bed, neither of them minds in the least.

…

The end.

[louhooo]

If I Didn't Care

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky finally catches a break.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Like, a handful of swear words, SO MUCH FLUFF AND SO MANY FEELINGS

A/N: I’ve been on quarantine for the last week and I was in a 1940s Bucky mood 🤷‍♀️ This and this inspired me.

As always, feedback is a very much appreciated and welcomed!!! 💘💘💘

Tick… Tock… Tick… Tok…

The wooden clock, the last thing you had of your granddad’s, sat nestled atop the pink crocheted doily Becca made for you four years ago. She claimed crocheting took her mind off of “it”.

You wrote to him when Becca gave it to you, telling him all about how talented his sister was and how he needed to hurry home so he could boast her up, too.

That’s how you were in the early letters; lighthearted. Blithe. Unfettered that Bucky was thousands of miles away, acting as though he was still at camp in Indiana. Steadfast on the notion that he would be home soon, and you could have your fella back.

Bucky read that particular letter for a few weeks while he was stuck in a trench. Some soldiers ribbed him about the “lovesick look” he gave the pieces of paper. Others shared an understanding pat on his back, as they themselves had memorized every word their sweethearts back home had wrote for them.

He tried writing back to you a few times, tried coming up with something smart to say that he knew would make you laugh… but he couldn’t. He was tired. And scared. And wanted to be home more than he could truthfully tell you.

I’m sorry it’s takin’ me so long, honey. I keep tryin’ to tell ya about what’s going on here, but I can only tell you so much… and none of it is anything you’d want to hear, anyways.

I just miss you, sweetheart. More than you know.

All my love,

Bucky

Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, 107th

Two weeks later he was captured. 

You stirred beside him, pulling Bucky from long ago memories and into the present. He rolled to his side, gazing at you, memorizing the curve of your exposed back in the early morning light. You clutched the pillow under your arms, a soft hum coming from you.

You took a deep breath, stretching toes as you turned your head away from the window, not ready for the day to begin. Your face scrunched as you dared to open one eye, only to be met with a steely gaze and deep circles, and a warm smile that tried convincing you everything was perfect. You slid your hand across the bed until you met the warmth of his calloused hand and squeezed halfheartedly.

“Why’re you awake?” His smile deepened as he rubbed his thumb over your smooth skin.

“How can I sleep when there’s an angel next to me? If I sleep, I’ll miss it.” A sleepy grin spread on your face, and you huffed a laugh through your nose.

“You’re a real charmer, Barnes.”

“Only for you, sugar.” Bucky felt your hand tighten in his, and he moved your hands towards his mouth, placing a gentle kiss on the curve of your finger. You sighed contently and closed your eyes, sleep still fresh in your mind.

“What time is it?” You asked, your face half smushed against the pale blue linen. His other hand brushed the loose curls from your face, the tips of his fingers following the smoothness of your skin down your back.

“Almost six.” You hummed, in acknowledgement or pleasure, he wasn’t sure.

“Can we stay in bed forever?” He grinned and leaned over to kiss your shoulder.

“As long as you don’t hog the covers.” He laid on his back as he watched another lazy grin spread on your face.

“No promises.” Down below, the city was starting to stir, meaning the illusion of peace would be coming to an end for the time being. You groaned and pulled yourself closer to Bucky, seeking his warmth. “We hafta get up soon, don’t we?” Bucky chortled as you squinted up at him.

“’Fraid so, sweetheart.” You groaned softly and dropped your head onto the plains of his chest. He chuckled and rubbed his palm down the back of your head, smoothing your hair. You tilted your head and looked up at him, a tired pout on your face.

“Can you promise me now that we won’t make any plans for the weekend? I need 48 continuous hours with my husband.” An effortless chuckle vibrated in his chest and he stared at you with hearts in his eyes.

“Yes, ma’am.” Happy with his answer, you pushed yourself up, your lips landing on his, quieting the storm that lingered in Bucky’s thoughts. You started to pull away, but Bucky pulled you back in, cupping your face and kissing you like it was the first time. One hand stayed on the bed to keep your balance and the other laid on top of his hand, your fingers going over the metal band on his finger. You pulled back with a gasp, air filling your lungs.

You gazed at each other as you both worked to control your breathing, both forgetting that you needed to start getting ready for the day.

“If you keep kissin’ me like that, we’ll be late and—” Bucky pulled you back, swallowing your words before they had a chance to pass your lips. You moved so he could hover over you and he settled between your legs, rolling his hips.

The day could wait a little while longer.

“Buck?” Bucky blinked, subconsciously shaking his head as he turned to look at Steve. 

“Yeah?” Steve studied the man beside him, fear visibly seeping through Bucky’s pores. 

Silent fear. 

Fear that would never be spoken about to anyone, not even Steve. 

Bucky adjusted the hat on his lap and cleared his throat, hoping that distracting himself would make the situation easier.

Steve let out a tired sigh and settled in the spot beside his friend.

“Think your mom made her apple pie for us?” Bucky huffed a laugh, an easy grin spreading across his face. 

“Hell… I don’t even remember what it tastes like anymore. Hope she made two, ‘cause I’m not sharing any with you.” They both laughed, loud and freely.

Steve continued before he could stop himself. “Do you think Y/N’s gonna be able to leave the hospital?” Bucky’s laughter quieted, his grin fading away into the frown he’d had the entirety of the boat ride home. 

“Yeah. Her last letter said she would.” Bucky had written a letter to his mom, telling her to let you know you didn’t have to be there when they docked, that he’d understand if you were too busy. He shouldn’t have been surprised when just two and a half weeks later, he found a letter from you sitting on his bed.

Foolish.

Utterly stupid.

Completely moronic.

Those were just some of the things you called him in your seven page letter. And Bucky knew it. A part of him knew you’d show, and you had probably talked with the other nurses as soon as you heard his return date so that they’d help cover for you so that you’d be able to be there.

He knew that.

But the other, louder part of him feared that you wouldn’t be there. That, at some point in the years since you had last seen each other, you fell in love with someone new and just couldn’t tell him over writing. 

You can’t break up with someone in writing, Bucky, you had told him his last night home, so if you wanna break up, you have to do it now. But save your breath because I won’t accept it anyways.

Or, maybe what he feared most would be how you looked at him. Would you still see him as the same kid he was when he left, or would you only see the shell of who was left?

Someone shouted about seeing the Statue of Liberty and the ship broke out in cheers.

They were home.

Cloudy, warm water sat in the basin as Bucky took long, steady strokes down his face. He hadn’t shaved in almost a week, much to his mother’s dismay. When she dropped off a casserole earlier in the week, she, in that way that mothers do, stared in quiet disappointment at his jaw, never saying a word, but getting her point across perfectly.

Bucky finished shaving and wiped his face with a fresh towel and stared at himself in the mirror, resting his hands on the cool porcelain, his fingers curling over the edge. The circles under his eyes seemed darker and more noticeable with no beard to take all the attention.

“Honey?” You knocked on the door twice as a courtesy, and pushed the bathroom door open, “I finished ironing your shirt.” You smiled and brought in a cup of coffee just how he liked it. “It’s hanging up on the door.” You hummed in subdued surprise and stepped into the small yellow bathroom and smiled at Bucky in the mirror, your free hand running across his lower back as you stood beside him. “You look nice.”

Bucky grinned as he took the mug from your hand and took a drink, the hot beverage instantly soothing his mind.

“Thanks, baby.” He set the coffee down on the shelf under the mirror and took the drain out of the sink, setting the stopper up to dry. Your fingers ghosted over his left shoulder and he tensed, inhaling sharply. His head turned quickly and he stared at you, an apologetic grimace on your face.

“Sorry… Are they botherin’ you?” You stared closely at the angry scars that littered his arm, looking for any sign of irritation that might be causing his discomfort. 

He knew what you meant. Wanted to know if they were hurting him in any way, not just tangibly. After Switzerland, doctor’s had been able to save his arm, but the scars and pain that it left him made him wonder if it was worth it. They told him he suffered damage to his nerves, so he’d never be able to use his left arm the same way.

But when his arm started to heal a few weeks after his surgery, the doctors were bewildered. 

Amazing, they’d told him. 

It wasn’t. Not really. It was just another reminder of what he went through when he was captured.

“No… they’re fine.” Your eyes flashed to his, giving him chance to change his answer. “I’m just anxious about my interview.”

“Oh, Buck, you’re gonna knock it outta the park! I guarantee they don’t let you leave without hiring you on the spot!” You turned to face each, taking his hands in yours. He squeezed your hands and watched his thumb rub over your knuckles.

“What do I tell ‘em? ‘My wife thinks I’m great, so you hafta hire me?’” You chuckled and shook your head.

“No, just tell ‘em I make the best chocolate cake, so they be glad they hired you come the holidays.” Bucky chortled, skimming his thumb over the gold band on your finger. “Tell them you’re the best mechanic they’re ever going to find, and not hiring you would be the dumbest thing they could do,” you pulsed your hands, “I can go to lunch early if you want me to walk with you to the interview?” Bucky let out a long sigh and finally met your gaze.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want you to be late gettin’ back to the hospital.”

“’S not that big o’ deal. I’ll have one of the girls cover for me if I’m not back.” He gave you that soft smile, that smile that told you he wanted to tell you no, but didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You took a deep breath and studied him, reaching up to wipe the small bit of shaving cream that lingered by his ear. “Fine… I’ll stop, I’ll stop.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” a gentle kiss to your forehead and you separated, Bucky taking his coffee and going to the bedroom to get dressed. You stared at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you were simply making up the annoyance Bucky held for you, or if it was factual, and now he was stuck with someone who pestered him. 

He’ll talk to you if he wants to, Y/N, your friends affirmed, don’t take it personally. My Johnny does the same thing. They all do it.

Not Bucky. 

Your Bucky shared his soul with you years ago, and now he was hiding it from you, and nothing hurt you more.

Bucky left the apartment at the same time as you, not needing to, but not knowing what else to do with his time if he stayed at the apartment. 

He showed up at the auto repair shop two hours early and settled on the bench just outside the front door, attempting to read the newspaper he bought on the way there.

It was going terribly.

He wasn’t able to get past the first paragraph without getting caught up in his thoughts and losing focus. He tried reading about the new player the Dodgers just bought thirty times before he gave up and watched the birds up in the trees.

The bell chimed above the door and an older man in grease covered denim coveralls, wiping his hands with a rag, stood in the doorway looking Bucky up and down.

“You here for the interview?” Bucky stood up quickly, smoothing out his brown suit and taking off his hat, holding it to his stomach.

“Yes, sir.” He raised a brow.

“You’ve been sittin’ out here for nearly an hour. Don’t have anything better to do?”

“My wife told me if I break her radio again, she’ll put me out on the street.” The man chuckled, still wiping grease and grime from his hands. He stuffed the rag into his back pocket and extended his right hand to Bucky.

“I’m Walter, but everyone calls me Walt.”

“James, but friends call me Bucky.”

“Ya got a strong grip. Well, Bucky, come with me, we’ll go to my office.” Bucky grabbed the newspaper and folded it quickly, following Walt through the front door. They took a short walk through the garage and went into Walt’s office that sat in the back corner of the shop, giving him the best view of everything in the garage. Walt motioned for Bucky to sit in one of the worn wooden chairs in his office and shut the door behind them. 

“I didn’t mean to make ya change your schedule for me. I woulda waited until it was time.” Walt chuckled gruffly, waving Bucky off as he sat in his swivel chair, the wood creaking as he settled.

“I felt sorry for ya. Guys were makin’ bets on how long it’d take ya to come inside.” Bucky chuckled, shrugging off his embarrassment.

“Who won?”

“Me. They’re out gettin’ me a Coke as we speak!” Bucky laughed and relaxed in his chair, his nerves not consuming him for the moment. “So, tell me about yourself, Bucky.” Bucky rattled off facts about himself: where he served, what he did overseas, how long he was overseas, and where he got his training when he got back home. Walt raised his hand, cutting Bucky off. Bucky stopped talking and Walt lowered his hand, resting it on the arm of his chair. “You said you had a wife?”

“Yeah. Her name’s Y/N.”

“How long you been married?”

“Got married last May when I got back from vocational school.”

“Any kids?” Bucky shook his head.

“Not yet.”

“Did you meet her when you got home?” An easy grin made its way to Bucky’s face and shook his head.

“No, I’ve known her since we were kids.” Walt’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“She must really like you if she let you make her wait that long.” Bucky chuckled.

“I’ll tell ya Walt, I’ve had pretty stubborn women around me all my life, but she takes the cake.” Walt laughed, the deep sound echoing in the small office. “I lost count how many times I asked her to marry me, and I almost had her convinced, but then the war happened,” he shrugged his hands, “and then there were other things to do. She told me we could get married when I got home. Said it’d give me somethin’ to look forward to.” Bucky huffed, “She still made me wait until after I was done with training.”

“She work?”

“She’s a nurse at Kings County up on Clarkson.” Walt hummed. “You married?”

Walt took a deep breath, holding the edge of his desk as though he was steadying himself. “Lucy and I have been married for about twenty five years. We have ten kids, six sons, four girls.” Bucky couldn’t stop his eyes from going wide.

“Doesn’t sound very quiet at your house.” Walt chuckled and leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle on his knee.

“Some days are better than others… I still wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world, though.” Bucky grinned, heartened by the sentiment. Walt let out a sigh, “Well, Bucky… you’ve got the training I’m lookin’ for, so, tell me, why should I hire you?” Bucky took a deep breath. 

Tell them you’re the best mechanic they’re ever going to find, and not hiring you would be the dumbest thing they could do.

“Truthfully, you’re not gonna find a better mechanic.” Walt raised his brows. “I’m hardworking and someone you can count on to show up and get the job done. I’m the best there is.” Walt blinked. 

“So…” Walt started, “let me get this right…. You’re tellin’ me, that you’re a better mechanic than myself, someone who’s been a mechanic for over twenty years?” White, hot fear started coursing through Bucky’s body.

He swallowed thickly, his stomach dropping, “Uh… yes, sir?”

The men continued to stare at one another, Bucky preparing himself to be thrown out on his face, if he wasn’t pummeled first.

Could Walt see the sweat on his lip?

What were you going to say when he came home with a broken nose and no job?

Would you finally regret marrying him?

You were nervous.

You had expected that Bucky would call the hospital after his interview and tell you how it went, good or bad. You knew what time his interview was, and the more and more time that passed without hearing anything from him was starting to worry you. You finished up your charts for the night nurse and as soon as the last ‘i’ was dotted and ‘t’ crossed, you grabbed your bag and said your goodbyes for the weekend.

You walked down the stairwell and out of the staff exit, coming to a halt as soon as you stepped onto the sidewalk, the door shutting behind you. There was Bucky, still in his brown suit, leaning against the wall with that boyish smile you’d fallen in love with.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, pulling a bouquet of red roses from behind his back. You gasped softly and took the flowers as he handed them to you. “How are you?” He kissed your cheek and you stared at him, trying to decipher his mood.

“Hi, honey,”  he held his arm out for you and your suspicions quieted, a bashful grin forming on your face. You took his arm and you both fell into a leisurely pace as you walked home. “This is a nice surprise.” You smiled at him, adjusting the grip on the bouquet. Bucky, without being asked, reached for the flowers and held them in his left hand, freeing your hand.

“I just missed you,” he turned his head and grinned, “and I realized it’s been a while since I walked you home from work.” Your hold tightened around his arm and you could feel the hearts grow in your eyes.

“It’s not my birthday, is it? Our anniversary maybe?” Bucky smirked at you out of the corner of his eye, knowing what you were hinting at.

“No, ma’am. It’s just an ordinary Friday.” You hummed, forcing your eyes ahead.

“Strange.” He hummed in agreement and you shook your head good naturedly and walked in silence with all of the city noise. You came to a stop after a few minutes, waiting for traffic to pass. You looked at him, “I’m gonna hafta ask, aren’t I?” Bucky looked at you nonchalantly.

“Ask about what?” You gave him an exacerbated look, a laugh escaping his mouth. 

You laughed with him, “Tell me! The suspense has been getting’ to me all day!” Bucky laughed more, the creases by his eyes deepening. 

“We’ll hafta stop at the grocery store before we go home.” He led you across the street, ignoring your expectant glances.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t tell me—”

“Ask me what we needta get at the store.” He raised his brows at you keenly. You stared back at him, blinking a few times before you sighed and gave in.

“What do we need to buy at the store, honey?”

“Flour. We’re almost out.” Your face twisted, visibly confused by what Bucky was talking about.

“We don’t needta get flour? I’m not makin’ anything.”

“Well, I kinda already told the guys at the shop you make the best chocolate cake, so I really don’t wanna show up empty handed on Monday morning.” You came to a standstill just in front of the grocery store, pulling Bucky to a stop as well. You stared at him with big eyes.

“You got the job?” Your voice was soft, barely audible over the commotion of rush hour. Bucky simply smiled, and you knew. You squealed and threw your arms around his neck, the shock of which made Bucky drop the flowers on the ground so he could catch you. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you tight, unaffected by the stares of everyone around them.

How could he be bothered with you in his arms?

As soon as you were home from the store, and everything had been put away and the roses put into a vase, you and Bucky sat at the kitchen table and he recounted his day. You listened attentively, a permanent grin fixed on your face. When he was done, you stood leaning over to kiss his lips.

“I’m so happy for you, baby.” Bucky smiled and gingerly pulled your hand until you settled on his lap. You sat contently with your legs crossed, and combed back his hair with your nails adoringly.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” You continued to scratch his scalp tenderly as he rubbed his hand over your lower back. He chuckled to himself, “Ya know, I was half worried you’d leave if I didn’t get the job.” Bucky watched the smile on your face slowly fall, his own grin disappearing at the loss of yours. You stopped pushing your fingers through his hair and sat back so as to see him clearer.

“What?” Bucky started to stammer.

“Well, I-I just mean that, ya know… I’m your husband. I’m supposed to take care of you, a-and I can’t treat ya how I’m supposed to when the jobs I find barely pay enough to put food on the table or a roof over your head.” When Bucky got home from overseas, he was less than willing to take any stipends the government was giving to veterans. Every dime Bucky received went directly into savings, even when everyone tried convincing him he should use it. He wasn’t going to use that money unless he absolutely had to.

I’m not gonna need it, he’d told everyone, I’ll just go back to the factory and pick up my old job.

When he’d gone to the factory, he realized that wasn’t the only guy in Brooklyn looking for work. Steve and the other Commandoes tried helping him, telling Bucky to stay with the S.S.R like them, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t when he finally had you back. He couldn’t risk it, even if the pay would have been able to give you the life you deserved.

After he finished training, he started calling every auto repair shop in the phone book, asking if they needed a new mechanic. After eleven phone calls that ended in rejection, Bucky was defeated. Slowly, when the small jobs he found on construction yards weren’t enough, the savings started to go, and you subtly started working a few more hours every week.

Bucky was beginning to wonder if the crease between your eyes was going to be permanent.

“Honey?” You blinked and took a long, steadying breath.

“Have I ever told you that I don’t feel like you treat me right, or that you don’t take care of me?”

“Well, I—” You gave him a firm look and he stopped himself.

“Yes or no.” Bucky let out a deep sigh.

“No, ma’am.”

You nodded your head. “No, I haven’t, you’re right. Because I have never once thought that about you, Bucky. Not once. And I think you know full well that I would have told if I had.” Bucky stared glumly at the ground, taking the reprimand in silence.

“I just wanna be able to buy you new dresses if you want them, or finally get you a real ring. I’m gonna be able to do that now with what they’ll pay me at the shop.”

“Bucky, I know you think I’m embarrassed to ask my friends for hand-me-downs, or that I’m upset that I never got a flashy engagement ring like my friends or the other nurses… but I’m not. I’ve been wearing hand-me-downs since I was ten years old, Buck. Why on earth would I start getting embarrassed now? And, as far as I’m concerned, the ring on my hand is just right, because you gave it to me, and that’s all I wanted.” You cupped his jaw tenderly, lifting it until he was looking at you. “You will always be what I want, James.” 

You felt Bucky melt in your hand, and he sighed, resting his head on your chest. He breathed you in, and you continued to sit in each other’s quiet embrace, the sounds of your heart beat steady and strong in his ear.

[hatsukeii]

OH MY GOD I JUST HAD A GENIUS SONGFIC IDEA

I am once again disregarding requests-

I’m sorry I love you guys but I HAVE TO DO THIS

Due to popular demand via a vote on instagram, I have decided who to write about:DDD

Disclaimer: This fic is inspired by a Levi one I’ve read before, I don’t remember the author but if you find them or they find me props to you!!

Remember When // Modern!Todoroki Shouto x reader

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: Cursing, idk if this is a warning but aged up characters

Summary: In a world where everyone is reincarnated, your search to find someone special ends somewhere nostalgic.

The memories shouldn’t stay.

They just shouldn’t.

That’s not how the world works.

What was supposed to happen, was you were supposed to die, forget everything, and get reborn. Start a new life, with a new face, meet new people, fall in love all over again, get married, have kids, grow old, die, repeat.

So why didn’t that happen to you too?

Why did all the memories come flooding right back the second you turned three? Why did you look the exact same? Throughout your teenage years, you desperately tried to get rid of everyone in your memories. Mina, Bakugou, Deku, Kaminari, Jirou, and most importantly, Todoroki.

Ah, Todoroki Shouto, your first and last love. How could you forget him?

For fifteen years of your life, you’ve been trying desperately to find him. 

But who’s to say he remembers you too? 

That possibility didn’t stop you from seeking out every opportunity to figure out whether he was still the Todoroki you used to know. The Todoroki you used to love so dearly. You prayed every night, that you would finally meet him again, not in your dreams, but in real life. No matter how hard you tried to burn the memory of him out of your mind, he just wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t let go of how he stared at you, those heterochromatic eyes staring into your soul as it lit on fire. You craved to feel his hand on your cheek, his lips on your head, his arms around your waist, you wanted it all back. It made you feel greedy, it did, but could anyone blame you? You had everything taken away from you the minute he died. You wished to pass away, so you could forget about him and start a new life, but ended up with this mess. Your emotions are hard to suppress. You’re just as in love with Todoroki Shouto as you were in another life. 

You were unlucky to be reborn like this, all the memories from your past life mixed with new ones. The school days at UA high, fighting villains alongside your best friends. The day you got married. The day you had kids. It was terrible, having those images in your mind, but being unable to fulfil the hunger and constant longing to do it all over again.

Walking down the street, you stop at a cafe. It’s a really nice cafe. Reminds you of the one you used to work part time at in your past life. Warm, dim ceiling lights, timber wall lining, Swiss cheese plants, a nice little island where baristas were busing brewing up steaming hot mugs of coffee, plush couch seats and wooden chairs accompanied with marble tables, and a little platform for occasional guests that would perform. The entire cafe radiates a nice vibe. It reminds you of what you used to have. Giving yourself a tiny grin, you push the door open, letting the little bells ring. Grabbing a couch seat, you settle yourself down, putting your headphones on in an effort to block out the noise other customers were making. “Good evening, miss. Would you like anything? I suppose you wouldn’t want coffee at such a late hour.” You position one of the sides behind your ear. What time is it? You bring your phone up to your face, squinting a bit at the bright screen, showing 7:15 in bold, white numbers. “It’s fine, I’ll just have a latte and your apple pie.” The waitress looks at you in confusion. “Miss, I haven’t given you the menu yet?” Eyes widening, you go silent, before plastering a smile on your face. “Regular, just not at night.” Did that convince her? The waitress bites her lip, tilting her head a bit, before jotting down the order and shuffling away quickly. 

The cafe is buzzing with excitement, talks of a band performing in a bit filling the air of the cozy space. You roll your eyes, not wanting to deal with it. You just got back from five lectures that you surely didn’t enjoy. The cafe is supposed to be a way for you to get some downtime, not for a band to ruin the peaceful atmosphere. Pulling your headphone back onto your ear, you mindlessly go through your phone, bored and uninterested in anything on your timeline. Every single post is about your friends with their valentines date. To you, valentines is truly, the worst thing to possibly celebrate. Not only is it is about a man that was tortured and eventually killed, it is also a reminder, that you’ll never be able to love someone normally because of those stupid, idiotic, utterly pointless memories that held you back. It doesn’t matter how many people your friends set you up with. You’ve had to reject over eight guys you were set up with, all because you simply can’t let go of Todoroki. It doesn’t matter whether he remembers, as long as you do, you’ll never be free of this hell. You get made fun of for being too uptight, too picky, too dense, when in reality you can’t help it at all. Whenever you even have the slightest thought of a different guy, Todoroki’s name plays in your mind like a broken record. Thinking about it now, maybe you don’t want to leave the memories behind. Maybe you want to remember them, no matter how annoying, shitty, and irritating they can be. Losing them would be like losing a part of yourself, and you didn’t want that.

“Miss, the latte, and the apple pie. Enjoy your food.” Picking up the tiny spoon, you fiddle around with the utensil, admiring it in all its simplicity. It isn’t a peculiar spoon or anything, just a normal coffee spoon that has a gold brimmed green end. Sticking it into the latte, you give the drink a good stir, not even paying attention to the coffee foam art that was there a second ago. Leading the brim of the cup to your lips, you carefully take a sip of the hot liquid. Nothing about it has changed. It tastes just as good as when you worked here. If only you could introduce this to Todoroki all over again. Eyeing the pie with lidded eyes, you cut out a chunk, taking it into your mouth as you reminisced the days, where you would feed him the exact pie. It was pretty impossible not to feel nostalgic in this place. Way too many memories were made here. First dates, first kisses, first mini concerts, this was like a shrine of key events in your past life. You continue to savour the rest of your food, saving the drink for last. Exhaustion is taking over as you hear the sound of cheering, a guitar strum, and a half recognisable voice. Slumping into the couch, you doze off, headphones slowly falling off. From onstage, heterochromatic eyes stare at your figure, mouth hanging as the band sets up their instruments.

He finally found you.

After all these years, he finally found you.

Never has he ever been so thankful for fate.

His situation was the same as yours. He was reborn, then regained memories from his past life, except he was never able to get a certain someone out of his head. For years, he performed at this particular cafe, hoping you would be there to watch him. He hasn’t been able to fall in love with anyone, despite having hundreds of fangirls craving for his hand in marriage. He spent immeasurable amounts of time delving deep into those past memories, trying to scrape together the song you oh so loved to listen to. The song that represented your life with him. Hours upon hours of bass practising, just for the sake of reuniting with you. Uncertainties burdened him night after night. What if you’ve already become a different person? Would all his work have been for nothing? Would the only place he can ever meet you again be his dreams, and the piles of the memories he still had with you? All those doubts were washed away with the look he gave you. That was definitely the (Y/N) he knew. From the iconic band hoodie, to the order of the cafe’s secret apple pie and latte. That was undoubtedly you.

“Guys, please let me play one song first.”

“Hah? Todoroki, you’re seriously changing it now?”

“Do me a favour, would you? Let me do that song first?”

The drummer’s eyes widened in realisation. 

“O-oh! Yeah, sure thing. Good luck, you get one shot.”

Hands on the mic, the cafe goes silent as the first riff comes on.

Headphones fully slipping off your ears and onto your neck, your ears are no longer protected from outside noises.

This song.

Letting your eyes flutter open, you shake your head, rubbing your eyes a bit from your little nap. Adjusting your headphones to hang nicely around your neck, you sit up from your position, steadying yourself with your hands. How long have you been asleep for? You groggily grab for your phone, wincing yet again at the bright light that shone through. You weren’t even able to fully comprehend the numbers on your screen, when a voice rang loud and clear.

“Thought I saw your shadow under the door,”

This song, I remember it.

What is this? You absolutely love it. The way the lyrics resemble a long lost friendship, it makes your heart clench with every word. You pull your phone up, trying to Shazam the lyrics. The song sounds familiar, yet so, so different from anything you’ve heard before. Typing in the lyrics rapidly, your search fails as nothing comes up. 

Dammit, what is this?

“I can never tell what’s real anymore, anymore, anymore.”

There’s no way. It has to be a real song. You swear on your life you’ve heard it somewhere. It’s lingering in the back of your mind, waiting for the right time to pop out. Cold sweat drips from your forehead as you go through all the songs you know. Your head hurts, your sight is blurry. Hands go up to grab your head as you squeeze your eyes shut, your phone dropping onto the plush couch.

No, I know this, I definitely do.

“It seems so long, it seems so long,“

Colours flash in front of your shut eyelids, almost giving you an epilepsy. Your mind travels into those god forsaken memories from your past life. Mina, Jirou, Kirishima, Bakugou, Deku, Todoroki, everything crashes right down on you. Panting heavily, you grab the cup of coffee, downing it in one go, hoping it helps with easing your mind. An image flashes in your head, sending jolts to your body. You and Todoroki in a cafe, listening to Wallows perform for the first time. That was your first date. Remember When became your song that night. It was a staple of your relationship. It was like the background music of your life story. Was there no Wallows now? The nostalgia that song brought you was immeasurable, yet you didn’t know it would have such an effect on you. 

Oh my god.

A moment of epiphany hits you like a truck.

“All the places I’ve returned to,”

“All the faces that remind you,”

Letting your head spring up, your eyes dart around the cafe, desperately trying to find where the song is playing from. You should know fully well it’s coming from the band that is intriguing the audience excellently. However, you’re still in a state of complete shock, refusing to believe your ears. The familiar tune resonates in the cafe, a silky voice serenading couples in the audience.

It’s him.

Your eyes lock onto the band.

Heterochromatic irises stare back at your watery ones. 

He looks just as good as before. His hair is still groomed, red and white parting in the middle. His turquoise eye shines with the gloss of tears as he sings his heart out on the stage, letting the tears roll down his cheeks freely. 

Covering your mouth with a shaky hand, tears freely fall from your eyelids as your mind goes blank. You can’t seem to peel your eyes off him. Your heart beats wildly as you let out a tiny gasp.

It doesn’t matter if the two of you only just met. At a cafe. 

Right now, you’re looking at someone you’ve known your entire life, and it feels ethereal.

I found you.

Finally.

Do you remember this?

Do you remember when we were the ones watching?

References:

Remember When- Wallows

Lyrics to said song

Cafe interior inspo lmao

Tags:

@sunshines-and-tatertots @izzyphantomgamer @trashcanweeb @burnt-tomato @tiger1719 @bokutokoutarou @poppirocks @just-another-bored-writer @justachillgirl @itmekisuu @kaylacinderella @random-fandomlover @skyeackermans @macaronnv @mariechan123 @xonfusedsoul​ @inlwlevi​ @talks-a-lot-of-stuff​ @ewfilthymundane​ @emsvegetables @estherwritess @shoutsukii @sakusasgarbage @agentvicinity @thirstyvolleyballhoe @artsamber @sneezefiction

Feel free to comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

For once I’m proud of something I wrote, please feel free to give me feedback, hope you like reading this<3

[fleckcmscott]

Comfort & Joy

Summary: Arthur & Y/N celebrate their first Christmas together. Not everything goes as planned.

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

Words: 4,645

A/N: A request from the mind of dear, sweet @ithinkimawriter​. Special thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for being the wonderful beta she is!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

If you’ve sent me a request and I haven’t responded, it’s because I am working on it and will once it’s posted! 

Arthur was on his way to Y/N's apartment when the storefront's window captured his attention. Batting covered the floor, imitating fake snow. A plastic fireplace, painted yellow, orange, and red, was angled against the left wall. The artificial tree, bedecked with multi-color lights and a plethora of wrapped gifts underneath, shone prettily. To the right, a cardboard cutout of a couple wearing Santa hats and embracing stood in front of a brand new refrigerator. The large sign suspended from the ceiling, tied in a red bow, advertised low-interest store credit: "Make all your Christmas wishes reality!"

There was a sweetness to the display. A festive cheerfulness. And it induced in him an ache borne of dejection. With Penny in her parallel universe and their lack of resources, his life had never had a place for holidays. Seven or eight years ago, he'd made his last attempt at doing something special. They'd shared the turkey dinner he'd sprung for at a nearby greasy spoon. She'd been mildly cognizant of the make-up compact he'd given her, one he'd gotten off the clearance rack. Then she'd gone to bed, leaving him alone to watch the television special he'd picked out. It had been one of the rare nights he'd poured himself a drink in an attempt to sleep.

Smoke swirled in Gotham's cold, night air as he exhaled around his cigarette. The heaviness in his stomach, his hint of indignation perplexed him. Why on earth did he feel shitty when he had a chance to have the type of Christmas people wrote about? That Sinatra, Cole, and Martin sang about? The type he'd dreamed of, despite knowing he'd never have it? He frowned as he trudged down the street, hoping he wouldn't fuck it all up.

Y/N's greeting was warm as always; the refuge of her arms, the smile she reserved just for him dulled his sharpest edges. He tried to take pleasure in her simple courtesies. How she hung his tan jacket next to her coat, all the while insisting he get a hat and mittens. The hot mug she handed him, the way it thawed his slender fingers. The taste of cocoa on her silken lips as they kissed and she declared she'd missed him.

There was quiet conversation. She did most of the talking; he did his best to pay attention through the distraction of his anxiety. The cards had to be finished, she said. Just for her colleagues, a couple of family and friends, and, if he didn't mind, Penny. He didn't react to that last name, letting Y/N draw her own conclusions. She moved to sit side-saddle on the floor to work, next to her coffee table. As her hand crossed the cream cardstock, he noticed she was signing both their names. He gaped slightly in shock, delight spiking through him. But then delight twisted into unworthiness, and he averted his gaze to his hot chocolate.

He'd believed he was doing okay, though he still didn't have his medication. Especially since Penny had been transferred from Gotham General to the nursing home he'd chosen two weeks ago, and it had clicked that he'd never have to see her again. There were days he woke up (if he was fortunate enough to sleep) energized and confident. He had slipped into delusion once or twice. A call to Y/N or the feel of her hand had helped ground him and bring him back to lucidity. But his negative thoughts were bearing down on him. It was getting harder to separate what was intrusive and what was Arthur. If only he could find it within himself to be better.

Once she finished addressing the envelopes, Y/N extended a hand his way and smirked. Unsure if she wanted him to help her up or join her, he sat on the plush, cream color carpet. "I can hear you thinking. I'm surprised smoke isn't coming out of your ears," she said, laying a palm on his thigh. "You haven't told me what you want to do for Christmas."

He picked up one of the cards, traced his fingertips along the corners. He was bereft of his own traditions to draw from; all his points of reference were from popular culture. It was difficult to know what he'd actually like doing. He gave it a go, anyway. "I dunno. A tree? Listening to music? Being together?"

Chuckling, she put her head on his shoulder. "Of course we'll be together. And we can do the other stuff, too." Her voice lowered as she continued. The caress on his leg became a massage. "I get out early Thursday - Christmas Eve. How'd you feel about me being your guest for three days?"

"Hm." He loathed the possibility of exposing her to what was going on in his brain, his darker notions and malaise. He wanted to hold on for her. To be the gentle person she claimed he was, the man she claimed made her happy.

The man she was mistakenly convinced deserved her.

A kiss on the sensitive skin of his neck. "I'll bring dinner and everything."

Fuck. She thought he didn't want her, that she had to sell him on the idea of her company. He had to put a stop to that assumption. Didn't she know she'd become a brick, a building block in his unstable foundation? He couldn't deny her - he didn't wanted to deny her. Taking a deep breath, he turned to her. The warmth in her eyes buoyed him enough to use what little confidence he could muster. He took her hand, ran his thumb over the back of it, and he forced the corner of his lips up. "I'd love that."

~~~~~

There wasn't normally a spring in Y/N's step, but Arthur had a habit of causing one. She was smiling like a fool, too, walking with her suitcase and canvas bag. The happiest woman in Gotham. It couldn't be helped, even as she struggled to climb those damned concrete stairs to finally reach his block. This would be the best Christmas in ages.

The holiday had been her childhood favorite. But it had become taxing as her father's dementia had worsened, and her sister and she had grown apart. Not being able to leave her father unattended had forced them to celebrate at his house, which Y/N shared with him. A couple of slow cooker dishes would be made, ones her niece and nephews liked. She would do her best to make the large dining table festive, using a red tablecloth and making a centerpiece out of a wreath. Once everyone had sat around it, she'd alternate between taking a bite herself and trying to feed her father, trying to convince him to eat.

The final year had been the hardest. Distress had been clear in her sister and brother-in-law's faces, in their stilted conversation. The middle child had asked why grandpa wasn't talking. Y/N had never learned to communicate on a child's level, and had waited for her sister to take the lead. That hadn't happened. So she'd tried to explain the most painful, complicated situation she'd ever been in in terms a four year old could understand. When her father had started spitting out his mashed potatoes and crying, everyone had packed up and left.

It was understandable. Handling him was exhausting and she didn't want the kids to be traumatized. But it had left her resentful and grief-stricken. She'd cleaned him up and changed him. Then she'd sipped the nice wine she'd bought for the occasion and taken down the tree, tearing up with each bauble she'd put away while her father stared at the television in his wheelchair.

After dropping off a card at Ms. McPhee's, she hurried around the corner to Arthur's building. He was waiting for her at his door, dressed in the red sweater he knew she loved on him. She pecked his sharp cheekbone as he bent to take her luggage, and watched as he made a show of putting it beside the sofa. "Did you pack your whole apartment?"

"Almost," she said, already digging out the food she'd brought and placing it on the kitchen counter. The ham and pineapple casserole had to be popped in the oven for forty-five minutes. The two pieces of pie were from the diner near her office. Lastly, there were a carton of eggnog and a small bottle of whiskey.

He didn't say a lot, but she had a pretty good notion of what he was thinking: a variation on the refrain that she'd done too much. "Arthur, this is for me, too. Besides, you got the tree." Then she pulled him in for a kiss. Though his lips were soft and returned her affections, she could sense the apprehension in his shoulders, her palms sweeping across them. He was probably excited, she figured. And a little nervous, too. This was a milestone for them, after all. She smiled up at him encouragingly. "We're going to have a great time," she said. His nod was gentle.

Dinner went by quickly, which was a blessing because it was terrible. ("I swear, I followed my mother's recipe.") The apple pie was a good substitute for her favorite, blueberry. There wasn't any nutmeg to add to the eggnog. And Arthur covered the top of his mug when she wanted to spike it. He appeared to like it, anyway, and was soon pouring himself a second serving. GCR was playing Christmas music non-stop instead of news, so she turned on the radio. She led him to the living room and admired the tree he'd gotten.

The fir was maybe four inches taller than he was, probably six feet. There were plenty of branches, but it was slim enough to fit into the rear corner of the room, by the windows. The sharp, fresh scent of pine was wonderful. "You picked a great one." As she got into her luggage and dug out the white mini-lights, Arthur searched for an extension cord. Once the bulbs were in place, she knelt before the tree and handed him one of the tins of ornaments she'd packed.

Arthur tackled the upper half while she took care of the bottom. Her gaze turned up to him and she grew fuzzy all over. Concentration was plain in his squint, his handling of the glass-blown, red bulbs cautious. His fingertips carefully closed the hooks over each bough. How long had it been since he'd last done this? She reached out, giving his leg a reassuring squeeze before going through her own box of baubles. A soft sound stuck in her throat as she discovered what was inside.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

The shellacked, round cookie was in surprisingly good shape, its ribbon firmly attached. "My sister made this for me when we were little. I'd forgotten about it." She cradled it in her palm, a peal of laughter bubbling up. "One year I got a toy oven. Set the smoke alarms off, scared my mother half to death." Sipping her drink, she shook her head. "Mabel - who's younger than me, remember - decided to show me how it was done. She was always better at that stuff."

The memory prompted Y/N to continue. She mentioned her parents taking them to a department store a few towns over to visit Santa. How she'd been completely boring and asked for a typewriter and doll, which she'd gotten. The milkshake she'd had at the restaurant on the top floor. She felt uncharacteristically wistful. "That was a lifetime ago."

Most of the tree was adorned when she noticed he'd stopped responding. It was as though he was frozen in place, his face turned towards the floor. Y/N stood, taking in the clenching of his fists at his sides, the quiver of his frame, the twitch of his cheek. "Arthur?" She reached out to take his hand.

His arm yanked back as if she'd hit him. Then he marched around the sofa, past the television, and went straight into the bathroom. The locks slid into place as soon as he closed the door.

She was stunned. And, if she was honest, disappointed. All she'd wanted was to share more of herself with him. Gingerly, she walked to the door. No light shone from beneath it. The picture of him sitting alone in the dark on Christmas Eve pained her. She knocked.

Laughter broke up the strain in his voice. "I need a few minutes." After a pause, a hushed plea. "Please don't go."

"I won't."

Her lips pursed. The last few times she'd visited, she'd made a note to check his usual spots for prescription bottles. There hadn't been any. And there'd been no indication he'd used any of the doctor appointments she'd paid for. They'd have to discuss it. But not now. New Years was next weekend. She'd mention it then, as well as her hopes they'd be living together soon, treating it as something positive.

Beyond his laughing, he hadn't yet gone into any level of detail about his afflictions, his diagnoses. Since his appearance on Murray Franklin, she'd read almost the entire "Loving Someone With" series to learn how to handle problems when they arose. It had advised kindness, calm, and providing regularity. Discussion of normal things, plans for the future. That was what she had been trying to do. Why had Arthur reacted so poorly?

Then it dawned on her: the experiences that were normal to her, to most people, hadn't ever been so for him. Her thoughts went to the terrible details in the Arkham file he'd brought over. The unspecified categories of abuse he'd suffered. His severe head injury and its permanent effects. The radiator...

She recalled his reaction to the journal she'd given him for his birthday. He'd tried, in vain, to hide how affected he'd been by it. And it was only a few weeks ago he'd meekly asked if she'd ever stop loving him, as if it was a chore for her instead of bliss. It was tough, knowing how hard he had to work to accept her kindnesses.

Rubbing her eyes, she concluded she'd been an idiot. Well-intentioned, but an idiot regardless. She'd so looked forward to making new memories with Arthur, to being able to spend the holiday with someone who could enjoy it, she'd overwhelmed him. Set him off.

He needed space and, so far, she'd always paid the respect of giving that to him. It wouldn't be easy tonight, however. Every fiber of her wanted to rush in there, hold him, and tell him to confide in her. To allow her to support him. But she needed to listen to her brain instead of her heart (which Arthur made hard to do, being the one who'd helped her unlock it). She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes would be a good compromise. She could give him that.

The music had become deafening. After turning it down, she made her way to the kitchen and put away the rest of the food. Every scrub of the dishcloth on the beige plates they'd used, every wipe as she dried the cutlery, expressed her concern. Ornaments still littered the living room floor. A few more were hung before she put their boxes in her suitcase. She worried her lip when she came across the presents she'd gotten him, wrapped in luscious greens and golds. He'd like them, she was certain. If he was up to receiving them. She placed them under the tree, adjusting the tags so he could clearly read "Arthur," written in her looping cursive.

The clink of the bathroom door being unlocked was barely audible. Not wanting him to think she'd been hovering the entire time, she waited before approaching. Then she stepped forward and slowly opened it.

The light from the hall spilled into the room, sufficient to see Arthur sitting on the pink, tiled end of the bathtub. She took in the slump of his shoulders, his arms slack and folded in his lap. He spoke and his miserable rasp split her heart. "I'm- I'm sorry. I'm ruining everything."

"You're not." She turned on the floor lamp in the corner, then sat down on the closed toilet. "It wasn't fair of me to babble on and on like that. I didn't think abou-"

"Don't." It was clear the harshness of his tone was directed at himself. His dark brows creased in the middle as he wiped his nose, embarrassment clear in every gesture. "I just... I wanna be able to enjoy this like everyone else."

The skin of his hands was pink, likely from wringing. And his nails had been freshly chewed. Her chest tightened. "May I touch you?" she asked. At his curt nod, she smoothed his sleeve up to stroke his forearm. The grimace he wore was tight enough to show his dimples.

She'd learned it was vital to speak to his virtues in these moments. That was an easy thing to do - he had many. The compliments she paid him were true, and reflected what he valued in others. "You're so caring, Arthur." Her fingertips drifted down his laugh line to his thin lips. "And good. And funny." She blinked away the tears that threatened, the news articles from his mother's file fresh in her mind. "And strong. Stronger than anyone should have to be."

A dry, hitched sob left him and he shook his head. "You don't need to tell me lies."

"I'm not. I never will." Her kiss brushed the shallow wrinkles on his trembling chin, and she took his hand between her own. "You don't have to talk about it. But I'm here if you want to." A long silence followed, interrupted only by their soft breathing. Eventually, he trailed lines down her thigh, to her knee, caressing her as if she were gossamer.

She considered how he could have gone through such brutality, yet be the gentlest person she'd ever known.

Releasing a long sigh, he leaned his forehead to hers. "I can't," he whispered, lifting one shoulder.

"It's all right." Her grasp slid up and down his sides comfortingly. "I love you. It's okay."

It was awhile before he stood, pulling her with him and against his chest. She nestled into him and soaked up his heat, carding her fingers through his loose curls. "I- I picked out a movie. I think it starts soon." He held her hand as he walked towards the living room.

The analog TV sounded with bells and strings as Y/N got a blanket from the bed. She scurried to him and saw the names Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire flash on the screen. Of course, she thought. He'd picked a romantic musical. After turning off the lamp, she situated herself next to Arthur and draped the cover over them. The opening credits were rolling, but she could feel him watching her instead of the film. Then his touch grazed her bare ankle. She shifted towards him, a smile spreading across her face at the softness of his features. "What?"

His gaze dropped. "I wish I knew how to say how much I love you. Show you somehow."

The lights from the tree were giving his skin a warm glow, and reflected beautifully in his green eyes. She tipped his chin up and kissed him deeply, until they both had to pull away for air. Pink dusted his cheeks and he grinned bashfully, crooked tooth on display. "I know, Arthur." They snuggled closer under the cover and he entwined their hands. "I know."

~~~~~

Since she'd returned to him after Murray, they'd spent an increasing number of nights together. Arthur usually let Y/N sleep as long as she needed. Insisting she wake up with him wouldn't have been fair. She worked hard and the extra hour or two was helpful. But he couldn't hold back Christmas morning.

He made a valiant attempt to pass the time. Really. He'd already shaven, smoked a couple of cigarettes, retrieved her presents, and plugged in the tree. He noticed she'd placed gifts under it, labelled "Arthur" and elegantly wrapped in paper nicer than what he'd been able to pick-up at the drug store. He glided his fingers over them. The corner of his mouth lifted. Written in her script, his name was beautiful.

Thankfully, he was in better sorts than the night before. Enthusiasm for her gripped him. He tip-toed to the bedroom and watched her sleeping form from the doorway. It was still dark - the sun wouldn't be up for another hour - but he could picture what she looked like. Her wet breathing and slight snore meant her pillow had a spot of drool near her mouth. There was a fifty-fifty chance her nightgown had twisted up just beneath her breasts. The blanket may have slipped below her waist, leaving her hip exposed. He knelt next to the bed and palmed the side of her neck, planting kisses to her face until she groaned.

"Your hair tickles," she mumbled. Her arm went around his back and brought him closer. "What time is it?"

"Early." Before standing, he gave her one last peck on the mouth. "But I couldn't wait any longer." He padded to the kitchen to start the french toast they'd decided on.

He was in the middle of cracking eggs when she sat across from him on the other side of the breakfast bar. "It's nice to have someone to celebrate with again," she said, leaning up and forward to peek in his bowl. "I'm happy it's you." He cocked his head at that. She'd had a family before, a sister and brother-in-law. Nieces and nephews. A father. He asked her to elaborate but she shrugged it off. "Just a few rough years. That's all. Don't waste your time on it."

Learning about her was one of the things he liked about having a girlfriend. As sappy as it sounded, even to himself, it made him feel like she was a part of him, and he a part of her. Dr. Sally said open communication was important. If he was going to be a good boyfriend, Y/N should be able to talk to him without fearing he couldn't handle it. He grasped her hand and borrowed her phrase from last night. "You can talk to me." Their gazes met as he ran the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm okay today."

A wry grin appeared. "Let's just say we've both experienced difficult family situations." She took his fork and finished beating the eggs for him as he turned on the stove. "This is a big step in putting that awfulness behind me."

The way she seemed to understand him, even if she was talking about herself, prompted him to clear his throat. "Me, too." He dipped the bread in the bowl, then placed it in the frying pan.

When they were finished eating (it'd been so much better than the casserole she'd made, and he'd never had real maple syrup before), Y/N poured them both more coffee and made her way to the living room. Arthur offered to turn on the news, aware she was still waiting for coverage on the Wayne Foundation case, but she waved dismissively. "I don't want to think about that today. God knows I already think about it too much."

They took turns opening gifts, sitting on the floor by the tree, close enough for him to feel the heat she was emanating. Y/N immediately opened her chocolate Santa and broke off a piece for him. The musk oil perfume he'd picked up for her at Helm's Pharmacy had been on sale for $1.79, and he was grateful he'd remembered to remove the price tag before wrapping it. She dabbed it on her wrist. It was different on her than it was in the bottle, a bit stronger than expected. But she was wearing something he'd given her, so it was lovely nonetheless. Her favorite of the three presents seemed to be the old, tapered, white vase he'd found. She needed it, he explained. That time he'd given her a rose, she'd stuck it in a drinking glass.

What he'd given her were simple trinkets, born out of a vague idea of what women were supposed to like. Despite her apparent delight and the kisses she'd bestowed on him after opening each one, they felt inadequate compared to what she gave him. There was a teal sweater, one she claimed would bring out (in her words) his "beautiful eyes." He pulled it on over his thermal shirt, tags and all. She'd gotten him a book on comedy writing. He wasn't sure how to take that - had she decided his jokes weren't very good? But then she told him she expected more material for his next stand-up show.

Picking up the last gift, he studied it with mock seriousness. Its shape and weight gave away it was a record, but he had no idea which one. They often enjoyed quiet evenings with his collection of older standards, but she preferred more modern songs. Maybe it was an attempt to introduce him to what she liked. He'd gladly listen to it, at least once. He peeled the pretty paper back and exhaled sharply. The LP was old, the cover worn. It was the soundtrack to Modern Times, a film he'd caught once or twice and loved the music of. Holding it to his chest, he murmured a quiet, "Thank you." Eagerly, he got up and put it on, letting the orchestra and his love for her wash over him, soothe his battered soul.

Y/N followed and splayed a hand on the small of his back. "Gotham Pops played this at the Wayne benefit last month." Giggling, she tousled his hair. "I spent the evening wishing you were next to me. It would have been nice to show you off, all dressed up and handsome." He stiffened for a second, wondering if he should tell her he had been there. If he should practice the honesty he'd been working on since Murray. Perhaps knowing he'd accompanied her, in his own way, would please her. But she interrupted his thoughts before he could speak. "The Christmas parade starts in an hour. We should go now if you still want to see it. Neither of us are very tall - we need a good spot." Her lips brushed his ear. "I brought an extra hat and mittens for you."

He spun to face her as he nodded, and she nuzzled at his nose and sighed. The wide smile she wore halted his breath. It would have been nice if this hadn't been his only real Christmas. If his first thirty-five years hadn't been a cruel joke, a tragedy. But he was glad to have this taste of happiness with her.

He hadn't longed for a paralegal from another part of the country, a woman who couldn't dance well and never guessed the punchlines of his jokes. But what he was about to say was true all the same. He cupped her face and kissed her firmly. "You're the one I always wanted," he whispered against her. "Merry Christmas, Y/N." The words felt unnatural - he was unsure when he had last said them.

The love in her look let him know he'd done all right. "You're the man I never knew I needed. And I do, Arthur." He closed his eyes at her embrace, laying his cheek against her temple as she cuddled into him. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Fleck." Her next sentence and the touch of her mouth to his jaw made him shiver. "Maybe next year we won't have to choose whose apartment will have the tree."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @ithinkimaperson​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​  @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​

[rebelminxy]

Santa Loves Pie

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 1235

Warning: None except cute children moments and loving affection

Trope: Leaving Food for Santa

Rating: Teen

A/N: This was written for the @supernaturaltropecelebration​ Mini Christmas bang. It doesn’t correspond with the current events of the show, so please don’t chew me out because I mention two characters that shouldn’t be mentioned together at the same time, I beg. It's only for the fic and couldn’t help myself! :) And images used here are not mine. Found on Pinterest and Google so credit goes to their creators.

My Masterlist

“DADDY!!!”

You smiled as you saw your girls run towards Dean, wrapping their little arms and legs around his legs as he walked into the kitchen. He had gone out to the store to buy a few extra things for the current baking fiasco going on.

“Hey! What are my favorite bakers doing?” he chuckled as he struggled to reach the kitchen counter to drop off the paper bag in his arms.

“Mommy let us help make cookies,” replied your eldest daughter as she removed herself from her dad’s leg.

“And we gots to paint cookies!” exclaimed your youngest.

“Wow, will I get to see these painted cookies?” Dean asked as he kneeled down to the girl's level.

“They in the oven right now,” they answered in unison.

“Good,” he replied with a wide grin. “Now, why don’t you two go help Uncle Sammy, Auntie Eileen, and big brother Jack decorate the library? We need you two to make sure the tree is perfect.”

“YAY!” they screamed as they ran out the kitchen, still wearing their flour-coated aprons you had made a few weeks ago.

You chuckled at Dean as you finished the final touches on the apple pie you were making. You felt Dean wrapped his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder.

“Hmm, bet that’s gonna taste delicious once you’re done.”

“Mhm, but it’s not for you.”

“Who else here loves pie like me?” he questioned teasingly.

“The girls thought that maybe Santa enjoys pie just as much as Daddy does,” you giggled in response as he tickled your tummy. “Now stop before I ruin this beauty.”

“So, if this is meant for Santa….”

“I set up the Santa costume in the Dean Cave and locked the door to make sure the girls don’t see it. I really hope Santa enjoys the pie,” you teased as you turned in Dean’s arms, relishing the warmth he was emanating. 

“Oh, I bet he will love that pie. I know I love your pies,” Dean smiled down at you as he pecked the tip of your nose.

“Now, be a good boy and put this pie in the oven since the cookies should be done,” you beamed as you turned to grab the pie and hand it to him. “And dinner will be ready in another hour so I suggest you go help the four out there with the decorations before Cass gets here.”

Dean chuckled deeply as he took the pie from you, moving to the ovens to take the cookies out to put the pie inside. He placed the tray of cookies on the kitchen counter right next to the already cooling first batch. He walked towards you and pulled you into his arms, placing a sweet and gentle kiss on your lips. Once he broke free from you, he smiled, caressing your flour-covered cheek.

“Love you and Merry Christmas, babe.”

“Love you too, and Merry Christmas.”

After dinner, Jack and the girls went to his room to watch Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer while Cass joined them to see what the excitement was for a cartoon movie. Sam had taken Eileen to rest in their room, her second trimester being a little rough on her. It was just you and Dean in the Dean Cave, you laid across the couch, wrapped in a blanket with your head in his lap at you watched Die Hard, a Christmas tradition you both started after your move into the bunker. Even before Dean asked you to become his girlfriend, you both enjoyed watching the movie on Christmas, both sharing in agreement that it actually was a Christmas movie. Even when you were two months away from popping out your second baby after your marriage, you both couldn’t miss out on the set tradition. 

And once the movie rolled its credits and Cass entered the room, the newest tradition was about to set in motion. 

“The girls fell asleep in Jack’s room before the movie could end,” Cass told them as he sat across the room in the recliner.

“Jack needs help getting them to their room?” you asked as you were about to get up.

“No, he said it’s alright if they stay in his room. Plus, they are far enough to not hear Dean.”

“And, that’s my cue to get dressed!”

You giggled as you sat up, Dean getting up and heading to the closet. Inside was the Santa suit you had bought a few years ago as a joke. But after your first daughter’s curiosity involving Santa, the suit became a permanent member in the bunker.

“At least I won’t be the only one having to wear this thing soon,” Dean grunted as he got into the suit, not removing his clothes since the suit was huge.

“I mean, we may have to get Sam a whole new suit. He is too tall to fit into yours,” you replied as you wrap yourself in the blanket.

“Well, you and Eileen can handle that when the time comes,” he replied with a kiss on your forehead, putting on the beard and hat. “How’d I look?”

“Just like Jolly Saint Nick,” you responded with a giggle.

“Well, not really,” Cass interrupted. “By the images, I have seen everywhere, he has a round belly  and red cheeks…”

“Alright we get it, Cass,” Dean replied in annoyance as he grabbed the velvet bag of gifts, throwing it over his shoulder. “Better had put that pie out because I plan on eating that whole thing.”

“Girls made me cut a piece out onto a plate, but it’s all yours babe.”

Dean walked out of the room with a huff, trying his best to walk quietly in the black boots. You got up from the couch and wrapped yourself tightly in the blanket.

“Let him know I went off to bed, baking and cooking took out all my energy.”

Cass nodded and gave you his typical kind smile.

“Have a good night Cass and Merry Christmas.”

“And a Merry Christmas to you, too.”

It was Christmas morning and you were waiting for the girls and Jack to finally wake up. Dean had made due with his promise about eating the entire pie, and you were thankful you had gotten a picture of it before since you didn’t want your hard work on the pie crust to disappear into his belly. Dean came into the library with two mugs of coffee in hand, handing one to you as he sat next to you. Sam and Eileen joined the both of you, sitting right across. Dean and Sam were in deep talk about a possible case and you were talking to Eileen about her pregnancy when Jack and the girls ran into the library, screaming for joy.

“PRESENTS!”

You laughed as they ran straight for the tree, Jack right behind them like the child he was. But your eldest looked over at the small table you had set up last night with the cookies, milk, and pie for Santa. She walked over and noticed the half-empty glass of milk, the few missing cookies and the empty pie pan and plate. She turned to look at you with wide eyes, the shock clear on her face.

“MOMMY! Santa ate all the pie!”

“Well, it looks like Santa loves pie just as much as Daddy does,” you replied with a wink and grin.

[artificialqueens]

Mateo's Eight, chapter four (Branjie)--athena2

Previously: Vanessa laid out the plan for the heist and agreed to let Brooke work with her Now: They begin the steps of the plan while Brooke deals with her feelings for Vanessa

A/N: Thank you all so much for the feedback on this fic! I never expected people would like this and it means so much to me! Thank you as always to Writ for being the most amazing beta, you’re the best! <3 <3

Please leave some feedback if you can, I really do appreciate it!

Read on AO3

—

Brooke is early as usual, hands warmed by the coffees she’s holding as everyone stampedes by her outside the Met. The coffee is a probably too-desperate attempt to get herself on Vanessa’s good side, but it’s all she can come up with, because Vanessa has total control. Brooke is going to have to follow all her orders, because while she doesn’t truly think Vanessa would give her up to the police, she used to think the same thing about herself.

Brooke should have never taken that risk last summer when she had so much to lose, so much more than Vanessa knew. Hell, she shouldn’t be taking this risk now. But if they succeed, and she gets that money, the risk will be worth it. And if she has to butter Vanessa up with coffee, so be it.

Vanessa finally arrives, ten minutes late without Brooke to remind her of the time, looking fearful of all the people and the huge buildings looming around them. That Vanessa-shaped space in Brooke’s heart–a space she thought had stopped feeling anything–aches at seeing Vanessa suffering. She longs to wrap Vanessa in her arms and protect her from the world, but she has no chance of getting away with that now.

“What the hell is that? You trying to poison me?” Vanessa jabs a finger at the coffee.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Whatever.” Vanessa sips her coffee, and Brooke knows from her silence that she got the order exactly right: three sugars (not that Vanessa needs any sugar), two creams, and a shot of caramel. Brooke sips at her own black coffee, the rich taste making her think of all the times she and Vanessa drank coffee and shared apple pie at the diner.

Brooke slows her walk to match pace with Vanessa as they go inside, and figures it’s best if their conversations are about the plan and nothing else. “So, there’s no cameras inside the bathrooms due to health laws, which I’m sure you know, and the bathroom closest to the kitchens is the best location to steal the necklace.”

“I know,” Vanessa says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a round black piece the size of a dime. “Put this in your ear. Yvie’s on the other end, she’s in their security system to see how big the camera’s blindspot is.”

“Ear comms?” Brooke asks in disbelief. “What are we, superheroes?”

“Just put it in,” Vanessa hisses. “And I think you’re a villain, for the record.”

“Villains do have good hair.” Vanessa used to tear her hands through it in bed, twirling strands around her fingers, and braid it when she was bored, each twist woven with love as Vanessa trailed kisses down Brooke’s neck.

“And big mouths.”

Brooke knows she’s been beaten and shoves the thing in her ear. It doesn’t feel much different from her ear buds. She and Vanessa would sit tethered together by a shared ear bud wire, giggling as they chose songs for each other, a dazzling world of music unfolding for them.

“Keep up, Brooke.”

—

“You wanna run a scam together?”

Brooke’s stomach flutters at Vanessa’s offer. They’ve been dating over a month, have exchanged kisses and watched movies at each other’s apartments, done cons in front of each other, but this somehow seems more intimate.

You had to be completely in sync to run a con with someone, because any hesitation or second-guessing meant disaster. You had to trust them completely to follow through on their end. Brooke’s never had that level of trust in anyone. Her ex-husband Frank was the last person she trusted, however half-heartedly, and he had taken the most precious thing to her heart, leaving her with legal bills on top of the others.

But Vanessa doesn’t know about that. Brooke isn’t ready for Vanessa to know about that. She doesn’t know if she’s ready for a duo con either, but she trusts Vanessa and her skills.

“Sure,” Brooke says. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking some old-fashioned distract-and-grab.”

It’s a two-person street job, where one talks to the mark and distracts them while the other picks the mark’s pocket. Easy enough, but there’s that trust again, not to mention the danger of being on the street.

Brooke usually shies away from street cons, which require you to get much closer to the mark, so close they could identify you or even grab you if they figured out what you were doing. Brooke prefers running hers with a phone or credit card barrier, with lots of careful planning to avoid danger. But she knows Vanessa is well-suited to street scams, having the boldness and natural charisma needed to get strangers to bet money on a card game they’d never win.

“Okay,” Brooke agrees. “But I have some rules for street scams. Nothing after dark, no marks that look too dangerous, and no marks that need the money more than us.”

Vanessa nods. “Let’s do it.”

—

“How we doin’, Yvie?”

Vanessa’s voice rasps in front of Brooke and then crackles in her ear a millisecond later, a jarring effect she hasn’t gotten used to yet.

They stand in front of the bathroom, trying to act casual as Yvie watches them through her hacked security feed.

“So, there’s about three feet in front of the door and twelve feet across where the camera won’t pick up anything at all,” Yvie says.

“That’ll be enough for Silky. She’s gonna take the necklace off Plastique in the bathroom and put it on a tray in the blindspot to have it brought in the kitchen,” Vanessa explains.

“Sounds good,” Brooke says. She has to admit she’s impressed by the thinking Vanessa put into this. Brooke had reviewed the more detailed last Vanessa gave her last night and even she couldn’t find a flaw in it.

Watching Vanessa so closely, having the intimacy of planning a con thrown at Brooke again is bringing back feelings she’d forced herself to give up six months ago. She knows what she did was irreparable, and she even succeeded in pretending she no longer has feelings for Vanessa. But those feelings are returning as she watches Vanessa slam-dunk her coffee cup in the garbage, as she watches Vanessa’s eyes narrow in focus, head bent over her notebook. But Brooke can’t do anything about it, can’t do anything to jeopardize the heist. She’s silenced her feelings for six months, and she can do it a little longer.

They test the routes they’ll take on the big night, ignoring the beauty of the art around them, vivid colors and landscapes so realistic you’d expect to feel grass if you touched it. They’re much prettier than her world, and Brooke wants to climb inside and live there. Brooke wishes they could be here to take in the art, regular people on a date, taking pictures of Vanessa she could post later and look at whenever she wanted.

Maybe she can come back with Zoey some day. But that’s the future, and Brooke can’t let herself think that far ahead. She just has to breathe and go one day at a time, like she’s always done, no matter how much she wants to think weeks and months ahead.

Their work here is done, and Brooke follows Vanessa to their next stop.

—

Brooke dials the clunky phone. The Nokias had been her idea, a way to signal each other without being obvious. She calls the phone in Vanessa’s pocket, the vibration signaling that Brooke is ready, and Vanessa can begin.

They’ve already chosen their mark, a businessman in a tailored suit and shoes worth Brooke’s whole paycheck. Shoes are a good indicator, she’s learned. Anyone can have one nice suit, or even one nice jacket. But no one would wear shoes that expensive, especially in maroon–people tend to choose black when splurging on shoes, because it matches more–as an everyday shoe, unless they had ten more pairs.

Her heart picks up speed, the familiar adrenaline running through her veins. Even as the anticipation makes her feel larger than life, Brooke forces herself to disappear into the crowd, to go unnoticed. It’s something she’s gotten good at, for how tall she is. When Frank got mad he screamed at the first person he saw, and Brooke learned how to vanish.

Vanessa winks, and Brooke trusts her.

“Excuse me,” Vanessa starts, walking up to the businessman fearfully, “I think I’m lost. Could you help me?”

Brooke forces herself to focus, because Vanessa is a wonder to watch. She draws in her shoulders and widens her eyes, becoming younger than she is, an innocent girl people would drop anything to help, even in a city where most of the population would step over a dead body. Brooke herself would do anything to help Vanessa right now.

He begins giving her directions, and Brooke slips her hand inside his pocket, Vanessa holding his attention so well he doesn’t notice. Part of Brooke burns at the hungry way he looks at Vanessa, but she tells herself taking his money is good enough revenge. He has a leather wallet, slim and lightweight, worth as much as the money in it. Brooke frees four hundreds and puts it back in his pocket before he finishes the directions. Brooke can’t fathom having so much money she can carry hundred-dollar bills, so much money she wouldn’t even notice they’re missing.

“Thank you so much for your help,” Vanessa says as they walk away, Brooke triumphantly passing Vanessa half the money. Before she knows what’s happening, Vanessa tugs her into an alley, breathlessly pressing her lips to Brooke’s.

It feels like an earthquake rumbling under Brooke’s skin, her body buzzing and heart throbbing beneath Vanessa’s touch, Vanessa’s hands fumbling as they try to slip under her coat and heavy sweater to reach her skin. She forces herself to pull away, telling Vanessa they can continue this in her apartment, both giggling as they walk down the street.

“Look how big those cupcakes are!” Vanessa points at a bakery, the kind where cookies are four bucks a pop. Cupcakes with bright buttercream flowers shine in the window and Brooke can see the longing in Vanessa’s eyes.

“You want one?”

“Oh, Brooke, you don’t have to–”

But Brooke is already pulling Vanessa inside the cozy bakery. She doesn’t need to buy overpriced cupcakes right now, but she’s high on the success on their scam, high on Vanessa’s smile, and Brooke would pay anything to keep that smile there, let Vanessa enjoy her night a bit longer.

“Which one do you want?”

Vanessa bites her lip, teetering back and forth in front of the glass case, from chocolate to strawberry to lemon to red velvet.

“I can’t pick,” Vanessa says finally. “I like lemon and chocolate.”

Brooke grins. “How about we get both and cut them in half? Then we each get two flavors.”

Vanessa’s smile overtakes her face, and Brooke falls a little harder.

—

“This place is…fancy,” Brooke manages, looking through the restaurant window at all the people in suits and dresses, reading menus that didn’t even have prices.

“Even the damn soda is probably ten dollars,” Vanessa mutters. “And look at that guy’s lunch! Probably paid fifty dollars for that salad with one piece of lettuce and no croutons.”

“Like there’s any other reason to eat salad,” Brooke says.

“Exactly! Coulda spent two bucks at McDonald’s and got more food than that.”

“People think stuff tastes better when they pay more for it. Or if it has a fancy name,” Brooke says, the two of them at peace for the moment, united in their longing to scam people who spend hundreds on one lunch and still leave a two-dollar tip for the servers. She and Vanessa used to dream of tipping a thousand dollars after their big con succeeded.

“Ain’t nothing in there better than pizza. Or mac and cheese. Or French fries,” Vanessa declares, and Brooke smiles.

“Especially with ketchup on the side,” Brooke dares, and the faint smile she earns from Vanessa is worth the scowl that replaces it a second later, Vanessa turning her head away.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” Brooke asks, going back to the mission.

“I’m sure,” Vanessa says firmly. “Yvie’s been pretending to be Scarlet’s publicity head, hyping her up and talking to Plastique’s manager. Plastique requested Scarlet dress her for the Met.”

“She’s coming,” Scarlet hisses in their ear comms.

They turn their attention to the table inside where Scarlet nervously hugs Plastique. They sit across from each other and Brooke holds her breath as Scarlet begins talking about dress designs, casually mentioning how good a certain diamond necklace would look on Plastique.

“Damn. Scarlet could make a career out of this,” Brooke says, after she persuades Plastique to wear the necklace in just two tries.

“She’s good,” Vanessa agrees. “But not as good as me.”

“No, she’s not,” Brooke admits, the words slipping out though she knows they shouldn’t. She’s never been one to give out false praise, but Vanessa deserves it, has always deserved it, and Brooke can’t help herself.

Vanessa smiles, but it quickly turns to a frown. “Don’t be getting familiar. I’m calling the shots here, remember?”

Brooke nods, the two of them slipping into silence as Plastique agrees to wear the necklace and Scarlet suggests they meet Monday to sample dresses and view the necklace.

“Okay, on Monday, Scarlet will convince the jewel company to loan Plastique the necklace. She should have that covered.” Vanessa checks her phone. “Nina texted me. Vogue hired her as one of the ball interns and she’ll send more info when she can.”

“Okay.”

Vanessa crosses something off her list, and they move on.

—

Things come together over the next weeks, and Brooke is in awe. It’s like watching puzzle pieces finally making a complete picture. This was always Brooke’s favorite part of cons: the careful planning, analyzing each step and preparing for possible problems with it. Vanessa drew the finished picture and Brooke colored it in, perfecting each line.

They set up in a warehouse Yvie uses with her hacker friends, full of comfy, worn-in furniture. In days, it’s stocked with mission supplies and bags of chips and cookies that Yvie brings in, and it’s kind of cozy. Brooke has to admit that she counts down the minutes until she’ll be done teaching at the studio so she can head to the warehouse and work, the space always bursting with action.

Nina brings in a coffee maker, a blender, and a 3D printer, and Brooke mixes herself a smoothie and doesn’t think of where Nina got this stuff. There’s such an easy charm to Nina that it honestly doesn’t matter. Nina’s done well in her assigned role at Vogue, perfectly perky and cheerful and unassuming, getting them a seating chart and other information from the inside.

Nina has taken a liking to Brooke, always sitting next to her while they plan, and it’s nice to have a friend again, to be in the warehouse with the others working nearby, a change from the quiet life alone that Brooke’s had for six months.

“I got pizza!” Nina announces one night, loaded down with boxes. She sets them on the table and everyone swarms around her, even Yvie leaving her computer nest in the corner and taking slices for her and Scarlet. Brooke gets a slice for herself and looks over at Vanessa, pacing in front of the Met layout and seating chart taped to the wall, too lost in thought to care about pizza. Brooke grabs another slice and takes a breath.

“You want some string and tacks like the detectives on the serial killer shows?” Brooke asks.

Vanessa jumps and looks up at her, clearly surprised to have someone there. “Get outta here with that serial killer nonsense,” she says. “Besides, if I was making a murder board, it’d be prettier than this. I’d have matching colors and shit.”

“Flowers, too, I bet,” Brooke says.

“And ruffles.” Vanessa lowers her head and smiles like she’s lost a fight, her cheeks a rosy pink.

“Well, here,” Brooke says, handing Vanessa the plate. “You should eat something.”

“It has peppers,” Vanessa says quietly.

“Yeah. I know it’s your favorite.”

Vanessa is silent for a second, staring at the green peppers peeking through the cheese. She could throw it on the floor, or fling it back at Brooke, but instead, she takes a bite.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” Brooke fiddles with the hem of her sweater, wondering if Vanessa will say more. But Vanessa goes back to her charts, and Brooke walks away.

Brooke isn’t sure why she’s so desperate to get back on Vanessa’s good side. Maybe because she hasn’t been able to stop loving Vanessa, even after giving her name to the police. Maybe because things ended so horribly, with Brooke never getting a chance to explain, that this sudden re-entry to Vanessa’s world is too precious to mess up. Her last chance to at least get Vanessa to stop hating her, maybe explain what happened, tell Vanessa the secret she kept for so long. She doesn’t think she can repair the crack in between them, but maybe she can smooth out the edges, keep them from getting hurt on the broken pieces of memory.

Nina winks at her when she sits back down.

“What?” Brooke demands.

Nina raises an eyebrow. “You still like her.”

“I…” Brooke trails off, because there’s something about Nina that makes her impossible to lie to, like you’re lying to Mr. Rogers. “Maybe I do.” But even that’s a lie, because Brooke knows she does, has known the entire time. Why else was she going so far out of her way to do things for someone she sent to prison?

“I thought so.” Nina smiles. “A’keria told me things ended after a con went bad last summer?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“How bad?” Nina asks softly. “Something you can try to talk through?”

Brooke just shrugs. They haven’t talked anything through, not that Vanessa has given her the chance. But how could she talk through sending Vanessa to prison, talk through her secrets Vanessa didn’t know? Talking about feelings has always been hard, something she could only manage with Vanessa. Lord knows her parents didn’t foster emotional health, ignoring each at dinner and arguing after they thought Brooke was asleep.

But Vanessa made her want to show her feelings. Vanessa made Brooke want to shout about her love from the rooftops and do every cliched thing people did in the rom-coms Vanessa always chose for movie night. Brooke knows she would still do all those things if Vanessa wanted them, and she knows the feelings she tried to push down haven’t gone anywhere, are poking through the soil like persistent spring flowers.

Brooke is still in love with her, and Nina’s smile proves they both know it.

“You know, I think you still have a shot.” Nina’s warm hand settles over her shoulder and Brooke has a lump in her throat because it’s been six months without anyone’s warmth or comfort, without a hand to hold or someone to burrow under a blanket with, and the simple touch is almost too much to handle. Nina points to the corner, and Brooke sees that Vanessa has eaten her whole slice of pizza, and she thinks maybe Nina is right.

—

Brooke snips the strings on the pristine bakery box, neatly cutting each cupcake and pulling Vanessa to the couch where they devour their feast, kissing frosting off each other’s lips.

“I love you,” Brooke says. It’s not as earth-shattering as she imagined, so natural it feels like any other statement. She’s never said it so easily, so early in a relationship, but she has also never meant it more. She loves Vanessa with everything she has, wants Vanessa with her every day, to hold her near and make dinner with and kiss on the couch.

“I love you too, Brooke. I really do.”

Brooke lays back on the couch, pulling Vanessa on top of her planting gentle kisses along her collarbone as her hands roam Vanessa’s back. Vanessa leans into her, lowering her lips to Brooke’s and sliding her hands up Brooke’s shirt again, stroking just beneath her ribs and making Brooke shudder.

“You sure you want to do this?” Brooke asks, pulling away from the kiss.

“I’m so sure, Brooke. I really, really love you, and I trust you. I want to do this with you.”

Brooke lets Vanessa pull her shirt off, both of them running to her bed. They nestle together afterwards, limbs intertwined, Vanessa’s head resting gently on Brooke’s chest.

Brooke is so warm with Vanessa’s skin against hers, so safe and secure, that she never wants this to end, never wants them to move from this bed.

She wants to tell Vanessa the truth about everything, stop the secret from wriggling inside her like a pit of snakes. She wants to tell Vanessa that she doesn’t teach workshops one Saturday a month like Vanessa thinks. She wants to tell Vanessa why she has so many bills, who the hospital ones belong to, how part of her heart was ripped away and she’d do anything to get it back.

But the words don’t come out, and instead she pulls Vanessa closer, buries her face in the top of Vanessa’s head, and drifts off.

—

The day of the heist creeps closer and closer as Brooke perfects her notes, making sure everything is accounted for, and she really thinks this will work. There’s ways it could go wrong, of course–there always is, especially with so many people involved–but the plans are so airtight, so organized, that Brooke can’t see anything wrecking them.

The real moment of truth happens on a Saturday, everyone crowded around the desk where Nina set up the 3D printer. Everyone holds their breath as a replica of the necklace is created out of thin air, a perfect copy of the one Scarlet saw in her dress fitting. Nina will find the fake after they steal the real one, and by the time anyone notices it’s just a worthless copy, they’ll already be 16 million dollars richer. Even Brooke can’t tell the difference between them, and things seem real in a way they haven’t so far. Duplicating the necklace is one of the hardest parts, and with that done, what can’t they do?

“Okay, Silky,” Vanessa starts, standing at the head of the table like a general about to lead her troops into battle. “You’ll be posing as a waitress. We’ll get Plastique in the bathroom and you take the necklace off her. Then put it on a waiter’s tray to get it in the kitchen with A’keria.”

“I’m sorry, but ‘In the kitchen with A’keria’ is the cooking show I never knew I needed,” Yvie interjects.

“I’d watch the shit out of that,” Scarlet says.

“I’ll be a guest star,” Nina says, and then the table is in uproar, Silky demanding a fried chicken episode.

Brooke snorts into her arm as Vanessa bites her lip to keep a laugh in before finally letting one out and then clapping to regain everyone’s attention.

“How are we gonna get Plastique in the bathroom?” Silky asks.

“We’re gonna put something in her food so she throws up,” Vanessa answers. “Everyone else will leave, ‘cause who wants to deal with barf, and I’ll stand outside so her bodyguard can’t get in.”

“Who’s gonna put the stuff in the food, though?” A’keria asks. “You got me in the kitchen, but I’m washing dishes, not serving them.”

“Send me in,” Brooke says quickly, having already come to that conclusion in her notes. Vanessa opens her mouth to protest, but Brooke cuts her off. “Have Nina tell Vogue they need a nutritionist in the kitchen. I’ll be the nutritionist, I’ll put the stuff in her dinner.”

Brooke knows from Vanessa’s steely eyes and the smug grin she’s trying to hide that she likes the idea but won’t admit it. “Fine,” Vanessa says.

Everyone resumes their own planning. Brooke is running through a timeline for the night when a coffee mug slides in front of her. Brooke looks up and realizes she and Vanessa are the only two left, so wrapped up in her notes that she never noticed the others leave.

“Last of the pot. Didn’t want to waste it.” Vanessa says, already back on the couch.

“Thank you,” Brooke says, taking a sip.

Vanessa shrugs before tucking her legs beneath her, and Brooke bends her head over the desk, a comfortable silence between them. For a minute Brooke forgets the past six months have happened, and it’s just another night–Vanessa on the couch planning makeup looks for work and small cons to do while Brooke goes over recital plans for the dance studio, sliding a plate of cookies back and forth. She forces herself to forget it.

“You wanna check this before I leave?” Vanessa asks an hour later.

Brooke takes the notebook Vanessa hands her, feeling like she’s holding a piece of Vanessa. She checks the detailed run-through Vanessa sketched out and feels that familiar tug in her heart over reading Vanessa’s handwriting, at seeing her ideas in her own words. “Looks good.”

Vanessa just nods.

Brooke grabs her stuff and they head out together, both awkwardly looking straight ahead. It’s not until they hit the street that Brooke realizes they’re stuck, since she lives 10 blocks from the warehouse, and Vanessa is 15 blocks from her.

Vanessa keeps staring at the ground while she walks, fists clenched tight. Brooke can’t imagine what six months in prison must have been like, the guilt settling in her stomach like bricks. She wants to hold Vanessa close, shield her from whatever’s in her mind, like Vanessa did for her countless times. She wants to give back some of the love and protection Vanessa exuded every day.

“Hey, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” Brooke has to try to help even if it’s not her place. “It’ll work. Believe me, I’ve been there.” She remembers rough nights before taking the stage, feeling like her shaky knees would drop her on her face. Each slow breath made her lungs burn, resisting the air she needed before finally accepting it.

Vanessa doesn’t say anything, but her breaths come slower as they take each block, until they arrive at Brooke’s apartment.

“You got rid of the old place,” Vanessa says. They’re the first words she’s said on the walk, and it might be Brooke’s imagination, but they seem tinged with sadness.

It makes Brooke sad too, that she had to sell the home they made together, with the bright couch pillows and fuzzy blankets and the breathless nights in bed turning into relaxed mornings as they sipped coffee together before work. Their home, the place Brooke’s body longed for after a rough day at work, where Vanessa’s dog would leap on her legs and Vanessa would greet her with a kiss.

“Yeah.” The outside of the building looks worse than the inside, with its peeling paint and cracked bricks. She’s done the best she can with the inside, laying a small rug over the weird stains on the living room floor, hanging cheery yellow curtains in the kitchen. But it’s still not what she dreamt of, what they dreamt while cuddling at night. “Couldn’t afford it anymore after…” After I ruined what we had to protect someone I never told you about, Brooke thinks.

“Well, it’s your own fault you had to pay the rent alone.”

“I know. But Vanessa–”

“You always were a coward. Too afraid to do the stuff that coulda got you out of this,” Vanessa says, gesturing at the decrepit building, and something in Brooke snaps.

“Yeah, well you were always reckless!” Brooke shoots back. “You ran into stuff just to do it! You know the times you would’ve been caught without me?”

“I don’t need you!” Vanessa yells. “I was fine before I got involved with you, never got caught once!” She pauses, her shoulders heaving as she pants out her anger. Her eyes light up with a sudden idea. “I bet I won’t get caught now. That guy over there”–she points to a man at a bus stop across the street– “I’m gonna get him. You just watch and learn.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brooke says. Her anger is fading and her reason is returning, and this is definitely too dangerous. It’s dark out, they haven’t prepared, and something about the man makes her arms break out in goosebumps.

“I don’t care what you think, do I?”

“Vanessa–”

“I’m doing it. You can’t stop me.”

“Fine.” Some part of her wants to see Vanessa fail, wants her to learn a lesson. Vanessa crosses the street, and from the way the man starts pointing, Brooke assumes she’s doing a distract-and-grab. Her hand works toward his pocket and he jumps back, eyes locking on Vanessa.

Brooke watches in horror, fear bolting through her heart, as the man grabs Vanessa’s arm, and before she knows it, she’s across the street, wrenching Vanessa from his grip and putting herself in between them.

“Leave her alone,” Brooke says evenly. “She didn’t take anything, just go.”

The man stares at her hungrily, and Brooke’s heart pounds, mind racing with all the ways this could go wrong. He could have a weapon, he could call the cops…she should run but her feet are stuck to the sidewalk. She shifts her body to block Vanessa from his view, ready to protect her, because she never wanted anything to hurt Vanessa, and the feeling is still present.

He shoves Brooke with a grunt, and she’s usually sturdy on her feet but she’s too worried about Vanessa to steel herself, and she stumbles down to the pavement, hands scraping across concrete to break her fall. He runs off, and Brooke rises unsteadily, wincing as her hands sting. She hisses in pain at the red oozing across her shredded palms.

“What the hell did you have to play the hero for?” Vanessa stomps her foot, buzzing with anger, and maybe Brooke can’t fix what happened, can’t even soften the edges.

“I thought I was the villain,” Brooke says through clenched teeth. This is the last thing she needs to do. She needs to stay on Vanessa’s good side to get that money, but she can’t stop herself from giving into the anger, the sheer rage she’s been carrying the past six months, after her future was stolen.

“I had him! I had him, and you ruined it–”

“He could’ve really hurt you!” Brooke says, images of Vanessa bleeding, hurt and in pain, still flashing through her mind. “And you didn’t have anything, he was totally on to you!”

Brooke knows insulting Vanessa’s skills is one of the worst things she can do, and the defeated look that crosses her face makes Brooke want to take it back. Vanessa huffs in frustration, spinning around on the sidewalk. “Go, Brooke. Just go. I don’t want you in on this plan anymore.”

Brooke’s blood runs cold, tears pricking at her eyes. She needs that money, she needs it so badly, it’s the only way to pay for a lawyer and win against her ex-husband—

“Please. Vanessa, please, I’m sorry–”

“Just go.”

Vanessa heads down the street, already too far for Brooke to chase, and Brooke’s last hope goes with her.

[beyondspock]

DON OSTERTAG: OFF STAGE

DINNER AT THE NIMOYS’

The elder Nimoys, Dora and Max, were living in a first floor apartment in a red-bricked building in a middle-class section of Boston when I met them. It wasn’t the house where they raised their two sons, Melvin and Leonard, in. This was their retirement home they moved into after Max left his barbering trade.

It was during the second leg of Leonard’s one-man show ,VINCENT, tour. During the first leg, which ended months before, our little troupe consisted of Leonard, his wife Sandy, his dresser Erik, Dennis Babcock, who was the Special Events Coordinator for the Guthrie and the person responsible for converting the bare-bones VINCENT that Leonard brought to the Guthrie and turning it into a full-blown show and for booking the first tour in which he also served as Tour Director. I was the show lighting director, show set-up carpenter, and show electrician.

On the first leg of the tour, a Guthrie production, we jumped from city to city. We spent a lot of our time together, stayed in the same hotel, often on the same floor, and ate many of our meals together. We even spent three days living in Leonard’s home in L.A..

The second leg was completely different, a week of brush-up and four weeks of shows, all in the Wilbur Theater in Boston, Leonard’s home town. It was no longer a Guthrie show, but was promoted by a New York producer. Leonard and his wife, Sandy, stayed in a hotel downtown and were kept busy with friends and relatives. I stayed in a theatrical hotel in the theater district. The first tour had been something special. This time it was like theatrical tours usually are.

I had left the Guthrie shortly after we got back from the first tour and was free-lancing off the Union Hiring Hall. Dennis Babcock had taken a short leave of absence from the Guthrie and helped us get the show back on it’s feet, and then he went back home. Like I said, things had changed.

Leonard said no matter how busy he would be in Boston he wanted Denny and I to met his folks. ‘They want to meet you two. Dora will cook us one of her great dinners and Max will entertain us.’ Leonard set it up for the third evening the set-up week.

One of the things I was surprised by was the fact that both of Leonard’s parents barely came up to his shoulders. One thing I was not surprised by was the immaculate condition of the apartment. Sandy, Leonard’s wife had not come with us, but she had warned us not to feel guilty about making our visit extra work for Leonard’s mother.

‘Her house is always dust free and polished like a mirror. You could walk in at two o’clock in the morning or six o’clock at night, anytime, and the place would look the same, like she worked hours to clean. And as far as cooking a big meal… Max might have left for work with only a cup of coffee and a bagel and lox for breakfast, but no matter what, there was always a big meal waiting when he got home. Of course,’ she added, ‘Homemaker and mother was the only job Dora ever had.’

We walked into the hard wood floored dining room and sat down. Denny and I both had made an attempt to take our shoes off in the hallway, but Max wouldn’t let us. We sat down and Max poured us a glass of wine. ‘Nothing fancy. Kosher. Gets the taste buds alive for Momma’s cooking. L’chaim,’ he said raising his glass. ‘To life.’

[For Max Nimoy’s adventures as a barber and how Dora and Max met please go to the original posts]

(...) I had accepted the offer for seconds, but politeness made me turn down the offer for thirds. Mrs. Nimoy told us that they were going to see VINCENT the night after the opening. She said that they had seen it when we were in Washington D.C. I remembered many of Leonard’s family attended a wedding there. That is where I met Adam, Leonard’s son, but did not meet Leonard’s folks.She said that she really enjoyed VINCENT, but it made her sad. ‘Such an artist. And such a life. But,’ she added, ‘It is a great show. You all should be very proud.’

I had accepted the offer for seconds, but politeness made me turn down the offer for thirds. Mrs. Nimoy told us that they were going to see VINCENT the night after the opening. She said that they had seen it when we were in Washington D.C. I remembered many of Leonard’s family attended a wedding there. That is where I met Adam, Leonard’s son, but did not meet Leonard’s folks.

She said that she really enjoyed VINCENT, but it made her sad. ‘Such an artist. And such a life. But,’ she added, ‘It is a great show. You all should be very proud.’

Momma’s favorite though is when Leonard plays Tevye in FIDDLER, Max told us.

‘Tradition! Tradition!’ Max sang out. Mrs. Nimoy frowned at him.

‘It reminds me of our life in the Ukraine’, Mrs. Nimoy said smiling. ‘Even when Leonard is not in it. I like the story.’

Max laughed. ‘And she really like it when Leonard’s friend, Zero Mostel was in it. They were rehearsing it here before they reopened it on Broadway. Leonard brought him over here for supper one night’, Max told us. ‘Now there was a man wasn’t afraid to accept thirds.’

‘Charming man,’ Mrs. Nimoy said. ‘I cried when he died last year. Way too young to die. Such a shame. Such a good actor, too,’ she added.

‘And a brave man who wasn’t afraid to stand up for his principals,’ Leonard said, his voice drifting off as he spoke.

Max jumped in breaking the sad mood that had settled in. ‘You know, Leonard, I think maybe my story about cutting The Goat’s ear had something to do with you liking Van Gogh so much. What do you think?’

‘If you say so, Poppa,’ Leonard smiled. ‘And maybe your talking about your scissors subliming gave me the idea for Spock’s Vulcan salute.’

‘Leonard,’ Mrs. Nimoy said as she stood up, ‘Don’t humor him! Now who wants dessert? Apple pie and ice cream.’

Source: https://donostertag.wordpress.com/2018/02/05/1618/

DON OSTERTAG: OFF STAGE

DESSERT AT THE NIMOY’S

(...) Later in my hotel room I thought back on the night and meeting Leonard’s parents. And I thought of all the framed pictures around the dining room. All the pictures were of their two sons, their weddings, their children. There wasn’t any pictures showing off their celebrity son in his many roles like Spock or Tevye. Oh, I imagine somewhere there were scrapbooks filled with pictures and articles of Leonard; but that was a something not to be confused with their pride in their FAMILY, the most important part of their lives.

I never had the privilege of seeing Dora and Max again. Max died in July of 1987. Dora died the following December. But meeting them that one time under those homily circumstances showed me where their son Leonard got his down-to-earth humanity.

https://donostertag.wordpress.com/2018/02/10/dessert-at-the-nimoys/

[asouthernsamwell]

Through the Stomach to the Heart

A big thank you to @dumouwin for being a wonderful beta, and also super supportive about me posting my first ever fic! I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Eric Richard Bittle is convinced that his new captain hates him, and his baking, since Jack Zimmermann won't touch a single thing that Bitty bakes. Jack, on the other hand, discovers that he has a problem even more vexing than not being able to eat gluten.

Eric Richard Bittle knew two things. One, introducing oneself with food was a sure way to make friends; and two, that rule went double for student athletes (even if they couldn't be counted on to still be friendly in three week's time, it never hurt to get off to a good start). Besides, things were supposed to be different at Samwell, and Eric was optimistic.

The two pies he brought to practice on the first day were mauled, and everyone seemed friendly, so he considered his first day a success. The captain of the team, Jack Zimmermann, seemed indifferent to the pies, but Eric figured he didn't want to show favoritism, or was just really strict about his personal diet plan.

However, after a few months of Jack not even sampling his baking once, Bitty (as he had been christened by his new teammates) finally worked up the nerve to ask about it.

“Does he hate me?” Bitty whispered, as Jack once again bypassed a pie fresh from the oven in favor of a protein shake.

“Who, Jack?” Ransom asked around a mouthful of pie.

“Nah bro, don't worry about Jack, he's just like that,” Holster responded, before practically unhinging his jaw to shovel more pie into his mouth.

“But I've never met anyone who wouldn't even taste my pies! Even stuck up Eliza Mae tried my county fair blue ribbon pie! I get that he takes hockey seriously, and adores his diet plan, but would it kill him to try just one bite of something someone else made? I mean, y'all devour my pies, and he won't even come near them! Oh gosh, what if he hates me for feeding his entire team pie? I can't just not bake for people!”

“Brah, chill. Take a breath, it's okay. Jack just does his own thing, I'm sure he doesn't hate you.” Ransom served himself another piece of pie, “After all, he'd have a mutiny on his hands if he tried to keep you from baking!”

“Dude! C'mon!”

“Serves you right. Get your own seconds, stop trying to steal mine!”

Holster pouted and rubbed his hand where Ransom had slapped him.

“Ransom is right though, Jack almost certainly doesn't hate you. He's just a pretty tightly-wound dude.”

“Almost certainly doesn't hate me. Thanks Holster, that's so reassuring.” Bitty let his head fall forward to the table and mumbled into his arms, “He probably just thinks my baking is a waste of time that distracts from hockey and he probably wants me off the team. That's all.”

“No way dude-”

“C'mon Bits, you know that's-”

“I'm gonna make him a pie.”

It was a fool-proof plan. Bitty would make Jack a pie (“What type of pie do you think he likes?” “I don't know, but he's Canadian, so maybe something with maple syrup in it? Do pies like that exist?” “Holster, you do know that not all Canadians have a maple syrup IV connected to them at all time, right? Bitty, maybe a healthy-ish fruit pie? Like apple?”), and Jack would simultaneously realize that Bitty wasn't a horrible person, they could actually get along, and he wasn't going to keel over if he ate a few grams of sugar.

When Bitty was sure that his new creation (an apple pie with maple sugar in the crust) was perfect, he brought it to the Haus and warmed it in the oven for a minute before cutting it up, plating it, and bringing it out for the boys studying in the living room.

“Hey y'all, I tried out a new recipe today, who wants to test it for me?”

Ransom, Holster, and Shitty all immediately grabbed for the plates in his hands, but Jack just gave him a quick glance before going back to the essay he was typing.

“Jack, do you want some? It's maple apple, and I thought you might like it because I tried to make it healthier while also kind of thinking about Canada? I mean, sorry, that sounds weird, I just thought that you and Ransom might appreciate something more home-y by this point in the semester, ya know? Erm...”

Jack interrupted his rambling with a short, “No thank you, Bittle,” before turning back to his essay and typing as if he had never been interrupted.

The plates clanked on the coffee table as Bitty set them down with a little too much force before stalking about of the room. Jack hated him, fine. Just fine.

  For the next few months, Bitty kept up a war of attrition. He baked pies, brought them to the Haus, and always took care to offer Jack a piece when he was around. And every time his offers were turned down, he would just smile sweetly and say, “Alright!” If Jack was going to hate him, Bitty was going to make sure that it was the most unfounded, ridiculous decision Jack Zimmermann would ever hold himself to.

Finally, one morning after Jack had started up their checking clinics again following summer break, Bitty snapped. It came after months of Pinterest suggestions, every type of fruity and healthy pie imaginable, and nightly stomach aches worrying over how much the captain of his team hated him. He'd had an entire summer to try and win Jack's favor in some small way, and he was done.

Bitty came down to the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, just in time to see Jack wrapping a brownie in a napkin. Bitty's confusion was quickly replaced by anger when Jack Zimmermann proceeded to eat said brownie on the way to Faber.

“Wow, so the illustrious Jack Zimmermann actually does have a sweet tooth. Someone should alert The Swallow.”

Jack seemed taken aback. “Um... Shitty made them for me?” He clearly didn't understand that he had just capped off an entire year of rudeness with the worst snub possible. Bitty didn't even dignify his statement with a response.

The entire time they laced up their skates and got ready, Jack's waves of confusion were only met with further stony silence from Bitty. Maybe he should have been impressed that Jack was reading the situation as well as he was, given his oblivious rudeness over the last year, but Eric was far too furious to be that gracious.

Once on the ice, Bitty took his place by the boards, and as Jack started skating towards him he finally lost it. Right as Jack skated into him, Bitty pushed back, catching Jack off-guard, and actually succeeded in checking Jack, sending him a few feet across the ice in his shock.

“Bittle, you just, you checked me. That's great!”

“Why do you hate me?!” Bitty wasn't even aware that he had flung his gloves to the ice until Jack glanced down at them warily.

“What? I don't hate you. I don't hate you – why would you think that?”

“Yes you do! You won't eat anything I make, even when I make things especially for you, and I know that you hate that I bake, but I don't think it distracts me from hockey! I'm a good player, and I was doing well on the team! I don't know why my baking upsets you so much or why you hate me, but I'm not going to stop making pies!”

“Bittle-”

“And don't think that you can tell me that I'm not keeping diet, because I pretty much am, and it's not affecting me!”

“Bittle, I-”

“And you know that you can't control what the team does all the time, because you never seem to get mad at them for eating pie or cookies or anything, but you still hate me and I don't understand why and it's just not fair! I'm just as much a member of this team as anyone else and if you don't agree with that then you're just going to have to-”

“Bittle! I'm celiac.”

“That's no- wait, what?”

“I'm celiac. I can't eat gluten. I'm allergic to pretty much everything you've made for the past year.”

“Why didn't you say anything??”

“I didn't know I needed to.”

“But, I, it's just – ugh! Jack! Here I've been thinking that you didn't like me for the better part of a year, when really I should have just been baking things that you can eat!”

“Why did you think I didn't like you?”

“You completely ignored my baking!”

Jack started to laugh. “Bittle, I just didn't want you to have to try and make gluten free things, I had no idea you would be so offended over me ignoring your baking. Besides, is helping you get over your mental block surrounding checking really the actions of someone who hates you?”

“I mean... this has definitely seemed sadistic at some points so...” Jack gave him a gentle hip check in response to his quip. “I just thought that since you didn't even want to try to like my pies that you didn't like me.” He cut Jack off before he could protest. “I'm silly, I know. Now, what type of pie would you like?”

“Bittle, you don't have to do that.”

“Nonsene. I'm not backing down from a new baking challenge! Besides, how long has it been since you last ate a piece of pie?”

“I don't really eat sweets, it's fine, you don't have to...”

“Mr. Zimmermann. I am from Georgia, and in the South, we express our emotions through food and feeding others. So please, let me make you a pie that you can eat and one that won't make you sick!”

“Thank you. But euh, Bittle, have you ever tried a gluten free dessert? They're not very good.”

“What about that brownie you were eating an hour ago? Are you trying to say it was bad? Because you sure seemed happy to be eating it, and as much as I love Shitty, I find it hard to believe that he could out-bake me, especially for a palate such as yours, Mr. Chicken-Strips-and-Protein-Shakes.”

The corner of Jack's mouth started to turn up in a grin. “Chirp, chirp, chirp Bittle, you're pretty bold this morning. Checking me, dropping your gloves, and now these chirps – are you going to ejected from our next game for fighting?”

“One Gordie Howe hat trick coming up, just you wait an' see!”

They were still laughing as they left Faber, Bitty trying to catch Jack by surprise with periodic hip checks the whole way back to the Haus.

  The knock on his door startled Jack out of his senior thesis brain-fog.

“Come in?”

Bitty was holding his wallet and reading something off of his phone as he opened the door. “Do you want to come to the store with me? I was gonna go to Murder Stop-And-Shop for some stuff.”

Jack glanced at his computer screen where his thesis sat, no longer holding his interest like it had a few moments before. “Sure, just let me save this.”

The whole way there Eric babbled on about a new baking blog he had found, praising the author's interesting ingredient combinations, as well as her passion for locally-sourced foods. “...and the best part is, she sets up her recipes for other variations, and even makes suggestions for how other people could modify them based on their personal preferences, which is so cool. I should really make a conscious effort to do that more on my vlog, now that I think of it...”

What Jack didn't learn until they reached the baking aisle of the store was that the blog Bittle had suddenly become so enthused about was one he had sought out specifically following their conversation that morning. Bitty made a beeline past his normal baking staples, instead stopping in front of the rather meager section labeled “gluten free”. A few bags of pretzels, two types of macaroni and cheese, a pancake mix, two box cake mixes, and three types of flour blends looked back at Jack as he quickly caught on to Bittle's plan.

“Bittle, you really don't have to make me anything special, it's fine, I promise.”

“You hush Mister Zimmermann, you're going to try at least one of my pies before you graduate, just you wait.”

“Alright, alright, fine! I suppose I can try some of your pie, but if this turns into an addiction the way it seems to have for the rest of the team I'll be sending my future dietician to you!” Jack's small smirk seemed to be what Bitty was really searching for, so he continued, “So, what are we looking for?”

“Well, we need the same basic ingredients as any normal pie, just ones that won't kill you. I think the only problem is flour, at least it was the only thing the blog specified as being gluten-free, so I thought that we would start there, and then try what will essentially be a mash-up of my Moomaw's famous apple pie and this special crust. Although,” he cast a disappointed glance at the shelves in front of them, “we really don't have much to work with here. The blog talked about making your own flour blend, with different flours and starches and binding agents, but I guess I never realized how few options there would be. No wonder you eat like you do! Uhh, let's try this one.”

He held up a bag proclaiming its ability to be substituted one-for-one in any recipe with normal flour for Jack's approval. Receiving a quick shrug and an “I trust your judgment,” Bittle put the flour in the cart.

  When they got back to the Haus, Eric made Jack read the labels on every ingredient they already owned with him, so that he could be sure he wouldn't put anything containing gluten in the pie, and then scrubbed down every inch of the kitchen, including washing the dishes and utensils he intended to use.

“I was reading about cooking for people with Celiac Disease, and I don't know how we haven't all managed to kill you by accident yet! My goodness Jack, do you get -” a pause of indecision, “-sick? poisoned? Gluten-ed? often because of us?” Bitty's worry was clearly expressing itself via frantic scrubbing with the new sponges he had just bought.

“Haha, no, it's okay. I mean, I do get sick sometimes, but it's not your fault. I just have to take extra care to wipe the counters and stuff before I prepare my own food. Besides, I shouldn't make the rest of you adapt to my weird eating habits. And the response is proportional to how much gluten I consume, so usually I just have a little pain and some, er, unpleasantness I guess.” Jack shrugged, indifferent, but Bitty was horrified.

“Oh my gosh, Jack, that's not okay! That sounds so horrible! And you could get sick – really sick! I read that you can get cancer, or not be able to absorb nutrients any more, and that must really hurt, and-”

“It's okay Bittle, I promise. That's why I'm careful, and it hardly ever happens. Besides, the dining hall has done far more to poison me than anyone in this Haus ever could.”

“Does the school know about that??” Jack was dismayed that his attempt at calming Bittle down had failed, but something in the back of his mind warmed to the fact that Bittle was scrubbing the kitchen, making special food, and now ready to fight the administration all on his behalf.

“They have a special section for student with allergies, but they tell everyone who eats there that they can't guarantee anything will be 100% safe. There's too much risk of cross-contamination in a kitchen that big to make that sort of promise.”

Bitty's face twisted into a small scowl, his mouth scrunched up and his eyes indicating that he was clearly trying to think of a way to solve all of Jack's dietary problems instantaneously.

“That's not fair! You should get to have meals you can enjoy fully too! It shouldn't be dangerous for you to eat dinner! Why are you smiling?”

“I think you're more upset about this than I am. It's kind of nice.”

“Well of course I'm upset! For gosh sakes Jack, it's food! They're not feeding you properly! That's a- that's just- I mean, it's- it's not right! I'm from the South, that's practically a crime! No, wait, there are actual cases where that is a very real crime. How can they just do this to you??”

As Bitty spluttered indignantly, he reminded Jack of a little kitten – specifically, the small orange cat from the Aristocats – puffing himself up and ready to take on the world, regardless of what the outcome would be. It wasn't that Jack didn't have people on his side who were willing to fight for him, he saw time and time again after his overdose that his support network was bigger than he could have imagined, but still... this was Bittle, someone who had apparently thought that Jack hated him as of twelve hours ago, and now he was whipped up into a frenzy doing his best to improve Jack's life. It was really nice.

Bittle's first pie came out of the oven to mixed reviews. It was a buttermilk pie in a homemade crust, and Jack thought it was incredible, tangy and sweet at the same time, with a buttery crust that barely crumbled apart at all, and a texture that wasn't grainy in the least. Everyone who sampled it agreed with Jack – it was good, if a little bit different than what they were used to, but still incredible. Bitty, however, was the lone voice of dissent.

“Jack, honey, how on earth can you call that good? I am so sorry, the next one will be much better, I promise! I was looking up some customizable flour blends, so hopefully the crust will cooperate a little bit more, and I can probably get it even thinner without it breaking. And if I add a little bit of xanthan gum to the filling it'll hopefully come out firm the whole way through, although that might have just been Betsy having a bad day, or maybe-”

“Bittle. I liked it. Truly.” Bitty was still casting half worried, half murderous glances at the almost empty pie plate. “It was the best thing I've eaten in a long time, I forgot that gluten free food could taste like that. It was perfect.”

After a heavy sign and a long moment of consideration, Bittle looked up at him.

“Alright, I'll believe you, but I'm still going to mess with the recipes and the flour blend until I'm satisfied. Will you be my taste-tester? You have a whole year's worth of pie eating to make up for!”

Jack just laughed. “All right Bittle, but save some time for studying too, okay? And remember, if you feed me too much pie I'll need to burn it off, so I hope you're also willing to sign yourself up as my early morning running partner.”

Jack hip checked him as Bitty screeched, “Mister Zimmermann, you wouldn't dare!” and he sauntered out of the kitchen.

  The next few months flew by in a flurry of pies and other assorted baked goods. Jack watched as Bittle tried out every flavor of pie at least once, and he also expanded his gluten free experimentation into pancakes, crepes, brownies, cake, cinnamon rolls, waffles, pizza, and some very memorable soft pretzels. Eric seemed to be getting closer to being content with his creations, although he still wouldn't totally believe Jack when he spouted praise for the confections.

One day, Jack's focus was ripped sharply away from his thesis as Shitty bounced into his room.

“Jackabelle! My favorite Quebec beaut!”

“You're still wearing clothes, Shits. Are you alright?”

As if just noticing that for once he had made it past the front door fully clothed, Shitty glanced down at himself before kicking off his shoes and sprawling on Jack's bed. “It's too beautiful of a day to worry about overturning societal expectations! Well, no, actually, there's never an excuse for complacency in a society that dictates how we should express ourselves and that censors nature, but today I'm just too distracted and light of heart to actively participate in protest.”

Jack just raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Jacques, I'm in love!”

With a small smile, Jack simply responded, “I know Shits. Have you finally talked to Lardo about it?”

“No, Jack, I just realized! I mean, I've liked her for ages, who wouldn't? She's one of the coolest people ever, and she can do almost anything, but I just realized that I love her. And I never said anything to her before, because I didn't want her to feel manipulated by me in any way because of the traditional archetype of men – and fuck gender stereotypes, by the way – and I know that she's more than capable of fending for herself, but I also didn't want to ruin our friendship or make her feel awkward if she doesn't feel the same way, ya know?”

“Shits, I think anyone who knows Lardo and has seen you two interact can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. At all. And even if she suddenly decided she doesn't feel the same way, it's Lardo. She's cool, and she's one of your best friends, and that's not going to change. Go talk to her, okay?”

Shitty ran his thumb over a small sharpie-d triangle on the side of his wrist and smiled as shyly as Jack had ever seen him. “Yeah, okay.” He got up to walk out, then paused with his hand on the doorknob. “You know, I feel so stupid. There she is, absolutely freaking incredible, and I talk to her every day and I never even realized. But then, today, we're just sitting there studying, not saying anything, and she just draws this freaking shape on my arm. And then I spent twenty minutes sitting there thinking about how I would get this stupid little triangle tattooed on my wrist, just because it was something she drew, but I'd much rather just have her there to draw it on me every day, and it just hit me then.” He shook his head, looking a little dazed. “I love her, man!”

At that moment, as Shitty rubbed his thumb reverently across the small black triangle on his wrist, Jack's eye caught on the plate sitting on his desk. Bittle had brought him a piece of pie and hour ago, asking for Jack's feedback on his newest gluten-free crust, and even after finishing the pie Jack had been idly tracing the edge of the plate with a small smile on his face, still amazed that someone like Bittle, who was pretty much a ray of sunshine come to life, would take the time to bake special pies for him, and would chirp him relentlessly, and could somehow still be his friend after how Jack had treated him last year, and how Jack didn't know what he was going to do without him next year except for probably signing with Providence just to stay close to Bitty and... when had Bittle become Bitty? Oh. Oh.

“Oh.” Jack abruptly looked up and interrupted Shitty. “Go talk to Lardo.” He all but shoved him out of the door before dashing into the bathroom to make sure his hair wasn't too disorderly. He ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, before sliding a little into the kitchen in his socked feet.

“Bitty. I- what are you eating?”

Bitty looked up, startled, from where he was licking a spatula over the sink.

“Jack! Are you okay? What's wrong?”

“What are you eating?” Please don't be gluten, please don't be gluten, please don't be gluten[, I can't kiss you if it's gluten]...

“I just made brownies, Chowder had said that he wanted some and... are you alright?”

Jack visibly deflated. He almost blurted out, “I just realized that I like you and now I can't kiss you,” but he caught himself just in time.

“I'm fine. Did you want to get dinner tonight? I, uh, need a break from my homework.”

Bitty blinked at him slowly, head cocked slightly to the side as if trying to ascertain Jack's level of mental stability. (It was low, he hoped Bitty couldn't tell.) “Sure, these brownies'll be out of the oven in 15 minutes, so we can go then.”

Jack nodded fervently, then wondered if maybe that was too much before saying, “Great, I'll see you in a bit,” and leaving a confused Bittle standing in the kitchen behind him. He ran up to his room, threw himself on his bed, and cursed his gluten allergy.

Fifteen minutes later, Bitty kept up the conversation on the way to dinner, occasionally casting worried glances at Jack, who just gave him a small smile in return. I like you and I may even love you, and while I'm sometimes a masochistic moron, I don't hate myself enough to tell you that I like you when there's a chance that you like me too and I can't kiss you right away. I can be patient.

When Jack was first diagnosed with Celiac Disease, he spent a very long month being cranky about all the foods he could no longer eat, and looking on longingly every time someone else ate a food he used to love. But then, he got used to his new diet, lost all of his baby fat, and became a better, healthier hockey player who no longer missed gluten. Now, however, all he could notice was how many things Bitty ate that contained gluten. A dinner roll, croutons on his salad, fried chicken, cream of mushroom soup that he discarded after two spoonfuls, oreos on his ice cream, and even the school's mashed potatoes which also had flour added to them for some ungodly reason. Jack had spent eleven years indifferent to his special diet, and now he wanted to cry in frustration.

He had quickly resolved not to tell Bitty how he felt until a time when Bitty hadn't recently been eating gluten, but now that seemed like a long shot. Jack reasoned that if Bitty did return his feelings, there was no reason to wait before kissing him (Jack always had been 110% about everything), and if Bitty had recently eaten something that would make Jack sick he didn't want Bitty to feel bad. But now it seemed like the only opportunity Jack would get was first thing in the morning, before they went to team breakfast, which was less than ideal, seeing as they were usually surrounded by the other members of the team in the Haus.

In the dining hall, as Bitty loaded his plate with food that would have Jack curling into a ball of pain in an instant, Jack kept up the stream of silent curses against allergens. When Bitty smiled at him in the middle of a monologue on Beyonce's next tour, Jack felt his heart beat harder in his chest. And when Bitty got up to grab dessert for himself and came back with some prewrapped bread and rolls he had swiped from the gluten free station, Jack realized he was in much deeper than he thought.

  As the week went on, Jack decided that he would have the most luck talking to, and then hopefully kissing, Bitty first thing in the morning or right before bed. If he had just brushed his teeth, it would probably be pretty safe. So, Jack carefully kept track of Bitty's food consumption and oral hygiene.

On Wednesday night, Lardo followed Shitty upstairs at ten o'clock, and Jack and Bitty both resigned themselves to staying on the first floor for at least another half an hour, just to be safe. Bitty seemed to be studying, but by eleven he declared that he had at least three hours' worth of work left to do, and so Jack eventually had to leave Bitty sitting at the kitchen table with a half-finished piece of (gluten) pie in front of him.

The next morning, Jack was woken up by mysterious noises coming from Shitty's room, and so he listened for any sounds indicating that Bitty had begun his morning routine, but by the time Jack left for class Bitty still hadn't stirred. Thursday night also proved to be a bit of a late night for Bitty, and so on Friday morning Jack saw him stumble out of his room just as Jack was walking out the door for his 8 AM class. By the time he saw Bitty in their 9 AM, Bitty was happily munching on a bagel from the campus coffeeshop closest to their academic building.

As unfortunate as Jack's luck had been thus far, he was a little bit heartened when Professor Atley announced the final project at the end of class.

“You'll choose a partner or work alone, whichever you prefer, and you will prepare a recipe from one of the major areas that we covered in class. You will be turning in your final project, although a majority of your grade will not come from taste, but rather from the essay you will write on both the preparation and the history of the recipe you choose. You and your partner will submit separate essays, but I am expecting a certain amount of overlap in the themes covered – plagiarism is prohibited, but it shouldn't shock me to see evidence of your collaboration. Have fun!”

Bitty beamed, and Jack could see the confidence in his face. This was a final he was ready for. “Hey Bittle, need a partner?” Jack's small smile was reflected back at him with ten times the intensity, and the response of, “Sure, if you'll let us do a gluten free project,” forced a full smile out of Jack without a second thought.

“That sounds good.”

  It turned out that food allergens and diet trends, while not a new phenomena by any means, had not focused much on gluten during any of the eras they could base their project in. Jack was ready to make a normal, full-gluten project, but Bitty insisted that Jack should be able to have at least one thing he could sample on final project day. Finally, on Sunday night, as Jack was leaning against the counter waiting for his chicken strips to heat up in the microwave, he heard footsteps come thundering down the steps, and then saw Bitty's blond head appear in the kitchen door.

“Jack! I had an idea!”

“Yeah?” Jack prompted, “What's up?”

Bitty was beaming. “Did you know that gluten only started appearing in problematic quantities in the last hundred years? I mean, there's always been a type of gluten somewhere in wheat and stuff, at least, I think there was, there was a lot of science stuff that I skimmed over, but! I found out that if you went back in time a few hundred years you could probably eat whatever you wanted without fear of getting gluten-ed!” After a brief pause, Bitty added with a smirk, “You history nerd, of course you would be able to eat better in the past.”

“That's awesome! It's too bad we can't get any of those grains any more. Do you want to do a really old recipe with modern flour and talk about the changes in the plants in our essays?” Jack was impressed with the amount of research that Bitty had apparently been doing. There was a part of him that even rejoiced over how Bitty clearly prioritized Jack over anything even remotely academic, but the logical side of his brain chastised him with a reminder that Bitty loved procrastinating, and he shouldn't look for opportunities to derail studying when it did happen. Better to just encourage it, especially when the subject of Bitty's research made something simultaneously hot and cold flutter in Jack's ribcage.

“No, that's the really cool thing! I looked it up, and you can still get those grains! I mean, maybe not all of them, but it's possible to get wheat flour that's been mostly removed from the genetic variations that modern wheat has! It's called heirloom flour, or grains, or whatever, but I started looking around at different forums and stuff, and it seems like people with gluten allergies can eat it just fine! I mean, it's pretty expensive, and has to be ordered specially, because you have to grow it in special places where it can't accidentally mix with modern stuff and produce gluten-y offspring, so it's not a viable option for every day, but we could definitely get some for the project!”

Jack had thought that Bittle was beaming before, but now he was glowing and practically vibrating.

“That sounds great! Wow, looks like you're pretty good at this studying thing when you want to be, eh?” Jack couldn't resist the chirp. But then, to soften it a bit, and because he was ridiculously head-over-heels for Bittle at this point and was only a nanosecond away from throwing caution to the wind and taking his chances with the soy sauce Bitty had put on his dinner earlier, Jack hip checked him and then leaned in to ruffle his hair, saying, “Thanks Bittle. But let me pay, okay? One of us will be pulling in a six-digit salary this time next year, and it only seems right for you to save your money for more baking procrastination.”

“You're an absolute menace, Mister Zimmermann! But alright, I'll send you some links.”

Bitty wandered out of the kitchen with slightly flushed cheeks, and Jack watched him go, content to lean against the counter wearing a small smile until the beep of the microwave startled him back to awareness of the world around him.

After a week filled with studying for upcoming finals, research for their shared history class, and (on Jack's part) unsuccessful attempts to encounter Bitty alone when he hadn't recently eaten gluten, Jack's luck finally started to change.

Bitty knocked on his door on a Thursday night, and when Jack told him to come in, Bitty poked his head around the doorframe, biting his lip.

“What's up, Bittle?”

Bittle gestured with his phone as he talked. “I just got a message from my group for my math project, and they want to move our meeting time to Friday afternoon. Would you be okay with baking the pie for class on Sunday morning instead?”

“Sure,” Jack responded easily. “That'll probably work even better actually, since we'll be out of Rans' and Holster's way as they set up for the kegster, and then we can bake while everyone is still asleep on Sunday morning and avoid any interruptions there.”

As he always did when he was pleased, Bitty immediately seemed to straighten up, adding at least an inch to his own height, and showed off a radiant smile.

“Thanks Jack! Now if only I could enjoy my math project as much as I'll enjoy making this pie...”

  For all of his planning and brainstorming, Jack made it to Sunday morning without realizing the perfect scenario he was walking in to. The kegster the night before had been almost enjoyable for Jack, even though he had gone to bed by eleven. Until then, however, he had entertained Bitty with tales of chasing off interlopers with a fire extinguisher, trying to subtly brag about his heroism. Bitty had listened with wide eyes, taking periodic sips from his red solo cup. He was far from being wasted, but certainly had enough alcohol in him to be a little more emotional than usual; he'd offered Jack a sip of his tub juice, and then snatched the cup away at the last moment, a look of horror on his face.

“Oh my gosh, no! I ate gluten today, I don't want to poison you! I am so, so, so, so, so sorry Jack!” Bittle had covered the mouth of the cup, as if the idea of a gluten particle in his drink could float out and attack Jack.

Jack, who was experiencing a swell of warmth throughout his body because of the concern Bittle had for him.

Jack, who was trying very hard not to grin like a lunatic, or even worse, to kiss Bittle on the spot for being so considerate.

Jack, who had simply settled for reaching out and patting Bittle on the shoulder in what he hoped was a bro-y gesture of affection and thanks.

“It's fine Bits, don't worry about it. I'm good with my soft drink.” He'd made a mock-cheers gesture with his own red solo cup before taking another sip. “Besides, I want to be ready for tomorrow's baking extravaganza.”

Bitty had just rolled his eyes.

  As he brushed his teeth on Sunday morning, Jack could hear Bitty's alarm going off, playing a song he could now confidently identify as one of Beyonce's. He could hear the sound of Bitty smacking his nightstand before locating his phone to silence the alarm, and then the sound of feet hitting the floor and scuffy tired walking sounds from across the hall. The rest of the Haus still seemed to be passed out from the previous night's kegster, and so all of the little sounds that came with each of their morning routines seemed amplified in the calm silence.

Jack made it downstairs to the kitchen first, and switched on the coffee maker to help Bittle wake up – Jack wasn't much of a morning person, but Bitty really wasn't a morning person. He also wiped down the counters and the table; the boys had done a pretty good job keeping the kitchen clean last night, but there were still a few sticky spots of the counter that needed to be taken care of.

When Bitty entered the kitchen ten minutes later, hair damp and tousled from his shower and yawning out a 'good morning', he headed straight for the mug of coffee Jack had just finished pouring him, and proceeded to dump in a truly terrifying amount of sugar. He fished around in the fridge for the creamer, and after ensuring that his coffee was closer to flavored milk than coffee he took a sip and straightened up.

“All ready to begin your new career as a baker, Mister Zimmermann?”

Jack smirked a little, and answered indulgently, “Sure Bittle, whatever you say.”

  The actual process of preparing the pie wasn't difficult – they had already found a recipe and translated the instructions and measurements into a more modern form, so it was simply a matter of measuring things and doing what Bitty said. The hardest part should have been working with the crust, but thanks to Bitty's semester of gluten-free experimentation they were left with an extremely malleable crust, and Bitty took pity on Jack and didn't make him transfer the lattice to the finished pie on his own. Instead, the hardest part of the morning for Jack was staying focused on the task at hand after his early morning realization – Bitty hadn't eaten anything with gluten in it yet! Jack had been on the verge of kissing him the moment he realized that, but then his anxiety reminded him of the million ways that plan could go wrong. Most of them were easy to discredit, but Jack reasoned that if Bitty didn't return his affections then things might be awkward for a few days, and it would be better for that period of awkwardness to start after they had put the pie in the oven and could go to their separate rooms if need be.

So, Jack waited until he was almost done with the dishes, the smell of pie baking filling the air, before he tried to start the conversation he had been preparing for the last few weeks. Bitty had just paused in his evaluation of the food-based classes offered at Samwell, when Jack interjected, “What have you had to eat today?”

He almost immediately cringed. That... wasn't the smoothest way to start.

“Just the coffee and the bit of the filling that we sampled. Did you want to go get breakfast once the pie's done?” Thank goodness Bitty was accustomed to his occasional brashness and could pick up the threads of conversation when Jack couldn't.

“Yeah, euh, that would be great. But, euh,” Jack took a deep breath, and stared straight out the window in front of him, not focusing on anything other than avoiding Bitty's gaze in case it turned dismissive or, even worse, pitying. “I kind of had something else I wanted to ask? Er, to tell you?”

“Okay, what is it?” Bitty sounded a little tentative, but Jack could only drop his gaze to his hands before staring out the window again.

“I think, euh, no, I know,” Jack finally turned a little to find big brown eyes staring directly into his, a slight wrinkle of worry creasing Bitty's brow. “I realized a few weeks ago that I really like you, and I know that this is really sudden but if there's a chance you might like me too I was hoping that we could...”

Jack's trailing off into panic was cut off by Bitty's exhale.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh thank goodness! Jack, I like you a lot too, but I didn't really think that you'd ever like me back in the same way, so I just didn't say anything, but yes I like you, and I would love to go out with you!” At some point during his response, Bitty's excited hands had found Jack's nervously wringing ones, and the soft touch along with the reassuring words made Jack's face break out into a smile.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please.”

Jack smirked just slightly at Bitty's eager response, before moving one of his hands to cradle Bitty's face and gently pressing their lips together. Bitty tasted just a little bit sweet, like the sugar he had dumped into his coffee, and after pulling back for just a moment Jack leaned down again.

When they finally separated, Bitty smiled slowly and opened his eyes. Then, cocking his head to the side a little, he asked, “If you've known for a few weeks that you liked me, why didn't you say anything sooner?”

“I, um,” Jack could feel his face reddening,”I wanted to kiss you right away if that was an option, and, um, well, you eat a lot of gluten.”

Bitty looked shocked for a moment, before smiling again and shaking his head. “You silly man, I would have run upstairs and brushed my teeth, gargled with mouthwash, whatever you needed me to do if you had told me you wanted to kiss me! And trust me, I will definitely be eating a lot less gluten in the future!”

Jack figured that the last fifteen seconds had been long enough to wait, and so he ducked down to kiss Bitty again, only pulling back to say, “I really like you,” a few more times. They took a brief break to extract the pie from the oven and write a note warning the other Haus residents not to touch it, but it wasn't until they heard the sounds of Ransom and Holster thundering down the attic stairs that Jack stepped back, ran a hand through his hair, and said, “So, about that breakfast... How does Annie's sound?”

“Perfect! I think I'll have to try one of those gluten-free pumpkin muffins they're serving...” Also on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15632469

[warlockwriter]

To Lose Thee Were To Lose Myself: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Chapter 4/10

Pairing: Gabriel/Sam

Chapter Word Count: 1744 (Story so far: 6474)

Summary:  Sam didn’t believe the “new man” speech from Gabriel, but he understood recovery and knew sometimes you just had to put on a brave face. He still struggled with his own recovery journey. Perhaps the two of them could help each other? And gank a few monsters along the way?

A/N: Begins right after 13x20 and goes canon divergent from there. Title from Paradise Lost by John Milton. Many thanks to @archangelgabriellives for the beta read and a couple of awesome suggestions/additions! Story is complete. I’m just trying the serial approach because I’ve never done it with a fanfic before.

Ao3 Link

When Sam drifted awake, he was briefly disoriented. Dean's breathing was even, and Sam's nose was filled with cheap motel funk mixed with old cigarette smoke. Those things were all normal. What wasn't normal was the warmth curled up against his back and the arm thrown casually over his chest.

Wait, what? Was Gabriel cuddling him? So much for not making things awkward.

Sam listened to his brother's breathing again. After so many years of sleeping in the same room, Sam could gauge to within in a few minutes when Dean was going to wake up. Based on the sounds coming from the next bed, it was still going to be a little while.

Which was good because Sam was actually enjoying the feeling of waking up in bed with someone, even if that someone was male and technically not human. Sam's bed had been empty for years, and, while he tolerated the lack, he really enjoyed being touched, which obviously didn't happen often enough in his life.

He closed his eyes and decided to appreciate this for as long as it lasted.

As he lay there, basking in the warmth, he gradually became aware of something moving against his back. He frowned, trying to figure it out. Then he got it. The movement was Gabriel's grace curling like slow waves under his skin. It wasn't something he'd ever experienced before, and he wasn't sure he'd know how to describe it if someone had asked him, but it was...nice.

As he lay there, the motion of the grace shifted, as if becoming concentrated in one spot. Okay, that was weird. What became weirder was the sensation that the grace was reaching out to him.

The warmth at his back vanished, and Sam heard Gabriel backpedaling off the bed. He cracked open one eye and saw Gabriel dashing for the couch. He threw himself on it and managed to look as if he'd been there all night.

Dean rolled over in his sleep, and Sam heard the rhythm of his breathing change. His brother would be awake soon. Which meant if Sam wanted the shower, he'd better get it now.

Pushing off the covers, he got out of bed, glancing over at Gabriel on the couch. One hazel eye was cracked open, watching him. Sam nodded by way of greeting, grabbed a change of clothes from his drawer and padded into the bathroom.

When he came back out, showered and changed, Dean and Gabriel were sitting at the small kitchen table, apparently bonding over coffee. "Hey, guys. Shower's free for whoever wants it."

Gabriel shook his head. Right, angels, even de-powered ones, didn't need showers. Dean gulped back his coffee and stood up. "Pack up, Sammy. We're going as soon as I'm out of there."

Dean walked to the bathroom, leaving Sam's plaintive, "What? No breakfast?" in his wake.

Sam packed his bag, which took only a couple of minutes. As he worked, he kept glancing over his shoulder at Gabriel sitting at the table. The angel hunched over his coffee, occasionally drinking, but mostly just staring at it.

Once his bags were packed and dropped by the door, he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite Gabriel. He listened to the sounds in the bathroom. At least ten minutes before Dean would be out.

"Hey," he said to Gabriel. "My brother apologized?"

The angel nodded. "Yeah. And told me that I could hang around pretty much as long as I wanted. Power or no power." He paused. "Your brother's more okay than I thought. I think my brother has been good for him."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, he's been a lot easier in himself." He wasn't sure how to ask his next question.

Before he could work it out, Gabriel said, "Sorry about this morning."

Sam tilted his head. "Sorry for what?"

The angel waved his hands, almost knocking over his coffee. "Umm. You waking up with me all over you. I didn't mean to do that."

Sam smiled, considered for a moment and then decided to chance it. He reached out and clasped Gabriel's forearm. The angel looked down as if he'd been burned, but Sam left his hand where it was. When Gabriel didn't pull back, Sam said, "Look. I didn't mind. I like physical contact, but-" He motioned with his head in the direction of the bathroom. "Dean's not much for that. So, I guess what I'm saying is that sometimes I get a bit touch-starved. It was nice to wake up to that this morning."

Gabriel just looked at Sam as if he'd been transported to a different universe where the laws of time and Winchesters didn't apply. "You're serious?"

"Yeah."

"But how can you be serious? What do you think is happening here?'

Sam shrugged. "No idea, actually. But I'm willing to figure it out as we go along." He noticed motion under his fingers. "By the way, your grace is still trying to do that thing. Should I move my hand?"

Gabriel looked at Sam's hand on his arm and nodded, although he looked reluctant about it. "Yeah. You need to know a bit more about what that entails before you say yes to anything else."

Sam nodded and removed his hand. His palm felt oddly cold.

The shower turned off and both turned to look at the bathroom door. "We can finish this conversation later," Sam said.

By the time Dean came out, they were both drinking coffee as if nothing had happened.

***

Halfway to the Bunker, of course, they had to stop for pie. While waiting for Sam and Gabriel to get back the previous evening, Dean had Googled for pie along the route and found Granny Scott's Pie Shop in Lakewood, Colorado.

Sam noted that Dean was in a particularly good mood, considering everything that was going on in their lives, and he was happy for his brother. If going back to Cas had this effect on him, Sam was all for it. There had been times when he'd worried that his brother had too little to live for, and if that had changed, it was all good.

Everyone ordered pie. Dean had apple with ice cream. Sam opted for pumpkin--it was the healthiest option available--while Gabriel went for lemon meringue.

Sam was checking a notification on his tablet when Dean motioned to Gabriel's pie. "I thought angels couldn't taste."

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noted Gabriel's utter confusion. "Where'd you get that notion? Did you see me all those years ago?"

Dean put his fork down on his empty plate and eyed the menu as if considering another piece. "From Cas. Metatron stole his grace, and he became human and had to eat like regular people. When he got his grace back, he said all he could taste was molecules."

Gabriel gave an elaborate eye roll. "Come on. You're taking the word of my little bro, who, I might add, has occupied his vessel for little more than a couple of years."

Sam continued reading the article on his tablet, only listening to the conversation with half an ear.

"Cas has been in that vessel for more like a decade, man."

"When you're as old as I am, that's an eye blink."

Something in Gabriel's tone caught Sam's attention. In the time he had known the archangel, he had heard humor, anger, fatigue, pain and exasperation in the angel's voice. What he hadn't heard, until now, was age. The age that only comes when you've existed for centuries, watching people be born, live their lives and die. Over and over again.

As quickly as it has come, it was gone, and Gabriel continued. "Anyway, I've been in my vessel for centuries now. It's a part of me and I'm a part of it. I've learned to experience its senses the way you do, while still retaining my angel senses. Give Cas a few more years. He'll get the hang of it."

"So you're going to continue eating candy like there's no tomorrow?" Dean asked.

Gabriel shook his head and took another bite of his pie before he answered. "No. Most of my sweet tooth in those days came from carrying Loki's power. Now my tastes run a lot closer to human normal." He looked down at his plate. "I like texture almost more than taste. And the best pie for texture is lemon meringue." He took another bite and held it in his mouth, obviously savoring it.

Sam took another bite of his own pie and appreciated the texture in a way he hadn't before. Huh. Gabriel might be on to something.

"Whatever. As long as you don't just eat rabbit food like Samantha here."

Absently, still finishing the article on his tablet, Sam gave his brother the middle finger.

Dean laughed but suddenly appeared to notice where his brother's attention was focused. "What are you reading?"

Sam looked up at two sets of eyes regarding him. He idly noticed that Gabriel's eyes looked almost golden in this light. "I think I've found a case. It's even on our way."

Dean sighed and pointedly looked at his watch. "Cas is expecting us in a few hours."

Right, because Dean just wanted to introduce his angel to the concept of texture. Sam's mind shied away from that thought almost as soon as he had it. He handed over the tablet. "Take a look."

With obvious reluctance, Dean took the tablet and started reading excerpts out loud. "Mysterious death. Throat torn out. Bite marks don't match any animal."

"Read the next paragraph," Sam prompted.

Dean swiped up and stopped. "Bodies completely drained of blood." He handed the tablet back to Sam. "Okay, definitely our kind of case." He looked at his watch again.

"Hey," Sam said. "How about this? Drop me and Gabe off. We'll work the case while you go get Cas." Suddenly realizing he was making some pretty big assumptions, he looked over at Gabriel, who seemed amused by the whole thing. "Assuming you're okay with that. I can probably work it myself if you'd rather stay with Dean. I can always hot wire a car to get back."

Gabriel shook his head. "I said I'd help you guys. Working a case is way more like helping than riding several hours in a car with Dean pining over my baby bro. I'm game. Let's do it."

TBC

Tag list: @sageclover61 @snips-snails-skittles @idabbleincrazy@ihaveallthesefeelsokay@calamitychaos @gryffindorofcabin21 @kydrogen-monoxide @everyoneforgetsadam

[bamby0304]

Season’s Special: Chapter 4

Summer: June

Summary: Life was simple. You worked at the local cafe, starting your days baking some pies before setting off to serve customers. Everything was routine, all year round. Nothing changed. As a creature of habit you were quite content living your life the way it was. But when a flannel wearing flirt walks into the cafe one morning you begin to wonder if maybe you’re missing something…

Over the next twelve months things start to change. Over four seasons your world is turned upside down… only question is, is it for better or for worse?

Masterlist

Warnings: Nope :):)

Bamby

You stood in the kitchen of your café, boxing up an order of cupcakes for a little girl’s birthday party. You’d spent the last couple of hours working on the fifty cakes and were now covered in icing sugar, coloured frosting and cocoa powder. Your hair was a mess, and despite the fact you’d thrown on an apron you plain lilac shirt and light blue jeans had still managed to get dirty.

Tom and Susie had been there every step of the way, grabbing whatever you might need and placing it on your work bench, serving customers, cleaning up the kitchen as you left it in disarray. You were truly thankful for the help- and secretly thankful they were quiet about it too.

Whenever you got to work on baking or decorating desserts the task took up all your attention. You could spend hours working on one cake alone, perfectly a new and creative design that would be the perfect match to a delicious cake. You took pride in your work and didn’t believe in handing over something you were one hundred percent pleased with.

Letting out a tired breath, you took a step back from the work bench, nodding to the boxed cakes. “Done.”

“Good. Now eat.” Tom came to stand in front of you, a plate in his hands, a salad and ham sandwich on the plate.

Your stomach grumbled in anticipation at the prospect of food. With a small smile in Tom’s direction you quickly untied your apron, tossed it on the counter, and took the plate.

Having been cooped up inside for hours now, you decided to take your food out to the park across the road. It was a beautiful day and you couldn’t see why you shouldn’t enjoy some lunch under the shade of a tree as you took in the sights of your town’s main street.

Walking out of the store and across the road, you spotted a vacant picnic table. Eyes set, you headed over, placing your plate down and taking a seat, finally letting yourself relax.

As you nibbled on your sandwich you watched people move about, waving and smiling at you here and there. You smiled back, always happy to see friendly faces. You looked out and over to the pond as well, watching the ducks float along the water happily. The sun was shining up above, not a cloud to be seen. It was a truly lovely day.

“Afternoon.”

You jumped, shocked, having not expected someone to come join you at your table.

Turning to the newcomer you found Dean Winchester taking a seat across from you, placing two small boxes of pie on the table in front of him, along with two covered take away coffee cups.

“Changing your order up, I see.” You smiled, turning a little more so you could face him properly.

“This is for you.” He noted, handing you one of the drinks and a slice of pie.

Surprised once more, you grabbed the drink and took a sip, finding that it was made exactly the way you liked it. When you gave him a confused look, he simply shrugged.

“Saw you sitting out here. You look like you’ve been working hard so I thought you might want a drink. The girl behind the counter made it for you.” He explained. “Plus, I didn’t want to leave without trying the new season’s special.”

Your smile found its way back onto your lips. “Rose apple pie.”

“I have to admit, I have never seen a pie look that good. It almost looks like an actual rose.”

“That’s the point.”

Chuckling lightly, shaking his head, he opened the small box and grabbed the fork that sat inside before taking a bite of the food. In an instant his eyes closed as a low and long grown fell from his lips.

Shifting in your seat, feeling as if you should leave to give him and the pie some privacy, but also unable to deny the fact that groan was seriously hot, you watched him eat the piece of pie in his mouth. You watched as he savoured every moment of it.

When he was finally finished he opened his eyes to look at you. “Now, I’ve had your apple pies before, and I seriously thought there would be no difference with this one… but I can definitely taste something new in it.”

You grinned. “That would be the secret ingredient.”

“Which is?” He pressed, but got no response in return. “Oh, come on. What’s it gonna take to get an answer out of you? It’s been months and you still haven’t even told me your name. You could at least tell me what’s in my food.”

“Love.” You teased.

“Ha, ha.” He rolled his eyes. “Seriously. Not even a hint?”

“Okay. A hint.” Shrugging, you offered him a lifeline. “Last season was something dairy. This season is something sour.”

“I was talking about your name.”

Shaking your head, you refused to give that up. “If I tell you that then there’ll be no reason for you to come around anymore. And I enjoy your company way too much to let you ditch me like that.” You joked.

“That’s not true. I’d keep coming back.” He insisted.

“Really? Why?” You grinned, waiting for the witty comment, but hoping for something nicer.

“The pies, obviously.” He answered as if that should have been obvious- which it really should have.

Laughing, you said no more as you dug into your own food, the two of you falling silent. It was nice, the fact you could sit there like that, eating, enjoying your drinks, taking in the park. The moment almost felt like it could be a date…

When you’d first met Dean and he’d overheard your conversation with Tom and Susie, you’d been mortified that he’d listened to your friends discuss your love life. But ever since then, you’d found yourself think about it a little more than usual. They hadn’t been wrong when they said it had been a while since you’d gotten out there.

But the store took up so much time, and it’s not like you’d ever been interested in anyone else around town. Maybe you were too focused on the store to take notice of anyone else though? Maybe Tom was right? Maybe you were a workaholic?

“Dean?”

“Mm?” He hummed his response around his mouthful of pie.

“What are you doing Friday?”

Eyes wide, he swallowed his food without chewing it properly, his back straightening as he looked you up and down.

You were expecting another witty response. You were sure of it. Most of your banter consisted of sarcasm, flirty comments, and a few jokes. Though with the way you’d met it wasn’t really a surprise you both fell into that habit.

But when he did speak, you found you’d been wrong.

“Nothing. I’m completely free.”

“There’s a bar in town that has really great burgers. You wanna meet up, have a few drinks, play some pool?” You asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Are you any good at pool?” He grinned.

Yes, you were. Harvey, the local barfly, had taught you a thing or two. But you weren’t going to admit that. Not when there was a chance Dean might offer to help you- which would mean he’d have to get up close and personal.

“I’ve played once or twice.” You shrugged. “But I’m not very good.”

“Well, then I’ll pick you up from the café Friday, 6:00.” Getting to his feet, he grabbed his empty pie box, and half-finished coffee. “See you around, baker girl.” He winked before turning to leave.

Watching him walk away, you found your mouth opening before you registered what you were doing. “Hey, pie boy!” Once he turned to you, you gave your best flirty smile. “The name’s Y/N.”

Bamby

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Season’s Special:

@sis-tafics

[alphacrone]

fake dating!zimbits ft. alicia & the gang

CW: coming out (more or less voluntary), pining, meddling friends, nosy mothers

Jack rushed into the kitchen with wild eyes and uncombed hair. It was Saturday, which Bitty knew was the only day of the week he allowed himself to sleep in. Jack hadn’t even changed out of his pajamas, and he was adorably rumpled as he slammed his palms down on the counter and stared at Bitty.

“My mother is coming into town next week,” he hissed, glaring like Bitty himself were responsible.

“Okay?” Bitty turned the heat off of the stove where he’d been cooking up a mountain of eggs. It was absurd how many eggs a handful of college athletes could eat in one setting. “Your mama seems like a lovely lady. Do we need to clean the Haus? Put Shitty in suspenders so he won’t magically lose his pants while she’s here?”

With a heavy sigh, Jack slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. “My mom is...nosy. I don’t want her poking around here, asking invasive questions, making assumptions.” Bitty raised an eyebrow at that; what assumptions could she possibly make about her son? He was straightlaced and serious to the point of being boring to the outside observer. Only people like Bitty and their close circle of friends got to see the Jack who was fun, who was a huge nerd and had an incredibly dry and dorky sense of humor.

“Well, none of us is gonna say anything bad about you,” Bitty told Jack, scooping some eggs onto a plate and grabbing a piece of multigrain bread to shove in the toaster. “If anything, Shitty’ll tell her nothing but the best things about being your friend. You know how he gets.”

“It’s not that,” Jack said, pouting in a way that should not have been endearing on a man of his age and size. “She just...tends to meddle. It’s frustrating.”

With a small laugh, Bitty grabbed the strawberry jam his mother had shipped him and set in on the table in front of Jack. When the toast popped up, he added it to the plate set it down as well. “Coffee?” He asked, already knowing what Jack would say.

“Yeah, please. But none of that sugary crap you drink.” A hint of a smile; an overused, stupidly cute chirp.

“Black as night and bitter as Hell,” Bitty said, handing him a mug. “Can I get you anything else?”

Jack looked up at him and shook his head, looking more awake and less troubled than he had moments before. “Join me?”

“Sure thing,” Bitty said. It had been many months since he’d been able to say no to Jack, and in moments like these he really didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  The entire hockey team attended Mrs. Zimmermann’s event to show their support (and get autographs). She was on campus as part of a series of alumni lectures, and gave a wonderful talk on the benefits of a liberal arts education in life after college. Even Jack seemed interested in what his mother had to say, and didn’t even whisper sarcastic comments to Bitty as he often did at events like this. Afterwards, the boys invited Mrs. Zimmermann to come back to the Haus for pie and beer, and she very happily accepted.

Bitty, of course, had prepared several hors d'oeuvres and two types of pie: maple-sugar-crusted apple, in case Jack had inherited his taste from her, and cherry, in case her Wikipedia page was correct in saying that her favorite drink was cherry Coke. The boys pulled out their finest cases of cheap beer and vodka, and a small party began in the Haus kitchen as several of the volleyball girls came by to meet the lovely and iconic Alicia Zimmermann, née Kennedy.  

By the time all of the hors d'oeuvres had been wiped out and Bitty was frantically throwing several trays of Bagel Bites and frozen taquitos into the oven, Jack and his mother had slipped from the Haus to take a brief stroll around campus. No one else seemed to notice, preoccupied with the last remainders of pie and the free-flowing alcohol. Bitty hoped that speaking alone with his mother would ease Jack’s anxiety about her visit. Deep down, Jack clearly cared a great deal of what she thought of him.

The walk, as it turned out, had the complete opposite effect.

As soon as the Zimmermanns returned, Jack stormed into the Haus and grabbed Bitty by the arm, dragging him upstairs before Mrs. Zimmermann had even wiped her shoes off on the HAUS SWEET HAUS doormat.

“Jack, what-?” Bitty began, but was halted by the truly devastating look of embarrassment on Jack’s face. “Are you okay?”

“I, uh.” Jack cleared his throat awkwardly, opening his bedroom door and motioning for Bitty to enter. “I have a...huge favor to ask.”

“What is it?” Bitty sat down on the foot of Jack’s bed, lacing his fingers together anxiously.

“Willyoupretendtobemyboyfriend?” Jack mumbled, pointedly avoiding Bitty’s eyes.

“What was that?” Bitty asked.

“Will you pretend to be my boyfriend?” Jack repeated, slower.

“Uh.” Bitty stared at Jack, not quite processing the request. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Jack said. “My mom thinks we’re dating and...I don’t know. The idea of it makes her happy. I couldn’t bring myself to correct her. And if she thinks I’m dating someone, she won’t worry so much about me being social or...normal.”

This was too much information for Bitty to take in. He stared down at his lap, feeling a little light-headed. “You are normal,” he said after a moment. “Why does your mom think we’re dating?”

Jack shrugged. “I think you remind her of my last...well, she thought he was my boyfriend.”

“You’re gay?” Bitty thought his heart was going to give out it was beating so fast.

Jack shrugged again. “Something like that.”

“Oh.” Bitty nodded slowly; he needed another drink. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jack repeated, tone cautious, almost worried.

“Yeah, okay, I’ll pretend to be your…” Bitty couldn’t finish the sentence. This was the worst idea he’d ever agreed to.

“Great, thanks,” Jack said, all but collapsing onto the bed next to Bitty. “She wants to take us out to dinner tomorrow. Us and the guys...Lardo…”

“Your friends?” Bitty filled in with a teasing look.

“Yeah. Friends.”

Bitty laughed, then felt his blood run cold. “Jack, if we’re pretending...you’re gonna have to say something to the others.”

This didn’t seem to scare Jack like it did Bitty. “Yeah. It’s been a long time coming, probably. They’re good people, they’ll get it.”

“Okay,” Bitty said. “I’ll, uh. Distract your mom with the Frogs and the girls and send the others up.”

“Thanks, Bittle,” Jack said, and his smile made Bitty’s stomach turn with longing.

“‘Course, Jack,” he said, already feeling his heart tearing in two.

  “I have...an odd request,” Jack said as Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster filed into his bedroom.

“I’m already wearing pants, brah,” Shitty teased, flinging himself onto Jack’s bed. “I think that’s more than enough odd requests for one day.”

“What’s up?” Ransom asked, settling down in the armchair across from the bed. Holster sat down on top of him, not seeming to care he was squishing his best friend. “You alright?”

“Um. Yeah. Well.” Jack heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I need you all to pretend Bittle is my boyfriend for the next 24 hours.”

The silence that met them was deafening. Ransom was staring at thin air, mouth open like when he was trying to remember something for class. Shitty and Lardo simply looked stunned, and Holster was actually glaring at Jack suspiciously. Eventually, he asked, “Why?”

“My mom thinks Bittle and I are dating,” Jack explained in a dull monotone. “And it would get her off my back to keep believing it.”

“So she thinks you’re gay?” Ransom asked, still looking like he was staring a puzzle he was this close to solving.

Jack shrugged. “No, she knows I like guys.”

Holster’s brows shot up. Shitty said, “Oh, shit. You didn’t have to tell us, man, if you’re not ready-”

Jack shrugged again. “I trust you guys. Just...don’t tell anyone else.”

“Of course, Jack,” Lardo said softly.

Ransom. “Yeah, you know we’ve got your back.” Holster mimed zipping his mouth shut, though he kept looking between Jack and Bitty with something akin to concern on his face.

“Wait.” Shitty stood up and moved to stand in front of Jack. “Why does she think you’re dating Bits? If anyone in this room was your boyfriend, it’d be me. I’m wounded, Mrs. Z!”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Once Bittle breaks up with me, I’ll her you’re my one true love, Shits.”

“Thank you,” Shitty said primly. He shot Bitty a mock glare and said, “Don’t steal my man.”

Smiling sweetly, Bitty turned to Jack and asked, “Would your mama mind terribly if we uninvited Shitty from dinner tomorrow?”

The shrieking, squawking noises Shitty made in protest were so loud they frightened a flock of birds from the tree outside Jack’s window.

  Alicia took them all out to dinner at the nicest restaurant in Samwell, Nola’s. It was rare that Bitty went to places with cloth napkins with his boys, but he’d made sure they all dressed appropriately before leaving the house. Even Lardo wore one of her less-arty black dresses, the kind she used for the end-of-year banquet and things like that. The menu at Nola’s was a standard yuppie fare, but Bitty was overjoyed to try their pumpkin gnocchi without having to pay out of pocket.

“Hey,” Jack murmured, nudging Bitty with his elbow as they discussed drinks and appetizers. “They have that wine you like.”

“Boxed?” Bitty joked.

Jack rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. “No, the one that got left behind at Hausgiving last year. Um. Boom Boom?”

Bitty snorted loudly. “What was that?”

“You know what I said,” Jack said grumpily. “It’s a syrah. I know you like that.”

Bitty grinned at Jack. “I do, thank you. But I’ll drink whatever the table’s drinking. Because I’m 19. And cannot order wine on my own.”

Jack gave him a curious look. “I always forget how young you are.”

“You’re the only one, then,” Bitty said drily. “I’ll be getting carded until I’m fifty.”

“Excuse me,” Jack said, hailing the waiter. “Could we get a bottle of Boom Boom syrah for the table, please?”

The man didn’t bat an eyelash, nor did he even look at Bitty for more than a millisecond. “Of course, sir.”

Mrs. Zimmermann smirked at them knowingly. “Jack, you don’t like red wine,” she said.

“No,” he said calmly. “But Bittle does.”

“Bittle,” she repeated with a fond laugh. “You’re just like your father. He called me Miss Kennedy for the first six months of our relationship, I swear. I thought I’d walk up to alter and have us both pronounced Mr. and Mrs. ‘Miss Kennedy.’”

“Goodness!” Bitty laughed. “What a ridiculous man.”

“Cute,” Lardo said.

“It was,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “These Zimmermann men are charming in their silly ways.”

“Maman,” Jack said, cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink.

“Oh, sweetheart, I agree,” Bitty said without thinking, patting Jack’s hand.

“FOINE!” Holster shouted, mouth full of bread.

“Five bucks in the sin bin,” Ransom said, almost as loud. “Pay up, Bits.”

Bitty scowled at them, but Jack pulled out his wallet and tossed a five dollar bill towards the middle of the table. “I’m paying for your wine,” he said sternly. “So no more fines until dessert.”

“Yessir!” Shitty said, casting a warning look at the others. Without missing a beat, Jack wrapped an arm around Bitty’s shoulders and pulled him closer. Bitty’s face burned.

“So, please, tell me how you two got together,” Mrs. Zimmermann said as the wine arrived. Bitty noticed she kept her voice hushed and paused as they waiter poured out their glasses, waiting until he was several feet away before looking expectantly at Jack and Bitty. It was such a careful little gesture, but it made Bitty sad in a latent, familiar way.

“Well, uh.” Jack clearly hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“We’re in a class together this semester,” Bitty piped up, swallowing back his nerves. “So we’ve been spending more time together, studying and baking- oh, and our early morning checking practices.” He was suddenly very thankful for the year of drama class he’d done in high school, before his time had been consumed by hockey. “I have a little issue with checking, and Jack’s been helping me through it. So we were just up at an unholy hour one morning, and I hadn’t had my coffee and Jack was trying to be patient with me but he got me in the gut hard enough to totally just knock the wind out of me and…”

“It was like a dam burst,” Jack said quietly. “And I realized what he meant to me. So I kissed him.”

Bitty held back a stunned smile. “And I nearly passed out from shock.”

“Hey, I bought you Annie’s afterwards,” Jack said defensively.

“Our first date,” Bitty teased, bumping his shoulder against Jack’s chest. “So romantic.”

“That’s so sweet,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. Bitty nodded and grabbed his wine glass to stop the shaking of his hands. The others were casting him and Jack a variety of odd, curious, confused looks.

“Hey, Jack,” Holster said, standing. “Can I talk to you outside for a second?”

“Um, sure,” Jack said, casting Bitty an apologetic look. “If the waiter comes, can you order the cobb salad for me?”

“One greasy cheeseburger coming up,” Bitty said with a smirk. Jack rolled his eyes and pressed a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek, leaving him reeling as he followed Holser out of the restaurant. 

“Is Adam okay?” Mrs. Zimmermann asked, concern evident in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, you know. Jack’s just a real good captain. You can talk to him about anything,” Bitty said, wondering how his wine glass was already empty.

“Well, before he comes back, I just wanted to say that I’m so happy you two are together,” Mrs. Zimmermann said, touching Bitty’s shoulder lightly. “I was worried he’d deny himself this kind of relationship, what with his career goals and all that, but I’ve never seen him look so happy and relaxed as he is around you.”

Bitty looked down, the first pricks of tears threatening at the backs of his eyes. “Oh. Um. Well, I’m happy, too. He’s a really great guy.”

“Yes, he’s a good boy,” Mrs. Zimmermann said. “I wish the best for you two.”

Before Bitty could respond, Holster returned to the table, looking tired. “Jack’s in the bathroom,” he said, looking pointedly at Bitty for a minute before turning to the rest of the table. “I’m starving. Do you think they’ll bring us more bread?”

As Mrs. Zimmermann was sucked into the group’s loud and obnoxious discussion of whether it had been Holster or Ransom who had eaten the most bread, Bitty slipped away to the small, one-man bathroom in the back of the restaurant.

“Jack?” He called, knocking on the door tentatively. “Are you okay? It’s Bitty, by the way.”

The door opened to reveal Jack standing there, face damp as if he’d just splashed water on himself to cool down. It darkened the collar of his shirt and soaked into his hairline. Somehow, Bitty still found it attractive.

“Holster said you have a crush on me,” Jack said softly, eyes darting around the empty hallway.

Bitty was going to murder Holster. “Oh! Um, he- he what-?”

“I think I have a crush on you,” Jack continued, looking down at his feet. “I. I really like this whole...being boyfriends thing. If you’d want to do it. For real.”

This wasn’t the most romantic location in the world, standing in the doorway of a cafe bathroom, but Bitty didn’t care. He surged up on his tiptoes to kiss Jack soundly on the lips, wrapping his arms around Jack’s neck when Jack’s hands found his waist.

Almost shyly, Jack pulled back to look at Bitty, eyes soft and adoring, then he kissed Bitty again, pushing him up against the wall across from the bathroom. Bitty wanted nothing more than to wrap his legs around Jack’s waist and let him have his way, but someone cleared their throat just to Bitty’s left.

Shitty stood there, beaming, arms outstretched. “Oh, you beautiful fuckers, c’mere.”

He pulled them into a quick hug and kissed both their cheeks like a proud father. “Ugh, this is too cute. Go back to the table before I throw up on you lovebirds.”

“I told you we should have uninvited him,” Bitty said as Shitty slipped into the now-unoccupied bathroom. Jack just grinned and kissed Bitty once more before they returned to a table filled with smug, excited friends and a very happy Mrs. Zimmermann.

[My writing tag]

[My online novel, The Discourt Knife]