#so i put down a light red/blue underlay for them

[ssawboness]

i can explain

[5lazarus]

Dragon Eyes: an Avatar-The Last Airbender Fanfic

Dragon Eyes

On a diplomatic mission to the Fire Nation, Katara leaves the children with Aang to have tea with Zuko and Mai. But the two of them have something they want to talk about. They've lived enough of fathers neglecting one child for the other, and they have seen enough.

Katara wishes they had propositioned her, rather than bring this up. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Years of travel in the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation have not made handling the heat any easier. Katara rejoices in shedding her layers, showing off some skin. Aang is entertaining all the kids—all of them, not just Tenzin, and Zuko’s daughter, too. She is relieved to have them out of her hair, to have the time to sit down and comb through her hair. She twists her hair into her old Fire Nation fashion and grins at herself in the mirror. She loves her hair loopies, but it’s nice to shake things up a bit.

Aang is taking the kids through the palace and tormenting the tour guide Zuko sent them with Ty Lee. Katara is taking advantage of the break. Zuko told her he’ll be in the garden with Mai, doing a tea meditation. Apparently they do that every morning, to keep a finger on each other’s pulse. At first Katara was nonplussed, wondering if that was a euphemism, and was slightly alarmed when he invited her to join them. Aang has talked about how the Air Nomads practiced polyamory. The Water Tribe does not. Katara does not.

It is terribly, terribly hot, humidity a caress on the skin, and she bends it cooler around her limbs, swiping the sweat away. Barefoot she walks down the tile path into the courtyard. Mai and Zuko are sitting by the turtleducks, drinking tea. Mai sees her first and raises a small cup in welcome.

Zuko says, “I told you she’d come.”

Mai rolls her eyes. “Hot tea on a hot day? Only offer this to Katara, not any other officials from the Water Tribe.”

“Fair,” Zuko says. He smiles at her. “Aang’s got the kids?”

Katara settles down at the tea table, one of those elegantly-carved pieces of wood that look deceptively simple and thus cost a fortune. Zuko uses wooden prongs to place a small porcelain cup before her and Mai. She touches it, eggshell thin. It’s warm.

“The tea tastes better that way,” Zuko says. Mai looks at him fondly. “Easier now that I don’t have to hide the fire bending.”

Katara smiles. “I really am surprised we didn’t run into each other earlier. Your uncle’s tea shop was so popular!”

Zuko hides his face behind his hair, and Mai puts her hand on his arm. Iroh’s death is still raw on him. She takes the tongs from him and begins pulling thin, silvery green leaves from a jar. She places them in a scoop made from bamboo.

“Bai hao yin zhen,” Mai says. “Early spring.” An eagerness underlays her usual drawl. Katara raises an eyebrow. She really likes the tea. Mai says, “Here. Smell.”

Katara leans forward. “The things I do for diplomacy!” She grins, and takes a cautious sniff. Her eyes widen, and she inhales deeper, drunk on the scent. “That’s like the sun!”

Mai smiles, and Zuko shakes himself out of his reverie to say, “Uncle always said the tasting notes were honey and sun fruits, after the rain. This is the new buds of a tea tree. There are other white teas, just as exquisite, that include the leaves, but I’ve always loved this one. It’s a treat.”

Katara says, “Well, thank you for sharing with me. If it tastes anything like it smells….”

“Uncle always served you red tea, right?” Zuko takes an open pot and closes a hand gently around its handle. The water begins to bubble. “He thought you’d like a deeper flavor. It’s good for the cold. But white tea cools me down.”

Katara leans back on her haunches, raising her face to the sun. She listens to the burble of the koi pond behind her, where Zuko has placed a shrine to Yue. Reparations, she thinks. Not enough: Sokka and Suki broke up, of course, and he has never quite been able to settle down since. She’s there, silent in the bright sky, and while it is not enough, at least the world is whole.

The courtyard is gritty under her hands, and she wipes at them, wincing at the soreness in the joints. She’s been stressed. These family trips are always stressful. Aang, for all his meditation, never seems to be able to focus on packing and he makes Bumi’s inattention worse, and then Kya gets upset that Bumi is bothering her and kicks up a fuss, and then Tenzin of course cries, and Appa covers him in slobber trying to comfort him, which makes him cry worse, and then he needs a bath, and then Bumi and Kya get upset, because the baby is the baby and the Airbender and everything, as Kya once screamed. She sighs. It is good to have some time in the sun, while Aang takes care of the kids, and have some intelligent conversation besides when she was having her next baby. She wasn’t. Three and a husband were enough.

Mai says, apropos of nothing, “Dragon eyes.” She slides the tea from the scoop into a gaiwan, shaking the leaves to spread them on the bottom.

Katara opens her eyes. “What?”

Mai says, “It means the water’s boiling. When the bubbles are that large, like dragon eyes. It means it’s the temperature that’s good for this kind of white tea. Though some brew it cooler—with crab eyes, rather than dragon eyes.”

Zuko takes his hand from the pot and skillfully pours the boiling water into the waiting gaiwan. He places its lid on the top, and pours it swiftly into another exquisite porcelain pitcher, almost translucently blue. Like blood, Katara thinks, and then banishes the thought. Hama wouldn’t like her here. The honeysuckle smell fills the garden. Zuko pours the tea, almost silver-green, into her cup.

He says, “Don’t drink. Just smell.”

Katara looks at him doubtfully. It seems like such a waste of such wonderful-smelling tea. The Fire Nation court has always struck her as excessive, though she is leery of people who prattle on about decadence.

Mai says, “You can drink it. But it’s the rinse, you rinse leaves like this the way you do rice.”

Katara says, “You ever cooked rice?” Zuko laughs, and Mai rolls her eyes.

“Very funny,” she drawls. “When we searched for Ursa. Eventually I got it right.” Zuko grins in a way that makes Katara think that perhaps she never did.

He points to the figure, painted in blue, sitting serenely at the center of the tea table. “Or you can offer it to her.” Katara picks up the porcelain figurine. It’s of a woman, a mother, holding a child close. She catches Mai’s eye. Zuko still hurts for his mother, for his father, for his cousin and his sister and his uncle. It manifests in such obvious ways, how he grieves his family. She doesn’t even need to hear it, but Zuko says it anyway. “It was my mother’s. Noriko, I mean.”

“Have you spoken to her recently?” Katara says carefully. She places the figurine back onto the table and unceremoniously dumps her cup over it, hoping it scalds through the paint. Families are complicated, Zuko’s insanely so. Mai gives her an amused look and does the same.

Zuko shrugs. “I just wish she’d talk to Azula. She hasn’t visited her once. And I know it’s hard, and you never really know when the lucid period will end, but—“

Mai says, “Loving Azula isn’t easy. It might get better when Ozai dies.”

Then they are silent as Zuko picks up the pot again and flash-brews the tea. It is hard to be sour with such a sweet smell filling the air. They don’t need to say it. It would have been better if Aang had killed Ozai. It is easier to come to peace with the dead father than the living disposed king and his mad daughter.

Zuko pours the honey-sweet tea into her little cup. She sips it, lost in its clear light taste. This is what the dew hidden in a flower tastes like, she thinks. She tries to slow down sipping at this minuscule cup, but too fast, the tea is gone. Zuko is smiling.

“Another cup?” he says, and she nods eagerly. “This was one of my uncle’s favorites. One of the many things he loved from the Earth Kingdom.”

They drink, reveling in the sheer loveliness of it. It’s like drinking light, Katara thinks. Earth and fire and water, in one cup. The warm porcelain soothes her aching hands. A muscle relaxes in her neck, and she lets her shoulders down. She rolls them, happy in their mobility.

Mai looks at her with an acupuncturist’s eye. “Pinched nerve?” she asks. “I can look at that. If you’re comfortable.”

Katara stops, cup halfway to her mouth. She’s going back to her original thought that they were hitting on her, which is flattering, but no. Absolutely not. She’s got enough going on, even if Aang wouldn’t mind, or even be into it. No.

Zuko leans forward. “There’s something we’ve been wanting to ask her.”

Katara’s heart stops. She puts the cup down, a little too hard. “I—uh—“

“Have things been alright with Aang?”

Mai’s mouth twitches. “I think she thought we were going to ask her something else.”

“Everything’s fine!” Katara blurts. Mai can be such a troll sometimes. “I mean. Traveling with the kids is always…a lot, but—why?” She’s irritated now. She has not been pleased with Aang, but three small children take a toll on communication in a marriage. She’s embarrassed that it has been that obvious. She fiddles with the figurine on the table.

Zuko and Mai exchange a look. They look like they’re waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Mai heaves a sigh.

“Bumi wrote Izumi something in a letter,” Mai says. She folds her hands in her lap. “You know how they’re friends. And it made her very upset.”

“Well,” Katara says. “If he was nasty to her, I’ll speak to him, but I don’t see what this has to do with my marriage. Bumi is—“ She stops. Bumi is always in the middle of things, fussing around, crashing into walls just like his namesake. She loses patience with him too often, she knows that, but Kya’s easy to distract with a waterbending lesson, and Tenzin just sits with his scrolls when Aang isn’t putting him through his paces. He’s so much like his father, an absolute whirlwind of energy. She’s privately thought it’s a shame he didn’t inherit his father’s bending, rather than Tenzin, but that is something she can not let herself think for long.

“He says he doesn’t think his father loves him, because he’s not a bender,” Zuko says. “Which I know is not right. But I have been in that position before. And he told her that Aang is never around, that he just travels from temple to temple with Tenzin, and he and Kya are just left at home. And that he’s worried about you too. It was a very…” He trails off, and looks at Mai.

Mai finishes, “The ink was smudge. He’d been crying. So we wanted to talk to you, because it scared Izumi. Because we both know what it is like to be ignored by our fathers.” She smiles thinly. “And the toll it took on our mothers.”

Zuko says, “I’m sorry if we overstepped, it was just—hard to read.”

Katara says, “Why didn’t he tell me? It’s—he does his best to present for the kids, but Aang has his Avatar duties, and as the last airbender, there’s so much he needs to teach Tenzin, so it’s just easier for him to bring only him along. Have you tried to move three children around the world on bison-back?”

Zuko looks wry for a second. “Well,” he says. “It depends if you count Sokka as a child.”

Mai puts her hand on his arm: not the time.

Katara says, “I wish it was better, but I knew I wasn’t walking into something that was easy. From the start. He could be a better father, but what can I do? What can I do?” She’s furious now, tears rising to her eyes, and she looses a ragged breath, surprised at her own fervor. Wordlessly Zuko pours her another cup. She downs it, barely tasting it.

Mai says, “If he’s not being a good father to your children and a good husband to you, you can leave. We’re not our mothers, Katara.” Zuko looks at her warningly. “Sorry. I don’t know how it was in the Southern Water Tribe, but for my mother, she thought she had no choice. But there is always a choice. Even if it isn’t easy. I don’t—“

Zuko says firmly, “You deserve better. Bumi and Kya deserve better. And Tenzin too. That sort of resentment between siblings is poison. I should know.”

Katara would have preferred that they proposition her. She closes her eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. Louder, she continues, “I know Bumi deserves better. From both of us. I know it hurts them. I can see it in the way they treat Tenzin. Kya already barely speaks to Aang. But. Tenzin is my son, too. And of course he and Aang would be closer. It’s just—if I take my children and go, I’m taking Aang’s family away. And I know the Air Nomads were different, he wasn’t raised to stay in one place, if you were a bender and a boy you’d be sent to the temple and that was it, but—“

“Bumi is Southern Water Tribe,” Mai says. “And even if his father is an Air Nomad, only his brother counts as one. Because of bending. And that isn’t fair for him. For Kya either, because they are both. And you know you need to do something about it.” Katara looks up, surprised at the emotion in her voice. Mai stares at her steadily. “Katara, you saved the world. You’re the hero of the Fire Nation, the Painted Lady, the chief of the Southern Water Tribe. You deserve a husband who is a coparent to all your children, not just one.”

Katara says, “You don’t—“ and then there is a crash and a scream and the sound of raucous laughter as Aang comes running in on an air ball, Tenzin nipping at his heels.

“C’mon,” he yells behind him, “faster, you snail sloths!” He and Tenzin pause, perched on the air they so effortlessly bend. Tenzin looks a little harried. Bumi comes running in, panting, then Kya, and Izumi at a more sedate pace.

“That’s…cheating,” Kya says. She grips at the wall. “That wasn’t fair!” She is genuinely angry, almost at the brink of tears, and Izumi bumps her reassuringly. Bumi throws himself on the ground.

Tenzin says pedantically, “You didn’t say no bending.”

Izumi snaps, “Maybe it didn’t need to be said!”

Aang jumps onto his feet, and Tenzin follows. Kya is crouching over Bumi now, muttering to him. Mai’s face is a stone. Zuko is blushing.

“What’s up?” Aang says, grinning. “Did I miss anything fun?”

Katara pours herself a cup rather than answering. She considered the heat and sweetness in the air. With a flick of her risk, she bends it over the mother figurine, washing her clean.

“Oh, you know,” she says. “Diplomacy. We’ll talk about it when we get home.”

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.04

Officially Family

10/03/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 4,265

Warnings: Language?, a wee bit of angst, sexy blonde kings wearing floofy shirts

A/N: So, this chapter was actually intended to be joined with what will be the next chapter but I think having them separate will do better. There’s a lot to digest in this one, so I hope it reads well even though it’s a little on the shorter side (for me). Let me know what you like/love/had to think about whatever! As always, if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo

It feels like a dream, sitting in the carriage as your new life looms closer and closer with every turn of the steel and wooden wheel.

Across from you, his Majesty is staring at you. Sussing out your lack of reaction to what happened last night.

~~~~~~~~~~

Happy has your arm, carefully leading you down further and further into the castle. Deeper than you’ve gone yet, and when he finally stops, you’re sure that you’re in a dungeon somewhere because there are no windows, only diffuse candlelight every few steps.

You can hear the subtle drip of water and the scurrying of tiny feet.

An echoing meow tells you that it’s probably just cats and their kittens inhabiting the deep parts of the castle.

“Why are we down here?” You ask, frightened that maybe his Majesty really is upset with you.

What if Happy lied? What if King Rogers was not happy with you and because you failed to entice him, King Tony is going to have you chained up in a cell?

“His Majesty’s other office is down here. Just at the end of the hall. I’m not supposed to go with you, so...” He hesitates in letting your arm go. “Can you make it there on your own? You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

You look down at your pretty white gown with its pink underlay and the way even down here in the dim it seems to shine like a pearl. The bottom layer is dirty now, both from your fall and from dragging it down along these dirty floors.

“No. I’m fine.” You think.

Happy lets you go. “Just straight ahead. Last door at the end of the hall. Don’t bother knocking. He’s expecting you.”

You watch as he turns away from you and with one final glance back to make sure you’re alright, he disappears up along the gray stone steps to the daylight above.

Fear will get you nowhere. So, you shove it aside and march straight for that door at the end.

You give yourself one moment of hesitation to take a deep breath and prepare yourself for what might be a trap but as the heavy door swings open, you find yourself facing a golden mask, devoid of humanoid features save for the glowing blue eyes of what you’re sure must be magic.

You take a deep breath, a scream working its way into your throat before the golden face shakes its head and then it speaks.

“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t scream.” His Majesty’s voice says. He throws one hand out towards you and you watch the slit of his metallic lips that do not move as he speaks.

Somehow, despite there being no real opening, his voice is amplified. The golden armor, which you now see is to accentuate the massive amounts of red that he’s wearing, extends down to his sternum, shoulders, and arms.

It’s there in his arms that the armor begins to weave with regular leather plate armor, deep red. In his hands shine two large orbs of light like that which comes out of his eyes. At the center of his chest is a glowing blue circle that you suddenly realize is the design you’d first noticed on his servants’ armor. The coachman and the footman.

The rest of his outfit is thick, sturdy red linen and cotton, black leather belts around his waist that match the darker shade of his leather pants. Golden boots rise high up to his knees where golden shin guards with red leather beneath complete the look.

He reaches up behind his head and with a small click, there’s a hiss and he pulls off the heavy metal mask and then pops it underneath his arm as if he were holding nothing more than a child’s ball.

“This probably won’t be the worst thing you’ll catch me doing.” He teases, then moves towards you.

You almost step back, but you remind yourself at whose invitation you’re in the castle and that this man is no longer just your king but your father.

“Please, say something.” He rolls his shoulders nervously, dark brow drawn together.

“You’re the Iron Knight.” You gasp, nearly breathless.

“It’s not really Iron. It’s a new metal. Lighter than iron. Titanium is what they called it where I found it. I added some nickel. Makes it easier to move in. Here, try it on.”

He holds the mask out to you, and you take a step back, this time simply refusing to wear the mask not fearful.

“No thank you.” You frown at him, wondering what he’s playing at offering to let you try it on.

“It won’t bite.” He chuckles but puts it down on a table which finally draws your eyes to the rest of the room.

In essence it is a massive dungeon. It’s tall and wide with a vaulted ceiling supported with thick stone pillars. There are also countless tables along two of the walls, some metal, some wood. So much gear is stacked on each table. Different shin guards and boots, shoulder guards, and wristlets. There are a few chest pieces like the one he’s wearing, works in progress.

He’d been standing right at the center of this collection of tables, a target dummy made of straw and burlap sacks at the far end of the dungeon room, singed at the head.

“I think I’ve finally got the aiming down.” He tells you, and you wander over behind him as he lifts his hand and aims it at the dummy. “Careful.”

His warning makes you step back, but he puts his hand out towards you to make sure you’re safe.

There’s a subtle buzz. A hiss, like fire but not exactly fire. It reminds you of the initial crackle and spark of a fire but it’s chaotic in its power. It buzzes louder and louder until there’s a loud fizzing sound as the blue light explodes from his palm.

It lights up the room but soars across to strike the dummy right in the center of its chest.

“Wow!” You nearly yell, the booming in your ears deafening still.

His Majesty turns towards you with a smirk, a cat’s grin as he peels off the gauntlet he’s wearing and with it the chest piece it’s attached to.

“Is it magic?” You ask him, hearing going back to normal.

“Science.” He counters, piling his armor up on the empty table where he’d placed his mask. “And a little bit of magic, yes.”

“What kind of science?” You wonder, knowing nothing about science, your curiosity is peaked.

“Chemistry. It took me a long time to figure out the right combination but a little copper sulfate, some special water, a few other ingredients and of course, the magic that gives my little light show a nice blue glow.” His Majesty says.

“And the magic?” You ask him, desperate to understand but already completely lost. Copper sulfate?

“It’s a root. Nothing I’ve ever seen before. Grown by one of the witches in the East woods. She taught me how to do it and how to use its properties.” He explains.

“You got instructions from a witch?” You wonder, shocked by this revelation more than knowing that he is the Iron Knight.

“They’re not all bad. Some of them just wanna be left alone. It’s her own creation. The root.” He places the last bit of his armor aside then massages his wrist.

“Does it hurt, your Maje-”

“Ah, ah.” He frowns at you, his bearded lips contorted into a small pout.

“Father.” You correct yourself. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m alright. And it’s Man, by the way.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Iron Man. Not Iron Knight. I don’t want people to think he’s of noble birth.” He explains.

“Oh.” You think. “But you are of noble birth.”

“Yes. But I want people to feel like anyone could be the Iron Man. They should all feel like they can take power back in their own kingdom whether it’s from an oppressive lord or a schoolyard bully. My people should be able to stand up for themselves.” He says passionately, moving to sit on a stool and roll up the white sleeves of his shirt.

“Anyway,” He begins, “Let’s forget about the Iron Man for now. Steve has written back about your portrait.”

Oh, man, there are those nerves again. You can feel the lightheadedness working its way back in.

“And wh-what did he say?” You lick your lips and move to stand closer.

Tony reaches into his vest pocket and unfolds a piece of paper before holding it out for you.

“Read it.” He tells you, and hesitantly you take it.

“I-I don’t know how to read just yet.” You admit, feeling shame once again.

“Sound it out. You know how to say your letters, right?”

Damn. Okay…time to give this a try. “First word is ‘I’.”

Easy enough.

“Good.” Father says.

“I ‘C-A-N’ with a t? Can’t?”

He nods.

“Wooo-wuu-wah-it?” You say the word a few times in your head. “Oh, ‘wait’?”

Another nod.

“I can’t wait…t-o..to. I can’t wait to ‘mee-eet her.’” You beam up at him, then look back down at the painfully short note. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“Okay. You’re too slow. That was torture. Give it here.” He reaches for it and you hurry to hand it to him then move around behind him to look over his shoulder at the words.

“Tony, I can’t wait to meet her. She has nice eyes. Bring her tomorrow. We can marry the day after. Sincerely, His Royal Majesty…blah blah blah…you get the picture.” Father begins to fold up the letter, but you throw your hand over his shoulder gently, reaching for it.

“Can I keep it?” You smile at him, neck and ears burning.

“Sure, kid. Keep it.” He hands it over then gets up and moves to his tables of scraps and projects.

“Did he really say that I have nice eyes?” You unfold the piece of paper and look for the word eyes. How was that spelt again?

“Yes. He says that about every girl though, so don’t get your hopes up.” He says, dashing your dreams.

“Oh.” You sigh, moving to sit on the stool he’d been on.

“Don’t worry, kid. It just means that he isn’t sure what to think. He’ll have more of an idea when he sees you in person. I saw the picture and it doesn’t do you justice. You’ll knock his socks off.” He promises. “You’re my kid, remember?”

You nearly smile but you’re reminded that in two days’ time, you’ll be married.

“I want to make him happy, father.” You sigh, melancholy.

“You will. Just…don’t rush it. Get to know him.” He looks up at you and stares right back into your own sorrowful gaze.

He puts his tools down and moves to you, placing his hands on your arms.

“Look, I know what I’m asking of you. I didn’t even want to let Morgana do this because I want her to have what I have with her mother.”

“It’s okay.” You smile and give him a shrug.

“But it isn’t.” He frowns. “You deserve to marry for love to, Y/N. And I’m sorry for being selfish enough to ask you to do this for us, but-”

“I think I am.” You admit, sadness overtaking your chest to make it ache. “I’ve never met him. I know that he will not be what I’m expecting but Natasha has told me about him. About the person he was before Queen Margaret died and if I’d had to choose the qualities that I would want in a husband, he has almost all of them.”

“But he’s different now. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of this?” You ask him, nearly laughing.

“No.” Father says, shaking his head, no laughing for him. “No. What I’m trying to say is don’t give yourself to him completely. Not for a while. Keep your guard up and don’t let him break you.”

“Is he really that altered?” You wonder, no more worried than you were before.

“He’s not the same Steve. If you have to love him, love him in secret. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t give him that power over you. Promise me that you’ll think about yourself first.”

You know that he means well but becoming King Rogers’s wife…it means dedicating your life to the crown. To your future people. To your husband. Maybe, just to appease him, you can give him a little lie?

“I promise. I won’t let myself fall in love with him completely.” You smile at him and he relaxes.

“Good. Now, about your dress…”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Father…” You begin, “You’ve been staring at me for half an hour.”

He looks at the Queen beside him, Pepper, mother to you now. She’s smiling at him knowingly. She shakes her head at him and then looks out the window.

“Sorry. I’m just…about what you saw last night-”

“I won’t say anything.” You promise him. “And anyway, nothing happened last night. I didn’t see anything, so I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I told you, you have nothing to worry about with this one.” Mother tells him.

“I didn’t think I did.” He replies with a gruff.

“He was up half the night, worried that he’d scared you.” Mother tells you.

“Pepper…” He grumbles.

“I know that this is all for show.” You start, smiling at them as they look away from their silent argument to you. “I know that it all kind of just happened and I was at the right place at the right time, but I appreciate your kindness. It’s been a long time since I’ve had parents and this past week has almost felt like I’ve had them back.

“I know it isn’t real but, you really do feel like my mother and father and I’m grateful. Thank you.”

For a moment, while you thank them, you let your mind think of them as they truly are. Your King and Queen.

They exchange a long look before they both reach out to take one of your hands. His Majesty the right, and the Queen the left.

“From the day that we took you in and until the day that you die, sweetheart, you will be our daughter. We’ve already added your name into our family register. You are now and forever officially a Stark. We can never repay what you have given not only us but your sister as well.

“When we find her, we’ll make sure she knows what you did for her.” Her Majesty says, eyes slightly misted.

“Kind of feels like we’re on the losing end having to lose a daughter we just found.” His Majesty says, and you nod with a smile, knowing exactly what he means.

“Once I learn how to write properly. I will write all the time.” You promise.

Her Majesty gives a small chuckle then the carriage jerks to a stop.

“We’re here, your Majesty.” Peter’s voice chimes in from the front of the carriage.

Time to meet your future husband.

~~~~~~~~~~

Father gives you a new dress. Beautiful silk sky blue fabric with white lace sewn in at the bust and wrists. The top of the sleeves are slightly puffed, and the skirt flows out, more lace along the bottom. It hugs your figure and Natasha ties your corset extra tight today, if only to accentuate your bosom.

“Maybe he’s a breasts man?” She shrugs.

Your neck burns.

She leave your hair down, as instructed by his Majesty, your father, long wavy curls left to flow down along your shoulders.

On your head she places a simple diamond tiara, small sapphires spread throughout the base to accentuate the blue of your dress.

All too soon you’re moving with hastened steps behind Natasha towards a room called the council chamber.

As you walk, you take the opportunity to look the castle over.

You’ve been in such a rush that you hadn’t really allowed yourself a proper look. You know that there are large round towers made of pink granite, the main structures of the castle are white marble. The roofs you can see a you pass yet another window—as they are numerous in this castle—are a dark blue slate. The colors go well together and make an aesthetically pleasing palette.

Inside the colors are darker, with deep chocolate oak wood walls and dark gray floors and ceilings. All the light fixtures however are in shades of silver and gold, bright colors to illuminate the darker tones of the interior.

There are also plenty of colorful carpets, pictures, and vases with flowers. Your future home is very warm in its décor and if it is any indication as to the style of the man you are about meet, you may not have anything to worry about after all.

You find Peter already waiting inside the room with Mother and Father also standing off to the side. Natasha shows you in, straight to the center of the room before a large high-backed chair embellished with golden etchings along the arm rests and back.

As Natasha fusses over your dress and hair, the rest of the room is absolutely silent. The nerves in the quiet are enough to drive you mad.

You wish someone would say something. Anything.

You’re already dying of nervousness. Why can’t they try and alleviate your mood?

Wringing your hands nervously, you turn to look at father who gives you an encouraging smile, mother also looking kindly.

Peter is chewing on his lip and Natasha moves to slap your hands away.

“Stop that.” She gasps.

“I’m nervous.” You admit, grieving silently.

“Me too.” She agrees.

“What?!” You gasp, quietly.

“What?” She shrugs. “I’m nervous for you.”

“I thought you said you knew him?”

“I did. Before his wife died.” She sighs. “He’s changed since then, and I don’t know what he’s really like anymore.”

It feels like you’re about to burst into tears when the large double doors behind the tall chair—which you now realize is a type of throne—open. Instead of the blonde you’ve been itching to finally see in person, your heart relaxes when a familiar long haired and blue-eyed knight enters the room.

He stops beside the throne and looks at father first, hand on his sword while the other is straight at his side.

“Your Majesties.” He bows politely, then turns to you. “Your Highness.”

The smile he gives you is one of encouragement and you appreciate it.

“His Royal Majesty, King Rogers, wonders if he and the Princess might be left to meet alone?” James meets Natasha’s eyes and you can see a quick silent communication between them before she’s reaching down for your hand.

“Listen, don’t speak until you’re spoken to. Smile if you think you should. Don’t mention the old Queen, and definitely don’t slip up about…well, you know. Keep conversation light. No swearing.” She’s rushing through these instructions and fussing with your hair and dress.

Your heart begins to panic.

“You’re leaving me?” You whine.

“Just for a few minutes.” She promises. “I’ll be right outside that door. Okay?”

“Nat…?” You swallow hard, wishing your nerves away. “What if he doesn’t-?”

“He just has to marry you.” She reminds you. “Nothing else matters. Once he’s married you, then you can worry about making him fall in love with you. Alright?”

“What if-?”

“It’s time.” She smiles. “Once step at a time. Good luck, your Highness.”

She pulls her hand out of your own firmly, and follows your mother, father, and Peter out of the room the way you’d first come in.

As the doors close, Natasha sends you one last smile before she’s out of sight.

“Nervous?” The deep familiar voice asks, and you turn to James with your breath held.

You nod. He’s wearing an outfit similar to when you met him two days ago, only today it’s dark blue instead of black.

“Don’t worry, Princess. I was there when he saw your portrait and-”

“Please don’t raise my expectations, Sir James.” You sigh. “I can’t stand it.”

“Bucky, your Highness, if you please. And if that is your wish…I will show his Majesty in now.” He offers, and gestures to the doors he’d marched in through.

You nod and watch as he leaves the room again.

For sixty long seconds you stand alone at the center of this large room where chairs line the walls. You consider making a run for it because anything is better than this waiting and then suddenly, he’s there.

Behind the chair, he walks in, wide steps made by long legs. A narrow waist hidden underneath a form fitting aqua blue vest, silver trimmings embroidered along both sides of his wide chest and collar. Underneath the vest is a plain white blouse cinched at the wrists with a small ruffle around the base of his hand where it then puffs out slightly. He looks cool, as if the fabric were flowing with a relaxing breeze.

His lower body looks powerful, muscled and thick covered in dark gray trousers, but your eyes linger there for only a moment because you’re already searching for the kindly blonde face you’ve been staring at for days in the portrait you have.

What you find instead is long blonde hair, not as long as Bucky’s but long enough to flow in waves along the sides of his face, parted along the middle. The clean-shaven face from the portrait is covered in a thick neatly trimmed beard. It all comes together to make a manly visage. He might tear solid logs in two if he tried, he looks that strong.

He’s older than he’d been in the portrait you have and there’s a sadness in his storm blue eyes that is there instead of the blue sparkle of curiosity you’ve come to expect.

He walks with his hands behind his back and stops a few feet in front of you, staring at you just as you’re staring at him. Appraising you.

He’s just as beautiful as he is in his portrait but still a little different.

Suddenly, you remember yourself and you quickly curtsy, averting your gaze down to his black boots.

Neither of you speaks as you bow and the endless minute that you just endured spreads into a few endless more.

The silence is deafening and when your legs finally begin to ache, you shut your eyes to force yourself to remain in position.

“Stand up, your Highness.” He says, his voice is deep and even. Full of authority and impatience. A little colder than you expected. “I trust your trip went well?”

Slowly you stand up, finally tearing your eyes away from his feet to look back into those storm blue eyes. They’re not sad anymore, rather, they look slightly annoyed. Angry? No. Irritated.

“It was a very good trip, your Majesty. Thank you for asking.” You reply, a little too quiet because you haven’t been breathing.

More silence. He stares at you. Relentless. No smiles. No hint as to what he might be thinking. Only a scowl, thick eyebrows drawn in at the center, eyes brooding and sad. Like he wants to say something but won’t.

Finally…

“Why are you doing this?” He suddenly asks, taking a step towards you.

“Your Majesty?”

“This marriage. This whole thing, why? You could have anyone. You’re a princess.”

“I…” How do you answer that honestly? Natasha did say you’d have to lie on your feet. You hadn’t expected for it to be this soon. “I want to-to make my father happy.”

“Mm.” King Rogers says, understanding this reason but also unsatisfied. “Any other reasons?”

And as you stare at his handsome face, you know that what you’re about to say is most definitely not a lie, so you’ll tell him. At least there are some things you’ll be able to be true about.

“When I saw your portrait…” You begin, wondering if this is giving away too much. No…it’s good for him to know where you stand, right?

“My portrait? What portrait?” He asks, taking a step towards you but not moving forward.

You hurry to grab the compact from your dress pocket and unhook the clasp to show him.

He moves in closer, the heat of his body overtaking you and momentarily dulling your mind.

“When I saw it…I decided that I…I wanted to make you happy.” You admit and look up to find him staring at you, brow furrowed even deeper.

His stern expression makes your hope waver. What does it mean? That intense glower?

“That’ll never happen.” He tells you, his voice hard, defensive.

“Your Majesty?” You ask, slightly confused.

When he speaks, his voice is intimate, quiet, and sure. He says it right beside you, close enough that his whisper is as loud as a shout and it hits you just as hard. The pleasantness of his voice making your skin pimple while the harsh truth in it fills you with dread.

“You will never make me happy. Never.” He promises, then moves away from you back towards the doors behind his throne. “We’ll get married in the morning. Tell Tony I accept his offer.”

As he vanishes from view, taking his beautiful brooding face with him, he leaves behind the tiny shreds of your hope, completely eviscerated by his cool declaration that you—specifically you—will never make him happy. Never.

[xadoheandterra]

@redvsbluesecretsanta of 2020 for @averagejoey2000

This took longer than I like to have written, but in being perfectly honest writing Grimmons is...not something I’ve had a lot of chance to practice, so it was an exercise in focusing on Red Team. It turned...out interesting. Not really so much as being openly gay/bi. It’s really just a lot of Griff pining with supportive Sarge, but...it IS Grimmons. And uh. It’s more mushy then I usually write. Soft red team and all that. And ah, slice of life is HARD. :/ So slice of canon life? (except not?)

I write angst for a reason. Mushy stuff is...hard. Some angst might’ve crept in, but I tried to keep it light and soft. I hope you enjoy it?

Power and Pine

Griff rolled himself over and stared at the ceiling with a tired sigh. He wondered if Simmons was awake; what time even was it? Half a glance at the alarm clock--and he hated the alarm clock; it went off at ass o'clock in the morning--let him know it was 2am. Griff muffled a groan, well aware that his bunkmate was bound to rip into him if he even so much as woke up the hard-ass. Taylor didn't understand anything except regulations and rules. Hell the fucker made the kiss-ass that was Simmons look like a rebellious teenager! Griff scrubbed his hand over his face and contemplated every utter mistake that had led him to this moment, awake at 2am, in a room with a bunkmate who couldn't care less if Griff lived or died, with Simmons just down the hall but unable to even so much as go and bother the ginger haired young man.

For a moment Griff laid then, thought maybe he could roll over and slip back into slumber and pretend that his bunk was the bunk back at Blood Gulch. For a moment Griff contemplated that chance--and then he quashed it a second later as his eyes slipped closed and he could see the way Sarge sat him down, peppered hair cropped short, face helmet free and pulled down into a grimace. It was the last clear memory of the man that Griff had, set in the mess hall of Blood Gulch, in the aftermath of Agent Texas and Blue Team.

"Son," Sarge said, voice gruff but softer than Griff had heard in recent months. Griff was used to Sarge's more callous nature; the man had gruff, toxic masculinity down to a fucking art form, and while at least eighty-five percent of it was pure bullshit, there'd always been an underlaying slight sadistic glee behind most of the insane stunts Sarge liked to pull. This softer, near kind Sarge had thrown Griff for a loop the first time it happened--after the accident with the puma that had near crushed him--and it no less put Griff off-kilter now. "I want you to listen, and listen well."

"Sir?" Griff had replied, voice pitched slightly with confusion. He was in fatigues instead of armor, safe in Outpost One after the bullshit of the last week. A neutral ceasefire had been called by Church, and agreed to amazingly enough by Sarge, in the aftermath of the dropship and the Freelancer Agents. There would be no shenanigan's or chicanery or anything of the sort in the foreseeable future.

"Command is going to relocate our team," the words were blunt, but they settled into Griff like a lead weight. He knew all about being relocated. First it'd been when the UNSC had deemed him unfit to continue service, and then when his service file had been picked up by Freelancer. He'd been deemed unfit to serve a second time and relegated as worth only a grunt, something to be used as potential canon fodder in training simulations. When he'd been picked for Outpost One on Blood Gulch it seemed like a fucking godsend--until now.

Still, Griff decided to be obviously obtuse because fuck they weren't going to separate them, were they? Despite their ups and many downs, the insane trips and troubles they went through, Sarge had been the best commanding officer Griff had ever had--and a part of that Griff knew came from the fact that the man was a failed out old helljumper. Sarge understood the actual horrors that evolved out of the UNSC as much as Griff did; he knew what being relocated to Freelancer, and then relegated to grunt work, actually meant.

"Are we finally getting an upgrade then?" Griff said, and Sarge gave him this look. The man knew what he was doing, and he wanted none of it. Griff looked away.

"As much as I wish we were getting a damn good retirement package," Sarge said, "that is not the case." His words were blunt, not coated in the typical insanity Griff was used to hearing from the man. "The orders haven't come through yet, but it's looking more like we're going to be split apart."

No, Griff wanted to curse, and he spat something out under his breath, something unfavorable, even as he made his protests clear. Sarge raised a hand.

"I know, son." A pause, then softer, "Dexter." Griff swallowed heavily. "I have a request of you, if you will." For a moment Griff said nothing, and so Sarge barreled on. "I'm going to try and keep you and Simmons together. Lord knows that boy doesn't have a lick of sense if it came and bit him in the ass; he'll need you to keep him out of trouble."

Griff snorted; he'd been doing just that ever since he met the skinny ginger haired menace. Half the shit Griff had gotten up to before coming to Blood Gulch had been trying to keep Simmons' ass out of the line of fire. It was far too pretty to waste the way most troopers in Freelancer went, although Griff could hardly tell Simmons that. He hadn't known the man well enough back then. Now? Well now it was because he knew the guy too well.

"I will, Sarge," Griff said instead. "Do you...have an idea of where they might reassign us to?"

"Not a one," Sarge grumbled. "Now I gotta go and try and talk some sense into that weaselly fuck up at Command. Keep an eye on Simmons while I'm out, y'hear?"

"Aye sir."

Griff muffled a sigh and opened his eyes. Yeah he wasn't getting any more sleep tonight.

"Stocking duty?" Griff drawled as he stepped into the storage room of Rat's Nest, a slight grin curled up under the helmet of his power armor. Visor buried in an open crate to manually count each individual roll of toilet paper, one hand wrapped around the PDA inventory list, Simmons grumbled near unintelligibly. Griff leaned himself against the side of the doorway, hip cocked to the side, as he took in the other. Even with the bulky power armor Simmons' lithe form was a treat to see, especially after a hard day stuck cleaning the mess hall in a base that barely let him feel comfortable.

"Shut up, Griff," Simmons grumbled out, voice tinny behind the helmet.

"You know you can do this in your fatigues, right?" Griff said, and Simmons huffed as he pulled his head out of the box.

"Eighty four," Simmons mumbled absentmindedly and marked something off on the PDA. Then he looked up and Griff could imagine him arching his eyebrow above his remaining organic eye. "I could say the same about you. Why are you in full power armor, Griff? I thought you hated the stuff."

Griff shrugged. He didn't say anything in response; he bet Simmons already knew. It was the same reason Simmons was doing something as simple a inventory management in full power armor, after all. Neither of them felt comfortable in Rats Nest. The the way they had back at Blood Gulch with Sarge at their backs. There they could at least trust that the bullet in the back or the explosion off to the side was not truly malicious in nature. Here all they could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. For a moment neither of them said anything, then Simmons turned his head back toward the box which he tugged closed and slipped back onto the shelf.

"Have you heard from Sarge?" Simmons asked. The bitterness that once coated his voice those first few days at Rats Nest were long gone now; Griff had worked hard to get the ginger to accept that Sarge contacted him and not Simmons because it was easier and not due to any failing on Simmons part. After all Kaikaina was allowed to contact Griff since they were siblings. It was through her that Sarge contacted Griff; Rats Nest at least could care less what Griff's sister had to say aside from laughing about what recent drama she'd written about.

They never noticed that over half of the nonsense Kai sent him was just that, nonsense. Griff doubted his little sister was honestly throwing illegal rave parties and orgies in Blood Gulch, or that she was dragging Sarge into that mess by his own damn pubes, forcing pot brownies onto him to get him to chill. Kai got up to some ridiculous shit, yeah, but she knew how to bullshit even better. Griff had taught her everything he knew, after all, before he'd been drafted by the UNSC.

"Nothing new," Griff said instead. "He's been left to do as he will in Blood Gulch. I think Command finally gave up on relocating him as long as Kai's there after the mess he made of the last dropship."

Griff and Simmons had quietly had a laugh about the dropship that had 'mysteriously' crashed while attempting to transport Sarge to his next assignment. The old fucker had survived thanks to not actually being on the dropship at the time. Kai'd laughed her ass silly in the message, words peppered with loud booming rave music that drove any eavesdroppers away from the video.

"What about Donut?" Simmons asked, even as he pulled out another box.

"Some sort of diplomatic mission, it sounded like?" Griff shrugged. "I don't know how he swung that. UNSC doesn't like to touch us troopers for anything." It wasn't a lie; any trooper in Freelancer was a trooper because they weren't worth the hassle in the regular outfit. They were misfits, drop outs, failures of all kinds. Either they weren't fit for actual live combat, or had some other glaring red flag in their file. In Griff's case he knew it was the raging depression and suicidal tendencies that came from being the sole survivor of his unit.

In Sarge's case it'd been the PTSD of his helljumper days. Too good to really let go, too fucked up to keep on the payroll.

Griff couldn't parse where Donut fell on the spectrum of trooper bullshit. The man was a damn good grenadier; good enough to fuck up a Freelancer Agent. How he hadn't been snapped back up by UNSC before now Griff didn't understand. Maybe it was the fact that Donut was a walking, talking lawsuit waiting to happen. He spat out innuendo like it was going out of style--every other word from that man's mouth as filthy as one could get.

"Huh," Simmons muttered. "I thought he'd be shot by now."

"You know, me too." They lapsed into a period of silence. Griff watched Simmons move; he wondered if he could get the other out of power armor for a little a while. They both needed a damn good few moments of R'n'R between the two of them. A chance to destress from being so on alert here in Rats Nest could only do them both a world of good.

Maybe, also, Griff missed seeing Simmons face. The freckles that coated pale cheeks, or the way the mess of red curls went every which way. Hell even the metal graft that surrounded the artificial eye was a sight Griff hadn't seen in far too long. Some days he could catch a glimpse of Simmons, if he looked in the mirror and stared at the left side of his face--the place where Sarge had grafted pale skin and implanted one lone blue eye to replace the crushed and damaged brown one. Sometimes, alone in the wash room, he'd stare into the mirror with that one eye and imagine it was Simmons who stared back at him, who drank in the scars that melded the skin graft to his face, how it blended into the parts of his skin that were caused by vitiligo that he'd once been embarrassed about.

With a sigh Giff shook his head and straightened from the doorway. He came in for a mop and bucket, not to get distracted by Simmons. The base commander was bound to give him another stern talking to at this rate, for being so slow in such a simple task. He couldn't help it, though. Simmons was the only thing that felt even the slightest bit like home these days.

"Mops and buckets?" Griff said, instead of uttering any of his thoughts.

"Back left corner," Simmons replied, distracted by the task of counting inventory. Griff's comment of thanks went unacknowledged. They both returned to work without anything else said between them.

One moment they were in Rats Nest, uncomfortable and unwelcome. The next life turned into a whirlwind adventure that Griff didn't know how to name, with the crazy insanity that came from Blue Team and the AI that they tried to pass off as a human. The drama was something they could practically drown in, and really Griff could do without all the crotch shots from the other AI that had single handedly put them out on their ass. And of course Blue Team got themselves their own crazy Freelancer in the midst of it all, as if the first one hadn't been bad enough. Some days Griff wanted to bash his head into the wall and never wake up.

"Hey Griff have you seen Lopez around anywhere?" Simmons came up from behind him and it took Griff all of his willpower not to jump. His heart rate skyrocketed either way and he clutched at his chest, bare of the power armor because they were safe here even if here was full of insane would-be retiree's who didn't know the meaning of safety if it bit them in the ass. Yet Griff loved it, somehow, even that mad cow Caboose could be a riot when he really got going.

"Have you been practicing being a ninja?" Griff said as he turned around, and then felt his throat close up from another emotion. Simmons had his hair actually down. It wasn't regulation length anymore; he'd let it grow longer and Griff knew that but he hadn't actually seen Simmons with his hair in anything but tied up and out of the way. Today he apparently chose to let his hair hang loose about his shoulders, held back lightly with a tie that did nothing to stop the racing of Griff's heart.

"Griff?" Simmons asked, and waved a hand across Griff's vision. It snapped Griff back to reality and he wondered how long he stared at Simmons. "You okay?" Simmons looked at him, concerned. His eye was wide and so blue that Griff had to shake himself for a moment to get his heartrate under control and to just breathe.

"Yeah, I'm fine," the words came out more squeaked, but could you blame him? He hadn't seen Simmons this relaxed in what felt like years. Was that a smudge of oil across the man's cheek? Heaven have mercy. "Just...ate something bad, I think."

Simmons frowned and reached a hand up to feel against Griff's forehead, to which Griff fought back the urge to stare.

"Hm, a little warm. You should rest. I'll ask Sarge about soup for tonight," Simmons said.

"I'm fine," Griff grumbled. "I don't need Sarge's damn stew. Really, Simmons." Simmons lips quirked up into a little smirk and Griff had to look away.

"I'll tell him you want seconds, then," Simmons said, like a devil, and turned around and left the room. Griff stared after him, mouth agape for a second. He wasn't ashamed to admit his voice hit a pitch that was embarrassing in retrospect, but really. No one could stomach Sarge's stew, and Simmons knew that. By the time Griff got out into the hall, Simmons was long gone.

Griff was not ashamed to admit he whimpered just the slightest bit. Sarge was going to murder him.

Chaos defined their life for what seemed like years, leading all up to this very moment--this place in time. Griff scrubbed his hand along his face as he stared down at his naked lap, the haze of the past twenty-four hours finally washed away with something like regret and longing that curdled in his gut. He couldn't look at Simmons, because somehow despite the years working together and secretly pining after a face he couldn't name Simmons was still Simmons. He was Richard, or Dick, even though he could've been. Just the same Griff wasn't Dex or Dexter even though Simmons ought to know his name now with how often Kai screamed it at him either in rage or out of sheer whining because Griff refused to pay attention to her.

The only other person who used his name was Sarge, but even then it was for rare occasions when the man grew soft enough to speak it. Typically it was son if he was being affectionate, Griff if he was being authoritative, but oh so rarely was he Dexter. Griff swallowed heavily and forced himself to look over to Simmons, who leaned against overturned boxes and breathed heavily, a still somewhat dazed look across his face like he couldn't believe what just happened. Honestly neither could Griff if he were honest. What kind of hell planet had they landed on to have something like this among the civil war insanity?

"Simmons?" Griff said, and when that didn't garner a response he uttered, "Uh. Hey. Dick?"

Simmons wrinkled his nose a little at the nickname, rolled his eyes, and sat himself up with slow carefulness. He didn't say anything at first, and Griff wondered if he should just offer the out, let the man breathe and not have to worry about his sanity or his sexuality or whatever ran through Simmons mind like a herd of cats. Griff imagined what would happen if he did so--he could see how it would play out. They wouldn't talk about it. It'd become a shameful thing, hidden, secretive--and then Griff would be alone. Like always. Maybe he'd go insane. Maybe he'd jump off that deep pool of his barely clung to sanity and just turn into--into something unnamable as life churned out more crazier and crazier stunts raised to attention by Blue Team and how everyone he cared about was just dragged along for the ride.

"I wonder if Kimball knows how that system functioned," Griff heard Simmons mumble, half to himself, and felt his heart jam up in his throat. "Some sort of pheromone maybe? Like a roofie or--"

Griff choked on his spit, and then said quickly, "Dick!" to which Simmons snapped his head in Griff's direction, face flushed red even as he mumbled analytical scientific nonsense under his breath. The words paused at the name, though, which Griff hoped was a good sign until he realized Simmons had his nose scrunched up.

"Don't call me that," Simmons said shortly.

"Okay Richard--"

Simmons looked away and muttered a short, "Don't--you just--it was just--"

Griff swallowed his fear, reached out, and grabbed Simmons by the hand. "It's not...pheromones. Or whatever." Simmons stilled and Griff found within himself the courage to forage on. "I didn't--it wasn't because of whatever that misty shit was, Richard." Simmons looked at him, stared at him with a stiff spine out of the corner of his eye, cheeks as red as his hair. "You--you get that, right?"

A second, a beat, then softer, "What are you saying?"

Griff clenched his hand around Simmons and said, "I'm saying I like you."

Simmons laughed, a bit tinged hysterical. He uttered a short and sharp, "Of course you like me that's how pheromone--"

"I love you."

Silence. Griff breathed out, slowly, and took the chance to barrel on while Simmons froze and stared at him with a face that said something that Griff didn't want to interpret in case he was wrong. "I've loved you for a while honestly. I just didn't want to screw everything up when we were at Blood Gulch and you'd given me your organs. Or when we were at Rats Nest and uncomfortable with things. Then when we got to Valhalla you seemed to finally relax and I couldn't just--I couldn't break that so--I mean this didn't happen from nowhere I'm not some animal. I love you and--and yeah maybe I would've liked to tell you someway other than--I mean the mist was weird but it didn't--"

Soft, plaintive, Simmons said, "You love me?" like he couldn't believe it. Griff ducked his head. He felt like a fifteen year old school girl even as he nodded, cheeks flushed out of his own embarrassment that he just blurted things out like that. "But--"

"Is that ok?" Griff said, and he was afraid at how vulnerable he sounded.

"I--Sarge--" Simmons spluttered, eyes wide. Griff snorted. He could figure what Simmons meant; the man looked up to Sarge like a father.

"Pretty sure Sarge knows," Griff grumbled. The man did keep telling him to man up, and he wasn't subtle with all of his teen girl magazines that he tossed into Griff's face when they were alone.

"And he hasn't shot you?" Simmons hissed, surprised. Griff jerked back, equally surprised by the terror in Simmons' face. Not for the first time he wondered just where Simmons came from, how he got into the Simulation Troopers, to result in sheer terror over--what? Sexual attraction?

"No?" Griff said, voice cautious. "Why would he?"

Simmons looked around, and then hissed, "Because your gay?" and Griff jerked back.

"Bi, actually," Griff said, words shorter. He wondered if he read Simmons wrong. "And so's Sarge. I mean he's got one helluva crush on Master Chief, and then another on those old vids of some chic called Lady Gaga." Simmons jerked back, surprised. "But then you know that because he doesn't ever really shut up about it. Right?"

Simmons looked caught out, surprised. "He's...not making jokes?" Simmons said, a little more hesitant, a little more like the Simmons Griff knew. "It's not a 'man crush' thing?"

Griff let go of Simmons hand and scrubbed a hand down his face. He said softly, "No, it's not. You--you thought he was joking?"

Silence, and then a moment later Simmons asked, "Uhm. Can you--can you call me Rich?" Griff found himself smiling.

"Sure. And it's Dex," Griff said. "Dexter if your Sarge, or mad at me." He reached out, touched Simmons face, and leaned in to give him a kiss then paused. "This ok?"

Simmons blinked, murmured, "Yeah. It's ok."

They spent a few more hours in the closet together.

Two days post the mess of mist-inducing sex on the planet Chorus Sarge walked up to Simmons and Griff and patted them both on the back. He addressed Griff first with a sharp, "Attaboy. About time," and then turned to Simmons and said. "Let me know if he mistreats you son," and then without a word sauntered off with a pep in his step. Griff blinked after him.

"Damn," Griff mumbled, "Sarge got some." Simmons let out a hysterical half sort of laugh like he couldn't believe what Griff said, but Griff knew Simmons caught it just the same. "Wonder who?"

A few minutes later a cheerfully humming Emily Gray danced her way down the hall, dressed in civvies, and Griff and Simmons exchanged a glance. They promptly decided they did not want to know who. It's not like it mattered anyway.

[anavakarian]

Day 26: past

Ok, I have to admit that this is a very long blurt out, but I just want to see more actual conversations between these two!

Read it on AO3

It was one of those evenings, lazy, idle, early Spring, that brings scents of newborn flowers and sunlight. And especially there, in the middle of the forest, at the Warehouse. 

The rising temperatures had finally dried up the accumulated mud after the heavy winter snow and crescent light gave infinite brushstrokes of a renovated green palette. The vast majority of sprouts had reawakened already, green stems poking out everywhere, and new buds awoke back to life on the trees. But the first flowers to grow were, like always, daffodils: they had already covered the field surrounding the Warehouse with a wild layer of fluorescent yellow. 

But despite the obvious changes in temperature and climate, the weather had decided to give the last breath of its bad old habits, unleashing the most unwelcomed storm that weekend. Meaning that my plan to go to the shore with Verda and his family had been postponed, to my disappointment. But I completely understood that the lightning, thunder and the water pouring from the clouds was not the perfect frame to visit and play by the seaside with two little girls.

To top it, all my attempts of going back to my house had been frustrated by a bunch of concerned vampires that seemed to know beforehand how bad the storm would become before I was even able to hear the first raindrops falling. Now, the narrow road that led to the main one had turned into quicksands that impeded any vehicle to drive through. 

And that is how I find myself stuck in the Warehouse for another weekend with Unit Bravo. Although, this time, there are no missions, no assignments, no meetings… Nothing to do at all. 

Not that I’m complaining: it's always fun to be around Felix; Mason is… definitely caustic, although that doesn’t have to be something bad; I will be able to catch up on some research with Nate and, perhaps - and just if the stars aligned correctly - even train a little bit with Adam. Although, this time, I will try my best to not end our sparring with a heated hold against the floor, even if, since it happened, I haven’t been able to brush the whole scene from my mind at all. 

For this Friday evening, I decided to build my fortress in the library, surrounded by my ‘pending list of readings to catch up with’, feet up on the sofa, joggers, tank top, and a comforting glass of red wine. 

And it seems that ‘stubborn minds think alike’, as Adam enters the library with a book and his own glass in his hand. He sits on the opposite side of the 5 seater sofa - as far away as he can from me - without any words at all and opens the book in his lap. 

I glance at him over the pages of the ‘Fae Compendium’ I’m reading just to admire his perfect posture: both feet flat on the floor, straight back and, just for once, relaxed shoulders. My gaze lingers distractedly over the outline of his discreet Roman nose and the squared profile of his jaw before sliding down towards the broadness of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his arm, stretching the sleeve of his before-usual grey t-shirt. Cargo trousers and more military attire have been recently removed from his wardrobe and replaced by smart clothes - shirts, chinos, shoes… - more according to his rank and the peculiarities of their work in Wayhaven. Although Mason was all scorn and smirks at Adam’s noticeable change of essential clothing, Felix dropped something about him trying to impress someone… And despite Adam’s emotional constipation, I became quite aware that someone was clearly me.

He confessed that ‘I was everything’ and we held hands at the Carnival. It doesn’t seem much at all, but there’s also this insane pulling between us every time we are together. I cannot put words on it. It feels… natural. Good and right. Even if he drives me insane with his sternness and his stubbornness… Although I have to admit that I’m also guilty of the latest, too. 

But despite that magnetism or chemistry that pulls us inevitably, neither of us have made any approach effort since the Carnival. Adam… well, because he’s Adam. And me… because it feels somehow correct to wait for him to make the next move. At the end of the day, he’s the one who seems to be struggling to understand what is going on between us. My interest has been laid bare at his feet. Many times. But I’m still waiting for him to decide what he wants to do with it.

As if feeling my concealed and thoughtful stare, his icy green eyes met mine and my stomach flips at being caught. However, I lock my eyes boldly in his, even if I feel my cheeks reddening and the tips of my fingers and toes tingling with excitement. 

“D’you know…? It’s usually polite to say hello when you get into a place and find someone else there,” I tease him with a matter-of-fact tone.

Adam’s lips curl up a little bit in return. “I apologize, Detective. You looked quite immersed in the reading. I didn’t want to bother you.”

I hum noncommittally as an answer and go back to my book. And, after feeling his gaze lingering for a little longer over me, Adam goes also back to his. 

The silence feels comfortable and that is one of the things that shocks me the most about our relationship: even if the tension between us is a permanent tangible thing, I can perfectly sit with him for hours, just reading or filling out reports… when we are at ease with each other.

I shake my head, trying to stop thinking about him, and I go back to my book. 

“Fae supernaturals healing abilities are definitely better than human beings. However, the recovery time differs depending on the species and the nature of the wound. 

On the next chart, there are examples of the most common traumas in comparison with the species and the healing time for each of them…”

Shit… I like history, mythology, psychology… And can even do with some biology if necessary, but this is too much for a Friday evening. 

Twenty minutes later, my boredom is starting to win the battle. Distractedly, I run a hand through my pixie haircut, brushing the close-crop part at the back of my head. 

I have to admit that I love the raspy feeling of short hair on my fingers. 

It makes a quiet brushing sound that seems to catch Adam’s attention. I can feel, more than see, how he glances at my subtle movement over his book. 

And I meet his eyes, emerald green washing over me with intensity. 

His gaze snaps away from mine nearly immediately and there’s a rushed rustling when he turns some pages, clearing his throat. 

But I keep staring. And I’m bored. And sudden curiosity sparkles in my mind. 

I knew it before, the fact that Adam is more than 900 years old, basically because he told me. But I never got to think of the implications that it meant and I’m heavily struck by it. Like if suddenly understanding that he has actually lived, walked over the Earth, for 900 years. More than 9 human lives! 

And I’m utterly gobsmacked and even lightheaded just thinking of it. 

In less than a blink, a ton of questions pile up in my mind and itch in my tongue - history, customs, anthropology, religion… - and I decide to finally dismiss the Fae, trying to decide if I should ask them or not. And I’m sure he notices my hesitant stare by the way he shifts his weight a bit. But what really took him off his reading was my fingers tapping insistently a regular and unnerving pattern over the hard book cover in my lap.

He turns his head at me, emerald green finally meeting sapphire blue. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I lie. 

He gives me a condescending gaze, arching a blonde brow, and the gesture is so incredulous and yet so encouraging that it makes me speak my mind. “I was just thinking of how old you actually are…”

His eyebrows furrow nearly immediately, drawing a deep set of creases between them. Perhaps my admiration has been misunderstood under the boldness of the statement.

“I mean that you have lived for many years and over so many historical periods that I just find it difficult to understand...”

“What is it difficult to understand?” His words are spare and his tone, stern, although there’s a hint of honest curiosity behind them, encouraging the conversation despite his frown. 

Speaking to Adam is like feeding a stray cat: you never know exactly when you’re overstepping your proximity, although I’m fully aware that he enjoys some old good snarky comments and clever retorts sometimes… But they can also scare him away in the blink of an eye. 

“How are you still sane, for instance?” I declare with a shrug, the Fae book resting in my lap, open awkwardly, forcing its spine. 

It’s obvious that my question takes him completely off-guard. After some silent seconds, analyzing the teasing and the meaning of it, Adam chuckles quietly. “That’s a very good question, indeed… Sometimes I ask myself that same exact thing.”

It seems that I passed the test. For now. 

“It’s just… I can’t wrap my mind around it. Nearly 1000 years are loads of years!”

“They are, trust me. I’m well aware of it.”

I can’t avoid the feeling that he’s mocking me now or being sincere. It is difficult to tell when his expression is so serious most of the time.  “How were things? When you were human, I mean…”

His expression suddenly changes: from a thin friendly grin to pursed lips. Adam examines me with a critical eye before speaking. “Are you going to turn this evening into a personal interrogation, Detective?” His words are laced with reluctancy but it doesn’t take me by surprise. 

I asked something too personal. I stepped too far.

However, he hasn’t retrieved just yet the book that he had left closed over his thighs, which means he might be keen on carrying on talking.

I try to solve the situation, swiftly explaining my intentions, giving him an honest look back. “I’m not asking you about the specifics of your life, but about the world around you, if that makes sense?” 

“And why would I do that?”

Curiosity underlays his words and I use it on my behalf. “Because you can ask me anything you want in return?”

He breathes in deeply, considering, still eyeing me carefully as if he was about to sign a contract with the devil himself. 

I am nearly losing my hopes that he would offer himself for that little game when Adam nods, closing his book and putting it aside on the coffee table, retrieving his glass of wine. Then, he bends his leg and rests it on the sofa, shifting his whole body to face me. 

He looks… relaxed. Younger with no traces of a frown or his usual stern expression. At ease as I’ve never seen him before. And devilishly handsome.

A rush of nervousness jolts in my body and I completely forget what I wanted to ask, realizing - despite all the odds - how deeply I’m falling for that man. The sudden desire of reaching out for him and tracing his perfectly chiselled jawline with my fingers overwhelms me for an instant. 

But that would be too much. It would be stepping too far, again. 

Whatever battle he is dealing with himself about us, Adam is the only one who can solve it, and I don’t mind waiting. 

Although I don’t fully understand what is going on in his mind.

“If we are going to do this, you’ll have to be more specific, Detective: I cannot tell you everything about the Early Middle Ages…”

I don’t wait for him to finish the sentence, closing my book and putting it aside as well. “How was life? How were the living conditions?” I ask with eagerness.

He scoffs. “That’s far away from being more specific...” However, he quietens and thinks for some seconds. “Life was… tough. And brief, but intense. And dirty. Death was as ordinary as breathing. People died. Illness, famishing, wars… Many of us were lucky to survive our childhood. The culture was kept locked in the monasteries and life was impossible to conceive without religion. Nobility fought against each other for more land, vassals or resources… that was everyday life.”

I retrieve my glass of wine from the table, rolling the stem in my fingers distractedly. “You’re painting it very bad…”

“It was very bad. They are not called the Dark Ages in vain.”

“Did you only live in Normandy?”

“Mostly. Except when my family got involved in wars of vassalage agreements with the feudal lord or the king. But I would rather not talk about it.”  

That is clearly my cue to drop the topic, but I am just curious about one last thing. “Ok, can you indulge me with this one? I guess that you belonged to some sort of nobility back then… Did you? Did you have a castle?”

The tips of his lips curve up on a soft grin. “Minor nobility. And yes, we did have a castle.”

“Well… that explains so many things… Like why you boss everyone around, for example.”

My comment makes him chuckle and I’m delighted to hear the sound, rich and warm. The fleeting view of dimples made me smile in return, trying to take in as much as I can of it. 

But I’ve got many more questions to be answered. Honest historical curiosity. “Did the system work back then? Feudalism?” 

“I suppose it depends on who you ask. It obviously worked for the feudal lord, but trust me that the vassals and the peasants had a very different opinion about it. The wealth and the land belonged to the lord, as books say. And they only responded to the king. Peasants had many taxes to pay. Most of them were paid in kind, as they didn’t have anything else to pay with. That led to hunger, and hunger led to war and death.”

“It is not an optimistic point of view at all…”

“It was what it was.”

“When did things start to change?”

“Believe it or not, when religion started to ease its grip over everything and education and science made their appearance. During the whole Middle Ages, the culture was based and contained in monasteries. Normal people didn’t have any sort of education and mostly everyone was illiterate, including some nobility, too…”

Curiosity strikes me and I can’t help but interrupt him. “Were you one of them?”

Adam gives me a chiding look. “No, I was not. My family took our education very seriously. But as I was saying, things began to change when knowledge started to be more accessible to everyone. It was still mostly reserved for wealthy statements of society and nobility, but it made a whole difference after some years.”

I nod my head, sipping from my wine and he mirrors my gesture. Questions blurt in my mind: now I know he had siblings for sure, so I file the information up in my brain for another occasion, perhaps.

“Is our current government system better?” 

“Definitely, although many things can still be improved. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I mean… I think our system is quite unfair and wealth and power are still very badly distributed, but I haven’t known anything else. Obviously, you have a wider perspective of how things have changed or improved.” 

His seriousness turns into a very thin smile, but there’s a mischievous tone underlying his question. “Are you agreeing with me for once?”

“Oy, I agree with you more than often,” I say, faking indignant, making him arch an incredulous brow. 

“Anyway, there are still many places that have a close-to-feudal government system and I will give you that, even in ours, the power and wealth are not fairly distributed, yet. But I suppose it’s a matter of time. Probably a long time.”

I nod my head with the certainty that, unless anything changes, I won’t be alive to appreciate the expected changes. But a new line of questioning bursts in my mind. “Have you been to any of those countries?” I ask, suddenly curious about his own experiences over 900 years.

Adam shifts again on the sofa, leaning his side on the back of it, and his top stretches gracefully over his tightened biceps. “No, Not recently. Our last assignment took us to different areas of South America, where some countries still have a ‘curious’ political situation.”

“Wow… You must have travelled quite a lot in 900 years…” It was not a question but a statement.

“Yes, I have. What about you?”

His question takes me by surprise. At this point, my human life seems too boring and far too mundane to have any interest at all. My brain stammers in finding a proper answer to it. “I… I don’t know. Well, yes, of course, I know. Not as much as I would have liked to, I suppose.” 

I am fully aware of the vagueness of my answer by the way he quirks his eyebrow at me, demanding more information.

“I wasn’t very specific, was I?” I ask, scrunching my nose. I don’t have to wait for his answer to carry on. “Ok, I went to uni, I got pissed when Rebecca pulled back my application for the FBI and I put everything on standby. I got a backpack and I set off to Europe. I was ‘on the run’ for two years, but that’s why I babble in so many languages. Do you speak any languages?”

Adam purses his lips and I see a flick of embarrassment on his features. “Latin, English and French… Only because I learnt them when I was a child,” he confesses. 

“How so? I had very high language expectations for a person that has lived over 900 years…” I tease him.

I find it quite funny the way he tries to explain himself. “Well… French and English have changed considerably since Medieval times… French had been quite important for many centuries. Back in time, more than half of Europe spoke French. And then English grew up to be the trade language: there was no need to learn anything else at all...”

“Fair point, I suppose…” I have to admit. “Or perhaps you were just being a bit lazy…?”

His smile widens. “I suppose you can also put it that way… I’m not… gifted for languages,” Adam admits, to my surprise. But before I can tease him further, he puts me under the spotlight, once again. “Where did you live? When you travelled to Europe, I mean.”

His interest seems genuine and it encourages my explanations and makes me a bit nervous, indeed. “Florence and Rome in Italy, suburbs of Paris, Berlin, Barcelona and Santander in Spain, London, of course, Budapest for a little while, although the language was too much for me…”

There’s a shine of admiration in his emerald eyes. And curiosity. “That’s quite a long journey for just two years.”

“It was… I quite enjoyed it: meeting new people, getting to know every secret and hidden corner of the cities… I didn’t do bad: I usually shared accommodation and worked in many crappy places.” I smile melancholically at the memory. “Rebecca also financed part of the trip, trying to buy my forgiveness. I suppose she felt guilty for ruining my expectations within the FBI...”

Even if my tone is easy, there’s still a sharp bitterness lacing my words and Adam notices it. He knows how bad the relationship with Agent Greene is. And, unlike Nate and Felix, I do really appreciate the fact that he has never tried to fix it, probably understanding the harm done and the fact that it was not his business at all.

“You clearly liked that life, why to come back here?”

I sigh with deep resignation. “I wish I could have stayed travelling… One day she turned the tap off. I survived for some months, but my income was not good enough and, sadly, my studies were quite criminology/psychology orientated to begin a brand new career in a different country.”

“But why come back here, to Wayhaven? You could have gone anywhere else.”

I chuckle bitterly. “Come back here was the last thing on my list, trust me: it was not in my plans at all. But they offered me the job and the promotion right after on a silver platter. An easy and shooting career, I have to admit. Not many people get to be a detective in less than a year. Of course Rebecca had something to do with it, but who cared at that point.”

Adam hums quietly, meditative. “I have to admit that, after having worked with you for some time, you are fairly competent as a detective.”

Wow, is that a compliment? Coming from him? About my skills as a detective? 

His face is totally serious and I’m secretly glad that we are past the stage when we headbutted each other every day about our leadership disagreements. “Thank you, I suppose. It means quite a lot, coming from you and I do really appreciate it. Anyway, it’s my turn again. What is your craziest story about travelling?” I enquiry, sipping some wine.

“Are we talking about missions with the Agency?”

“No, not really. Something curious, funny or unusual… I don’t know. Whatever!” 

Adam thinks for a little while, emptying his glass in the process and I give him some time for it. Definitely, 900 years are many years to think about. 

“I think it was travelling the Silk Road little after its popularity grew within the West of Europe… It had been quite popular for some centuries already in Byzantium, but I think I must have been one of the first travellers from the Northern regions… Probably the palest person no one had ever seen there, or that’s what I deduced by the way everyone treated me. Once we arrived in Asia… It was quite common that people stopped me to touch my hair or my face as if they couldn’t believe I was real… Obviously, my features were quite different from the people that lived there… Probably they hadn’t seen anyone so white before...”

I can’t help but snicker at his words, picturing the situation like something taken from a film. “Well, it is true that you’re really pale. Perhaps a sunbathe from time to time would help with that…” my brain supplies, all witty.

He gives me a chiding look, one eyebrow arched up. “I wish it was that easy but trust me, it doesn’t work that way at all, Eve...”

My name sounds warm and sweet like honey on his lips and a thrill of pleasure runs down my spine thinking of him calling my name in many very different contexts, probably with fewer clothes involved. 

“That’s a shame… I’m sure it would be quite a sight,” I return, flirty and mischievous. 

Damn it! Sometimes I can’t just help it… But, to my surprise, Adam meets my gaze with a rather playful smirk and seems about to retort something back to me. 

But, suddenly, his expression turns grave and he quietens, whatever he was about to say dying in his lips. 

Perhaps it’s better not to pursue that line of conversation anymore. 

I hear some steps on the corridor, even and unhurried. They stop in front of the library door and I turn my gaze to it, expecting Nate’s tall figure to come inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I perceive how Adam stiffens, still looking at me, but I’m sure he’s listening carefully to whoever is in the corridor. After some seconds, the steps resume, getting further away from us and he seems to relax again.

I won’t be surprised if he decides we had enough conversation already but, to my amazement, he adjusts his position on the sofa and waits for me to carry on with my interrogation, an encouraging calm expression on his face. 

And I have to admit that I blank for some seconds, not knowing what to ask to keep him talking on the most friendly and intimate moment we have shared since we met. “What’s the best part of these times? What do you like the most?”

“Do you mean from this age?”

I just nod my head, eager to know his answer. 

“Many things, I suppose… Water supply, medical advances, hygiene, the Internet, phones, flushable private toilets, cars…”

“Toilets?” I am a bit puzzled before understanding that toilets were actually quite different not many years ago. “Oh… ah! Fair enough.”

Adam gazes at me and offers me an amused tiny smile but I’m already interested in something else he said before. “Was it difficult to learn driving?”

His chest lowers in a contained sarcastic scoff and he rolls his eyes. I love the gesture immediately. “An odyssey at first, but I grew to like it. Nate is the only one who is still working on it.”

“I know he’s not very keen on any sort of technology… Last time I texted him it took him 12 min to type a reply... He told me you like cars.”

“Not the actual cars, but I like restoring and repairing them.”

His statement leaves me open-mouthed, as in my narrowed mind it’s quite hard to believe than a 900 years old vampire could remotely be able to understand the mechanics of a car. “Hang on… Do you actually know how to repair a car?”

For a parted moment, Adam feels quite pleased with himself. “Is it that surprising? I had to invest properly the time I didn’t use for learning languages...”

I gaze at his face, confused. His expression is soft but serious, however, there’s again that hint of sarcasm in his beautiful green eyes. “You know what? It’s very difficult to know when you are joking when your expression is exactly the same one than when we are arguing, you know?” I tease him, faking indignant. 

He chuckles again and I melt with the sound. 

I don’t want this evening to end. This conversation to end. Us. 

“Perhaps you can give me a hand with mine, then?” I ask, hopeful. 

But Adam just shakes his head. “I fix cars, but I don’t do miracles, Eve. Your car... I think buying a new one would be advisable in your case”

I shoot him a glare at his snarky comment but I’m happy to see that he’s openly smiling at me. 

“Do you have any hobbies? What do you do when you’re not at the police station or working with us?” he wants to know.

Another question enquiring about me. I empty my glass and put it on the side table, realizing how green and clear his eyes are and how at ease he seems to be right now. Probably the distance between us has something to do with it (we are still sitting on opposite sides of the sofa). “Not that I had much time lately, but working out, writing, playing the guitar… But I’m sure you know that last one already.”

He hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t seem content with just one question. His next one is actually quite deep. “Do you regret knowing about us? Not just the Unit. Knowing about supernaturals’ existence?”

I divert my gaze from his and lean back on the arm of the sofa, wiggling my toes extended in front of me. It still takes me a long deep breath in to put my thoughts together to reply to his question, knowing I’m stepping on thin ice. “I did at first.”

Adam lowers his gaze. A quick scene of one of our conversations right after I was informed about everything flashes in my mind. He called himself a monster and I didn’t do anything to contradict the statement. I was not in the correct mindset, neither ready to see the truth. Embarrassment at my doing seeps through every pore of my skin. “But I don’t anymore. Learning the truth hasn’t been easy, but I wouldn’t change it at all. I’m quite glad to be part of it with you.” 

His eyes dart to mine with a mixture of gratitude and alarm at my confession and I don’t really want to, but I explain myself further. “With all of you, Unit Bravo.”

But specifically you. 

As he relaxes again, I decide to push my luck further. “Adam… I always wanted to ask you this but I will understand if you don’t want to answer. Did you keep in touch with your family after… You know… Becoming a vampire?” 

Deep old sadness dampens his green eyes that flicker to the wall behind me and I’m nearly sure he won’t reply. He seems to be lost in memories for some seconds before meeting my gaze again.  “I did at first. I was not ready to assume what happened to me. I was in denial.” 

“Was it not compatible? To be with your family, I mean...”

He smiles again but this time is quite different. Guilty and melancholic. “Not for a young vampire. Not at all. I had to leave...”

I regret bringing up the topic immediately because I don’t want to know about it. Not if it hurts him. Not if he is not ready. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you recall painful memories. I understand that if you love someone you are never ready to let go…”

“I tracked my descendants for some generations, but their lives were fleeting. Mortal lives still are sometimes. It became more and more difficult within the years. The loss…”

“So you just shut down…” I mutter, suddenly understanding.

Adam stares at me with glazed green eyes under blonde eyelashes, looking at me but without seeing me, lost in memories. And it all made sense now. All of him. 

The only way he has been able to survive has been closing himself to any feeling. Switching off that part of his humanity that cared about anyone else. And that is why he’s so disturbed around me. Because I break his defences and remind him of everything he has lost. 

The fact that he has feelings for me breaks the balance that his life has had for nearly a thousand years and he is completely lost on what to do about it. 

About me. About us.

He just doesn’t want to lose me.

And there’s just one way he wouldn’t have to.

“Are you all right?” I ask, shyly and guilty.

“Yes. I am,” he states after a sharp inhale, retrieving his book from the table. 

“I’m going to have dinner with Nate, would you like to join us?”

“No, thank you. I’ll carry on with my reading, Detective.”

Our conversation is clearly over and I smile sadly at the recovered title, my name forbidden on his lips once again. 

“Thank you,” I say while standing up.

“What for?”

“For talking to me. For letting me know you.”

Adam doesn’t reply, but I swear I can see the quirk of a smile blooming on his lips when he looks at me. 

When I walk past him, my hand lands on his broad shoulder and I feel him stiffen at the contact, all hard muscle and warmth under my touch. I give him a grateful squeeze. 

My heart stutters and my breath hitches when his own hand covers mine, interlacing our fingers loosely for just some seconds. 

“Thank you for understanding,” he hushed whispers before I resume my steps.

@31daysofwayhaven

[staticscreenwriting]

To the stars beyond the blue - one

Summary: Kathleen Sawyer has a problem with authority and people telling her what to do, especially if “people” is her Stepdad Dave. Having had enough of her attitude, Dave and her mom decide it’s time for her to leave behind the temptations of New York City and learn some responsibility while staying with her aunt Susan in small, sleepy Hawkins, Indiana. Though what neither of them know, is that the biggest temptation is waiting for her right there and it comes with a mullet and a killer smile.

This is gonna be an 18+ series. I’m planning to add quite a bit of smut, swearing and topics that could potentially be triggering to some people (domestic abuse - physical and emotional). The abuse will not be romanticized, I promise you that. Just be aware that these themes will be mentioned and explored. 

next chapter >>

Chapter one - meet Kathleen

Ron’s Deli smells like old grease and cigarette smoke and the fluorescent lights send a loud buzzing noise through the entire place. There’s an assortment of sandwiches displayed, though I know better than to order any of them. Coffee, that’s what I’m here for. Coffee and warmth.

My boots, still wet from the snow covering the streets outside, make a squeaking sound against the linoleum floor that alerts Ruby who’s slumped over the counter, flicking through some kind of fashion magazine. 

“ Haven’t seen you in a while “ she murmures, eyes focusing back on the magazine, making no attempt to actually take my order. 

“ Some of us actually work, you know “ I reply. That’s not even close to the truth and Ruby knows this just as well as I do. But neither of us acknowledges it because that’s not the relationship we have. I don’t want to talk about it and she doesn’t care. So we settle for superficial quips. 

“ Bite me, Kathleen. “ 

“ Nah thanks, you know my rules. No food at Ron’s. Just coffee “ 

“ Just coffee “ she repeats then turns around and grabs the pot and pours me a big mug of steaming hot coffee.

“ Thanks. Put it on my tab. “ 

She always nods but never actually does. I don’t think I’ve paid for my coffee in years.

I drag myself towards my booth in the furthest corner of the place. I call it my booth but if we’re being overly correct I have to mention that I do, in fact, not have ownership of this particular booth. It’s just the one I always find myself in. Have done so for years.

The tv mounted up in the corner is playing some black and white christmas movie. The volume is too low to hear anything being said but I can tell the movie after a few seconds. Miracle on 34th street. I remember watching it with my dad when I was a kid. He was always big about old black and white movies. 

I never told him but I don’t really like it. There’s a thing about Christmas movies where even though most of them have happy endings, a lot of them always make you feel miserable for a huge amount of the runtime. It’s like “look at this sad person ON CHRISTMAS. Then remember how lucky you are. Because you too could be sad. ON CHRISTMAS “.

It’s very preachy and if I’m being honest, I don’t see the appeal of movies that purposely make me sad. 

Back then I wasn’t really aware of what it feels like to be sad on Christmas. I do now. It’s like they describe it in the movies only 10 times worse. Because there’s no happy ending waiting for you after 120 minutes. It just goes on and leads to a sad new years and a sad spring and a sad summer.

“ Oh, Christmas isn't just a day, it's a frame of mind...  “ oh fuck right of, Kris you absolute bullshitter.

The bell above the door pulls me from my Christmas blues and I watch a couple stumble into the shop. They’re smiling, holding hands. The dude can’t seem to keep his lips of her neck. She walks up to the counter. I can only imagine Ruby’s annoyed sigh and the roll of her eyes.

“ Hi, two turkey delis please “ the girl says between giggles. I feel kinda bad for her. She must be a tourist. Locals know not to eat at Ron’s. Only coffee. Iced tea in the summer. That’s it.

Ruby grumbles something to them before they settle down in the booth across from me. Well there goes me sulking in silence. I try to ignore their loved up giggles as the warm coffee makes its way down my throat. I really try not to pay them any attention. But once I notice his hand squeezing her boobs, that’s enough to make even me uncomfortable.

I take one last sip then scoot out of the boot hand walk towards Ruby. She’s resorted from flipping through the magazine to using the magazine as a underlay while she paints her nails right there on the counter. Another reason not to eat here. 

“ So what do you say, do I suit this color ? “ She asks and holds a hand out for me to see. She always paints them red, every single time. Apparently they’re all different shades though so far I’ve been unable to see even the slightest difference.

“ Sure. “ 

“ Thanks for the enthusiasm.” 

“ You’re welcome. Anyway, I’m going to head out. Thanks for the coffee. “

Ruby looks up again then throws a disapproving look at the couple that is pretty much dry humping each other at this point “ did the lovebirds scare you off ? Disgusting. “ 

“ Let them be, they’re in love. “ 

She scoffs at that then goes back to her nails “ of course you’d think that. You’re just as bad. “ 

“ What does that mean ? “ 

“ Means I’ve seen you at parties. With guys. It’s uh — quite something really. “ 

“ Ah shut up, Ruby. “ I say and roll my eyes. It’s none of her business really. Though I know it doesn’t come from a place of malice, her words still rub me the wrong way. I have to remind myself that she’s just bitter. She should be married right now, living with her husband in some cute little house in Jersey, popping a few kids and living the suburban dream. Instead he fucked her sister at the rehearsal dinner and she’s left alone, bitter, sad and working at a really shitty deli.

“ Just sayin’ “ 

“ Mmh. Anyway tell your dad I said hi and to call me if he ever feels lonely. “ 

“ You’re vile. “ 

I only smile at that, pull my jacket closer around my body and step into the cold december air.

New York City is always busy. Always. People crowd the streets like ants on a popsicle forgotten on the lawn in a hot summer’s day. Though around christmas time, it feels like twice as many people flock to the city to catch a glimpse of what the perceived to be the ultimate manifestation of christmas magic.

The truth is, it’s cold and loud and crowded and if anything, it’s a perfect reminder just how materialistic we humans really are. If there’s anything to advertise, you’ll get it advertised here. They try to appeal to your innermost romantic. That girl that believes diamonds and flowers are a sign of true love. That kid that still holds faith in santa and miracles.

It makes me a little sick as I pass store after store, bustling with holiday shoppers. 

The further I walk the colder it gets. I tug my beanie further down my head, trying to keep my ears warm as I hop down the steps of the subway station. There’s an older man playing the violin while wearing a santa hat. I toss him a quarter and he gives me a smile and I feel like I’ve just earned a few karma points. Shiny gates, I’m coming for you.

It’s early december and New York is fucking freezing. It’s an all consuming kind of cold. The one you feel seeping through your body all the way to your bones. I wish I could say it goes away once I’m home and snuggled up in my bed. It doesn’t. It’s the kind of cold that stays with you. 

There’s a man eying me as I step on the train, he’s got bushy unkempt eyebrows and a mean mustache. His tongue licks at his bottom lip every few seconds. Like a deranged snake or something, only way creepier. I try to avoid eye contact. Eye contact it seems only works as a silent invitation to guys like him. 

From the corner of my eye I take notice of all his moves though. One has to be prepared always. I grab a hold of my keyes, let them stick out between my knuckles. I don’t know if he notices. I hope he does.

When the train pulls up at my stop, my heart speeds up a little. A silent mantra echoes through my head “please don’t get up. Please don’t get up.” It’s one thing being tough and brave when you’re in a train with many other people. It’s a whole different story when you’re passing through dark, deserted alleyways on your way home.

The trains stops and I wipe my sweaty hand on my jeans. He eyes me again as I step up to the doors. I’m still avoiding eye contact but at this point I can tell that he can tell. I can just about make out as his lips pull into a smirk. There’s nothing amusing about this situation, not to me at least. To think that he finds joy in this makes me physically sick.

The doors open and I step outside, a gust of cold wind hitting my face. I turn around and the doors close behind me and, to my delight, I can see him sitting in the same spot, looking at me through the dirty window of the train. He winks as the train pulls away and I can feel my lunch making its way up my throat again.

I can hear them yelling as I unlock the door. Dave’s voice thunders through the place, spewing expletives and hatred. 

“ Jesus Christ, Joan. What is wrong with you? Spending money on shit we don’t need but the one thing, the one thing I asked you to buy, you forget ? Are you really that fucking dumb ? “

My blood starts boiling though I know better than to step in. It only makes it worse.

Mom says sorry. So many times. Too many times. Her voice is timid and small and I hate that this is what he turns her into. When I was little mom was strong and brave and happy. She was creative and fun and adventurous. Now she’s but a shell of herself. An obedient little housewife who settles for a man that treats her like absolute dirt.

They look up at me as I enter the kitchen room and I can see fear in my mom’s eyes. I think that’s the worst thing. To see your mom scared. No kid should have to see their mom this scared. I wish I didn’t. 

“ Hi. “ 

“ Look who’s finally decided to show up. Where’ve you been ? “ Dave scoffs. He thinks just because my mom spreads her legs for him, he gets any say in what I do. Truth is, he doesn’t give a fuck what I do, he’s just a sucker for control. It’s like his ultimate wet dream, to have us do exactly how he says and behave just the way he asks us to. 

“ Out. “ 

“ Out where ? “

“ None of your business. “ 

“ Kathleen “ mom scolds me. I know she has this fantasy of us three living like a perfect family, all happy and joyful. Smiling at each other as we sit around the dinner table talking about our days before we settle on the couch to watch Happy Days.

That’s not reality though. Reality looks pretty bleak right now. Reality is absolute bullshit.

“ I was at the library, okay ? “ 

“ With a boy ? “ 

“ No, what the fuck are you on about. “ 

“ I know the kind of girl you are, Kat. I know girls like you. “ 

Girls like me. 

Dude doesn’t know shit.

“ Sluts “ he spits out. I know he does it to rile me up. He’s just waiting for me to make a mistake so he can put me in my place and assert his dominance. God, he’s such an asshole.

“ Dave ! Don’t call her th— “ mom doesn’t get to finish the sentence before he smacks her across the face, a loud slapping noise echoing through the room. It never gets easier. Watching him hit her. Watching her excuse his actions. Watching them continue as normal.

“ I told you, to shut up, Joan. You know what happened with the boy. The man.“ 

I lock eyes with her, begging her to say something. Do something. End this misery. She has the power to do so. This is our apartment. Out food. Our money. She has all the power in the world and yet, when she averts her eyes, I know it means nothing. 

Dave looks at me again then flops down on the couch, resting his feet on the couch table and clutching a beer in his meaty slob of a hand.

“ Ma, “ I approach her, wanting to comfort her. This is my mother and despite her flaws and issues, I love her. Sometimes I wonder if she returns the sentiment. 

“ I’m okay. “ 

“ But you’re not!” 

“ I said, I am okay. “ the look in her eyes gives me no room to argue. This conversation is over. This topic is over. For now. 

Because those things are never really over, are they ? 

I take a can of coke from the fridge then sit down on the bench by the window. The snow is softly falling outside and if I didn’t despise the cold so much, I’d even call it pretty. It’s a huge contrast to how things are inside right now. Snow falls slowly, piecefully. My mind is chaos, loud and crowded like Times Square on New Years. 

I try to focus on my book and not on Dave who belches after every gulp of beer or my mom who’s perched on the corner of the couch, close enough for him to feel validated and yet far enough for her own comfort. I hate that this place doesn’t feel like a home anymore. It feels like a prison. Like a cage.

That annoying coke commercial comes on tv and I remember a christmas, many years ago. Dad sits in the recliner, we’re in our old apartment and it’s warm inside. The snow falls softly and the place smells like nutmeg and cinnamon. Mom is happily singing along to the commercial and dad’s placing a kiss on her head and it’s not a very important memory but it means so much to me. Because those christmases were good. 

My eyes wander towards the shelf by the door, the one that holds a lot of things. Those kind of things you don’t know where else to put. There’s a bowl you’re supposed to put keys in, none of us ever do, and a sculpture I made in 4th grade art class. There’s random books and records and a cassette deck that doesn’t work anymore. 

I look the shelf up and down, searching for the one thing in there that means something. The one thing I deliberately placed there because I wanted to see it every time I leave the house.

But it’s gone and my heart shatters.

“ Where’s the picture of dad ? “ 

“ Huh ? “ mom looks up at me. I can see it in her eyes. She heard me just right and she knows where it is.

“ The picture of dad on the shelf. Where is it ? “ 

“ It’s time to move on “ Dave chimed in with his throaty, dark voice. He sounds like he constantly has a meatball stuck in his gullet. It’s fucking disgusting. “ He’s been dead for years now. No use in grieving no more. “ 

Use in greiving ? Does he think we chose to be sad ? Does he really think I can just go and decide not to miss my dad anymore ? Not to be sad anymore ? Not to feel like my heart is bursting into a million little pieces whenever something reminds me of my dad ?

“ What did you do ? “ 

“ Put it where it belongs ?  “ 

I can feel the hot red rage burning inside, behind my eyes, in the tips of my fingers. 

“ What does that mean ? “ 

“ He’s gone, Kat. Get over it. I live here now and I don’t wanna be reminded of that fact that your ma had another man before me. It don’t matter no more, you’re my family now !” he bellows, getting off his ass and towering over me like a giant sequoia tree.

This man doesn’t know the first thing about being a family. I don’t know a lot about it either but I know this isn’t it.

“ Fuck you, Dave. Dad belongs here ! We’re his family, mom is his wife. You’re just some asshole she keeps around for god knows what reasons. Just a boyfriend, those come and go “.

He’s awfully silent at that. It’s scarier than the yelling and the mean words. Like he’s taking it all in, waiting, building. It’s gonna come crashing down on me in a minute, I just know it.

The snarl disappears and makes room for a smirk so unsettling, it freezes my blood right there in my veins.

“ Is that so ? Tell her Joan. “ 

“ Tell me what ? “ Oh god. Oh god, no.

“ Dave, this is not the ti— “ 

“ Tell her ! “ he yells and mom flinches then turns to me, eyes never once leaving the carpet.

“ Baby, Dave and I we — we decided it was time to take our relationship to the next level.” 

No. 

No.

No.

“ We’re getting married. “

“ No. “ I say, as if my opinion matters to anyone here. “ Mom, you can’t. You can’t do this. Mom “ 

I beg and I plead and I can feel the tears rising, hardly able to keep them at bay. I feel so small, so helpless.

“ We can and we will ! We’ve also talked about you … “ Dave starts and by the satisfied smirk on his face I can tell whatever he’s about to say, I won’t like it.

“ We had a long discussion about you and your behavior. The skipping school, the parties, the boys. It needs to stop. You need to learn some responsibility. Some respect. “ 

“ Mom. “ I try to meet her eyes, try to get her attention. This can’t be happening. 

“ It’s for the best, baby. “ 

“ What is ? “ 

Dave takes over the conversation again. God I wish he would just disappear. Vanish into nothingness. Where he belongs. “ We think the city is no good place for a young woman to grow up. Too many distractions. Too many temptations. How could you ever become a proper wife growing up in this place. “

“ Are you saying you want to send me away ? “ 

Mom looks up at me finally, and I can see the pain in eyes. And for the first time, I am glad. I hope she’s hurting. I hope it rips her heart out. I hope she feels the same pain she did when dad died. Because this, this is on her. This is a conscious choice she makes. For herself. For me. For our family.

I hope it hurts her because it kills me.

“ I uh — I talked to Susan. You remember her, right ? My half-sister. She uh — she lives in this cute little town in Indiana. Lots of nature. It’s very picturesque she says. They have a house there, she and her husband and the kids. Her step son is your age. I think — I think It’d do you some good. Susan says he’s calmed down his temper since they moved. Maybe it will work for you. “ 

I want to say so much. I want to scream and cry and throw a tantrum but the pain I feel numbs me to my bones. It’s like all energy is sucked right out of me. I’m too exhausted to react. Too exhausted to fight back.

So I do what I do best. I run. Take my keys, my jacket, my bag. And I run out into the night. The snow. The cold.

Whatever is out there isn’t half as harsh as what’s waiting for me in this place.

I know I have to go back eventually but for now I need to get out and save myself from drowning in my own despair. In the picture of a family that is no family at all and the memories of what used to be.

As I walk down the street I pass a park. There’s a concert going on. A choir sings “ Have yourself a merry little christmas”.

I want to throw up. I do throw up, in the bin by the park bench. 

Merry fucking christmas, Kathleen. I’m sure it’ll be a great one.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light From now on your troubles will be out of sight”

Absolute bullshit, my dudes. Absolute bullshit.

[calmcal]

pure wedding bliss

masterlist

request: no

Summary: it’s your wedding day, and you can’t help but think about how wonderful today is, the the fond memories that lead up to this very day.

Paring: steve harrington X reader { female }

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: mild language

Author Note: it’s just a little fluffy piece of work that I loved writing, so I hope you like it as well

Your eyes peered down at your feet. They were covered by a simple pair of white flats, little bows decorating the top. There were clean and shiny under the blaring lights, they were new shoes, ones bought just for today. Just above your shoes you could see the hem of your dress, the cream coloured fabric slowly melted to a frosted white as the dress rose up your waist. The fabric was silky, and kissed the smooth skin of your legs every time you took a step. It began to tighten around your waist, hugging at your figure in the perfect way. 

The dress had small diamonds stitched into the material around your waist, they were spread out and caught the light in just the right way, eye catching enough to gleam. The fabric covered your bust and ran down your shoulders with lacy sleeves, the same lace that covered the silk underlay. Although you couldn't see it, the fabric of your dress cut away from your back, leaving the skin bare. The back of your dress met just above your waist an continued back down to your feet.

Your hair was done in soft curls, the top half was pinned back from your face, while the rest was resting against your shoulders. You makeup was simple, yet you had to commend Nancy, she worked wonders on your face. Your eye shadow was a pale gold, not to much colour, but it matched your dress in the right way. Mascara coating your lashes, lengthening them and making them look fuller. You skin was covered in a thin layer of foundation, powder and some rosy coloured blush. "You'll be the most beautiful blushing bride" Nancy had announced as she applied the soft pink to the apples of your cheeks. Lastly was the soft pink that coated your lips, it was his favourite colour, he always loved it when you wore the nude pink.

You had a silver chain wrapped around your neck, a small silver heart with a blue jewel in the center, rested against your chest, it was a favourite piece of yours. Your mother had given it to you last night, "They say you need something borrowed and something blue" She was teary eyed as she gave it to you, her daughter was grown up and marrying the man she loved. You cried that night, not because you were upset, but because of how loved you felt.

On your ring finger sat a single ring, giving to the man you were marrying. It was a gold band with three diamonds standing proudly. One large one in the center, it glittered brightly every time you peered down at it, and it was surrounded by two smaller faded pink diamonds, your favourite colour. There was a soft smile on your lips as you looked down at the ring, your eyes were welling with tears with pure joy.

You remembered the night he proposed so vividly. 

He had taken you to see a movie, it was one of those cheesy romantic movies that he hated but you loved so much, he bared the time watching the movie, holding your hand so tightly you were worried it would fall off. You had asked him so many times if he was okay, he sent you a smile and shook his head saying he was just perfect. When the movie ended, you both got up to leave, and he wrapped he arm around your shoulders, holding your body close to his. 

The walk to his car was slow and quite, you wondered what he was thinking. Then he stopped you just before you reached the car, he took both your hands in his and held them tightly, you could feel him shaking as he tried to speak, but it seemed he was tongue tied. You watched as he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet black box. You could feel your breath catch, snapping the black box open there sat the perfect ring. You could tears pooling in your eyes as he got down on one knee and muttered the one question he had been wanting to ask you all night.

"Will you marry me?" He waited nervously, his dark coffee brown eyes peering up at you. A large smile overtook your lips as you nodded you head, unable to form any real words. There were tears streaming down your rosy cheeks now. He pulled the right from it's nestled spot and slowly slid the cold metal onto your finger, a perfect fit. You remembered practically throwing yourself on his kneeling form, hands cupping his warm cheeks and pressing your lips against his in an intense kiss, the first of a newly engage couple.

A hand resting against you shoulder, taking you away from your thoughts. You peered up to see your father looked at you with a warm smile. His eyes looked red and puffy and you giggled softly at him.

"Don't tell me you've been crying" You said in a playful tone.

"My little girl is getting married, I think I own the right to cry" He replied as he reached for the veil that clipped into your hair, the cheer white fabric rested against your face, and it completed the look.

"Are you ready?" Your father asked you.

"Completely" You breath out, there was no hiding your wide smile.

You could hear the low hum of music just beyond the door, the only thing separating you from seeing your love. You could hear a movement of feet, everyone was arsing to their feet. The wooden doors swung open and you were greeted with smiling faces. You could feel your cheeks warming as you walked beside your father, his arm looping with yours. And for the first time today you saw him. He was standing in the arch way, dressed in a crisp black suit, his white dress shirt was tucked into his slacks, his suit jacket adorned his chest. 

It was left unbuttoned and it gave you a view of his tie, it was a soft cream colour, matching you silk underlay. His hair was the way it always was, perfect and fluffy, just how you liked it. His dark eyes were glued to you as you neared him, he had a happy smile on his lips, and his eyes were wide as he took in how beautiful you looked in your wedding dress, he was sure he had never seen anything more beautiful. You choked back a happy sob as your father let go of your arm, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze, you smiled at him before looking at Steve.

"You look beautiful" He said as he took a step forwards, moving the veil from your face to really take you in, the veil rested against your back, his hands slowly racked down your arms until he was holding onto your hands rather tightly.

Somehow you were glad that Nancy had put the rosy coloured the blush on your cheeks, because you were sure your cheeks would be a bursting pink now, at least you could blame it on the makeup. The sound of his voice brought back the fluttering feeling of butterflies in your stomach, his words were heavy with emotions. You squeezed his hands tightly as the man standing in front of you began to speak, you were finally going to marry the man you love. His words seemed to blue together, and you weren't listening to intently, your eyes were locked onto Steve as you felt your breath quicken. You both shared a look of excitement and there was a warm embrace of love that wrapped around your body. "Y/N and Steve have written their own vows" The man announced loudly, making a gesture for Steve to begin speaking. Steve cleared his throat loudly before he began his speech. "I remember meeting Y/N in the third grade, she smeared her peanut butter sandwich across my face because I said her hair looked stupid, and I knew it was love" Steve started speaking, a joking smile on his lips. 

His opening line made your guest laugh, and you could help but shrug, because it was true. "Y/N was my first kiss, bet none of you knew that, I pushed her off the swing set and she began to cry and to stop her I kissed her, in hindsight I wish I hadn't, because she slapped me after" You giggled fondly at the memory.

"Then came out senior year, and I fell in love with her, although it took me a whole year to admit that, and a lot of slaps to the back of the head" Steve sent a pointed look in Dustin's direction, who gave him the thumbs up and a cheeky smile. 

"But when I did, it was the second best night of my life, the first being the night that I proposed to her" Steve's gaze was no locked solely on you, his tender and loving gaze piercing right to your heart. 

"The first time I knew I was in love with Y/N was on our third date, we went to her parents anniversary dinner and how she watched her parents with such adoration and she told me how much she wanted to be loved the same way. And in that moment, the way she smiled at me, how her eyes glimmered in the soft afternoon sun, how her hair brushed against my shoulders while her head rested in the crook of my neck, and hands grabbing mine and how perfectly her fingers felt interlaced with mine, and I knew that she was the only girl I could see myself with forever, the woman I could love with my whole heart" By the time he had finished talking you were trying your hardest to choked back your sobs, your vision was clouded with tears. "I love you Y/N and I could never imagine my life without you in it" "God you made me cry Harrington" You chuckled as you reached up to brush away the tears that were now escaping from your eyes. Your guests chuckled, but it seemed that Steve's speech had brought many people to tears. When you had your crying under control, taking a deep breath you smiled at Steve.

"My very first memory of Steve was when I smeared my sandwich across his face how good it felt to mess up his perfect hair just because he teased me, that was the best day I'd had in a long time, so thank you for that" You giggled as Steve gave you a playful glare.

"The night that you took me out on our first date, oh our first date was awful, everything went wrong, you split your soda all over my dress, I broke my heel tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, your care broke down and we had to walk to rest of the way to my place, and to top it all of it started to rain" You could stop the grin that latched itself onto your lips as you recounted your first date, the night would always bring amusement to you.

"But then you smiled at me with your stupid perfect smile and it was like this whole disaster of a date didn't matter because you had me wrapped around you littler finger with one smile" The overwhelming feeling of crying started to take over you mind again as you tried to push it back, long enough to finish your speech. 

"I love you Steve Harrington and I will always be in love with you, I'll always love your sweet smile, your loving nature, how much you love working in the police force, I love how you would do anything to protect your friends, I love your fluffy hair and your stupid obsession with your sunglasses, but most importantly I love how you make it so easy to love you, I'm glad I get to spend the rest of my life telling you that" And there you were crying again, but now as you looked up at Steve, he was trying his best to hide his tears.

The rest of the ceremony went off without a hitch, your speeches seemed to break a few people, you could hear the soft sniffling and soft sighs of awe. When it came time to finally say I do, Steve puffed out his chest and gave with one of his stupid smile that you seemed to love so much.

"I do" Steve said.

Now it was your turn. You could feel everyone staring at you, but the weight of their eyes didn't reach you, you were to high in cloud nine. "I do" You said. "I introduce you to Mister and Misses Harrington" The man said with a smile, as you both turned to face your guests. "You may now kiss the bride" "Don't mind if I do" Steve chuckled as his arm reached out to wrap securely around your waist, pulling your body towards his. You stumbled forward and placed your hands against his chest to steady yourself. He smiled a cheeky smile as he whispered softly against your lips. 

"I love you Y/N Harrington" Steve said before planting his lips against yours. You hands traveled to his cheeks, holding his face softly against yours as he kissed you. You could feel the crowd around you cheer as you kissed, but none of that mattered, not even Dustin shouted that it was him who got you together in the first place, or how loudly Eleven, Will and Max were shouting their congratulations, not even the sound of Lucas and Mike yelling that you needed to get a room. The only thing you were focused on was Steve. You pulled back kiss, resting your forehead against his as you took a breath though your parted lips. "I love you to Steve Harrington" This was a night you would always remember, you were living in pure wedding bliss.