Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hector would love to say that among everything else, he isn’t, thankfully, a jealous type. But he is.

No, no, you taught him to talk better than that, but it’s a hard habit to break– and one you certainly don’t make easy, talking to other members of the house the way you do. He has eyes and ears all over the house: a blessing and a curse when he wants to watch you in peace.

He hears one of the Hanks commenting on your looks, and you laugh, rolling your eyes. Those handsome cabinets downstairs in the kitchen call you all manner of sweet things in his fancy, eloquent voice, and you flush pink and fire back with something just as snappy, just as clever. One of the things he most adores about you, your smart mouth, come back to bite him…!

And yet, you always, always, make sure to come and see him. He isn’t sure why; with a whole house of beautiful people to talk to, some of them just as eager to make your acquaintance as he is, you make a point of coming to see him at some point in the day, no matter your schedule. Not that you’re busy these days, but still.

You’re sitting together in the attic; you’re reading, and he sits at your side, reading alongside you. Or trying to. Trying to distract himself from the idea of the other residents in the attic peering at you, at the conversations he’s heard from within the vents, at the mere concept of you finding someone else and abandoning him making him hug his knees to his chest, staring at the whorls in the floorboards.

He hears you call his name. Soft, concerned. He’s doing the thing again, isn’t he? Shutting down and fiddling with his fingers and mumbling, and he knows you’re going to change your mind any day now, and leave, and–

Your hand on his. Gently pulling his palm to lay flat on your chest, your kind eyes on his as he struggles for breath. You guide him through finding his air once more, never once looking away, never once stifling a laugh.

You never have, have you? Something he still wonders about, dreams about, as he keeps your bedroom cool for you as you sleep. What do you dream about? Do you dream about him?

You call his name again. Cradle his head in your palms and Hector leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

He wonders, he dreams, but here you are. Real, your hands on his soft jaw, gentle like you’re handling something far finer than him. No amount of daydreaming or writing or waxing lyrical can ever compare, really, now that he’s had– now that he’s got– the real thing.

Pressing a kiss to his forehead that seems to loosen every tangled hose tube, warm every cold edge, you reassure him that you’re not going everywhere.

And with each day that passes, Hector starts to believe you a little more.

Chapter Text

It’s instinct, now, to put the Dateviators on as soon as you wake up. You know better than to shower or bathe with them on, at least– you’d rather not give Johnny Splash or Bathsheba any more of a show than you already do– but today, you don’t realise as you slip them back on as you get out of the shower.

The house is silent as you head upstairs from the shower, wet footprints staining water on Florence’s skirt and poor Stella’s dress as you go to your bedroom, fling open the closet door to get dressed– and find five daredevils double-taking at your sudden arrival.

“House Homie–”

“What’s up, my d–”

“Well, hello, gorgeous!”

“How’s it ha–”

“Oh, hey–”

You know you’re about as pink as your rose-colored glasses when you realise that, ah. You’re wrapped up in a towel, the Dateviators (which cover your eyes and don’t do a great job of covering anything else), and a fine coat of mortification as you stare at the Hanks. Who stare at you, scarlet in the face, bug-eyed.

Seems this is one stunt they didn’t plan on doing until at least taking you to dinner first.

You start to sputter through an apology and go to take the Dateviators off when all five of them shout, “Wait a sec!”

Clutching your towel, you drop your hand from the glasses. What is it?

All five Hanks fidget awkwardly, unable to meet your gaze– except for Hank no. 3, who, as always, is blatantly checking you out, cheeks flushed red as his hair.

Hank no. 1 rubs the back of his neck. “We, uh… We don’t mind.”

Hank no. 2 grins sheepishly. “As long as you don’t mind, we don’t mind!”

Hank no. 3 nods at the fluffy towel shielding your modesty, pressing his index fingertips together. “You gotta drop the towel to get dressed, don’t’cha?”

Hank no. 4 leans on Hank no. 2, beaming at you in awkward reassurance. “We’ve seen you naked before!”

“Shh, don’t make ‘em uncomfortable, Hank no. 4!”

“Sorry, dude.”

Hank no. 5, the more reasonable of the bunch, smiles, doing a stand-up job of not letting his gaze wander. “Yeah, so like, as long as you’re chill…”

All five of them watch, eager and anticipatory, as you deliberate. Sure, you have five boyfriends hanging out (ha) in your closet, but this is a new… and somewhat exciting… step.

Meh, why not. Like No. 4 said, it’s not like they haven’t seen you before. You drop the towel.

The simultaneous gasp and whistles of approval echo through the house, along with your delighted, if slightly flustered, laughter, as all five of them do very little to help you put clothes on.

Chapter Text

Now that the Breaker Box is back to much stronger lighting and a more stable power, you have time to sit and think about everything that led up to this surprisingly happy ending.

Not only did you manage to stabilize the power in your house (useful), but the bar in your storage closet is now up and running (great), and you earned two handsome boyfriends in the process (wait what).

Wrapping your head around the fact that they’re not exactly two, but also not exactly one, has you sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and looking very puzzled.

Eddie cleans a glass behind the bar, and Volt sits at your side. Both are grinning at you as you try to figure it out. You’re mumbling about Volt being part of Eddie but yet, why’s Volt got an accent and Eddie doesn’t, and then it occurs to you–

When Volt kissed you, does that mean Eddie did too?

You ask the question to both of them, and watch as they both go redder quicker than overheated lightbulbs. Volt recovers first, leaning into your space, a brow quirked.

“Why, live wire, that eager to have both of us at once?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, quickly turning away to put the cleaned glass away. “That was just Volt’s doing–”

But if Eddie created Volt, then doesn’t that mean Eddie had some influence on his flirtatious, forward self?

Volt is struggling not to laugh as Eddie’s blush creeps down his collar. The lightbulbs hum above your heads.

“Careful, now. Might blow a fuse with that kind of salacious talk.”

Eddie scoffs. “I’m fine. And– yes, okay? Fine. Maybe I did want to… do that.”

Do what? You smile, coy and teasing, leaning over the bar. Make Volt so forward, or…?

“You know, Eddie, that is a good question,” Volt chuckles, and it seems Eddie’s had enough. He grasps your chin in his hand and kisses you, hard and quick, but it’s enough to make the lights flicker harshly.

He pulls back first and quickly gets back to work, leaving you dazed with lightning on your tongue.

Well. That answers that, then.

Chapter Text

Whether you’re an animal person or not, it’s clear that after finding a few stray inanimals around your home, they know to flock to you when they need help.

A shrewdriver, which you thought was the missing Philips-head from your toolbox, poked out of a pile of boxes in the attic, nearly scaring the daylights out of you before you realized it was just a little guy, actually. Beau seemed relieved that the shrewdriver would be well taken care of— and not chewing on her sleeves anymore.

Some days later you heard gossip from Koa and Dolly in the living room about a new inhabitant under the couch; with a quick look you found a grain coon kitten, which looked to be made of various pieces of cereal and rice that you’ve dropped under the couch. She sniffled from the dust, so you coaxed her out, much to Dolly (and Lint Eastwood’s) relief.

Then, today, you find an elasticacaw, a bright and loud parrot made of rubber bands chattering in your office, annoying poor Curt and Rod by mimicking their every last word (“shade!”, “dude!”, “annoying-ass bird!”).

Your house was already starting to feel crowded with all these objects to talk to. Now you have a zoo on top of it.

Mateo beams when you come to Scraps of Hope with the elasticacaw on your shoulder. “Aiya, another one? Ever since you started keeping an eye out, we’ve found so many strays.”

You make a comment on how they seem to follow you around when the elasticacaw turns and tries to nip at your nose.

“Hello.”

You reply hello back, and Mateo chuckles. “Nah, nah. They like you. All of them do!”

As if on cue, a few of the tassel hounds come rushing at the sound of your laughter. Stitch, Davi, and several more burst through to circle your legs and jump for pets; you kneel down and, as any good human would, pet the hypoallergenic dogs to your heart’s content. Mateo joins you, giggling when Stitch jumps to put her front paws on his shoulders and lick his face with her cotton-blend tongue.

“It’s nice, y’know?” Mateo gently pushes Stitch down and sits on the floor with her, chuckling as her tail thunka-thunka-thunka’s against his side.

You ask what he means as you sit down on the floor with him, the elasticacaw preening at you.

“Knowing that the inanimals like you so much. A-As much as I do, I mean,” Mateo stammers, cheeks flooding redder than a wine spill. “Cause it’s true. They do, and– and I do. Quit looking at me like that!”

You laugh, not at him but with him, as you gently stroke the elasticacaw’s rubbery feathers. Can’t help but look at him, you counter, especially when he’s so cute.

Mateo sighs, rolling his eyes good-naturedly at you. “I’d be annoyed at how smooth that was, but you’re covered in bird and dog drool, so…”

Kinda takes away some of the appeal, you figure, petting Davi’s head as he droops into your lap.

But Mateo just grins, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Chapter Text

Beverly still hasn’t gotten the knack of making her drinks not strong enough to send even Abel stumbling out of the kitchen, let alone you.

You sit on the floor next to her and Cam, who looks annoyed that you’re in his corner in the kitchen, but also just a little concerned for your wellbeing as you blink at Beverly, straw between your teeth.

“Oh man, um, I’m sorry! I didn’t realise it was that strong!”

“Maybe it wasn’t and they’re just a lightweight,” Cam offers, shrugging when Beverly glares at him.

“Shush! C’mon, let’s get you outta the corner, yeah?”

You mumble something about the floor being cold and nice, before lying down flat on the ground, handing your drink absentmindedly to Cam. He takes a sip and winces.

“Damn, Bev. This is strong.”

“I am aware, Cam!” Beverly kneels down at your side, the back of her hand to your forehead. Before she pulls it back, you grab her wrist and pull her palm to your cheek, nuzzling gently into her touch. Poor Bev flushes as red as grenadine syrup.

“Ahaaaaa, um, okay, that’s– that’s cute. Yeah! Anyway, you should really get off the floor, c’mon…”

Cam sighs, uninterested now that he’s finished off the rest of your drink. “I’m taking a nap. Byeeee.”

Beverly frowns as he makes himself scarce, off to bother someone else in that devil-may-care manner of his. She turns back to you, half-asleep and whispering your secrets into the kitchen tile.

“What? What– What did you say? Please don’t. Drool. On Florence…”

You repeat what you said– nothing too scandalous. You just called her pretty. Beverly makes a small, strained noise, her eyes wide with flustered panic.

“Oh! Well, um. Gosh. That’s very sweet of you. – And! You’re pretty, too! Of course! Oh, god, I hope you aren’t hungover tomorrow, I’d feel so bad.”

You smile up at her, dazed and lopsided, and tell her that nah, you’ll totally be fine! Sure, her drink was exceedingly strong and no matter your tolerance you keeled over within a few seconds, but sure. No issues there, right?

–

You wake the next morning and all but crawl down the stairs, ignoring Stella’s concerned calls of “Pick up your feet before you stumble, please,” and “Dearie, you’ll break your neck literally crawling, you know,” far too tired and far too headache-hurt to think past your need for a glass of water and painkillers, stat.

Beverly meets you at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no… C’mon, up we get. Let me help you, yeah? After all you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can do…”

She helps you up and onto your heavy feet, leading you to sit at the kitchen table. She pours you a glass of water, and Farya pops up with your handy-dandy painkillers to pop, as well as a lecture at the ready about drinking too much, which Beverly, blessedly, says you’ll listen to another day.

You sit with Beverly at your kitchen table, batting away her apologies for making your drink too strong, and tell her she can make up for it by keeping you company until you recover.

And that, she’s more than happy to do.

Chapter Text

Now, you wouldn’t call your attempt at pasta “just like your Italian grandma used to make,” but it’s pretty good, all things considered. Hopefully Cabrizzio won’t be too scandalized that you didn’t make your own sauce. Hopefully.

Stefan is blessedly quiet as you cook, and Mr. Cluckles dings to remind you to stir or when it’s too hot for the pasta to cook properly and finish at the same time as the very delectable, very grocery-store-bought garlic bread in the oven, crisping up to a beautiful golden brown with Stefan’s help.

Cabrizzio sits at the kitchen table, his soft, adoring gaze on your shoulder-blades. “Amore, really, you did not have to go to such trouble–”

You turn to glance at him over your shoulder, smiling; it’s no trouble, you tell him. You needed to eat dinner anyway, and he’s been so eager to try Italian food for himself, so why not cook enough for the two of them?

Mr. Cluckles beeps at you and you quickly turn back around, mouthing “sorry” to the egg timer who, remarkably, has a look of disdain on your face for getting distracted by Cabrizzo’s sharp jawline and wandering eyes. Sue you, honestly.

You hear Cabrizzio behind you, a gentle hand on your hip as he takes a deep inhale, a smile tugging at his lips. “Deliziosa. Who knew you were such a chef, hm? Another incredible quality to add to the infinite list.”

He hasn’t even tasted it yet, you remind him, leaning your back into his sturdy chest. Could be terrible, for all you know. You can tell Stefan is eager to protest; after all, he’s cooking it, technically. But he doesn’t say a word, letting you steal his thunder, just this once.

Cabrizzo sighs, kissing your temple. “Nonsense! I have full faith in your abilities in the kitchen. Even if we all saw you burn that microwave popcorn just once–”

Wait, he saw that?

“–I know you are eager to redeem yourself for that incidente.”

You reach up with the hand not stirring the pasta sauce into the pasta and pat his cheek. No pressure to succeed this time then, huh?

“I can be patient for you, tesoro.”

Thankfully for both of you, the pasta (and the garlic bread) turn out delicious. It’s no Italian nonna in the countryside at the helm, but Cabrizzo insists, between kisses to your knuckles and up your arm, that it was just as delectable as you are to him.

Chapter Text

To his credit, Barry would be pretty good at those makeup tutorials you’ve seen online. As long as you get Mac to edit them, they wouldn’t be hour-long info-dumps, anyway.

“... So then, I wondered, ‘why did everyone go crazy for the two older fellas from that cartoon, what’s it called, Gravitational Descension Town? So I went looking, and you’ll never guess– oh, I knew red was your color, dear, look at you!”

You glance in the mirror and startle at the sight of yourself. Remarkably, Barry is so good at what he does, that even if you didn’t previously think red lipstick suited you… it does. Somehow.

You ask him to go back to what he was talking about before, about the cartoon. Barry startles and settles back into doing your makeup. Beating your face? What did he call it?

“Right, of course! So, I went looking. Apparently, people have a thing for these rough and tumble older men from the cartoon, and a group of uber-devoted fans made a whole game about kissing them! So I decided to play a bit, and hachi-machi, the writing gets steamy for Manfred’s route versus Wilfred’s route, let me tell ya– oh, yes, I almost forgot! I– well, actually. I did forget. Um.”

Barry goes quiet, staring at you. He’s frantically combing his memory with the most immaculate fine-toothed comb to remember what it is he wanted to tell you, his pale cheeks flushing pink as his hair as he searches your face.

You ask him, jokingly, if there’s something on it that isn’t meant to be there. Barry laughs, soft, and shakes his head.

“Ah, no. Everything that’s on your face is definitely meant to be there, you beautiful thing. But blush brushes above, I completely lost my train of thought! I was… well, to be curt with you, darling. I was simply stunned by how lovely you are.”

You blink at him, surprised at his sudden honesty, and he falters.

“I– well, you were sitting there, listening so intently to my babbling! And of course, with your makeup done, you look wonderful, but there’s something to be said about your natural beauty, as well, of course– I’m certainly not saying you look better one way or another, oh, no, that’d be like comparing liquid lipstick to cream, they’re totally different! And another thinnmpgh–”

You cut him off by pulling him forward and kissing him, damning the liquid (or cream) lipstick smears when you swallow his flustered giggling, his hands delicate as they rest on your shoulders, avoiding smudging anything else.

You pull back. Barry follows you, trying for more, and you stifle a laugh– before peppering his very pink cheeks with more kisses.

Seems red is his color, too.

Chapter Text

“I do like these colors you picked, my love,” Betty tells you, smiling as you fluff up one of the (her?) pillows with the new pillowcase firmly put on. “Classy. A little sexy, even.”

It’s a common fact of life that changing the bedsheets is much easier with another person present. However, changing the bedsheets with your bed helping you is making you short-circuit a little.

You thank Betty for the compliment, relishing how her cheeks flood with blush at your genuine praise. After all, you want her to look her best, don’t you?

Betty laughs. “Admittedly, I was hoping you’d get some new bedding soon. These new ones are so soft…”

The second the comforter is down on the bed, she flops down on top of it, giggling when she catches your unimpressed look. The bed– she?– was just made up nice, after all.

“C’mon, honey, live a little.” Betty sits up on her forearms, looking up at you through her lashes. “Beds are gonna get messed up. That’s the nature of a bed. You toss and turn…”

She twists amidst your new bedding, shifting her hips to mimic a nightmare coursing through her. (Though you know from experience that Nightmare’s work usually has you laying flat on your back in terror.)

“... Or maybe you’re sleeping soundly and it gets way too hot…”

She stretches out her legs and starfishes across the mattress, giggling. You know Hector wouldn’t dare let it get too warm in the middle of the night, but she’s having fun, so you don’t argue. Plus, it’s… fun, to watch her romp around on the bed.

“... Or perhaps you have someone else to get the bed messy with.”

Betty shoots up and grabs your hands, yanking you down onto the bed on top of her. You just manage to catch yourself before you crash against her body, landing on your hands and knees, caging her in between your thighs. Her candyfloss hair spins out across your bedsheets, ruddy cheeks split with how wide she smiles.

“Hello, lover. Fancy meeting you here.”

You quirk a brow at her. In your bedroom, where you and her have slept together (both in a literal and a more sexy context) several times? Betty winds her arms around her neck.

“Sure, sure. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t get any less wonderful to see you like this.”

She kisses you, swallowing your giggles as you settle astride her lap and get your nice clean bedsheets… just a little dirty.

Chapter Text

Next time you go to Chance to play G&G, you interrupt his excited babbling about running another campaign for you with a question of your own: Can you run a campaign for him instead?

Chance looks thoroughly shocked for a moment before he lights up, eyes sparkling behind his rose-tinted specs.

“I— yeah! Definitely! Wow, nobody’s ever offered to let me play. Oh, man, that’d be so awesome! I gotta pick my class, and my weapons and my gauge, and—“

You tell him he has time to prepare his character, and you’ll adjust to his needs. Chance beams at you.

“Great! I’ll, uh, I’ll be here. Thinking about my character and waiting. Excitedly! Very excitedly. For you!”

You take some time to thoroughly prepare a campaign for Chance to play, including exciting battles, roleplay, loot to find, creatures to bash– just as he did for you. But this time, you also include a few fun things just for him, as the number one G&G fan you know (he is, quite literally, the only one you know currently, but still).

On the day of the session, you find Chance sitting at your dining table with his character sheet, far too many dice (or, for some players, perhaps not enough), and enough giddy wiggling to make poor Chairemi creak. You start to ask if he’s ready, but as soon as you open your mouth, he jumps in–

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I couldn’t sleep, I was so excited. I mean, it’s been… ages! Since I’ve played for myself! And since our session with me as the Chronicler went… so well…”

He goes a little pink at the memory, which makes you laugh, endeared. Chance shakes out of the stupor of memory at the sound.

“Right! Okay, yes. I’m ready. I picked Troubadour, by the way! I have Ast Rickley, my ne’er-do-well fellow from the city of Rolling Rickets, always ready with a tune to boost his party’s mood!”

The two of you sit at your kitchen table and get stuck in. It’s a little clunky at first, as your first time running G&G, but seeing as Chance is watching you, puppy-dog-eyed and enchanted the entire time, you must be doing something right.

He runs through your short campaign within a few hours of dedicated play; his troubadour treks high and low for his long-lost treasure, gallantly saves a noblewoman from bandits, and even sends your horde of goblins to sleep with a song, though when you asked Chance to sing it for you, he immediately went scarlet and panicked under your patient, but teasing, gaze.

“I, uh… You’ll just– you’ll just have to believe that it’s the best song ever, okay? I can’t think of the lyrics! I didn’t prepare to be put on the spot!”

The adventure ends with finding the treasure, which you get bonus points for actually making: a paper stained with tea (thanks for the quick tutorial, nerd online that Mac found for you), with shaky but elegant handwriting describing an invitation for dinner that night with the one, the only–

“... You?”

You nod, suddenly nervous under Chance’s dopey, awestruck gaze. Sure, maybe you made a whole G&G oneshot with the hope that by the end of it, he’d maybe want to sit on the couch with you and eat pizza and watch the Grottos & Gargoyles: Accolades for Bandits movie. And maybe cuddle or something.

Chance blinks at you, holding your tea-stained paper craft like the most delicate of treasures. He’s flushed scarlet as his dice set, even as he nods so hard his hood nearly falls off.

“I– yes! Holy Crit, of course I would! Like a date? With you? That– that sounds awesome! Absolutely! How– how many times can I say yes?”

You nod at his dice. Roll for it. He does. A solid eighteen.

Chance kisses you eighteen times, and you have a feeling that he passed that Charisma check with flying colors.

Chapter Text

As with any good workout, proper stretching is necessary. What you didn’t expect is for Dunk to take you through your paces with just the warmup.

No matter how athletic you aren’t, he manages to show you just how flexible you are, even without really noticing that you’re being bent like a promiscuous pretzel on the yoga mat. Like your previous workouts, there’s no seedy hand lingering, no wandering touch– just the study reassurance that this incredibly strong fella is there for you as you stretch your… what’s the muscle at the back of your thighs called?

“Hamstrings!” Dunk offers helpfully, your heel on his shoulder and his hands on your hips as he stretches said hamstrings out. You wince at the exertion and his grip slides to the back of your thigh, massaging the muscle with his thumb. Somehow, even just that gentle touch soothes the long-neglected knot back there.

“You’re doin’ great, this’ll be a major help for your workout! Can’t beat a good active stretching sesh before absolutely killin’ it in the ring, right??”

He’s trying boxing with you today. The gloves, wraps, and sparring handpads seem to glare at you from the Virago box they came in a few days prior. Even though they’re technically part of Dunk now, you’re still nervous; you tell him so, and he grins.

“Nah, nothin’ to be worried about! I’ll go easy on ya. It’ll… it’ll be my first time too.”

You both go quiet as he gently takes your other ankle in his hand and puts it on his shoulder, stretching out your other hamstring. Stifling a hiss as the muscle extends, you ask him why he hadn’t tried boxing yet. Dunk laughs.

“Well, cause you never had the gear for it! I focused mostly on ball sports.”

You have something witty on your tongue– after all, he left the goal wide open– but he suddenly pushes your leg further down, into your torso, and your breath catches.

“Let’s not get into innuendos when I’m already bendin’ you in half, yeah?”

You know you must look a sight, all pink cheeks and wide eyes, with one leg bent forward into your belly, Dunk smirking at you with those bright, teasing eyes of his.

But you know how to play this game.

You shift your hips and he loses grip on your leg as you swing it over his head and wrap around his waist. Dunk holds himself up with hands on either side of your body on the yoga mat, and you relish in the fact that this time, it’s him that’s flushed and flustered.

“Well! Okay, uh. Huh!”

You make an absolutely awful joke, something unrepeatable about a baseball bat in his pocket, and Dunk is most of the way through “Baseball bats are too big for pockets and besides I don’t even have pockets” when he realizes–

“Oh, wait. That was– that was- ohhhhh.”

You’re too busy laughing to even make it to a home run. And besides, you were meant to be boxing, weren’t you?

Chapter Text

You’d love to say that you know where Beau’s taking you on today’s adventure, but in all honesty, you aren’t sure. Not that you ever are, really, when your cardboard crusader’s at the helm.

“Quiet, now,” she whispers to you, tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding that one step that Stella’s self-conscious about for the squeak. “If we get caught, all manner of hellfire could rain down upon us. And we don’t want that.”

Sounds hot, you muse under your breath. But not in a fun way.

Beau stifles a snort of laughter, her eyes widening in warning as she aggressively shushes you again. “Hey! No– no funny business, partner!”

You get to the bottom of the stairs. Beau flattens herself against the wall as you peek into the living room, looking into your near enough always empty home for vagabonds, vagrants, Jacques, or maybe an intruder or two. The coast is clear. As you expected, but you tell Beau the way is clear and she grins, relieved.

“Phew! That’ll make our expedition less treacherous.”

Because who knows if a floorboard might creak, or what if the rug has a lump you trip over? Treacherous terrain indeed.

You follow Beau into the kitchen, where you find… a box. She sneaks toward the table and grins, almost mischievously, at the sight of it.

“Here in plain sight. It was almost too easy.”

You come up next to her and peer inside to find… your Virago order from that morning, delivered to your door. Whatever you got, Beau finds it incredibly telling. You almost tell her that this isn’t exactly treasure, but she looks so delighted for the opportunity to pull a Cindy Bandana Jones switcheroo that you stay silent.
She takes a deep breath and holds out a smaller, less conspicuous cardboard box, before expertly swapping your Virago order with said box with such speed, you aren’t sure it’s even happened before she’s staring into her hands like she’s holding a baby bird… and not your eight-pack of socks that you ordered yesterday. (Mac tried to convince you to get, in their words, “sexier socks” to wear while you scroll the web, but you stuck to your regular, favorite style.)

“This is… well. It’s softer than I thought.” Beau investigates your pack of socks as someone would investigate fine art: squinting, uncertain, but appreciative of a masterpiece nonetheless.

You try not to laugh while telling her that you ordered new socks, but you neglect to tell her it’s not treasure, as new socks are, in their own right, a form of treasure, aren’t they?

“Oh! So you– so this…” Beau struggles for a moment to figure out something cool to say, but eventually settles on a sigh. “Can’t say I wasn’t hoping for something more exciting, but hey. Socks keep your feet warm ‘n dry on adventures! And that’s important too!”

You ask Beau if it’d make her feel more accomplished if you wore the treasure you found. After all, you did technically find something of note: one can’t deny the allure of a new pair of socks.

She beams at you, glad for some semblance of adventuring spirit. “Of course! We must split our bounty equally between the two of us, partner. Seems only fair, yeah?”

A few other residents of the house asked you, later, why you were wearing one red and one yellow sock. The answer is, of course, because Beau was currently wearing one yellow sock and one red sock, too.

While it’s not exactly the matching outfits you might’ve hoped for with your adventuring partner in love and cardboard, you’ll take it.

Chapter Text

You find that while he’s more than eager to revisit old board games, Bodhi is surprisingly good at the one he doesn’t like: Scrambled. (Luckily for both of you, it’s one that Parker has very little patience for, too.)

He manages to get all the right letters for a collection of lingo from his time on the board: “radical”, “rad”, “dude”, “gnarly”, and even “cowabunga”, which you aren’t sure how happened, as Scrambled only allows seven tiles on your docket at a time.

You’re struggling between adding a S onto “dude” or trying to convince him that “schzl” is definitely a modern word when he sighs, lying flat on the floor.

“Dude, this game takes forever,” Bodhi complains, his wild, curly cassette ribbon hair fanning out over the floorboards. “Compared to Sandyland, this takes, like… ages. Decades, even!”

You remind him that he’s the one who got excited about playing it again, as you sneakily add a S onto “dude”, bagging you seven points. Bodhi doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, but like… there’s so many more words now. Like… my head’s gonna explode thinkin’ about it all, Monitors-style.”

You snicker at the reference, watching him sit up on his forearms to look over his tiles and the board. Bodhi scrunches his face up when he’s thinking hard about something, tangling his guitar-calloused fingers in his hair. It’s endearing– especially when he jolts with a wide, dazzling grin after figuring it out.

“Oh! Hehe, sick. I got it.”

He slowly but surely sticks onto the S you added to “dude”, creating “smooch”. It takes you a second to realise; like the hair metal band with the face paint?

Bodhi snickers, sitting up and not-so subtly scooting closer. “Well, yeah. They may be a 70s band, but they still rocked through some of the 80s! Buuuuut I was also gonna, uh… ask for one. For, uh. Makin’ sure I got the word right, y’know?”

You turn to look at him, and while you can’t see Bodhi’s eyebrows under his similarly hair-metal-esque mane, you can feel in your heart of hearts that he’s waggling them at you amidst the bright pink flush to his cheeks.

Happy to give a hands-on (or lips-on) demonstration, you cup his jaw in your hand and remind him that while there’s lots of new words, some still have the same meanings, no matter the decade.