So that prompt that @sonicscrewdriver-hippogriff sent me sparked two ideas. This is the second one. Disclaimer: I do not know much about John Constantine, but I needed some magic help in here, so uh. He’ll be slightly OOC. There’s a naked (superbat) kiss in here too, beware.
Clark and Bruce reunite after spending a month apart. <3
There’s no warning, no way to predict it. It just appears, suddenly, as if it never left.
Clark knows that sound, knows it better than any other. Bruce’s heartbeat. He would be able to point it out anywhere in the galaxy, he’s sure of it. He hasn’t tested the theory, but that’s only because he doesn’t want to be that far away from Bruce if he can help it. He knows it to be true though. But the past month… the past month it hasn’t been here. It hasn’t existed. Not on any plane of existence that Clark’s abilities can pick up.
Now, suddenly, it’s here. It’s back. Bruce is back.
Clark doesn’t realize he’s started flying before he lands in the cave. He doesn’t have to ask for access anymore, Bruce has designed the security system to recognize him. It was one of the first signs Clark noticed that Bruce might actually care about him too. It’s silly thinking about it now, when Clark knows that all Bruce ever does is because he cares. He cares so much about everyone and everything. He’s good at hiding it though, not one for warm and fuzzy feelings, but that’s one of the things Clark likes about him. It makes it that much more special when Bruce finally does open up and shares his time, his feelings. It makes Clark’s heart flutter and his cheeks hurt from how big he’s smiling. It shows him clearly how much Bruce loves him, when he prioritizes Clark’s comfort over or at least on par with his own.
Clark misses that, those evenings curled up together, talking about little things. He misses poking at Bruce until the man grunts in the way only he can and accepts Clark’s proposal for a date night. He hasn’t had any date nights this month. Which is also why these last four weeks have been absolute hell. No date nights, no missions with the League, no monitor duty together. No Bruce.
Clark is used to being apart from Bruce, it’s not like they live together (yet. Clark is working on that). Bruce likes his own space and even Clark needs a few days just to himself sometimes. But being forced apart? It is not something Clark ever wants to experience again. He prides himself on being very independent but a month apart? Even someone who isn’t madly in love wouldn’t be able to take that, when they’ve first had a taste of being with someone like Bruce.
When Constantine had asked for Bruce’s help, Clark hadn’t thought much of it. He doesn’t know John very well of course, so he wasn’t really sure what to expect. Bruce had been instantly suspicious, but that wasn’t anything new either. Bruce would probably be suspicious no matter who asked for his help. He still hesitates when Dick asks him to look over a case, although that might have something to do with the differences in their methods. Dick wouldn’t ask for Bruce’s help if he didn’t mean it though, even Clark knows that. Bruce is a complicated man, but he’s suspicious of John Constantine for a reason. Or twenty. Depending on when you ask.
“He’s a conning magician,” Bruce has told him, and that’s enough for Clark to know that Bruce doesn’t trust him entirely, valid reasoning or not.
Bruce has a thing about magic. A thing he won’t talk much about. Besides the ‘magic is unpredictable’ he will admit to if he’s pressed or the even more used ‘magic isn’t real’, Bruce won’t tell Clark why he’s so sceptic or suspicious of Constantine. It doesn’t really matter either way because in the end Bruce still agrees to help. It can’t be that bad if Bruce is willing to overlook it long enough to help out.
Neither of them had expected the mission to last for an entire month though. Bruce had grunted his goodbye and there hadn’t been a grand sendoff or anything. Even Bruce would’ve wanted to spend the night together if he knew they were going to be apart for this long. At this point Clark is tempted to let Constantine have a piece of his mind if the man doesn’t have a very good excuse for keeping Bruce away from him, from his family, for so long. Clark knows it must be important even though the magician wouldn’t tell him any details.
“No can do, chief,” he’d said with a cheeky smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, and Clark had been struck with how different his blue eyes were to Bruce’s, or even Clark’s own. They were very cold and hard, no space for warmth within this man. “Need to know only.”
Clark can’t really fault the guy for being careful. The few things he knows about John are sinister and dark, and he wouldn’t be surprised if John has made quite a few dangerous foes along the way. It doesn’t stop Clark from cursing his name when the third week goes by, and he still hasn’t heard a word from Bruce. He knows he has to stay patient – if something had happened, he would’ve known. He would’ve felt it. It’s not like he truly believes in soulmates (at least not if Bruce asks), but if there really is such a thing, he knows he and Bruce are it.
The simmering frustration he’s felt towards Constantine for four weeks (32 days, five hours and fourteen minutes) dies out the second Clark’s eyes land on Bruce. He’s standing next to Constantine, and it looks like they’ve been arguing – friendly arguing judging from Bruce’s relaxed stance. They stop talking the moment the computer alerts them that Clark is in the cave. Clark barely registers Constantine’s presence, all his pent-up frustration slowly seeping out through his pores as he looks at Bruce.
He looks like hell. Clark doesn’t have to use his x-ray vision to know Bruce is bruised and beaten and – is he limping? Clark feels anger rise back up in his chest, slowly burning through what’s left of his rumored infinite patience. Half Bruce’s suit seems to have been either cut, burnt or torn and Clark wants to cover him immediately with his cape. He knows Bruce won’t want to show weakness like that, but he is tempted to ignore his wishes this once. He looks like a mess and what’s worse is that he looks too exhausted to hide it.
What really worries Clark is when Bruce pushes his cowl off – what’s left of it anyway, one lens is shattered, his left cheekbone all the way up to his ear is uncovered, and it looks like one of the little bat-ears have been broken off. His face is exposed, and they might be in the cave, but Clark wasn’t aware Bruce would ever show himself to Constantine like this. They have been God knows where together for a month, of course, so maybe Bruce has had to expose himself in that time. Clark will have to ask him later; he doesn’t want to have that particular conversation in front of John.
Bruce takes a few wobbly steps forward. He is limping, and Clark feels tears gather at the corners of his eyes as his chest tightens painfully. His heart feels like it’s been trapped in a vice that’s suddenly released. He usually wouldn’t show affection openly like this in front of others – Bruce doesn’t like it – but for once he isn’t the first one to make a move.
Bruce locks their eyes together and they’re wet, glistening. There’s pain there, but more than that there’s warmth and if Clark isn’t mistaken a little relief as well. The bags under his eyes are impressive even for Bruce’s usual standards and his lips are cracked. There’s bruise forming on top of his cheekbone and below his jaw as well. He hasn’t shaved in at least a day it looks like. He’s absolutely beautiful and Clark feels his throat tighten. He feels like he’s being reunited with the rest of his soul, like it’s been missing. And it has, because Bruce is his other half, his partner in every sense of the word, and he’s missed him so much.
“Clark.” Bruce says his name like a prayer, the word barely above a whisper, but even without his enhanced senses Clark would be able to hear him.
He is by Bruce’s side before he can blink. He can tell the display of his powers throws Constantine off for about a second before he gathers himself. Bruce isn’t the only one who’s exhausted it seems. John’s exhaustion isn’t anywhere on the list of things Clark cares about right now though. He knows he should probably be more polite, but from the few conversations he’s had with Constantine, he won’t be judged too harshly for his behavior. Clark knows Bruce won’t mind at least, which is what matters most.
Clark doesn’t care that Constantine is still there or that he can hear Alfred coming down the stairs to make sure Bruce is alright. All he cares about is that Bruce is here, within reach. He can’t not touch him. He reaches out but before he can grab a hold of Bruce’s shoulders, Bruce takes a step forward and drops his head onto Clark’s chest with a heavy sigh.
It takes Clark’s brain a moment to process this development. He hadn’t meant to do much more than hold onto Bruce’s shoulders until at least Constantine had left, but apparently Bruce wasn’t worried what the warlock might think. He must really be exhausted then. Clark shakes off his initial surprise and wraps his arms around Bruce’s back, making sure to flatten his entire palm between Bruce’s shoulder blades like he knows makes Bruce feel safe.
When Clark puts a hand on the back of his neck, Bruce shuffles closer, burying his face in the crook of Clark’s neck, leaning against him. Another deep sigh escapes his lips and Bruce’s shoulders drop at least half an inch, like he’s been tensing up for yet another fight the entire time he’s been back on Earth. There’s no way Clark is letting him out of his sight for the foreseeable future. He knows, logically, that Bruce will probably not allow him to lock them both in the bedroom for a week, but even Superman can have unattainable dreams every now and again.
“Nice working with you, Bats,” John says with a grin, leaning sideways as if he’ll be able to catch Bruce’s eyes from where he’s smushed against Clark.
“Fuck off,” Bruce says, voice muffled into the skin of Clark’s neck. There’s no real heat to his words and it sounds oddly like when Red Hood tells Batman to ‘fuck off’. There’s definite resentment in those two words, but that’s not all there is. There’s some affection in there as well, Clark can tell. Reluctant maybe, but affection, nonetheless. He doesn’t know what to think about that, but for now he just tightens his hold on Bruce’s neck.
Clark can’t help but glare a little too heatedly at Constantine when he doesn’t immediately leave. Their eyes lock and something akin to gratitude flashes in those cold eyes for a brief moment. Clark isn’t sure what that means but he doesn’t have time to analyze John’s facial expressions, because in the next second he isn’t in the cave anymore. He vanished in a way that would leave even Batman looking like an amateur.
“Showoff,” Bruce mutters as he slides his arms around Clark’s waist.
Clark can hear Alfred turn around on the staircase, his quiet voice saying something about tea. Clark smiles and he pulls Bruce closer. Alfred has always been good to him, and he trusts Clark enough to take care of Bruce, at least for a little while. It’s the ultimate stamp of approval.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Clark says and tries his hardest not to laugh when Bruce just groans in response. Clark can’t help but think of a teenage-Bruce grunting and being difficult towards Alfred.
Despite his unwillingness to actually move Bruce doesn’t protest much when Clark begins walking them towards the showers. It’s awkward and stumbling but Clark isn’t sure if Bruce is exhausted enough that he’ll forgive Clark for carrying him there. When Bruce’s hip bumps against one of the steel tables, Clark decides that he’ll just have to.
Bridal carry isn’t exactly easy when Bruce’s arms are like vines around his waist, but Clark is imaginative. He bends his knees and grabs the back of Bruce’s thighs. The angle is weird, but it’ll do. He hoists Bruce off the floor, trying not to giggle as the movement has Bruce’s hands sliding up his sides and under his arms.
“This is new,” Bruce comments but he doesn’t move other than to slump even further. Clark feels like he’s carrying a sack of potatoes.
“You’re not making this easy for me,” Clark responds. It’s easier than before though. He can hold onto Bruce with one arm around his thighs and still navigate the doors with his other. Half his face is also pressed into Bruce’s chest and that’s always enjoyable. His heart is even louder here, and Clark takes a moment to just listen and breathe.
“You gonna move or what?” Bruce asks after a while, tapping his feet against Clark’s thighs. He’s being generously patient with Clark today, but he wiggles a little as if to remind him where they are and what they’re doing.
“Right.”
Clark walks the rest of the way to the showers and settles Bruce down on the floor again gently. He reaches up to pull what’s left of the cowl from where it hangs awkwardly at Bruce’s neck, and Bruce lets him. Clark hesitates for barely a second when he looks at Bruce’s suit. There’s not much left of it. He looks at Bruce, searching for confirmation. They’ve talked about this before; Bruce is not a fan of the way Clark seems to enjoy tearing his suits apart.
“They’re expensive equipment, Clark,” Bruce will always say.
“You’re a billionaire, Bruce,” Clark bites back every time.
They have come to a tentative agreement that if the suit isn’t already on the verge of throwing out, Clark should not just pull it directly off Bruce’s body. This time there’s not much left to save, so Clark carefully grabs at Bruce’s hips. He barely has to pull before the Kevlar and under armor falls off.
“I can undress myself, you know,” Bruce has enough attitude left to say. He doesn’t move though, just stands there as Clark tugs the remnants of his suit off.
“So, you’d rather I let you shower by yourself?” Clark asks with a raised brow. He knows how much Bruce enjoys when he washes his hair, even on days where he isn’t injured. It’s a little mean, but Bruce deserves the same attitude he’s giving.
“Hn,” is all the response Clark gets, which is as good as ‘No, I want you to help’ in his book.
“That’s what I thought,” Clark can’t help but tease. He’s out of his own uniform in the blink of an eye and then he’s pushing at Bruce’s lower back. “Into the stall we go.”
“I’m not a child,” Bruce mutters even as he wobbles to where Clark wants him.
“Never said you were.”
“Ever heard of actions speak louder than words?”
Clark rolls his eyes as he turns on the shower. The water heats up in under ten seconds, but he keeps a hand underneath the spray to make sure before he pushes Bruce into the hot water. He splutters for a moment but then closes his eyes as he lets the warmth wash over him. Clark watches him for a while until the tugging in his chest gets too much to ignore any longer.
“Would I do this to a child?” He asks as he crowds Bruce up against the tiles. Bruce easily lets him, opens his arms and legs, makes room for Clark’s body with his own. Clark cradles Bruce’s cheek gently. The water is pushing Bruce’s hair over his forehead, and he looks so much younger like this. Happier too, although Clark allows himself to think that is because of him.
“God, I hope not,” Bruce says with a laugh, trailing his hands over Clark’s hips.
“Stop being creepy.” Clark pulls a face.
“Stop talking,” Bruce counters with a smirk.
“Make me.”
And Bruce does. Of course, Bruce does. He never fails to amaze Clark, whether it’s his brilliant mind or the use of his tongue. The hands at Clark’s hips pull him in closer, so close not even the water can come between their bodies. Clark needs no more encouragement to use the hand on Bruce’s cheek to lead him into a kiss. His lips are still cracked, but he’s smiling as their lips meet and Clark presses even closer.
God, he’s missed this. Missed Bruce.
It takes them a while to get out of the shower but when they do Bruce is cleanshaven and the grime has been washed from his body. He’s still limping but not as badly as before the shower; it doesn’t change the fact that Clark orders him to get his ass to the bedroom. Bruce doesn’t argue much, after Clark tells him exactly what they’re going to do once they get to the bed.
They make their way slowly up the stairs (Bruce is refusing to be carried, the stubborn idiot) and Clark finds himself a little curious. While he would love to just postpone the conversation a day or two if Bruce would let him, he also wants to know what in the world could have Batman look so drained he couldn’t even be bothered to hide it.
“So,” Clark starts carefully. The tone of his voice is enough that Bruce knows exactly what he’s hinting at.
“Lanterns,” Bruce hisses back, in a way only he can. There’s nobody else who can have a single word sound like a string of curses quite like Bruce can. That’s all the information Clark needs to figure out why Bruce is this exhausted. It’s one thing that he’s bruised and sore, but to show physical affection in front of someone like John Constantine? Of course, there had to be Green Lanterns involved.
“What happened?” He asks as he wraps an arm around Bruce’s waist. He’s getting wobbly on the last few steps.
“Tomorrow,” is all Bruce says, and for now that’s okay. Because Bruce isn’t going anywhere, and they have tomorrow. They have all the time in the world.
Jaskier wasn’t nervous. He absolutely wasn’t nervous. Except he was. He totally was because he had a dinner date – was it even a date? It’s just dinner, come on Jask – with a gorgeous hunk of a complete dork of a dad that was utterly besotted with his angelic little gremlin. And Jaskier had just met him. Just met Geralt and Ciri and already he was determined not to blow it. Frankly, Jaskier didn’t care if Geralt wasn’t interested – he's probably ten years older than me, he’s got a kid, he might be straight-straight not just kinda straight – but he so desperately wanted to spend more time with them both and get to know them.
God knows he could use some more friends. Valdo seemed to have left their relationship with all their mutual friends, but I suppose that’s what happens when you date a guy from university for four years and just make friends with all his music friends and –
Jaskier wanted so badly to get this right.
Which is why he stood outside the Rivia house – a beautiful old tall town house which Jaskier would have bet has one of those gorgeous long winding gardens – with a distinctly not-rubbish film and some flowers. A simple but beautiful bunch of wildflowers that Jaskier had stared at for at least fifteen minutes at the shop after he’d left Geralt and Ciri in confectionary. He’d decided to risk it but they’re white and delicate so if he's read the vibe completely wrong they’re obviously for Ciri.
He knocked. Geralt said not to ring the doorbell because next door has a baby.
Oh God I should have changed. Why am I still wearing my shopping clothes and this dumb scarf –
“Hey, Jaskier.”
Jaskier looked up to see Geralt at the doorway, long white hair tied up now and an apron at his waist – oh man why is that sexy?
He had a flour smudge on his cheek and his shirt was covered in flecks. Jaskier was about to tease him and ask why he’s only got a tiny apron when he's wearing a black shirt when he heard footsteps behind the man.
“Mr Frilly!” Ciri cheered as she joined them in the doorway. She was wearing a full-size apron which on a child should look utterly ridiculous but she was also wearing an expression that said she was in charge.
“Already started on dinner I see!” Jaskier said with a grin.
Geralt looked down at his shirt and gave a very sweet shrug before standing to the side and gesturing for Jaskier to join them inside.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he offered. Ciri had already bounded back down the hallway so Jaskier shuffled in and started to wiggle his shoes off with his feet. This inadvertently drew attention to the flowers in his hand.
“Uh, I brought these,” Jaskier started, studying Geralt’s face carefully. Beneath the white smudge of flour there was a distinct pink blush. He didn’t think Geralt looked uncomfortable but oh God it’s so hard to tell. “I brought these.” He repeated quietly.
Jaskier inched the flowers forward to Geralt and thank God he took them. Geralt smiled. No doubt there, that was a proper nice smile.
“Thank you, Jaskier,” he said softly. Jaskier felt Geralt's hand on his shoulder and he was about to say something when –
“Daddy, the dough has gotten SO big!”
Jaskier and Geralt shared a little laugh before Geralt lead him further into the house.
The kitchen was in surprising order considering the state of the chefs, and Jaskier and Geralt walked in to find Ciri proudly holding up a bowl of proofing dough.
“I’ll show you how to make a base,” Ciri said excitedly.
“Wash your hands, Ciri,” Geralt reminded her and Jaskier also took his turn at the sink. As he dried his hands, we watched Geralt dig around a cupboard for a vase, as though he hadn’t used one in a long time, before carefully arranging the flowers to sit in the middle of the kitchen table.
It was a wonderfully sweet evening. Jaskier and Ciri both managed to get covered in flour as they tried to shape pizza crusts while Geralt seemed to be able to do it blind and helping them at the same time.
Jaskier had figured they’d be using tomato puree (he won’t admit to how many years at university he’d lived on pasta and tomato puree) but Geralt brought over a pan of homemade tomato sauce that smelled so good. Even better was the proud little smile he made when Jaskier told him how good it smelled. Best yet was the blush and sudden inhale Geralt didn’t manage to hide when Jaskier couldn’t resist sticking a finger in to try a lick.
“Toppings!” Ciri exclaimed as she carried what Jaskier assumed was a stack of everything from the fridge. Cheese quickly went absolutely everywhere as they each assembled a pizza and it turned out the pair had a tradition of making an extra Frankenstein pizza with every topping.
They loaded them into the oven – “Daddy's going to build a pizza oven in the garden next spring,” Ciri excitedly informed Jaskier. “But they’re still good in the oven.”
Geralt started to clear up while the pizzas cooked, and Ciri immediately vanished. Jaskier stood next to him at the sink to dry things up.
“Thank you for asking me over,” Jaskier said, even though it was clearly Ciri that asked. “I'm really glad I’m here.”
Geralt Hmmed at that, and Jaskier had started to notice it might be his default setting but it sounded like a happy Hmm at least. “What would your Saturday night have been otherwise?” Geralt asked.
“Oh, um,” Jaskier hesitated and dammit he knew he was blushing but he’s going to think I'm so naive and just struggling and – “Well, I’m usually performing at some venue or another, if I’ve managed to get any bookings.” He looked over at Geralt and he seemed interested, not like he suddenly regretted inviting a hipster over, so, “I sing and, uh, play guitar. Among other things.”
Geralt nodded, and definitely didn’t look at Jaskier's mouth when he bit his lip nervously, except Jaskier definitely saw his eyes dart down.
Jaskier shrugged. “But nobody knows me around here. Not yet anyway,” Jaskier laughed quietly. “I’m on at the open mic night this week at Posada's –”
“The live night at The Mandrake is pretty good,” Geralt cut in. Jaskier couldn’t have contained his smile even if he’d tried. Honestly, so many people laughed at him for still trying and –
Breathe, Jask.
“Yeah? What kind of music do they usually have? I mean, well, a lot of my covers usually go down really well, but I also play a lot of my own songs,” Jaskier asked as he dried up the last bowl. Damn it, he was starting to ramble. But he looked over again at Geralt and the man was nodding, and Jaskier thought he might have Hmmed again. Silently though. Jaskier got a little distracted again watching Geralt dry his hands on Jaskier's dish towel and then start to put things away.
“Hmm? What sort of things do you write?” Geralt finally asked, and he definitely stood closer than he needed to as he reached around Jaskier to pick crockery up from the counter.
Jaskier was absolutely not about to reply something like meeting hot dads at the supermarket when the oven timer beeped loudly.
“Pizza!!”
Jaskier jumped a little at Ciri's sudden – immediate – reappearance and although he had no real reason to blush, his cheeks felt like they were on fire.
Geralt laughed ever so quietly. Jaskier eyed him carefully as the man's mouth turned up in the slightest smirk. Oh, Geralt was teasing him.
Jaskier flicked the dish towel at Geralt before joining Ciri at the oven, taking the mitts from her before she could try to hurt herself carrying too many hot pizzas. They took the pizzas to the lounge and before Jaskier could worry about where he should sit, Ciri sat him in the middle of the sofa because that’s where guests sit, Mr. Frilly.
“What film are we watching?” Ciri asked, sat on the floor in front of the telly to get to the DVD player.
“Oh!” Jaskier popped up again and went to his bag. “Have you guys seen The Princess Bride?”
Ciri had not and Gert agreed it was a not-rubbish film. Not that Jaskier would have judged him too harshly if he didn’t liked his favourite film.
He sat between Geralt and Ciri as they ate pizza, and Jaskier definitely agreed it was at least the best pizza in town and quite frankly until he tried ‘Papa Vesemir's’ pizza, he was willing to say best ever. They watched the film, Geralt and Jaskier both half watching Ciri watch it for the first time. When Geralt took his hair out from its bun, Jaskier couldn’t help but reach over to tuck a stray lock behind his ear before Geralt tied half of it back anyway.
Away from the warm kitchen, it cooled down quickly in the lounge so Geralt pulled the throw blanket over them from the back of the sofa. He laughed softly when Jaskier stole the opportunity to tuck in closer as his arms were raised, and then laughed properly when Ciri used Jaskier's distraction to steal his frilly scarf.
Jaskier must have dozed off towards the end of the film because he woke up to Geralt carefully easing him up from leaning against his chest as the credits rolled. “Just putting Ciri to bed.”
Ah, yes, parenting to be done. Jaskier blinked himself awake somewhat while Geralt followed Ciri upstairs. As he listened to muffled arguments about whether she'd brushed her teeth for long enough and how many stories she needed before sleep, Jaskier took their cleared plates back to the kitchen.
He was putting the last of the clean dishes away when Geralt reappeared.
“The princess sleeps?” Jaskier asked softly. Geralt Hmmed at him, leaning against the door frame in a way that looked far too good for him to not be aware.
“Are you awake now?” Geralt teased, and Jaskier admirably resisted sticking his tongue out. Really though, he only resisted because he finally closed the distance between them and leaned up, hopeful, towards Geralt. He was pretty sure, but Oh god what if he really had misread things –
Geralt kissed him. He kissed him softly, steadily and with a firm hand holding Jaskier's hip to his waist.
Jaskier sighed, only loud enough for Geralt to just hear. “Yeah, I'm awake.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Jiāng Yànlí & Jīn Zǐxuān
Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Jiāng Yànlí, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén
Additional Tags: modern day AU, Domestic Fluff, Second Chances, School Days Flashbacks, working together, Lan Xichen is sneaky!, Bunnies!, OMG they are roommates!, Medium-heat or Slow burn depends on how you count, all fluff no plot, I lied... there is a bit of a plot, But Not Much, mostly domestic fluff
Summary:
Modern Day AU - they work together and live together and everything together... thought it takes a bit to get to the 'everything' part.
But don't fret! Plenty of Domestic Fluff along the way!
