For the Rumira disappearance bean au, taking responsibility for my partner's crimes:
Rumi and Mira sit on the couch, legs pressed together, a photo album open on their laps as they slowly page through. Zoey’s voice is soft as she narrates, perched on the arm of the couch and leaning over them both.
Ha-young has passed out, curled into Mira’s side, the excitement finally too much. “She’s been tired,” Zoey explained, tucking a blanket around her with practiced hands. “Mid-terms are next week. So, you know,” she grinned at them, that cheeky smile the same as ever, “if her grades are bad, I’m blaming you two.”
“I volunteer to be the bad influence,” Rumi said, raising her hand, just to hear Zoey laugh.
“Of course you do.” Mira just shook her head, her arm curled around their daughter. Rumi wanted to take a picture; she recognized that tired but adoring expression from just after Mira gave birth.
Now she’s gazing down at a picture of Ha-young at maybe twelve, holding up an award from school.
“She likes math, I don’t know where that comes from,” Zoey laughs.
“Me,” Rumi answers softly, gliding a fingernail over the photo, the curve of a cheek and a smile. Mira leans a little into her side, fingers threading through her hair. “Math always felt simple, with one right answer. It just never came up between the demon fighting and the idol life.” She laughs quietly; it’s not really funny. “Maybe that’s why I always liked the business side of things.”
She keeps turning pages, keeps hearing stories, seeing things in snapshots that she should have been here for — but no, she can’t think about that right now. Can’t feel guilty about things that were not in her control, cannot be changed or fixed. All she can do is be here now, and as she gently closes the album, Rumi takes a deep breath, feels her chest crack open and tear sting her eyes. “Zoey,” she says, has to pause for another trembling inhale. “You’ve done such a good job.”
Zoey wobbles, eyes wide, before she curls in on herself, pressing a hand to her face. “Oh damn,” she says, voice watery but trying for levity. “I thought we were done crying.”
“Not yet,” Mira tells her, hand moving from Rumi’s hair to Zoey’s arm, and Zoey slides off the couch arm into Rumi’s side, hugging her tightly, one hand curled in Mira’s shirt, as Mira murmurs to her. Rumi holds onto them both, her gaze locked onto the sleeping form of her daughter.
In the morning, Rumi wakes on the couch to the smell of something delicious. Zoey’s still passed out, and Rumi stands, stretches, transfers the blanket to Zoey’s outstretched form. She follows her nose to the kitchen, where Mira and Ha-young sit at the table, food gently steaming on the plates in front of them.
Mira watches as Ha-young takes a bite, their daughter’s expression showing her clear pleasure. “It’s really good, Eomma,” she says, but her second bite is a little slower, her face turning contemplative. “I… remember this.”
“Have some more,” Mira offers, turning away to put some more on Ha-young’s plate, though Rumi can see the slight shine to her eyes.
Rumi steps forward into the room proper, and both of her girls smile at her.
“After all,” Mira adds, “once your Appa starts, there won’t be any food left.”
Grinning, Rumi takes a seat at the table. Even if their laughter is directed at her, it’s the most beautiful thing she’s heard in years.
GOD......... i love their little family and god Zoey DID do such a good job
