I’m dying to see a version of All Shook Up with Cyclone 🤣
Welcome Home - Cyclone x Reader
Word Count: 1.2k
Summary: To brighten things up after another long day at work you play a prank on your husband Beau, making him question not only his limited patience but how he got himself here in the first place.
Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Beau, very much grumpy x sunshine energy.
Author's Note: Ask and you shall receive! Between this request and how much fun I had writing All Shook Up I couldn't help but push through my (slight) writer's block this week and do it all over again, this time about our beloved admiral, Beau.
Read on AO3
It had been a surprisingly mellow day on base, though still a thick layer of tension rested on the perpetual line of his shoulders as he exited his vehicle and made his way to the front door.
It was anything but rare to see Beau arrive home late, usually long into burning the midnight oil, uniform still pristine but mood anything but. Days spent dealing with the Daggers and general high-level nonsense he was neither at liberty to or willing to share meant your beloved husband truly did live up to his reputation—firm, unyielding, and entirely allergic to any kind of simple, joyous fun.
Which to you, made him the perfect candidate for a prank.
His footing is steady as he crosses the yard and ascends the porch, the part of him only you got to see relieved to be home earlier than average and with tonight's sports viewing schedule already pulled up on his phone.
Though as most moments of peace seem to do in his life, that feeling is ripped away when he reaches the front door that…won't open.
His brows furrow instantly, stepping back on a heel to check the familiar porch and then further up the home's siding until the number plate set in the masonry confirms that this is, in fact, his home. He tries the door once, then again, his frustration mixing with a kind of bewilderment at how the hell he'd been seemingly locked out of the stately home he feels he frankly pays a bit too much for.
Just before his fourth go at opening the door, a sound to the left draws his attention.
Kneeling on a couch seated in front of a large window you've just slid open, you peek your head out and address the man in front of you with words spoken in a tone that sucks out whatever bit of normalcy he has left in his tired mind.
"Who are you and what is your business?" You say, half out the window and matching Beau's ever hardening gaze.
"Excuse me?"
"Who are you and what is your business?" You repeat, eyes nearly shining with silent glee.
He stares at you for a long moment. Then at the door. Then you again.
"What the hell is this?" He finally asks.
You bite back a laugh, fully committed to your display, or at minimum getting a rise out of him.
"Given your uniform and general demeanor, Mr.-" you pause, squinting to read his name plate as if you truly don't know him, "-Simpson, I regrettably have to inform you that you aren't allowed inside these quarters."
He outright scoffs at that, rubbing a tired hand over his equally tired eyes as he shifts his weight and calls upon whatever patience he has left.
"And why, exactly, is my own wife denying me entrance into my own home?" He questions flatly, just the faintest hint of exasperated tension lacing his words.
Leaning further out of the window, you clear your throat and go to speak, fully unable to hide your wide smile now.
"As explicitly stated in the Third Amendment of the United States Constitution, I—being a private citizen and all—am under exactly zero obligation to quarter soldiers and other such personnel."
With a long beat of unblinking silence, Beau lets out a heavy exhale. First through his nose then forcefully from his chest until air escapes out both passageways as his expression darkened—a sign of his building frustration.
"This isn't funny, you know," he says.
"Speak for yourself, Admiral."
He rolls his eyes at that, and you know you've got him.
"Oh, so you do you know me?" he says, his voice a touch less bitter and instead weighted by his dry sarcasm.
When you don't answer, simply smiling pleasantly at him, he lets out another breath before folding his arms over his chest and leveling you with a stare.
"Just so I'm clear, you're using the constitution against me?"
"Yes."
"Your husband."
"Yeah, babe."
"The Third Amendment."
"Mhm."
"In our own home."
"Correct."
By now, he's somewhere between downright exasperated and fighting back a laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose and mumbling something to himself that sounds faintly like your name followed by a rare, reluctant term of endearment. Only then do you see that you do, in fact, have him exactly where you want him—just as in love with you (and you're unending antics he's sure are destined to drive him insane) as he's always been.
After a minute of silent collection on his part, he fixes you with the kind of glare that's ruined careers and sent men scrambling. Though where enmity should be and so often is, his dark blue eyes are filled with a light sense of actual amusement.
He sighs then, rubbing his temples and voicing your name.
"Yes honey?" You smile.
"Open the damn door."
"No."
That nearly gets a curse from him, but he's too in control and far too much of a traditionalist to let himself curse in front of his wife, much less at her and over something so bewilderingly trivial.
After a short lap taken around the porch, he tries again. Now waging his verbal attack from a different angle.
"Over the course of just today, I have dealt with more overarching incompetence than I ever once signed up for," he says to you dryly, "and yet I'm standing here, having this conversation instead of sitting on my own damn couch and watching the Padres game, who by the way are-" He pauses, checking his phone for a beat, letting out a tense breath and rubbing his temples once more, before resuming his argument, "-Closing out the second inning."
"That sucks," you say with an unhideable smile.
"You have no idea."
For a long moment you both just stay there, him standing on the porch while you maintain your position in the window. Your expression is so peaceful it'd piss him off if he didn't find you so annoyingly beautiful. He instead settles for attempting to wear you down with a firm expression, his eyes steely and lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line.
"Mrs. Simpson," He says finally, breaking the long silence, "may I request your permission to enter what is, again, my own home?"
"Well, since you asked so nicely…" You say with that same smile, withdrawing from the window and closing it.
He lets out a breath as you do just disappear back inside, a part of him genuinely expecting you to simply head upstairs and get in that bed he's spent his day longing for, instead of following through and allowing him entry.
A second later the door opens, you leaning agains the inside frame, and he can't help the way his eyes always soften just the smallest bit as his gaze lands on you.
"Is that a yes?" He asks finally.
With the nod you give him he steps forward, closing the distance between you and putting his hands on your hips with a sigh.
"Remind me again why I married you?" He says, voice entirely sarcastic.
"Because I'm pretty and willing to put up with you, with your total of three moods and one expression?" You joke back.
That earns another sigh, though this time it leans more towards a laugh and you don't miss the slightest of smirks ghosting over his features. "Something like that," he mumbles, leaning in to put a kiss to on top of your head.
Nine Months - Beau comes home from his deployment to a surprise revelation.
Beau has his face buried in the pillow, his teeth biting down on the fabric as your hands smooth over his back, fingers digging into the knot in his right shoulder. It’s scar tissue from Syria, his doctor tells him. Every so often it stiffens, reducing the movement in his arm. He usually goes to chiropractor but he’s been cooped up on an aircraft carrier for the past few months and he needs the relief.
“I know.” You whisper reassuringly as your thumb presses even harder into the scar tissue. “I know it hurts but it’ll be over in a minute.”
He grunts his response as the muscle tightens before it gives way under you’re ministrations. The relief floods his senses, his body relaxing into the mattress.
“Better?” You ask and he shifts, his cheek pressing into the pillow as he nods his head. You lean over him, your lips lightly brushing over his temple before you clamber off him. He watches as you stride into the bathroom, that silk, floral kimono fluttering as you walk. You rinse the lavender oil off your hands before drying it with a hand towel he doesn’t recognise.
There’s been a few new changes to the house while he’s been away. A dark wood antique desk has appeared in the living room, tucked underneath the window that looks out into the backyard, an ergonomic chair goes with it. When he put his clothes away he noticed office attire in the wardrobe. Power dresses, blazers and high heels. It’s how he knows you’re serious about retiring from the military, that this isn’t just a knee jerk reaction to a deployment that was far too long for either one of you.
“Was the deployment the tipping point?” He asks you as you step back into the bedroom, rubbing lotion into your hands. “Or was it something else?”
You lean against the doorframe, toying with your wedding ring as Beau shifts into a sitting position against the headboard, the sheets pooling around his hips.
“I don’t have a choice.” You say finally. “My time with Victim’s Support is coming to an end and I found out my next posting is Naples.”
The air rushes out of Beau’s lungs, his chest constricts because a posting isn’t like a deployment. It’s longer, a hell of a lot longer. Three years to be exact. He can’t imagine going that long without you, seeing you in intervals, a couple of weeks at a time. He understands now, that you’re sacrificing your career for the marriage, that you’re giving up one of the most important things in your life so the two of you can be together.
It’s an echo back to that first time he was deployed to Germany. You’d had a choice of posting and you’d picked San Diego so you could be together but he was already shipping out.
“I had lunch with Mic last month when he came up from Washington.” You say quietly, your attention still focused on your wedding ring. “His firm is opening a new branch here in San Diego, they’ve offered me a job and I’m going to take it.”
“Is that what you want?” He asks you, his voice a little rough and you swallow hard against the emotion in your chest, your eyes stinging.
“I don’t see us surviving any other way.” You say softly, your gaze flicking up to meet his. “I can’t go three years without you Beau, no matter how much I may like Italy.”
“And you do like Italy…” He says with a mirthless smile as he stares down at his own wedding ring. “Ally… I don’t know if I can retire.”
You try to hide the hurt but he sees it, he sees everything when it comes to you.
“I understand Beau.” You say, your voice completely devoid of emotion. “You’ve got to do what’s best for you.”
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