Bitterblue 1
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your new landlord can fix anything, even you.
Characters: Jonathan Pine
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
It’s the days you want to forget that never end. You clutch your forehead as you drop your work bag by the mat. Can it just be over?
You pinch your nose and take a deep breath. This isn’t good. Very bad, actually. Extremely, entirely, fucked.
You go outside and pull the branch through the window. You hear a few more shards scatter on the floor. You drag it out onto the lawn and leave it there. You’ll figure out what to do with that later.
You go inside as the wind whistles through the broken window. There’s a few ragged pieces still clinging to the frame. As much as you’d love to take your shoes off, you can’t.
You hurry through the house in search of anything to keep the chill out. You break down a box and grab the packing tape. The roll is almost done. You used most of it when you boxed up what was left of your previous life.
You do your best. Somehow, that’s never enough. You seal the edges of the cardboard along the frame and set to cleaning up the hazard on the hardwood. You gather up the remnants of the window into the dustpan and dump it in another box.
You set that aside as you hear the wind about to tear through the cardboard and tape. It won’t last the night. You’ll be lucky if the landlord answers and why should they. It’s after dinner time. You’re not in much of a mood to do anything.
Life doesn’t always give you a choice.
You find the contact in your phone. You so kindly labelled it ‘Landlord’. Things have been a bit much. You don’t have the brain space for names.
You dial out and put the phone to your ear. You cross one arm across your chest and stare at the cardboard as it strains with the wind. The line rings and rings and rings. You’re ready to give up. You learned the hard way that sometimes, you just should.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end surprises you. “Hello?” You weren’t expecting an answer. “Ah, missed it–”
“Hello.” You blurt out. “Uh, hi. Is this…” you search your mind. The name at the top of your rent statement flashes. “Mr. Pine?”
“Mr. Pine?” He echoes. “Jonathan’s just fine. You sound familiar. Oh, yes, Creighton Boulevard.”
“That’s the one. Um… I don’t suppose you’re busy?”
“Well, not painfully. I was hoping to pop by the chippie but… it seems you might have something more pressing for me.”
“Uh huh, you could say that.” You bring your hand up to the side of your neck. “It’s breezy today.”
“It is rather windy,” he agrees.
“Mmhm. Well, half a tree’s blown through the window.” You say.
“Oh my,” he intones. “I suppose it is a bit of a maelstrom out here.”
“Yeah, I just got in. It’s just in the front. The one beside the door.”
“The one I only just replaced before you moved in. Of course. That’s how those things go.” He tuts. “I’ll be there shortly.”
“When you can. I don’t mean to spoil your supper.” You say.
“Not much of one. Should probably eat at home more often,” he chuckles. “Well then, on my way. Hold tight.”
“Thanks, Mr. Pine.”
“Jonathan,” he corrects once more and the line clicks.
You feel bad already. You tell yourself it’s just conditioning. When you ask for something, even if genuinely, it’s so often treated as a burden. You suppose you could’ve insulated a blanket and waited until morning. Yes, probably. You just have to be a bother, don’t you?
It’s as if your mother could sense her own voice in your head. Your phone rings. You stare at the caller ID, debating what’s more worth it? Her rebuke on the voicemail or her passive aggressive questions about what you’ve been doing at work and how things are going since you decided to make a change. Yes, never say anything forthright; it can’t hurt as much when the dagger thrust from behind the curtain.
“Hello, mother,” you answer.
“Oh, dear, I was afraid you stayed late again.” She chimes. “I always said to my employees, if you have to stay late, you aren’t working hard enough. Yes, you should be able to fit into eight hours if you’re doing it right.”
You suppress a growl. You know she’s always said that; she’s repeated in anon.
“No, I’m home.”
“Home? You mean that rental?:
“Yes, the rental,” you confirm. “It’s a roof and four walls.”
“I suppose better than nothing,” she chides. “Well, darling, I know you’ve much to do so let me not waste your precious free time. Your sister’s coming with her children. Your brother too. I think we should have a proper family thing. It’s been some time.”
You nod. “Oh, when?”
“End of next week. I know you’ve not much of a heart for young ones–”
“Mother, I never said so. I only decided I don’t want any. It doesn’t mean–” You stop yourself and stretch your fingers wide as you snarl at the wall. “I can bear them. For you. So, I’ll be there. Don’t fret.”
“You’re the only one that makes me fret,” she hums. “I’m sure you’ll get it together one day, though, you are running out of time.”
“Yes, mother, you remind me. All the time.”
“I’m only looking out for you.”
“Uh huh. Thanks for that. I do have to let you go. Dinner’s in the oven and I’ve a date for one.”
“You know, Darla, she has a nephew…”
“Love you, mum. Goodbye.”
She harrumphs. “Love you, dear.”
You hang up. That was just the boost you needed. You are assured things could certainly be worse. You could be in the same room as your mother.
You check the time. No use in wasting any more time. It will likely be a while before Jonathan arrives.
You move your work bag from beside the door and hang your coat. You trade your shoes for slippers and mop up the mess you left down the hall.
You set to cooking. You could probably skip the meal that night but you need leftovers for your lunch. That batch of berries you were so excited for were moldy when you went to add them to your parfait. It really does feel like the universe is really out for you.
The scent of sauteed garlic and onion fills the air. That alone stirs your appetite from the depths. The noodles boil and you add cream and butter, adding seasoning to cap off the quick alfredo sauce. As you stir the pan, the doorbell rings.
It’s one of those fancy ones that’s supposed to hook to your phone. Just another thing that isn’t as it should be. You turn down the heat and shuffle in your slippers to the front door.
Jonathan greets you with a breathless smile. His nose is kissed red from the cold, his ears too. His blonde hair is windswept.
“Hi.” You greet awkwardly.
“Evening,” he rocks on his heels. “May I?”
“Oh, yeah, erm.” You back up. “It’s this window…”
You point then cringe He can see. Duh.
He enters and gently shuts the door. He steps up to the window and examines it. The tape blows loose on one side and the wind squeals through. He presses the adhesive down to quiet it.
“Much too cold for that,” he clucks. He turns to you and rubs his ears. “I should know.”
“Ha, yeah, it’s… freezing.”
“I stopped at the hardware shop. Got a board that should fit.” He explains. “Hope you don’t mind a bit of noise.”
“It’s… I really appreciate you coming. Really sorry that you had to.” You say.
“Eh? Unless you put the branch through the window yourself, don’t be,” he waves you off and pauses. He lifts his chin and inhales. “Something smells delectable.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m just cooking dinner,” you say.
“Mm, you’ve a very lucky family.”
You stop from rolling your eyes. “Just me.”
He tilts his head, “even better. You can thoroughly indulge.”
He turns and pulls open the door. You stare after him for a moment. It would be rude not to offer, wouldn’t it?
You go back to the kitchen and contemplate. You’re not sure why just the thought of being polite makes you anxious. That’s the thing about you. You can turn anything into an impossible feat.
You hear him come back in. You busy yourself by draining the noodles and checking that the sauce hasn’t burned. For once, all is perfect.
You linger in the kitchen. You slowly venture back down the hall. Jonathan secures the board into place with insulating tape.
“Should do,” he says as he slides his fingers down the length. “I’ll have a window in tomorrow. I’ll have it done during the day.”
“I’ll be at work.” You say.
“Would it be trouble to have it done while you are?” He asks.
You shake your head. “Actually, it’d be nice to come home to a window.” You scratch the back of your neck. “Um, if… you like linguine, I’ve got some extra. For your trouble.”
“Alfredo?” He wonders. You nod. “I’d love to. Might I wash my hands?”
“Sure. It’s just right down here. Which… you would know since you own this place.” You purse your lips. “I’ll get you a plate.”
He unbuttons his jacket as you spin and head down the hall. You enter the kitchen and pull out two plates. You serve up the noodles and sauce. He comes out and flips on the faucet. As he rinses his hands, you set the dishes on the square island.
“Anything to drink?” You offer. “I’ve got water and grapefruit juice.”
“Water will do. Thank you kindly.”
He dries his hands and goes to the island. You fill two glasses. You put one by his plate as he sits and you claim the seat across from him. You usually eat standing at the island, fork in hand, eyes on a book.
You twirl noodles around your fork. He leans forward to take a bite. You taste it. Not bad for a lazy meal.
“Mm, wonderful,” he praises. “You’re a masterful cook.”
“Not really. It’s a really simple recipe.”
“For some,” he grins. “I’m afraid if it isn’t steak or mash, I’m hopeless.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t help when your tenants have you running all over.” You scoff.
“I bought the property. I leased it. I knew what I was getting into.” He rebuffs. “Albeit, I didn’t expect such tasty alfredo.”
You give a wry smile. “You’re too kind.”
“Only honest. Though I confess, I’ve only had chips as late so I’ve not much to compare it to.”
“Now that sounds good.” You say. “Chips. Bit of gravy.”
“Ah, maybe next time.”
“Hopefully not.” You say. “I mean, hopefully not a next time. I really don’t intend on doing much more damage to this place.”
“Act of nature.” He shrugs. “Only a window. Most fortunate no one was on the other side of it.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Well, it’s in how you look at it, isn’t it?” He twists more noodles around his fork. “You see a hassle coming across town to fix a window; I see a lovely meal for a very simple task.” He scoops up the forkful. “I’d say I’ve won this round.”
You look down and push around the pasta. He’s right. It’s not so bad and really it is lucky that he could come fix it so quickly. You might even have time left for a nice soak in the tub with your masala-stained novella.
