The Wedding
derwin “d.f.” grunauer x mrs. grunauer!reader
word count: 3k+
summary: Derwin gets his draft letter and asks you to marry him. In a whirlwind, you become the new Mrs. Grunauer.
warnings: derwin gets drafted
notes: nothing to say really— i hope you enjoy!
By late afternoon, the light shining through the kitchen curtains had turned a soft honey color rather than its usual gold. It’s bouncing off the gingham checks of the fabric and drapes itself over the open pages of your notebook. The window behind you is open from where you’d washed up the dishes. It was letting in the smell of your mama’s lilac bush out front and cut grass from the Dreyfus’ lawn.
You’d been sitting at the table for most of the afternoon— bare feet tucked under your chair and your hair falling out of its pins while you scribbled down pages of notes for your upcoming exam. You’re meant to be studying the stages of child development, but your mind keeps wandering back to your boy.
He should’ve stopped by after lunch today. He always did. It’s become a routine of sorts. He’d knock on the back door just as you’d finished making you each a sandwich, he’d flash that pretty grin and maybe laugh a little, his cologne would mix with the scent of baked treats in the oven, and you both would sit on the porch with glasses of sweet tea or lemonade and just catch each other up on your mornings.
But the hours had slipped by, the sunlight threatening to leave within the next few hours, and there was no sign of him. No call either.
The radio in the sitting room was playing quietly so as to not drown out your parents' conversation. Your father’s voice rising and falling in time with the crackle of the paper he’s reading. Your mother would let a laugh ring out every now and again in response to him. They did this every evening, just as you and Derwin had your routine. And sitting here listening to them only made things feel worse.
You turn another page in your notebook when a knock hits the back door. You don’t really think as you stand, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. You cross the kitchen and pull the door open, hoping to see the face you love most.
And you do see that face, although he isn’t smiling like he normally would be. He’s just in his t-shirt, he hadn’t even bothered with those nice button downs he usually wears, and his hair looks like he hadn’t combed it in a week.
“Hey.” He says softly.
“Hey.” You echo and push the screen door open wider for him. “You alright?”
He hesitates for a moment before he answers, letting his eyes flick down to the envelope in his hand. You hadn’t noticed it at first. It was plain, off white, and had a stamp you didn’t recognize at first glance. “Can we… can we go somewhere private?” He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it in a way that you aren’t used to. He lets out a breath and you can tell he’s barely hanging on by a thread.
You nod, stepping aside so he can step in. “Come on.”
He follows you through the house, past the familiar sounds of your parents’ murmured talk in the family room, into the still and quiet atmosphere of your bedroom. Somewhere your parents would hardly ever stand for him going into. The curtains are open just enough to let in a slant of afternoon light across your floral bedspread, and there’s a faint scent of your lavender filled sachet lingering in the air.
Derwin doesn’t sit right away. He stands near the window, the light cutting across the side of his face. For a moment, he just stares down at the letter in his hands, turning it over and over and over like he wasn’t sure if it was real.
You step closer to him and reach out, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “What’s that?”
He swallows, sighs heavily, and then he finally brings himself to look at you.
“It came this morning.”
He turns the envelope over again so you can see the return address— U.S. War Department.
Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes drift to where his are staring downward. “Oh.”
“Opened it right after.” He says softly, his voice much quieter than before. “I must’ve read it a dozen times by now… keep thinking it’ll say something different every time I open it.” He sighs and tries to smile when his eyes meet yours.
You don’t know what to say, but you give his arm a squeeze. The weight of the letter pulls at you both. You don’t think you’ve ever felt anything heavier in your life. He turns back to looking down at the letter and you let out a breath, “when?”
“A week.” He says quietly, his jaw clenched and shoulders a bit tense. “Guess that nursing degree didn’t put me where I thought it would, no?”
You just nod in response, because it’s all you could do. He studied at Harvard, of course they’d want him. You’d known somewhere deep down with all of your peers getting called, that it was just a matter of time before a Grunauer boy got knicked. But knowing that this moment was coming didn’t make it any easier, and it certainly didn’t make the fact that it was your Grunauer boy easier either.
Derwin’s breath comes out uneven then, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I thought… maybe I'd get through another year. Maybe they’d forget about me. Guess I was lying to myself.”
He takes a step away from you and sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, letter still in hand, and he stares at the floor between his feet. The light from your window has made everything softer now. The edges of a sullen evening creeping in through your baby pink curtains. You hesitantly move from where you’re standing to sit down next to him. Your hand rubs at his lower back and your head finds its place against his shoulder.
For a long time, both of you sit in silence.
Then you hear it, almost under his breath, “I’m scared.” He doesn’t look up at you, his eyes stay fixed on that stupid rug at the side of your bed.
You reach out for him then, your hand finding the back of his neck. The hair there was soft, despite how much he’d been sweating. He leans into your touch almost instantly, his shoulders trembling once before he gives in and folds himself up against you.
You lie back, pulling him down with you slowly until his head can rest against your chest. He breathes out hard, sounding more like a sob than a sigh. You wrap your arms around him, smoothing your fingers through his hair and working out a few of the tangles. You feel your blouse getting warm with his tears. The house was so quiet that you’re almost sure your parents can hear the two of you.
“I don’t want to go.” He whispers.
“I know,” you say softly as your thumb traces the curve of his ear and then down the line of his jaw. “I know.”
His voice shakes when he tries to speak again, “what if I don’t come back?”
You swallow hard, and press a kiss against his hair. “You will.”
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t believe you either. He stays there, soaking you in, his breath dampening the fabric at your collarbone. And when he finally lifts his head, his eyes are red rimmed and his lashes are wet. He looks at you for a long time, letting his eyes scrape over every feature while he tries to memorize everything he can about you. He speaks up again after a few moments, “I need to ask you something.”
“Anything.” You reply.
He lays his head back down against your chest, his eyes fixated on a picture of you two tucked into the mirror of your vanity, and he just whispers, “Marry me.”
You stare at him then, your heart starting to jump in your chest. “Derwin… You don’t mean that.”
“I mean it.” He says softly. Those beautiful brown eyes looking up at you are wet and glassy. “I don’t want to go without knowing you’re waiting here for me.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few moments before letting the breath out. “I can’t go without you being my wife.”
You reach a hand up, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut, a shiver shooting down his spine. You can see the way his pulse moves in his throat and you've never been more sure in your life.
“Yes.” You whisper.
His eyes open again and then he smiles, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you move. You just stay wrapped in one another’s arms on your bed while the breeze seeps in through the window. Then he lets out a shaky breath, leaning in to kiss you. A hand wanders from your waist up your ribs, and you have half a mind to stop him— your parents are in the next room after all.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll ask your father tomorrow.” He whispers. “And I’ll find a ring.”
You smile, your eyes just as wet as his, and you tuck one of his stray curls back. “He’ll say yes. He loves you.”
“I hope so.”
He lays his head back down against your chest, wrapping his arms around your middle. The light has started to dim now, and the wind has started to pick up just enough you can hear the rattle of the palms outside.
You trace small circles into the space between his shoulders, just holding him close. The letter had fallen to the floor in all of the shuffling you both had done. You sigh at the thought of how your world is shifting so rapidly. In the morning, he’ll ask your father for permission for your hand, Sunday you’ll go down to the courthouse and marry the love of your life, and by Tuesday you’ll be at the train station saying goodbye to the only boy who will ever have your heart. But right now? None of that exists. Not while he’s warm against you and so scared to go.
You stay pressed close together like that until the sun has dipped behind the trees and the first stars start to show themselves in the thin slice of sky beyond the windowpane. You’re convinced your parents had no idea he was even here. And after you walk him to the door, letting the lock click closed behind him, then your own tears start to fall. What could they want with your boy when there’s thousands of others more suitable. Thousands of others who want the opportunity. But you take a deep breath, gather your things from the kitchen table, and settle into your bedroom for the night.
And Sunday morning? The air feels more humid than usual. The smell of salt rolls in off the bay, blending in with the smell of someone’s fresh laundry hung up just a few feet away from the courthouse. The sun is climbing high in the sky, light falling in beautiful golden rays over the courthouse steps.
Derwin is standing near the top, looking about half put together. He’s wearing brown slacks that had clearly been pressed within an inch of their life— his mama’s doing— and the collar of his dress shirt looks stiff to the touch. He’s wearing a navy tie that he must’ve borrowed from one of his brothers that he’s loosened yet again. His mama swats his hand away.
“Quit fiddlin’ with it.” She says softly, her fingers fussing to tighten up the knot again. “You’ll wrinkle it before she even gets here.”
“Mama, it’s Robbie’s. I found it wrinkled.”
Mrs. Grunauer makes a little sound and reaches up to smooth down his curls, which only makes them spring up even worse. “You could’ve at least gotten a haircut.”
“Don’t see how I could’ve.” He chuckles. “Draft board gave me seven days, not a salon appointment.”
That earns him a heartbroken look from his mama. And he hears Mr. Grunauer shift beside them. A hand clapping on his shoulder and squeezing.
He holds two gold bands in his palm. One his mama’s ring. He’s been carrying them in his pocket all morning, just buzzing for the moment he’ll see one on your finger and one on his. He turns yours over in his palm, trying to keep himself steady. Then he hears your father’s voice, rushing you and your mama down the path and he looks up.
You were walking up the walk, the hem of your yellow sundress was catching the sunlight in a way that looks almost angelic. You’ve got white gloves and stockings on, the nice saddle shoes you’d bought last week while you drug him around store upon store, and your hair is pinned up nice and neat except for one little curl slipping loose and falling against your cheek. He may have forgotten how to breathe a little.
You smile when you see him. It was a small one, but it still hits him like a brick to the chest.
“Morning, sweetheart.” He manages, though his voice cracks on sweetheart. He clears his throat and searches for his words, “You look… beautiful.”
You laugh, stopping on the top stair in front of him. “You’re not half bad yourself.” You say softly, tugging his tie straight with a gloved hand, maybe loosening a bit as you do. “You trying to choke yourself before we even get in there?”
He grins, “if I die out here, just tell ‘em I’m a happy man.”
“Derwin Grunauer.” His mama swats at his arm again, “Don’t say such foolishness.”
“Sorry, Mama.” He mumbles, but with the way he keeps smiling at you, you’re sure he isn’t sorry at all.
The courthouse door creaks when you both walk in. It’s cooler on the inside and you’re sure it’s due to the marble surrounding you. The magistrate is waiting behind a heavy wooden desk. He’s middle aged, a little round in the middle, and has a voice that sounds like he’s done this far too many times to get sentimental about anyone’s ceremony. He still smiles when he sees the two of you standing there.
Yours and Derwin’s parents sit on the benches in the back of the room. Derwin shifts his weight from foot to foot as you both stand in front of him and you can hear the rustle of his cuffs as he nervously adjusts them. Your shoes scrape against the tile, your eyes on the marriage certificate placed on the top of the mahogany desk top.
When the magistrate stands and starts to speak, Derwin’s hand finds yours. His thumb rubbing little comforting circles against the back of your hand. He looks at you, hearts in his eyes, like you’re the only thing that is keeping him from falling apart with the storm brewing in his brain. His lashes flutter once and he breathes out slowly.
“Derwin Frances Grunauer.” The magistrate reads.
Derwin looks up from where he’d been watching your joined hands, “Yes, sir?”
And he asks the question Derwin’s been waiting for what feels like his entire life to hear. And he does. He'll take you for the rest of his life, no matter how short that may be.
Your turn is next. He’s still holding onto your hand, maybe even tighter than before. You can feel your own pulse thudding under his fingers. And when you say I do, just as he had, his thumb pauses it’s circling and presses down against your skin. He grins, his cheeks tinged pink, and he slides the ring onto your finger.
The band is cool against your skin and you already have told yourself, you’d never take it off. He’s it.
The magistrate clears his throat and says something about love, about faithfulness, but neither you nor Derwin are listening. You’re both just looking at each other, feeling the way your chests swell with all of the love you feel for one another. His face starts to soften, you think he’s starting to feel some sort of peace.
When the next line, You may kiss the bride, finally comes— Derwin looks a little startled. Like he didn’t realize how close that part actually was. And he smiles, laughing under his breath. One hand settles at your waist and he kisses you gently. The other hand comes up to your jaw, his thumb now brushing over your cheekbone. You can feel the way he shakes just as much as you’re shaking. His breath feels warm against your lips and you can feel him whisper something against your mouth— you can’t tell if it was I love you or thank you but it felt the same to you anyway.
When you finally pull away, both of your parents in the back clap quietly. Mrs. Grunauer dabs at her eyes with one of the beautiful handkerchiefs from her collection that you’ve admired. Your father clears his throat as he stands up, helping your mother stand as well.
Derwin glances at them before back at you. He wants desperately to kiss you again. “Well.” He whispers as he does lean in, pressing a peck against your lips gently, “guess it’s official. You’re stuck with me.”
You aren’t sure what tips him off, but the magistrate just smiles as he signs your last bit of paperwork. “You two’ll do just fine.” He says, sliding the document across the desk with then pen.
You both sign, the scratch of the pen loud in the quiet room.
When it’s finished, Derwin looks at both of your names together on the page for a moment. He’s documenting it to memory. So he can close his eyes and see Grunauer next to your name on the hardest days. At this point, he’s praying this isn’t all a dream.
He looks up at you after a few more moments, his eyes bright. “Mrs. Grunauer.” He grins, the name rolling off his tongue in a way he’ll never not love, “Reckon that’s got a nice ring to it.”