M*A*S*H ended 43 years ago today with the 2 1/2 hour finale, “Goodbye, Farewell and Amen.” The groundbreaking final episode still holds the record for the most watched scripted television show of all time!
Summary: A little over a year after Brendon said "I love you", the last of your boxes finally crosses the hall into Brendon’s apartment. Between too many mugs, Biscuit’s full-grown reign of terror, and Brendon being unfairly distracting while unpacking your kitchen, moving day becomes something softer than an ending. It becomes the first day at home.
Warnings: established relationship, moving in together, domestic fluff, mild suggestive content, implied smut/fade to black, kissing, sexual tension, food/kitchen mentions, cat chaos, Biscuit being a menace, happy ending, series finale
Author’s Note: And here we are — the final chapter of Stray Hearts. This series started with a tiny orange kitten, a neighbor across the hall, and two people slowly learning how to let themselves be cared for. Ending it with boxes, too many mugs, and Biscuit causing emotional and property damage felt exactly right. Thank you so much for loving these two, for loving Biscuit, and for letting this story become what it became. I’m so grateful for every comment, reblog, message, and little bit of screaming along the way. This one is soft, domestic, a little chaotic, and full of the kind of love that finally knows where it belongs.
A little over a year after your emergency appendectomy, the last of your boxes crossed the hall on a Saturday morning.
Not all at once.
Not gracefully.
Not without Biscuit screaming from the bedroom like a full-grown orange menace who had been unlawfully imprisoned by the state.
“He’s fine,” Brendon had said fifteen minutes ago, carrying in one of the boxes from your kitchen.
“He sounds betrayed,” you had said.
“He kept trying to get into the hallway every time I opened the door,” Brendon had said.
“He’s supervising the move,” you had said.
“He’s a flight risk,” Brendon had said.
So Biscuit had been placed in the bedroom with his water, his favorite blanket, three toys, his litterbox, and a level of personal outrage usually reserved for courtroom dramas and late dinners.
Now you stood in Brendon’s kitchen, your kitchen, surrounded by half-open boxes and mismatched mugs, trying to decide where your favorite ceramic bowl should go.
You were supposed to be unpacking.
You knew that.
You had been very clear with yourself about that.
But the light from the windows stretched all the way across the apartment, catching on the ring on your left hand every time you moved.
So, naturally, you had stopped working.
Again.
Brendon had gone back across the hall for the last box five minutes ago.
The last box.
Officially.
Which should have made you feel productive, or sentimental, or overwhelmed by the fact that your entire apartment was being reduced to a few open boxes, a stack of mismatched mugs, and one full-grown orange menace currently imprisoned in the bedroom.
Instead, you were standing in the middle of Brendon’s kitchen, holding a ceramic bowl in one hand and turning your left hand slowly in the light.
The ring caught again.
Softly this time.
A small flash from the stone.
A quiet little burst of impossible.
Your engagement ring was simple in the way Brendon was simple, which meant not simple at all once you knew where to look. Clean lines. Nothing fussy. Nothing loud. Just the kind of stunning that waited until the light hit it and then ruined your ability to think about anything else.
You tilted your hand again.
The stone caught the brightness coming from the tall living room windows, the ones that looked out over the city and made the whole apartment feel open and quiet and somehow above the rest of the world.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
It still happened like that.
Two weeks after he had asked.
Fourteen days of waking up with his ring on your finger, and still, sometimes, you forgot. Then you would reach for your coffee, or push your hair out of your face, or pick up a box labeled KITCHEN that absolutely contained sweaters, and there it would be.
Brendon Park had asked you to marry him.
You had said yes.
Your throat tightened.
You turned your hand again, just to see it.
Behind you, the apartment door opened.
You did not hear it.
Not really.
Not until Brendon’s footsteps stopped at the edge of the kitchen.
He did not speak at first.
He just stood there.
You did not know that, of course. Not yet.
You were too busy looking at your hand like it belonged to someone else, like it belonged to a version of you who had not once believed love could become this steady. This ordinary. This close.
Brendon stood in the doorway with the last box balanced against his hip.
And watched you.
Watched the small, helpless smile on your face.
Watched you turn your hand in the light.
Watched the ring he had chosen catch against your finger and make you forget the bowl in your other hand, the boxes on the counter, the entire purpose of the morning.
For one quiet second, he did nothing.
His mouth softened.
Not the almost-smile he gave when he was trying not to be amused.
Something worse.
Something gone.
Then Brendon said, “You’re supposed to be unpacking.”
You startled hard enough that the bowl in your other hand nearly slipped.
Brendon stepped forward immediately, but you caught it against your chest before he could cross the room.
Your eyes flew to him. “You can’t sneak up on a woman wearing a diamond.”
Brendon’s brow lifted faintly. “I walked in normally.”
“You appeared,” you said.
“I opened the door,” Brendon said.
“Menacingly,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your left hand.
To the ring.
To the way you were still holding your fingers slightly apart, like you had been caught mid-staring and had no intention of stopping.
When his eyes came back to yours, the softness was still there.
You hated how much it did to you.
Brendon looked at your hand again. “You’re staring at it again.”
You looked down at your hand. Then back at him.
“I’m engaged,” you said.
His mouth almost moved. “I know.”
“To you,” you added.
“I know that too,” Brendon said.
“It’s distracting,” you said.
“I’ve noticed,” Brendon said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you judging me?”
“No,” Brendon said.
“You are,” you said.
“No,” Brendon said again, and then his gaze dropped to your hand one more time. “I like watching you look at it.”
Your breath caught. Just a little.
Enough that he heard it.
Brendon stepped farther into the kitchen and set the box on the counter beside the others.
“This is the last of it,” Brendon said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Already?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
You looked around the kitchen, then toward the living room, where only a few boxes sat near the couch. “That can’t be right.”
“It is,” Brendon said.
You frowned. “Where’s the rest of my stuff?”
Brendon looked around the kitchen.
You followed his gaze.
Box after box sat open on the counters and floor. Mugs. Bowls. Spices. Baking sheets. Coffee syrups. The good olive oil. The cheap olive oil. Four different kinds of tea. Two different whisks. A jar of wooden spoons. Three pans you had strong opinions about. A stack of cookbooks you refused to call decorative, even though one of them had never been opened.
Brendon looked back at you. “Apparently eighty percent of your belongings are kitchen-related.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then looked around again.
“That feels judgmental,” you said.
“It was statistical,” Brendon said.
“I’m a woman with interests,” you said.
“Mostly mugs,” Brendon said.
You gasped. “Take that back.”
“No,” Brendon said.
“You own one mug,” you said.
“I own three mugs,” Brendon said.
“One of them is mine,” you said.
“You moved in,” Brendon said. “It’s household property now.”
Your mouth parted.
Brendon looked calm. Too calm. You pointed at him with the hand wearing the ring, which immediately caught the light again and ruined your focus.
Brendon’s eyes dropped. Your eyes dropped. For a second, both of you looked at the ring.
Then you whispered, “See? Distracting.”
His mouth softened.
From the bedroom, Biscuit yowled like he had been waiting for his legal representation.
You looked toward the hallway. “We can let him out now, right?”
Brendon glanced at the last box, then at the half-unpacked kitchen, then back at you.
“He’s going to be a problem,” Brendon said.
“He’s family,” you said.
“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Brendon said.
Brendon gave you one last look, the kind that said he knew he was about to regret this, then crossed the apartment toward the bedroom.
You followed him, stepping over a box labeled KITCHEN that absolutely did not belong in the hallway.
At the bedroom door, Biscuit’s paws were already reaching beneath the crack, orange toes stretching dramatically into freedom.
You looked down at them. “Baby, we’re coming.”
Brendon looked at the paws. “He’s not a baby.”
“He’s our baby,” you said.
Brendon’s hand paused on the doorknob. Not long. Barely a second. But you saw it. You saw the way his shoulders softened. The way his mouth almost moved. The way the word our still found places in him, even now.
Then Biscuit screamed again.
Brendon opened the door. “Go.”
Biscuit shot out of the bedroom like an orange cannonball.
He was not tiny anymore.
Not really.
He had grown into his paws, his tail, and the full weight of his own dramatic importance. He was sleek and bright and absurdly confident now, with a body big enough to cause real damage and absolutely no interest in using that power responsibly.
He sprinted down the hallway, skidded around the corner, launched himself onto the couch, knocked one throw pillow to the floor, leapt down again, and tore into the kitchen like he had received urgent news from another room.
You stared after him.
Brendon stood beside you, silent.
A crash came from the kitchen.
You closed your eyes.
“Kitchen box,” Brendon said.
You opened one eye. “Which one?”
Another rustle. A smaller crash.
Brendon’s expression did not change. “Probably mugs.”
You pointed at him. “Do not say that like you’re pleased.”
“I’m not pleased,” Brendon said.
“You sound pleased,” you said.
“I’m vindicated,” Brendon said.
You started laughing before you could stop yourself.
Brendon looked at you then, and there it was again. That softness. That gone look. The one he got when he thought you were not paying attention.
Only now, you always were.
Biscuit tore out of the kitchen again, carrying a dish towel in his mouth like he had slain it in battle.
You looked down at him. “Drop it.”
Biscuit froze.
Brendon looked at the cat. “That means no.”
Biscuit sprinted toward the living room.
You sighed. “He’s adjusting beautifully.”
“He’s a menace,” Brendon said.
“He’s emotionally processing,” you said.
“He’s stealing towels,” Brendon said.
“He contains multitudes,” you said.
Brendon’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then he turned back toward the kitchen with the grim focus of a man determined not to let a full-grown orange cat derail an entire move.
Which, unfortunately for you, meant Brendon went back into unpacking mode.
Serious unpacking mode.
The kind that involved him rolling up his sleeves before opening the next box.
The kind that involved him lifting a stack of plates from the counter like they weighed nothing, forearms shifting, tendons moving beneath his skin, hands careful around the ceramic edges.
The kind that made you forget you had ever claimed to be useful.
You stood there with one hand still half-raised from pointing at Biscuit, your ring catching the light again, watching Brendon arrange your dishes in his cabinet with devastating competence.
Your dishes. His cabinet. Your ring. His hands.
Your brain quietly gave up.
Brendon reached for another box, pulling it closer with one hand. The muscles in his forearm shifted again, and something low in your stomach went warm.
Deeply unhelpful.
Extremely moving-day inappropriate.
You watched him open the box, glance inside, and make a small sound.
“What?” you asked.
Brendon lifted out one of your mugs. “Another one.”
You leaned back against the counter. “That is a beloved mug.”
“You have said that about six mugs,” Brendon said.
“I’m emotionally consistent,” you said.
“You’re emotionally attached to dishware,” Brendon said.
“You’re marrying me,” you said.
His eyes flicked to you. For one second, the kitchen went still.
Then his mouth softened. “I am.”
Your chest tightened. There it was again. That unbelievable, impossible thing.
You were marrying him.
Brendon looked back at the cabinet and set the mug carefully on the shelf beside his three boring ones. He shifted another stack of plates, shoulders moving beneath his T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare, his whole body sure and steady and so casually competent it felt unfair.
You watched him for another second.
Then you put both hands on the counter behind you and pushed yourself up to sit on it.
Brendon turned immediately. “Careful.”
You gave him a look. “I am no longer recovering from abdominal surgery.”
“No,” Brendon said. “You’re sitting on a counter next to an open box of knives.”
You glanced down. There were, in fact, knives.
You nudged the box away and smiled at him. “Come here.”
Brendon went still.
His eyes moved over your face, then dropped briefly to where you sat on the counter, knees parted, ring flashing against the edge of the counter.
When he looked back at you, something in his expression had changed.
“Come here,” you said again, softer this time.
Brendon set the mug down. Carefully. Deliberately.
Then he crossed the kitchen.
Every step made your pulse feel less reasonable.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that your knees brushed his hips.
You reached for him immediately.
Your palms settled along his jaw, thumbs brushing over the familiar shape of him, the faint scrape of stubble beneath your fingers, the mouth that had said your name so many ways over the last year that you still heard all of them sometimes.
Brendon’s hands came to the counter on either side of your thighs.
Not touching you yet.
Caging you in without trapping you. Waiting. Always waiting.
Your chest ached.
“I love you,” you said.
His whole face softened. No defense. No almost-smile. No dry comment to hide behind. Just Brendon, looking at you like you had reached into him and put your hand around something vital.
“I love you too,” Brendon said.
You smiled. Bright. Helpless. So happy it almost hurt.
“We’re gonna get married,” you said.
A laugh left him. Soft. Disbelieving. Barely there, but real enough to warm his eyes.
“We are,” Brendon said.
Your thumbs moved over his cheeks. “Like legally.”
“That is typically how marriage works,” Brendon said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ruin my moment with accuracy.”
His mouth curved. Actually curved.
“I’m marrying you,” Brendon said.
The words hit differently when he said them like that. Low. Certain. Yours.
You pulled him closer.
Brendon came willingly, stepping between your legs until there was no space left that mattered. His hands slid from the counter to your waist, slow and warm, his thumbs settling over your shirt like he still remembered every place you liked to be touched and every place he had ever been afraid to reach.
You kissed him.
At first, it was soft.
A sweet press of mouth to mouth, smiling and breathless, your hands still cupping his face, your ring cool against his cheek.
Then Brendon tilted his head, and the kiss changed.
Not abruptly.
Not carelessly.
It deepened like a decision.
His mouth moved over yours with slow, devastating certainty, and the sound you made disappeared against him. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you a little closer to the edge of the counter, and your knees shifted around his hips like they knew exactly where they belonged.
Brendon exhaled through his nose, rough and controlled, and one of his hands slid to the small of your back.
You felt it everywhere.
The apartment blurred around you.
The boxes. The mugs. The city light.
Biscuit dragging a dish towel somewhere behind you like a war prize.
None of it mattered.
Not when Brendon kissed you like this.
Not when you had his ring on your finger and his hands on your body and the kitchen around you and your whole life halfway unpacked around you.
Your fingers slid into his hair.
Brendon made a low sound against your mouth.
That did matter.
Very much.
You pulled back just enough to breathe.
Brendon followed you half an inch before he stopped himself.
His eyes opened slowly. Dark. Focused. Gone.
You smiled.
Then you looked around the kitchen, at the boxes, at the mugs, at the cabinets still hanging open.
“So,” you said.
Brendon’s thumb moved once at your waist. “So?”
You tilted your head. “Which room should we christen first?”
Brendon went completely still.
For half a second, there was only the hum of the refrigerator and Biscuit thundering somewhere in the living room.
Then Brendon’s eyes lifted back to yours.
Slowly.
“You’re supposed to be unpacking,” Brendon said.
You smiled wider. “I got distracted.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then to your ring. Then back to your eyes.
His voice went low. “I noticed.”
Your smile softened into something warmer. “So?”
Brendon’s hands tightened at your waist.
Then he leaned in and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like the answer was not something he needed to say out loud.
You hummed against his mouth.
“Bedroom,” Brendon said, his mouth brushing yours.
You laughed softly, but the sound thinned when his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin.
From the living room, Biscuit crashed into something that sounded expensive. Brendon paused. You paused. Neither of you looked away from each other.
“Was that breakable?” you whispered.
“Probably,” Brendon said.
You raised a brow. “Do you care?”
His eyes darkened. “No,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught.
Then he kissed you again and helped you down from the counter, one hand in yours, the other steady at your waist, guiding you through the half-unpacked apartment while Biscuit thundered somewhere behind you like a very small, very opinionated omen.
The bedroom door closed softly.
Biscuit stayed on the other side.
At least for a minute.
Later, much later, you lay tangled in Brendon’s bed with the city glowing beyond the tall windows and your ring catching faintly in the dark.
Your boxes were still half-unpacked.
Your mugs were still mostly in the wrong place.
Somewhere in the living room, Biscuit was probably committing a crime.
Brendon’s hand rested over yours, his thumb moving once over the ring he had put there.
You smiled into the quiet. “I live here now.”
Brendon turned his head on the pillow to look at you.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was soft. His eyes were tired and warm and so completely yours that your chest ached with it.
“You do,” Brendon said.
Your throat tightened.
Then his mouth almost curved.
“Your mugs do too,” he added.
A laugh slipped out of you, small and helpless and happy.
Brendon lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed the ring first, then your knuckles, then your palm.
Across the hall, your old apartment sat empty.
This one was still half-boxes, half-chaos, and entirely too many mugs.
But Brendon was there.
Biscuit was there.
You were there.
And for the first time, it was not his place or your place or the space between.
"No. I thought so the first time I saw it, but I’ve seen it several times since. They were just sleeping in the flower, waiting for the sun to come to warm them so they could fly off."
S5 was simply nothing that stranger things was supposed to be. The fact that the show ended on conformity and everyone became something they never wished to become is distasteful on so many levels.
All because the duffers are miserable people who rather please a GA over the show that was originally made for outcasts. But as a result of their carelessness tone deaf writing they instead hurt so many people. Giving a message that shows “at the end of the day. You’ll never get what you want” all around.
Women, POC, queer, victims, and all these groups and so many more were treated disrespect. It wasn’t just about Byler like people think most people think it is.
It was a lot more than just that. It would’ve been a statement for the younger people of our generation and made a movement towards progression rather than regression.
It’s a shame.
No wonder Ross’s wife divorced him. He’s a sad pitiful man.
