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It’s been years.
Years, and the utter infatuation that had so disoriented Kara once upon a time seems long gone. There are flickers of it. The shadow of desire cooled in the face of time and distance. A glimmer of heat at the way Cat flicks her hair, the way her dress flatters her figure.
But Kara isn’t stammering the way she used to, slipping and fumbling her way around a gut-deep need that practically consumed her some nights.
No, now she’s sitting beside Cat like an equal, like a friend, like someone who could dream of even admitting to Cat that she had once been so utterly taken by a silly crush.
Kara doesn’t, of course—not during dinner at least.
They sit and talk business: the future of CatCo, their dreams for The Tribune, the positions they’ll need to fill, personnel they’ll need to shift around until things settle. They’re up in the Northeast on business—Cat had called it a “recruitment” trip, though Kara’s pretty sure they’re mostly here to try to poach the biggest investors and best employees from The Daily Planet—but tonight is their one evening with zero commitments, and Cat had suggested celebrating with dinner.
Over dessert, their conversation turns more personal. Since Cat’s been back, they’ve caught up on major life events, but Kara doesn’t know the minutiae of Cat’s days like she once had. (She finds she still craves that knowledge, though.) Cat tells Kara of her travels, weaves stories with a level of fine-grained detail Kara had rarely been granted back when she was Cat’s assistant. Cat talks about Carter as well—the shows they’ve been watching, the conversations they’ve been having, the colleges they’ve been touring. And Kara, in turn, tells Cat about her friends, her sister, her dating life. The fact that she can talk openly about her exploits as Supergirl out in public still hasn’t sunk in, so she skirts around it, content in the knowledge that Cat knows.
It's a testament to how far their relationship has come that, after the bill comes (Cat pays, waving away Kara’s credit card with a scoff, “Put the raise toward your cardigan collection”), Kara can admit—to herself and to Cat—that she’s not quite ready to head home. Even more so that she can do so without feeling like she’s about to hyperventilate, without worrying (and hoping) that a comment like that will be taken in the wrong (right) way.
It’s not as if Cat is no longer gorgeous, or even as if Kara couldn’t still imagine something there; it’s just that Kara’s missed Cat and wants little more than a chance to spend time with her.
summary: Good roommates, friends, companions. Everything about Isabel and John is incomprehensible. Gloriously backwards. And it's all been leading up to this.
“I’m not doing you a favor. It’s what you do. When you love someone.”
notes: fluff, stickiest sap you've ever -, eventual nsfw, sub old!jonesy, 2007
a/n: Merry Christmas my dearest darlings🎄!
Well, I had a fever dream about the O2 and then had to write a oneshot....that turned into a twoshot....that turned into -- alright, I'm capping it at three, I promise. A small holiday jaunt. I've been feeling particularly soft and out popped John and Isabel, the softest couple I know. I wanted to have another chapter of WF for the holidays, but I'm still getting the next one together, so here's this little ditty.
part i - preshow
"It'll be great."
"I know."
Some people wonder if he’s paying her.
“Companion” sounds an awful lot like escort in some people’s minds. Their relationship is incomprehensible, so people assume it must be perverse. It’s not because she’s younger than him. That’s not shocking or obscene. The fact she’s around the same age as his daughters is staggeringly age appropriate given his rockstar status. It’s because she’s so quiet and withdrawn the whole way down the river unless she can be left alone with him entirely. When people are talking to John, she hangs back and watches him carefully, only speaking if she’s being directly addressed. If there’s a camera in sight, she blanches and turns away, opting to pick at her manicure. It wouldn’t be scandalous if they were photographed together. After all, John’s been divorced over a year now, one of those later in life deteriorations of a good marriage. It wouldn’t be wrong that he’d moved on, wanted to show off his young “companion” even.
But it isn’t like that; what’s between them is incomprehensible even inside of it. They’re very tender with each other, so tender it’s like they’re afraid to make impressions on each other’s lives at all. As if they haven’t made deep, fossilizations already.
Together, a moment away from everyone, they are quiet; on the deck, looking at the lights of the passing city bathed in December-dark. The whole thing could be raucous, but it’s not. It’s contemplative. She likes being at his elbow, likes that her hand fits right in the crook of it, and likes how it gets his attention, the slight turn of his head and raise of his eyebrow. Touching in public is new for them. And this isn’t even the more intense kind. The more intense kinds they don’t even do behind closed doors. If you got both of them alone, they’d each say they wish they did, but they are taking things slow, so very slow that, at this rate, Neptune will complete orbit around the sun before they consummate their relationship.
Isabel smiles at him and he smiles back. There are lots of things to be said, but nothing meaningful can be said right now. This night is much bigger than either of them. The fact he convinced her to be here tonight is a minor miracle in and of itself.
If she’s honest with herself, the thought of accompanying him to his band’s reunion terrified her. She’s seen him perform before, been party to his poised, sensitive playing. It fills her. It’s where she has learned most about him. But it’s never been this big. This…grandiose. And this boat ride on the Thames is just indicative of the level of intensity the night will bring
“It’ll be great,” she murmurs.
John considers her briefly; Isabel wears only black tonight and has her ash blonde hair swept back out of her face in a tortoise shell barrette. He knows that she has chosen her clothes tonight to stand out as little as possible, but that’s the biggest gag he’s ever heard. From the moment he saw her, she’s been hard to look away from. There are goosebumps right at the base of her ear; he’d like to kiss that spot if it didn’t make him feel like he could die from nervousness. He can play for thousands of people, but he can’t kiss her without getting hot around the collar. It makes a grown man laugh at himself.
A companion. His companion. They were fast friends, faster than should be allowed for two people in their positions. It’s been almost too easy.
“I know,” he says. Not cockily. Assured. It’s been over ten years, but he knows. This is going to be a good one.
Isabel loves his confidence, it’s so opposite the man she thought she met. She rests her mouth on his shoulder, almost as if she was kissing him, and gazes at the wrinkles on his jaw. She’s tender because she’s not sure. Neither of them is, really. Relationships usually seem to have grasping starts, two people trying to shape the unwieldy space between them into something more compact.
This is not like that. This is something much more…amorphous.
It’s probably the way that it started. When he was moping around the house, the big house that had no one else in it anymore. The girls had been gone for years but now Mo had gone too, onto her own path, and just because he knew it was for the best didn’t mean it didn’t fucking hurt.
So, he started purging the house of things, of stuff, of history. And with that came a reconciling of the instruments, a bittersweet necessity.
The auction house sent young, beguiling-eyed Isabel Finnerty. She arrived sharply dressed, polite in a coy and distant way and as John showed her into the studio, he felt his hands sweating.
“These are all playable?” Isabel had asked, perusing his gravid, but stagnating, collection.
“They have to be if I’m going to own them,” he said with a smile. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”
Isabel found this refreshing and she told him as much. She was so used to collectors who were hopped up on having rooms full of out of tune, unplayable eyesores.
“Do you play?”
“Play what?” she asked.
John looked around the room and gestured haphazardly. “Anything.”
Isabel flushed at her dumbness. “No, no. I don’t have an aptitude for it. Just how much they’re worth.” She knew who he was, not from enjoying his music, but from what she was told before making the trip. It was embarrassing to admit to him that for all the time she spent fondling instruments and listening to others play, she had never picked up the habit of playing herself. “The cross between art and artifact and tool. It’s fascinating to me.”
John couldn’t think of a response because she was fascinating him.
She examined his pieces, angelically taking notes as she went in a thinning moleskine. He’ll tell you what a gift it was to watch her: at the way she balanced from foot to foot in her black high heels, the way she tucked a loose hair back behind her ear, the deft and precise action of her hands. He’ll say he practically fell in love with her then.
Before she left, she remarked, “This is a beautiful collection, Mr. Jones. I can’t even begin to imagine some of the treasures you’ve got here.”
John raised his eyes and tried to be at least somewhat charming, “Mostly just maple and catgut with a few memories attached.”
While Isabel seemed to have an air of auction house distance, evaluative and precise, the incline of her head and the spread of her lower lip smiling made him pause: “Mm, well it’d be a real treat to go through a collection like this. An honor, really.”
John spent a lot of time thinking about her after she left. He felt silly for thinking of her at all. But after the divorce he found himself doing this with women he came across all the time — a girl restocking produce at the market, a mother on a park bench, even just a woman passing him while tethered to a phone call, all these women for brief times became the fixation of his body and soul. Isabel was just one of these. As he rested his head at night, he created little fantasies about her that were so utterly quotidian and he would live in them. Sitting in a car with her as she drove, her tuning the radio, sinking into her seat and tiredly rubbing away remnants of mascara from her lower lashes. It was so unlike when he was young, always craving to know the hollow of a woman’s body, to fill and stretch her as if she was made just for him. This was maturity; he had lost the precious gift of familiarity when Mo and he parted, someone knowing him so well that he’s known before he even speaks. He couldn’t imagine it would be possible to have something like that with anyone ever again, especially after all the years she had not just put up with him but loved him, even when he didn’t feel he deserved it.
When Isabel called back with valuations, her cool, dulcet voice listing off figures and findings John couldn’t care less about, his eyes conjured her in the middle of the room again as she axised like a music box ballerina.
“What do you think, then? I can arrange a pickup first thing next week.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” John answered eagerly and then: “Listen, would you do a collection appraisal? I think the insurance company might have nicked a bit off the top of their estimate and I could use an outside eye.”
Isabel hesitated.
“Plus, then you could –” he was starting to feel like an idiot, “I know you mentioned you’d be interested in going through the collection.”
“I wouldn’t claim to know the ins and outs of insurance, Mr. Jones.”
He felt so embarrassed for even asking and was about to blurt an apology before Isabel went on, “I couldn’t do it through the auction house, I’d have to do it as a freelancer. And it would only be a professional opinion, you know.”
Isabel had a hefty hourly rate for her time which John agreed to without hesitating and she returned to his house that Saturday to begin the collection appraisal. He tried to leave her alone, he really did. That first day he managed to stay out of her way, just brought her some water and showed her to the bathroom. But it was so hard. It was her coldness to him that was so enthralling; not unkind but utterly professional with her white gloved hands and her magnifying spectacles she threw on from time to time that made her green eyes look like those of an ogling harbor seal. A professional, yes, even on a Saturday, coming by in a blouse and slick pencil skirt, tight skirt that encased her thighs so beautifully John had to unfog his brain.
If you asked her, she would have said she didn’t know she was being looked at, not that first day. Or the second. It took a few visits for John to really show his hand by dropping by with a glass of water or cup of tea for her and lingering in the doorway longer and longer, distracting her from her work with thoughtful, winding conversation Isabel started to feel sort of bad for charging by the hour when she was spending so much of it talking to him. Enjoying talking to him.
It was just natural, the back and forth they had. Weekend after weekend, his collection taunting her in the corners of her vision as they talked and talked and talked. She heard about his daughters, his projects, the books he wanted to read and couldn’t find the time. He heard about her cat, Candide, her hapless dating life and nights on the town, the nerve pain in her feet from wearing heels too much.
They were both divorced. They were both lonely, living in homes filled with ghosts of people that still existed. They liked each other. Understood each other. So, when John asked her nervously to stay for dinner one night, Isabel didn’t refuse.
It was just supposed to be dinner. In a way, it could still be just dinner. Isabel got the nerve to tell him she felt like she was fleecing him, what with all the time they spent talking. John said he didn’t mind. “It’s my own fault if I waste my money on good company.” God, he was charming. And his dimpling smile was both adorable and curious. They drank too much wine; neither of them could drive and John thought about calling her a car but it seemed too convenient that she would be coming by the next morning to continue her work.
“You can stay in the guest room,” he said. And it seemed rather reasonable.
Isabel isn’t the type not to make it home at night. She has a process of lotions and creams, of washing her hair. She likes routines. But that night, she broke every routine and slept in the guest bedroom. It was the best night of sleep in years for both of them, not even in the same bed, just being around one another.
And after that she just never left.
John and Isabel aren’t thinking about that right now as she follows him up the gangplank toward the stage door. As soon as they’re inside, he takes her by the hand and pulls her toward him. He can smell her perfume on her neck, something like opium and orchids. Intoxicating. “It might be a lot.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He has already said this to her several times; Isabel likes things quiet. It’s why she likes him. Oddly enough, sometimes he feels like the loud one in this relationship. Companionship. She likes quartets, not the whole symphony, prefers a single gallery to a whole museum. She won’t like this, and he’s accepted that. But he hopes that doesn’t mean she won’t like him.
Someone pulls his attention; Jimmy, Robert, and Jason are all congregating. Away from Isabel, away from her. He does not like to be away from her. They are inseparable. It’s perhaps a crutch for him now, but he doesn’t care. Before he can attend to her, he feels her lips land on his jaw and her arm wrap around his waist.
He laughs a little, like it’s one of his daughters kissing him messily on the cheek. Isabel wipes her thumb across his skin where her lips once were, picking up the remnants of her honey brown lipstick. “Sorry about that.”
John certainly isn’t sorry. He looks over at her and is breathless to say anything. She’s got this light spattering of freckles across her cheeks that’s dazzling.
“Go, John,” she says, nudging him away.
John looks down his nose at her with narrow eyes. When she’s motherly like this, he blushes. A woman more than two decades younger than him having to fawn after him, sometimes nag. Makes him feel young. He kisses her softly, gratefully.
They’re cajoling him now, Robert’s black cherry voice, “Come on, John, you can neck later.”
John rolls his eyes and begins to draw away from her with an apologetic smile. “I’ll see you after.”
“Hope so,” she teases.
As he steps away, he tells her what he’s told her many times and neither of them still quite understand. “I love you.”
And she says it back.
This is why it doesn’t make sense. That at the beginning of what is now John and Isabel, for a whole month, they had an elongated slumber party. Good roommates. Sexless, romanceless, not even a scrap of tension to be found. John wanted her but that would have ruined the conceit of their arrangement. “The house is too big. I could use a roommate,” he had said to her. “Perhaps you could too.”
Isabel didn’t have to consider long. Her flat was feeling cold and lifeless, save Candide who was her pride. And the area in town was too youthful, too loud. This would be just right.
From the beginning, John was aggressively platonic and well-behaved. He couldn’t imagine she would reciprocate his feelings.
He was right, at first. She didn’t desire him. She liked him a lot and felt happier around him. And while Isabel dealt with facts and figures, she felt alright not knowing why she had stepped into the role of good housemate to John Paul Jones. No attraction about it. He was much older, with grown daughters, two of whom were older than her. That alone made him untouchable.
However, the world doesn’t take kindly to things it cannot put in boxes. Her closest friends were so perplexed by her situation that they could only assume he was trying to take advantage of her. “You don’t think he’s ever going to just cop a feel? And then get mad when you say no?”
Isabel suddenly wasn’t sure she’d say no. He had lovely looking hands. She cast the thought aside. “It’s not about them.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
To prove them wrong, she invited him to a gallery opening as her date which threw John into a quiet tailspin. He hadn’t been on a date in – but was it a date? Maybe he misconstrued what she meant. He was just accompanying her and that wasn’t necessarily romantic in nature.
Isabel started to regret the whole thing when she found John in the front hall putting on his shoes. He looked so handsome in his black sport coat, in slacks that made his knees look a perfect place to sit.
John certainly felt silly standing next to Isabel all night. Fucking clownish. Because she was marvelous to look at and he was her chaperone. Got tongue tied as she introduced him to her friends. His spark of charm seemed to fizzle. Little did he know that her mind was spinning chaotically the same way. She was the clown for asking; he was dignified and accomplished. She had asked him to come play pretend in her soupy and pompous world. Not to mention the art was pathetic looking.
“What do you think?” she asked him as they stared at a canvas with two nude figures created in tones of red.
John sucked on his lower lip and bowed his head to the side, considering the painting. “It’s…nice.”
“You’re a liar.”
John laughed and clutched his heart as if she’d offended him. “Am I that transparent?”
“You’re just trying to be nice,” she replied, looking over her shoulder at the guests milling and seething. “You don’t have to be nice. It’s more fun that way.”
Something sparked in his eyes. “I can be scathing. If you want.”
Isabel grinned. “Yes, please.”
They spent the rest of the evening saying terrible things about the art to one another, trying to keep quiet but giggling too much for the gravity of an art opening. At one point, his knuckles brushed against hers and instead of drawing away, Isabel grabbed his hand and shrouded their clasped hands in the front of her skirt, away from where anyone could see.
John looked at her wide-eyed. Isabel did not have the courage to look back, made another sardonic remark about the painting before them. But there it was, hidden in dark blue chiffon.
And they didn’t let go the rest of the night until they returned home and John had to shakily pull out his house keys.
Something incomprehensible was happening here.
From there, little touches just seemed to be born. Amidst, around, between. To the waist, the back, the arm. They spent more time away from the house together, dates that weren’t dates, and even started going on walks together, just to exercise the new habit of hand holding.
They just enjoyed each other. As simple as that. And in enjoying each other, spending so much of their time together, they became accustomed to each other too. Isabel changed her mailing address, Candide the calico claimed the front window as her perch, and to John, Isabel seemed to now be a part of the house: her shoes by the front door, a bottle of almond milk in the fridge. Simple. Easy.
He loved it.
“I don’t know whether to be jealous or commit you to an asylum,” Mo said to John when he told her about Isabel, his new roommate and innocent dalliance. He was lucky not to have lost Mo entirely. They were still close, still friends. Still parents to their girls. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” John sort of liked that he had surprised her.
“Well, are you happy?”
“Marvelously.” To be around Isabel. To get to touch Isabel.
“So, are you going to introduce her to the girls?’
John froze. “Wha – why?”
Mo snorted into laughter. “She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?”
No, she wasn’t. Or yes. She was. It had never been discussed. He cared for her. Deeply. And he knew she cared for him, but that didn’t mean they were in a relationship. For all he knew, she could be seeing other men and that would have been within her right. But the thought made him ache so deeply it kept him awake at night. He didn’t need to be entangled with her in carnage. But he didn’t want her to be entangled with anyone else when he felt this way for her.
It came out one morning. He was watching Isabel at the kitchen counter and poured hot water over loose tea leaves, soft tresses of her hair like skeins of sunshine. He listened to her talking about something, the nothing kind of something. “I’ll have to skip lunch today, but I’m just not hungry, you know, not hungry enough to have a big enough breakfast to tide me over.”
And he just knew.
“But I don’t want to eat on the train and I can’t eat in front of them, that’s so…inappropriate.”
Fucking hell.
“I want you to stay with me.”
Isabel looked up with a frown. “I do.”
“Not around me, but with me,” John swallowed. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or afraid. “With me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Isabel nodded. Her berry bitten lips perked into a smile. “Yes.”
“Good.” John cleared his throat. “Good.” His eyes travelled down from her swollen lips to her exposed collar bone. “Because I love you.”
An unrescindable truth. He had said it so matter-of-fact it was as if he was reading an entry from the encyclopedia. Isabel didn’t know whether she was even supposed to respond. Before John, she would not have been able to fathom saying such a thing when she hadn’t even kissed a man. But this incomprehensible situation was for some reason perfectly clear. To have emotional intimacy like this before the physical was a revelation. To be loved by a man for her mere existence, for just her being without feeling like she had to earn it with her body was –
Candide mewled, threading through John’s legs for attention. He reached down and scratched her chin and murmured sweetly to her, “Are you feeling left out, little one?”
“I love you.”
John couldn’t believe his ears, looking back to Isabel who stood with the tea kettle gripped in her hand. Her usual discerning eyes were, for once, confused. His jaw fell. He really hadn’t expected her to say it back.
“I love you.”
Let alone twice.
It’s never lost that first, second, third time feeling. It still doesn’t totally make sense to her and she’s thinking about how he just said it as she follows one of the crew members down the hall to be seated with other guests. She knows all their names, but she can’t reach them right now with how her brain is abuzz.
Isabel is nervous. She chews on her lower lip. She’d rather not be out in the audience, in the crowd. She hangs back in the group and darts down a corridor when she’s sure there aren’t any eyes on her. She has a remarkable ability to decide not to be seen (this floors John and she will concede that his are the only eyes she can’t seem to escape).
Showtime draws nearer; she makes her way through the halls quietly, following signs for the stage. This isn’t like the venues she’s used to. She did theatre at university, where you could practically breathe on an audience member from the wings if you weren’t careful. This is a fucking arena. Now she knows why John told her it might be overwhelming about 20 different times. She manages her way into the wings, pulling her collar up around her chin to hide in the dark recesses. It’s better this way. Otherwise, she’d probably be in the audience near Mo and the girls and the children and they would all be so nice that it would make her want to cry. They deserve this more than she does, she thinks. She’d just get in the way.
Right here, Isabel hides in the folds and for some reason no one questions who she is or what she’s doing; they’re all so focused until the lights go down and the crowd is practically a wreck, and she smiles. As the most beautiful chaos unfolds for the start of the show, choreographed and synchronized in the darkness so that when the music starts and the lights come up –
Wait. Wait.
It doesn’t work like that, it just happens, and her heart was not prepared. The music is swollen and throbbing like the time she walked right into a lamppost and hit her head. It bounced off like a ping pong ball and she cursed herself for trying to read and walk at the same time.
She has heard the music, but obviously not like this. And she has not seen him like this. In his element, with two of the greatest musicians he’s ever played with (he said to her begrudgingly when the plans for this night were mere kernels and what ifs) and being totally adored.
John is focused. He is delivering. Radiant and alive. Poetic and precise. She can’t look away from him. Every time she’s seen him before has been smaller, more nuanced. This is intoxicating.
Kissing him is no longer enough. She wants to do the nastiest shit on earth to that man.
They’ve been “just kissing” for a while. They had to work up to it.
In any relationship, there is ‘before I love you’ and ‘after I love you’. This was an “after I love you” unlike any Isabel had experienced. With her ex-husband, she had been fucked ten ways to Sunday by the time he said it. And she isn’t sure she felt it quite as truly as she did with John. But she didn’t know anyone else who was saying “I love you” to a man she had never kissed.
Isabel’s friends still didn’t understand. “What do you mean you haven’t kissed? You live with him, you love him…you’re doing this all backwards.”
Gloriously backwards. Isabel started to think she should do everything backwards.
Now, there had been an occasional kiss on the cheek to say hello or to be particularly close. A couple to the back of her hands when they felt cold in John’s. Neither of them, though, dared to go for the now coveted, much sought after closed lipped kiss.
Isabel realized she had to be the one to do it. She was the one who took his hand first, after all. The man was respectful to a fault. And she was getting antsy.
But John was no slouch, he was thinking about it too. Thought about it all the time, got hard to the idea of just kissing Isabel on the mouth. Just the idea of a peck sent him into the bathroom to quickly toss himself off if he was in her company. A grown fucking man having delusions of grandeur of kissing a pretty girl on the mouth. Pathetic.
It didn’t help that John was getting busy, preparing to travel to the states for a series of gigs and she was getting busier now that John had passed her name to his friends who needed her expertise. They were missing moments whilst looking for moments. He looked for the right time to ask her if it would be alright, she looked for the moment she could take him off-guard and surprise him. And they just kept missing.
Until they didn’t.
A few days before he was set to leave, Isabel found John up in the middle of the night bent over his computer running through emails.
“You should be in bed,” she said, hanging over the back of the sofa toward him.
“You should be in bed,” he retorted.
He was wearing his glasses which made him look so darling, so small looking up at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Last minute…” John sighed. “Things…”
Isabel leaned on her hand and narrowed her eyes. He was being suspicious.
“Would you come with me?” John asked.
“To North Carolina?”
He nodded.
Isabel ran through her schedule for the next two weeks viciously in her head. It was packed. Would be a misery to reschedule. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Yes,” John answered without missing a beat. He flushed. “If you can.”
The schedule didn’t matter. She tossed it to the back of her mind. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”
His face broke into a smile. “Really?”
“Yes, I’d love to.”
John was truly overjoyed, disproportionate for the stakes of the situation. And despite the hour, his mouth ran at a mile a minute. “We’ll fly out on Wednesday and be there through the weekend and you know, if you need to go back sooner, we can have that arranged, but I’ll need things to be flexible. In case – well, everything is always up in the air.”
Isabel listened to him ramble, swooning at the way his mouth moved, wishing she could just shut him up with a kiss.
“You don’t have to come to all the performances or any of them really.” John grabbed her by the wrist excitedly. “Just be there. In the hotel. At night.”
He needed her. It was so clear. In his glimmering blue eyes, behind the glasses. He must have been thinking about asking her for a while. She reached out and touched his cheek. “Of course.”
John’s eyes grew at her touch; he bit the inside of his cheek.
They both felt the moment, had been party to the potential energy of a first kiss to know when not to resist it. John feverishly ripped off his glasses and folded them into his lap, prepared to say one last clever comment, but Isabel was too quick for him.
One soft and gentle kiss. Not too long, not too short. Her fingers brushing up against his hairline.
“I’ll go wherever you go.”
That first trip together was nerve-wracking for several reasons. Travelling with a new partner is always a hassle, but travelling with a partner such as John, someone sought after and held in such high esteem, was exhausting. Not to mention, the first time she was attending a performance of his, not just an impromptu noodling in the studio. This was an anxiety for both of them. He wanted to be good and she desperately wanted him to be good too.
He was. As always. But for Isabel it was cathartic and thrilling, seeing the man she loved (loved! a concept) at work. And held in such high-esteem.
After the show, greeting him backstage with an ever-so-new peck on the lips, Isabel shyly tried to fade into the background by his shoulder. John, however, took her by the hand and, with just a simple intake of breath, garnered the attention of everyone around him.
“This is my companion, Isabel.”
And after that, she went wherever John went.
to be continued...
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IT'S SWEET BABY ANGEL FINN'S BIRTHDAY! Love this boy so much and forever grateful to @lumosinlove for introducing us to this lovely character. Y'all know I had to write something for this sweetheart's birthday. So here, have some very fluffy Birthday O'Knutzy.
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cw: talk of food
Finn was warm all over when he woke up, a comforting pressure holding him from all sides. He couldn’t help the happy hum he let out, his eyes not even open yet as his hands roamed until they found the two boyfriend-shaped weighted blankets.
“You awake, mon rouge?” One of the weighted blankets asked, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his jaw.
Leaning into the touch, Finn smiled, “Hmmm.. still deciding.”
A low chuckle came from his other side, and he couldn’t help but open his eyes, wanting to see his boys, “Would it help you decide if I told you we made breakfast?” Leo murmured, his head resting on Finn’s chest.
Finn brought his fingers up through Leo’s hair, which was getting long. He had started growing it out at the end of the season and now it can go up into a bun. Finn and Logan didn’t know that it was possible for the younger man to get even more attractive but then he had a bun. And what a masterpiece.
“The royal ‘We’ or did Logan help? Should I be worried? Do we need the fire department?” Finn teased, only to be smacked by Logan. “You HIT Finn? You hit Finn like the hockey puck? Oh! Jail for boyfriend! Jail for boyfriend for one thousand years!”
And then on his birthday, he was smothered by one of his own pillows. Apparently, the promise of one thousand years in jail wasn’t enough to deter the attack from his boyfriend, “I helped! It’s not even BURNT! Knutty helped, you ungrateful shit.” Logan said, swinging the pillow again.
“I’m sure it’s great, Lo! I joke, I kid,” Finn yelled, his hands coming up to try and protect his face as he tried not to roll off the bed. “Leo! Help, I’m being attacked!”
Rolling his eyes, Leo pulled his two boyfriends apart, “Lo, stop abusing the birthday boy. Harz, you need to stay off twitter. It’s a bad influence on you.” He said, unable to hide the fond smile as he tugged them both up. “Now c’mon before breakfast gets cold.”
Finn huffed dramatically, but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading on his face. His boys made him breakfast for his birthday. Logan could barely cook and he even helped Leo. Just for him. This must be a really long realistic dream.
He thought that even more likely as he walked in to see their table, just covered with breakfast foods. Pancakes, waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, hashbrowns. You name it, it was probably in their kitchen. Sitting on the counter behind Finn’s usual chair was a pile of presents. A big birthday sign hung over their sink and Gryffindor red streamers were hung all around the ceiling. It looked like the entire birthday section of a party store had exploded all over their kitchen and it was perfect.
A soft sniffle tore Leo and Logan from admiring their work, both of their heads whipping towards their teary-eyed boyfriend, “You guys did this? For me?” Finn asked softly, the love and adoration blatant in his face even as the tears began to fall down his cheeks.
Both of them quickly moved to his side, pulling him into a tight hug, “Sweetheart, of course we did.” Leo murmured, his face pressed into Finn’s sleep ruffled hair.
Logan smiled from where he nuzzled under Finn’s chin, “You deserve all of this and more, mon rouge,” He whispered, his arms reaching around to create an even tighter Finn sandwich. Leo gently wiped the tears from their boyfriend’s cheeks, rocking them back and forth.
“It may be your birthday, but we seem to be getting the best gift. ‘Cause we get to spend it with you.” Leo said softly, giving the tip of Finn’s nose a kiss before he pulled away with a smile.
Finn’s lower lip pushed out, eyes welling with even more tears, “Peanut! That was the sappiest thing you have ever said to me!” He said, his face pressed into the taller boy’s chest.
Chuckling softly, Logan gently ran a hand over his back, “It’s the truth though, Harz. Whether you want to believe it or not, you brought us together in a way none of us ever thought we would get to have. And I am forever grateful for that.. And for you.”
“Well, I didn’t realize today was also Make Finn Cry day..” Finn chuckled wetly, wiping at this face.
Leo laughed, giving him a sweet kiss before pulling away, “It’s not, it’s just Finn appreciation day. Now c’mon, before all our hard work goes cold.” He said, gently nudging both of his boys towards their seats.
As they sat down, Finn couldn’t help but just sit and watch. If someone had told his college self that he’d have this life, not just one but two amazing boyfriends and his dream job, a new chosen family with the Lions.. He’d probably laugh in their face.
He may say he loved his life frequently but it didn’t make it any less true. And if he got to spend every birthday this way, then that would be the greatest gift of all.
Retired!samanddean say I love you all the time. After years of not saying it they cracked and say it any chance they get. Sam’s making dinner. homemade soup to be exact and dean watches him stand at the stove humming to himself as he stirs and dean just feels so fond. and lucky he gets a chance at normalcy with sam. after everything. Sam moves from the stove and opens the cabinet and as he’s reaching for something? dean has no idea what. Dean walks over to him and wraps his arms around sam’s middle resting his head on his brother’s back. Sam flinches at first clearly started but relaxes once dean tightens his arms around him “you okay?” sam resting a hand on top of deans “hmm? Yeah- yeah I’m great. I love you” dean says pressing a kiss to the back of sam’s shoulder. Sam smiles he is still getting used to how soft his brother has gotten sometimes it’s hard to believe it’s really dean. But it is. God he feels so lucky. “I love you too.” sam says as dean let’s him go and begins stirring the soup himself.
