Oh to have Art Donaldson take care of you while you’re sick and make you chicken noodle soup…
AN’s: wrote this while drugged up on DayQuil, so bear with me. Ofc little to no editing, just pure soft Art vibes. Word Count: 0.6k
The morning sun dances across your face as it peaks through the gaps between the blinds. Bedsheets rustle next to you as the bed slightly undips due to the lack of weight of your boyfriend, as he gets up to start the day. Finally opening your eyes, a bright red 7:30 flashes on the nightstand from the old alarm clock. Hearing Art’s electric toothbrush buzz from the bathroom, you force yourself up to join him. A sequence of coughs escapes from you; you didn’t even realize how loud they were until Art is practically running towards you, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth, to force you to lie back down. “Art, I'm fine!” you whine as you struggle against his arms holding you down in bed, “At least let me check your temperature-” He doesn’t even wait to see you nod your head in agreement before he runs back to the bathroom to grab the thermometer.
You lay waiting for him, your hand shading your eyes from the now brighter room. You hear Art trip over something as he rushes back, a small “ouch” escaping him. “Here, it will be quick, I promise,” he says, gently moving your hand away and holding it at your side as he sticks the tip of the thermometer in your mouth. A moment passes, and the thermometer beeps. “What is it?” You try to sit up slightly, but he softly pushes you back down. “100, you’re staying home today,” he whispers against your forehead before giving it a small kiss. Art stands up and walks over to his side of the bed, “and I’m staying home with you.” he leaves the room before you can argue against it, grabbing his phone on the way out to make some calls.
By the time he comes back, he is crawling back into bed with you, planting kisses all over your face, barely listening to you when you say, “I’ll make you sick”. Instead, he just scoops an arm under yours and pulls you closer into him, “Does it look like I even care?” he smiles as he looks down at you. Both of you stay like that for a moment. “How about I fill up the tub for you? Would you like that?” You nod softly against his chest before he gets up again to go back into the bathroom. Not long after that, you hear the rush of water. You sigh and sink deeper into bed, just about to fall back asleep, when Art gently taps your shoulder, “Take this, it should help with your cough.” he opens his clenched hand, showing you two small DayQuil pills. After you take them, he picks up the glass of water from your nightstand and hands it to you, watching intently as you swallow both of them.
Art’s hand subconsciously tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, “Come on, I think your bath might be ready”, and before you know it, he’s taking the cup out of your hands and carrying you bridal style into the bathroom, setting you down on the chair he pulled up next to the tub. Art undresses you carefully, as if you were China, and one wrong move could cause you to crack underneath him. You watch him turn off the water and test it again, making sure it's not too hot, before he offers you his hand to help you in. Gladly taking it, you stand up slowly and dip one foot at a time into the warm water, lowering your body until you are fully submerged. Art takes the seat you were sitting on, watching you intently as your body adjusts to the hot temperature, his fingers absentmindedly swirling around in the tub. “I called your mom,” that catches your attention, “why?” “I asked for her chicken noodle soup recipe, figured I'd make it for you.” A smile breaks across both of your faces. Maybe staying home sick won’t be too bad.
Tags; 10 year age gap, reader is in graduate school, established relationship, mentions of possible infidelity, swearing, arguing, angst, some comfort in the end, very little editing, & no happy ending.
Notes; Heavily inspired by the kitchen argument in Taylor Swift’s All Too Well short film. Also, this is my first ever fan-fiction that I’m publishing so please be kind and if you see any mistakes, no you didn’t.
Word count; 2.1k
The laughter echoes from down the hall, silently mocking you, as you quickly clean the stack of dirty dishes left over from the long by now finished dinner party. Being completely alone in a kitchen causes the mind to wander, and yours goes back to the dinner, back to the awkward, yet nagging feeling of being out of place, that you didn't belong.
Of course you didn’t, it was obvious, to you, to Art, to his friends, to even the media. Tabloid after tabloid of the huge “cheating” scandal between a “homewrecker” college student and Art Donalson, devoted husband and loving father. He tells you time after time, “Don’t listen to them”, continues to promise you he “left Tashi long before he met you”, and constantly reminds you of how much he loves you. Every time you nod your head, smile sweetly, and kiss his cheek. Lying to both yourself, and him, when you say “you believe him” and don't read the countless magazines you secretly stash away in your shared closet. You knew deep down you would never fit into this way of life, his way of life, but it didn't stop you from trying.
That’s how you ended up in that dining room, sitting next to Art, silently sipping out of a wine glass. Instead of it being the opportunity to meet his friends, it became another grim reminder that you do not belong. Not in there, not with them who all have over a decade of life experience ahead of you. “Only 22 and off to graduate school?” One of the men chuckled out, “Man, that must have been, what, 10 years ago?”, you’re not even given the chance to respond as the rest of the group rejoice out loud in a shared memory you are an outsider to.
Now back in the kitchen, your spiraling is broken by a soft voice. “Hey, thanks for cleaning up” Art whispers as his arms curl around your waist, hugging tightly. “Yeah, of course” you say absent mindly, going back to the dirty dishes to the right side of the sink. He can feel the tension in your shoulders grow, and a sigh escapes his lips as he unlinks his arms from you, drifting apart and taking his warmth with him. Art stands leaning against his kitchen island, arms crossed.
A moment of silence passes, neither of you daring to break it, the only noise flowing between you two is the sound of the rushing water from the faucet. You turn it off and face him. Art seems to study your facial expression before speaking, “ Why are you so pissed off?”. A heavy sigh escapes your lips as your hands reach up to touch your temple, “I’m not pissed off, who said I was pissed off?”. You turn back around and turn on the sink again, allowing the cold water to run over your hands before starting on the dirty wine glasses. “Cause you’re acting pissed off” He mutters in defeat as he attempts to cross the growing barrier between you two. Art gives up quickly as he notices you not budging, a “ridiculous” slips from his mouth almost by accident. Drying your hands quickly with a towel, you continue to hang on to every word, hoping he will back track, apologize even. Somehow Art manages to make it worse, like he always does, “These were my friends, and they were super fucking kind to you.” an audible resentment bubbling to the surface.
It was obvious to anyone where this was going, you always prided yourself in being headstrong, it's something Art admired about you, and well Art? He always needed to win. “Well I never said I didn’t like your friends… I like your friends” you respond back with a noticeable tone, the sink turns off for the last time, as no more dishes will be done until mutual destruction is guaranteed. Art continues to stand across the room from you, his hand gripping tightly to the countertop, knuckles beginning to turn white, “Then why were you being-”, you interrupt him immediately, “What I didn’t like was the way you acted around them”. Art groans in frustration, his other hand gliding through his short blonde hair, “You were being quiet and weird the entire time!”
You can’t tell if the conversation in the dining room stopped or if your argument with Art began to become louder. Either way it didn’t stop you from defending yourself, “I was not being weird!” Art quickly responds, “Yes you were!”. With each response you two feed to each other, the volume of the conversation grows, “Because you wouldn’t even look at me!” you quietly shout, suddenly a loud laugh comes from down the haul and both of you are reminded you are not alone. Art groans and quietly mutters out, “Oh come on”. Being you, you don’t back down, and your voice doesn’t quiet either, “You didn’t ask me one single thing the entire night!”. He just shakes his head as he finally crosses the barrier between you two to start cleaning up the pots and pans used from cooking, “Such bullshit. That is such bullshit.” Art can’t even look at you as he says it, knowing him he would immediately take it back if he saw the heartbroken look on your face, “You dropped my fucking hand! What am I supposed to do with that?!”
He braces himself against the kitchen counter, his head laying low. Art almost stops himself, almost backs down and comforts you, but the need to win switches something in his wiring, so what he says next he will forever blame it on that-”I didn’t even fucking notice, what are you talking about I ‘dropped your hand!”. This suddenly becomes a game of tennis, that neither you are willing to lose. Back and forth, barely letting the other get a word out, hoping the other slips up allowing the ‘winner’ to sweep up the victory. If the guests could hear this ‘game’ they pretend they didn’t, at least until the tabloid with enough money comes crawling for an exclusive insider’s opinion.
Finally turning to face him fully, your voice becomes louder, “I don’t know any of these people, they are all strangers to me, they are all older than me” deep harboring insecurities manage to slip out easily and practically go unnoticed as Art begins to defend himself again, “But like, what are you talking about?!” it doesn’t land how he thought it would. “I feel so out of place, you’re the only one that makes me feel comfortable and you wouldn’t even look at me!”. Art’s facing you fully now, but looking anywhere else but your devastated face, a detail that doesn’t go unnoticed, “I’m catching up with friends, and you’re literally saying I dropped your hand, like what?”. He doesn’t notice how you visibly shrink as he continues, “I don’t even remember the moment you’re talking about. How can you be attacking me about something that I don’t even like fucking know!”
It pains you more than you would like to admit that he can’t even remember the moment you have been replaying in your mind for the past two hours. A fake smile was plastered on your face, one that everyone believed, including Art, and you reached for his left hand that lay resting on the dining room table. As soon as your fingers touch he gives your hand a small pat, then moves it away, pointing at a trophy he has up on the shelf across the dining room. You stay stuck in that moment until his voice calls you out of your trance, “I was doing it subconsciously, I was catching up with people!”. Once fully back to reality, you storm closer to him, “You’re making me feel fucking stupid!”
Art grows the gap again, stepping away from you, sighing once more, “Holy shit, I don’t think I am making you feel this way, I think you're making yourself feel that way.” His denial causes you to pause, and he takes that opportunity to continue “Literally a moment I don’t even fucking remeber.” With you not stopping him, he continues rattling of his complaints, “That you’re, like, fucking hold me hostage over, it’s insane.” You continue to stare off into space, Art takes your silence as a sign, “It’s fucking crazy! These are people I haven’t seen since, like, Stanford, and you just sat there the entire fucking time. It was fun, I actually had a great time! But now- now this is the night. Now we’re doing this, awesome- so fucking awesome…”
He pauses and you stand a little straighter as you finally respond, “You just treated me differently” . You meant to sound confident but you sound exactly like your age, a 22-year old in a 32-year old divorced man’s kitchen, weak and significantly out of place. “What do you mean I treated you differently?” Art’s voice almost sounds genuine until you remind yourself what he said less than a second ago, causing your anger to bubble back up to the surface. “You didn’t even look at me once!” your hands point at the entrance of the kitchen, back to where the quiet hum of the party continues. If Art was ever considering backing down from the argument, that feeling was long gone by now, “What do you mean?!” he shouts back, matching the tone of your voice.
The game of tennis is back on, except this time neither of you give the other the chance to respond, and instead, continue to yell over one another. “Listen to me!” you attempt to say over Art’s very loud and questioning, “I ‘didn’t even look at you’?”. Both of your bodies are closer than ever as the argument continues to grow more heated. “I’m catching up with friends!” Art points out as if it wasn’t obvious, while you plead to be heard and taken seriously, just this once. “No, trust me! They were mesmerized by you, of course, with the king of tennis in their presence who wouldn’t!” the sarcasm dripping from every word. As always, Art’s need to defend himself (and put the blame on someone else) takes over, “You’re literally making this entire night about you!” and in response you circle back to the original point that started it all, “You didn’t even look at me!”.
Sensing that the argument is pretty much over, Art backs off with another “holy shit” escaping his lips as he walks over to the other side of the kitchen. “I can’t, I can’t” neither of you can tell if he is talking to himself or you, but you stay quiet, knowing the winner of the match has already been awarded. You are second place, as always. “It’s so fucking selfish, it’s literally like-” Art continues to blabber out words, adding salt to the wound, and then spitting on it with his carelessness. “Oh so i’m selfish now?” The one final push to defend yourself fails immediately as he quickly responds back with a resounding “Yes!”. It’s your turn to avoid his gaze, as you hang your head low, arms wrapped around you, as if to shield you from his words, it doesn't work. “I’m saying you are acting selfish, absolutely. Right now that's exactly what’s happening.”
You don’t bother responding with words; you only look up at him with your sad eyes, which are beginning to sparkle with countless tears, all of which are on the brink of falling. “Don’t look at me like that-” Art pleads as soon as he meets your eyes, you both pause for a second. The look between you two unbreaking, until you end up following his command and turning around bracing yourself against the sink. Art is the one to finally cave in and cross the kitchen towards you, now a deserted war zone. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly against your hair as his arms wrap around you once again. “Look, I’m sorry.” A quiet sob escapes your lips as he repeats his apology over and over again, “I’m sorry”. After the fourth time, he turns you around so you face him, his calloused hands cupping your dampened cheeks, “I’m sorry I dropped your hand,” a soft kiss lands on your forehead, “I don’t want to fight” and another, “I love you” and another, and another until you are softly smiling from his sweet attacks. You tell yourself in the moment you believe him, but, knowing deep down this is another one of those things that will never change, as you could never fit into Art Donaldson’s world.
Thank you sm for reading! I have a happier Art Donaldson story in the works right now so if anyone wants that lmk!!
Need some fanfic writers to start writing a angsty one shot of older Art Donaldson x age gap reader but it’s just the kitchen scene from the All Too Well (10 Minute Version) Music Video with Sadie and Dylan ASAP!! if ykyk.
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