#MARY HAS A LOT OF TRAUMA OKAY SHE NEEDS ENCOURAGEMENT my poor little murderer babe <3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starsarebleeding · 4 months

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ficlet: valentine (chet/mary)

If it was even a real holiday, it’d be a moronic one. Saints and ancient martyrdom aside, Valentine’s day seems more ridiculous to Mary every year: she just doesn’t see the point. If you’re single, it’s depressing; if you’re in a relationship, it’s a high-pressure cash grab. Moronic.

This is, technically, the second February 14 she’s spent with – with – Chet Wakeman. Though, last year they’d been six hours apart – she in New Haven, he in Bangor. Chet had laughed at her through miles of telephone wires as she whined about the idiots in her seminar who’d worn red and pink. “Not always easy for you to appreciate having fun, is it?” he’d teased; she’d rolled her eyes.

A year later, eating a salad in the cafeteria bowels of a cannery-cum- top-secret-government-project-site, she remains annoyed. She’s sitting with a group of accomplished PhDs from the top schools in the country – and they’re. All. Wearing. Pink and red.

“So, who has plans tonight?” one of them asks.

Mary refrains from snorting, and instead silently listens: dinner reservations. A movie. More dinner reservations. Renting a personal chef (the table ‘aahs’ at that one). What they don’t say is: tacky cards, boring conversation, tepid sex. She eats her salad.

“How about you, Mary?” someone says innocently. Mary’s head snaps up.

“Uh, nothing,” she replies with an obviously fake half-smile. “I’m not really into Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh you’re not, are you, Ms. Crawford?” a voice she’d know in her sleep echoes from behind her and her body, privately and instantly, floods with him. Fuck.

Chet Wakeman, infuriatingly sporting a red Hermès tie and a shit-eating grin, folds himself to sit at the end of the table. Everyone moves to give him space.

Mary glares at him, even as his eyes lock to hers and her heart pulls towards him. “Not particularly.”

“Ah,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Love and flowers aren’t your thing?”

Her eyes flare at him – he’s playing with fire, here; there are already enough rumours about the two of them flying around. “That’s not what I said.”

“How about you, Dr. Wakeman?” someone chirps, trying to dispel the tension that’s suddenly infused the room. “Any plans tonight?”

Mary knows exactly what his plans are: he’s going to fuck her exquisitely for hours and then pass out exhausted in her arms, thank you very much –

“Nah,” he says, smoothly. “I had plans, but I think I’ll just take it easy. Maybe next year.”

She looks back down at her salad, staring hard. Had plans?! These fucking coded conversations with all these people around – what was that supposed to mean?! He could’ve just said he wasn’t doing anything – why bother adding that, unless…she swallows her last bite.

“See you guys later,” she closes her tupperware and leaves, pointedly ignoring the tall, unfathomably goddamn striking man at the end of the table who blows her body up every night – except, apparently, tonight. Of all nights. Fuck.

Back at her desk, she focuses immediately and intently on her current research proposal, the drone of voices around her fading as she gets back into crafting her hypothesis: if, then. Logic. Science. Falsifiability. Concrete.

She’s well into the methodology when a throat clears beside her. She straightens, looking up at – of course – Chet fucking Wakeman, perched irreverently on the edge of her desk. Ugh. She smiles, briefly, and returns her attention to her monitor. “Yeah?”

“How’s it going, Ms. Crawford?”

She doesn’t look up. “Fine. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the breeding pairs file?”

Excuse me?! He has the fucking audacity to imply they’re not seeing each other tonight, and now he’s pulling rank?! Mary turns to glare at him. “No,” she replies, primly and shortly. “Did you need something specific, Dr. Wakeman?”

“Just take a look at it,” he winks, standing up. “See ya.”

This asshole. Sometimes, sometimes, she really does understand why so many people want to punch him.

She tries to go back to her proposal, but her concentration is broken. Fuck. Breeding pairs file. Fine.

Mary digs through the pile of folders in her inbox until she finds it. Pulling it out, she senses eyes on her back, but refuses to give him the satisfaction of turning around to see if it’s him. Breeding pairs, breeding pairs – they’re not doing anything with this right now, why is this file even in her –

Oh.

Slipped between a genetic report and an invoice.

A sealed red envelope. Her name in his handwriting.

Is this a fucking valentine?

She closes the file and sits up straight. She can’t open it here, obviously, but she’s not going to able to focus until she does, so…she picks up the folder, stands up, and walks into the hall. The cafeteria sounds empty and, thankfully, ends up being empty, so she picks the table furthest from the entrance and sits down with her back to the door.

“Okay,” she says out loud, ripping the envelope open. It is a valentine, emblazoned with a square root sign over a heart. She opens it and reads:

Mary –

Be my valentine –

Any other choice would be irrational!

Love Chet

“Pretty good pun, huh?” Oh my god.

“Stop sneaking up on me,” she turns, her eyes shining up at Chet. He’s grinning. She gestures to the card. “You know I don’t like Valentine’s Day.”

He shrugs, his eyes suddenly turning gentle. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have a valentine.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Whatever.”

“So?” Chet sits down.

“So what?”

“So, be my valentine?” He’s gotta be kidding.

“I don't think so. I hear you don’t have plans tonight.” she retorts, and his eyebrows knit in concern until he tracks what she’s referring to, and laughs.

“Oh, I definitely have plans tonight,” he says, low, rough, and something visceral pools in the pit of her stomach, “don’t you?”

Mary stares at him, electric, and the grasp he has on her heart squeezes. “I thought I did.”

“Well, you definitely do,” he leans in, the room still empty. “And,” he mutters in her ear, “you should definitely plan on not being able to walk tomorrow.”

Jesus fucking christ. She chokes, his breath on her neck, her skin going galvanic. This has to be a record: she’s gone from livid to putty in his bratty hands in the course of reading a bad pun. “That a promise?”

Chet lets a twisted smile take over his face. “Only if you say it.”

“No,” she whines, but her body is facing his openly and she’s picturing what he’s going to do to her once they’re in his bed and their clothes are on the floor and his hands are all over her and oh god –

He shrugs. “Your choice.”

“Okay, okay,” Mary straightens, and Chet does too, gazing at her expectantly. “Yes, Chet, I will be your stupid valentine.”

He grins, scans the room, and leans in to kiss her. Her body responds on its own: her hands immediately rise to his face and she goes to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away almost as soon as it’s begun, leaving her half-hanging.

“See you tonight,” he winks, getting up and heading back to the fray.

After work, their ever-so-esteemed colleagues will have exactly the nights they’d planned: good food, bland kisses, tying a stereotypical bow on a moronic day.

And Mary will drag Chet on top of her by his stupid red tie, and Chet will make good on his promise, and they will be pink and red with blushing fire until the calendar reads February 15.

#i....don't know what to tell y'all this just poured outta me lol #i am so into valentine's day this year and that of course means my grown children must be as well #MARY HAS A LOT OF TRAUMA OKAY SHE NEEDS ENCOURAGEMENT my poor little murderer babe <3 #1 1 2 3 5 8 #otp of all otps ever #happy valentine's day everyoneeee!!#taken 2002

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