taffy and gendebien!

Home for Christmas

A/N: Oops. This was supposed to post yesterday. (and it’s barely posting today.) Guess we’re a day behind? Guess this means extended Christmas? Guess in the final days of 2019 I still can’t stick to a schedule. Oh well. Some things never change, while others...do. Here’s the one and only Ryan request for Day 8 of the 12 Days of Christmas Fics. I asked @something-tofightfor​ and @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ for input on whether this should be past Ryan or future Ryan, and this was the response I got- @something-tofightfor​ : future. @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ : past ‘cause I like to be difficult. So I cheated and did both. Anywho, this is related to Passing Through.  

Word Count: 2,183

Prompt from: @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​

“Did you eat all those cookies?” 

“Is that mistletoe? You know it’s poisonous, right?” 

When you woke up on Christmas morning, the red and and black tartan blanket had been pulled up to your chin, the multi-colored quilt tucked around your toes. It was chilly in the attic-turned-guest room. Taylor’s husband Dean had been meaning to bolster the insulation and seal the drafty windows, but as they seemed to every year, the holidays simply came up too soon for him to get the work done in time. You and Ryan both understood of course, assuring Taylor that you’d both spent much colder nights, and complimenting Dean on the amount of work he had been able to do on the house in the short time that they’d owned it. They’d made the move from Georgia up to a small suburb outside of Pittsburgh only two months prior, and somehow they’d made it suitable to host most of the Brenners for Christmas (Patrick was spending the holiday with his new girlfriend Natalie and her family down in Texas, and Tommy had gotten work out on a wind farm in Kansas, the holiday overtime too good to turn down.)  

Extra blankets and a space heater had been brought up to get you through your stay, but even without them you would have been fine. You were never cold when Ryan’s arms were around you, your back against his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep. But when you opened your eyes and rolled over, he wasn’t there. Hmm. You peeled back the double layer of blankets and dropped your legs over the side of the bed, toes wiggling into your waiting moccasins. The rushing sound of water moving through the pipes met your ears as soon you were on your feet, and you guessed that he’d gone down a floor to use the bathroom. You folded the blankets and reached for the forest green thermal shirt that Ryan had worn the day before, pulling it over your head and pushing your arms through the too-long sleeves. With a yawn, you combed your fingernails through your hair, twisting it up into a knot, before leaving the attic to quietly head downstairs.    

You padded down the creaky steps, the soft leather soles of your slippers tapping on the hardwood. Reaching the first floor, you turned into the family room. The fire was crackling with more life than it would be had it been left alone since last night, so you knew someone had come down to stoke it. You’d wanted to be up first, get coffee going and start breakfast as a way to thank your hosts. You strained your ears listening for any signs of life, hearing only the snapping and popping of the flames, the muffled sounds of snores, and the shuttering pipes upstairs.  It’s still quiet down here… maybe whoever it was went back to bed. 

Passing the tree, laden with homemade ornaments spanning decades, your heart warmed more than it had from the fire. Mason jar lids and popsicles sticks, pipe cleaners and painted macaroni adorned the branches, illuminated by bright bulbs in every color. Aunt Holly had brought the box of Christmas memories up from Georgia with her as a surprise for the bunch of them. The night before, once everyone had settled in, you all gathered around the tree to add to the few decorations that Taylor and Dean had already hung. You sat on the floor by the fireplace leaning against Ryan’s chest as the box was unpacked, listening intently to the stories behind each and every one of the decorations, imagining smaller versions of the Brenners painstakingly glueing and glittering pieces of construction paper around Holly’s kitchen table. Your fingers brushed over a clothespin that had been painted brown with messy brushstrokes, pipe cleaners bent and twisted to look like antlers, and a red pom pom stuck on as a nose.

 “That’s one’a mine”, he told you as you watched Taylor’s 5 year old daughter agonize over the perfect spot on the tree. “Made it for Aunt Holly for Christmas the year she took me in.” He spoke in your ear, right arm draped over your shoulder, rough fingers tracing gentle, soothing patterns on your left bicep. “S’nice to see this stuff again.” 

You turned your head, leaning it back against his shoulder to look up at him. The flickering firelight danced in his eyes as they met yours. You’d been together for two years, but the feeling that you got when that happened hadn’t changed except to grow stronger. You smiled, reaching across your body for his hand and linking it with your own. “I bet it is,” you said. “I’m glad I get to see all of this, too.” You dragged your nose over the spot where his neck sloped into his shoulder before pressing your lips to the exposed skin over the collar of his shirt. You felt him swallow and heard a happy little hum come from deep in his soul. 

Ryan tightened the arm he had around you, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. His lips found a spot near the crest of your cheek, scratchy beard tickling you as he spoke. “You’re the only one I wanna share it with, Junebug.” You closed your eyes, a fullness in your chest that no one but Ryan could put there. He smiled as he kissed your cheek. “The only one I ever wanna share it with.” 

“Ryan,” his name twirled off your tongue, dancing, light as a feather, to the skipped beat of your heart. You looked around the room, laughter and the smell of nutmeg filling the air as Zach and Jimmy regaled Dean with the infamous sunburn story. Holly was helping Cheyenne hang a wreath made of mis-matched buttons near the top of the tree while Jimmy chased a much-too-hyper Evan around the room. This is home, you thought, even though it wasn’t for either of you. 

“Evan Jacob Bingham!” Taylor’s voice cut through the merriment, all 5 foot three of her small frame suddenly stern as she stuck both hands on her hips. 

“Uh oh,” Ryan said in a low voice, causing you to snicker.

All eyes turned to Evan, his sandy hair hanging from his head as Fitz held him upside down by the ankles. Little green eyes widening to saucers, his face flushed scarlet as he took in his mother’s expression. 

“Did you eat all of those cookies?!” She demanded, gesturing to the plate on the counter that now suspiciously only held crumbs. 

Fitz righted the child, setting him back on the ground and ruffling his hair. He leaned over to hover over Evan’s shoulder. “Better fess up, kid. ‘Member, Santa’s watchin’. Lyin’ won’t do you any favors.”  

You laughed to yourself, feeling warm all over again as your fingers left the little clothespin Rudolph. Stepping into the kitchen, you busied yourself with the coffee can, measuring scoops of the nutty grounds and dumping them into one of the leftover filters that you’d used to make paper snowflakes with Taylor’s kids the night before. More ornaments for next year’s tree. You secured the lid on the can, giving it a smack to make sure it was sealed tight, when a peel of laughter hit your ears. It was muffled slightly, and followed by a deeper, fuller chuckle that you couldn’t mistake if you tried. Ryan. Setting your task aside, you moved the curtains over the sink just in time to see Ryan hoisting Cheyenne and Evan, one under each arm, up to place the hat atop the head of the most perfectly constructed snowman you’d ever seen, a grin broke out on your face and your hand came up to your mouth. There you are, Ryan Brenner. 

You watched the three of them admire their handiwork as the coffee pot bubbled and steamed to life somewhere behind you, before you saw Ryan toss his head in the direction of the house, telling them it was time to go back inside. The kids turned and immediately ran towards the back door, wobbling like penguins in their snow boots. When Ryan turned, his eyes went straight to the window, a wide smile brightening his face. Above his beard his cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold, a puff of vapor forming as he let out a breath. Raising one hand, he waved to you, and you wiggled your fingers over the cuff of his shirt to wave back, biting your bottom lip. 

The door banged open and Cheyenne and Evan burst inside, stomping clumps of white onto the mat and yanking the zippers of their jackets open. “We made a snowman!” Evan said, turning to you as though he knew you’d be there to receive the news. 

“I see!” you said, pointing out the window. “A very nice one, too.” Cheyenne’s arm was stuck in her sleeve, her little eyebrows furrowing in frustration. You stooped down next to her to pull her free. “Did you name him?” 

“Uh huh,” the little girl smiled at you as she sat down to take her boots off. “Frosty, like in the song.” 

“That’s a perfect name,” you said, recalling the afternoon before yesterday, when Ryan and Jimmy had played a bunch of kid friendly Christmas songs to keep the kids out of Taylor’s hair while you helped her and Aunt Holly with some of the baking. 

The door opened again, a rush of cold air blowing in as Ryan stepped inside. “‘Mornin’, bug,” he said, eyes bright and wide awake from the icy temperature. He removed his hat, his long hair askew. Morning, Ryan.  “Merry Christmas.” He wiped his boots off before bending down to undo the laces, tattooed fingers working nimbly once they were free of his gloves. You rose back to your full height as he took a step to close the distance.. 

You felt the cold coming off of him but still only wanted him closer. “Merry Christmas, Ryan.” You raked your fingers through his hair and behind his ear.  “You three were up ealy,” you said, eyes never leaving his. 

He shrugged with a grin. “Frosty i’nt gonna build himself,” he said before turning to his accomplices. “Right guys?” 

“Right!” They answered in unison. 

“Right.” He turned back to you. This man. 

“Right.” You agreed, nodding as your smile turned into a laugh. You draped both arms over his shoulders, twirling the curl at the nape of his neck around your finger as you leaned into him. “Why don’t you go get warmed up,” you suggested, and I’ll get some breakfast started and-”

“Is that mistletoe?” Evan was staring at the two of you, pointing to the bundle of greenery hanging in the doorway above your heads. You hadn’t seen it before, nor had you realized that you’d gotten as close to him as you had, or that he’d placed both of his frozen hands on your hips. It is. “You know it’s poisonous, right?” He asked, matter of factly. 

You and Ryan looked at each other before bursting into a laugh that had you collapsing into the frosty fabric of his coat, his hands rubbing slowly up and down your back as you both looked back up at one another. “That so?” Ryan asked, Evan nodding emphatically. “And who told you that, your mama?” 

“Yeah,” came Taylor’s voice from the kitchen doorway, the lights from the tree glowing on her rounded cheeks. “Sound familiar, Ry?” She quirked an eyebrow as Evan and Cheyenne scrambled passed her, one on either side. She touched both of their sandy-haired heads as they headed upstairs to change into warm clothes. 

Ryan laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he said with a nod. “It might sound a little familiar.” 

“That’s what he told me,” Taylor answered your question before you could ask it. “When we were kids, and I was a young, hopelessly romantic seven year old pining her pigtails off for Bobby Hartshorne, sayin’ that I hoped I got to kiss’m under the mistletoe. And then here comes Ryan,” she gestured with mock annoyance at her closest cousin who grinned mischievously. “Tellin’ me kissin’ is gross and mistletoe is poison.” 

“I did say that,” he admitted with a chuckle. 

“How romantic of you, Ry,” you said, barely keeping the smirk from your face. 

“Well,” Taylor clapped him on the shoulder before smiling at you. “Glad to see that some things change.” She winked and then headed over to help herself to the coffee you’d made. 

Without taking his eyes from yours, he spoke quietly and pulled you closer. “Rules are rules,” he said, nose brushing yours before you felt his lips steal the breath from your lungs. “Poison or not.” His fingers flexed around your hips as your hands found their way over his jawbone and up into his hair. 

The kiss was quick but you felt it all throughout your bones. “Love you, Ryan,” you told him, knocking your nose against his again. “Let’s get some coffee, huh?” 

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@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @obscurilicious @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @ymariejp @breanime @gollyderek @traeumerinwitzhelden @malionnes @elanor-of-imladris

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Bang, Bang

Darkstache fic, angst, hurt/comfort, guilt, mental breakdowns. (This is also posted on my AO3).

October 13th: the day Mark took everything from them. It's been a long time, but they're still struggling to live with the aftermath of what happened.

@mayor-damien-protection-squad (thought I’d tag you here since I’ve seen that you do encourage being tagged in this kind of thing. I hope you don’t mind.)

That day had been a rough day. His shell creaked and fractured, unable to keep together for more than a few minutes at a time, and the results of that showed: Dark's office was a void of gray and the dull ringing that normally accompanied him had reached fever pitch. Lights flickered and burst in showers of sparks wherever he went, incapable of withstanding the force of his aura seeping out in waves, suffocating any and all color. Thus, he'd shut himself in his office, treating anyone who dared poke their head in to images of bared teeth and fingers curled into claws. An eldritch horror framed in cyan and fluorescent red. He could only hope that the rest of the day would pass quickly and quietly. And then tomorrow he could put it behind him for another year. Then: Bang! Bang! The sharp crack of gunshots jolted Dark from his chair. Seething, he left his office and stormed down the hall, following the noise as more gunshots and a flurry of shouts rang out. He was not surprised to find himself at the door to the recording studio, the "recording" sign above the door lit up green. Still, Dark wasted no time in barging in. Bang! a bullet plunged into the wall, mere inches from Dark's head. "Damien!" Wilford squawked, hurrying to his side. At the sound of that name- long gone, but not forgotten- Dark's shell splintered, flooding the room with black and blue and red and rage. Then, as soon as it started, it stopped. Dark folded his hands behind him, the perfect picture of patience, surveying the room and taking in the corpses of a man and a woman (contestants of another one of Wilford's game shows?) sprawled on the floor, the Jim Twins huddling by the stage, Bim hovering protectively over them. Wilford, who was blood-spattered and flustered, and the last contestant standing, some poor schmuck who got to stare down the barrel of Wilford's gun. "What seems to be the problem here?" When at last Dark spoke, his voice was quiet. He appeared, for all intents and purposes, calm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bim shuffle the Jim Twins back a few steps. He clearly knew better. Wilford, however, was undaunted. "Damien!" He cried, jabbing his gun in the contestant's direction. "You must tell this scoundrel off. I am a respected Colonel in the armed forces and I am sure as hell no murderer!" It took all Dark's willpower to remain in one piece. "What is your name?" The entity shot an icy glare at the surviving contestant, a scruffy man who was pressed against the wall. As Dark studied him, he could've sworn he looked like- "Abe." The man answered shakily, "my name is Abe. Pl-please don't kill me-" Bang! Wilford shot at him, the bullet missing by no more than a centimeter. The man- Abe- froze, cringed, frightened tears spilling down his cheeks. "I'm not a fucking murderer!" The pink ego snarled. Dark gritted his teeth, rolled his head side to side, cracking his neck. This was going downhill quickly. He had to get Wilford out of there. He placed a hand on Wilford's shoulder, reached for the gun. "Wil-" "Don't Will me, Damien!" Wilford swiveled to face him, dark eyes alight with desperation, with madness. Above them, the studio lights began to flicker. "Will . . ." Dark warned, but it was too late. One by one, the lights exploded in cascades of pink sparks, sending shards of glass flying and plunging the studio into darkness. Behind him, someone- one of the Twins? Bim?- yelped, but other than that, the room was silent. "I'm not a murderer." Wilford choked out finally. He sounded like he was crying. "They . . .they were accidents. Jokes." Then he spun on his heel and fled. Dark barely had time to bark, "Bim, clean this up!" before he was gone too. A group of people were clustered outside the door, and they stared at Wilford as he burst out of the studio. Wilford (William? Colonel? What was his name? Which name was he?) immediately raised his gun. He only had one bullet left, but he would make it count. "Wilford." A man he didn't recognize, dressed in a long white coat and scrubs, a circular mirror fastened to his forehead, stepped forward, hands raised as if to appear non-threatening. "Put the gun down, okay? I'll take you to the clinic and get you cleaned up-" "That's not my name!" Wilford hissed, pushing past him, the others who had gathered, making for his room. "Get away!" He heard someone- Damien?- calling out his name, but he paid no heed, choosing instead to seek solace from the curious, prying eyes, from the figures of blue and red flickering at the edges of his vision. A woman, bathed in red, sneering at him. A man, dressed in blue, lying prone against the wall, his face one of pure agony. "I'm sorry!" Wilford cried, fat tears welling up, spilling over. "I'm sorry!" He made it to his room, throwing open the door, slamming and locking it behind him. And there he stayed: huddled in the furthest corner of his bright pink-covered room, back firmly against the wall and gun cradled against his chest as if he could use it to fend off the memories overloading his brain. It couldn't have been long before Dark came for him, high-pitched ringing and black-gray tinges of aura alerting Wilford to the man's presence before Dark was even there, stepping through the door as if it were nothing. "I didn't kill you, Damien." Wilford whispered, visibly relieved. The knot in his chest loosened a tiny bit. There was a strange expression on Dark's face as he shook his head. He wandered carefully closer, cracking his neck as he did so, straining to keep his shell in one piece. Recognition and a mix of guilt and sadness flickered through Wilford's eyes. "Why do you do that?" He asked quietly, "you never used to do that, Damien." Images flashed through Dark's mind. A gunshot. Falling. The sickening crack of fragile bones breaking as his borrowed body hit a cold, unforgiving floor. He chose not to respond. Instead, he held out his hand. "Give me the gun," he said. After a moment of hesitation, Wilford did, handing over his weapon as if it physically pained him to do so. Dark tucked it inside his suit jacket pocket and settled heavily next to him. Then, giving a soft sigh, his hand found it's way to Wilford's, frigid fingers clasping Wilford's warm ones gently. His shell was split, afterimages of him breaking away, wreathed in red and blue, visions of rage and hatred and guilt. But Dark said nothing, and the pair sat in silence. After a while, Wilford spoke. "My name . . . isn't William. And yours isn't Damien." He chuckled softly. "Don't know why I thought it was." Dark shrugged, running his thumb over Wilford's hand. He tilted his head from side to side, feeling the bones shift and realign, feeling his shell snap back into place as well. "I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you." "But," he added, leaning over to kiss Wilford's sweaty, blood-spattered temple. "Wilford is a perfectly fine name." Wilford's face brightened and he hopped to his feet, tugging Dark up with him. "Damn right it is! Now, we have no time to waste. There are game shows to run and things to do!" All traces of his breakdown forgotten, Wilford yanked Dark along as he practically skipped from his room, happy as a child on Christmas morning. Dark allowed it, grateful that the broken, guilt-racked William was gone, replaced by lighthearted, bubbly Wilford Warfstache once more. It happened this way every year on October thirteenth, every anniversary of the day that Mark took everything from them. Dark shook his head, banishing the thought. Now was not the time to think about that. He had to focus on keeping Wilford safe from himself. So he smiled and nodded as the pink ego babbled about upcoming interviews and ideas for new episodes of Markiplier TV as they walked hand-in-hand down the hallway and thought that maybe there was a chance the day could be salvaged after all.