#light teasing

But that wasn’t what caught your attention today.

It was the sound—

a soft, wheezy little “Awoo.”

You turned.

There, wobbling out from beneath the flowering vines, was a chimera.

Compact, round, and impossibly fluffy, it looked like a creature sketched by a child’s dream—four stubby legs, a chubby body, and a tail that swished like a puff of cloud. Its eyes were enormous and bright, the kind of eyes that glowed with such pure innocence that your heart clenched painfully.

“Oh—oh my Titans,” you gasped, hands pressed to your face.

The creature blinked at you, tiny ears twitching, before letting out another delighted “Awoooo~” It trotted closer, the little spiraled horn on its head gleaming faintly in the sunlight.

Something inside you broke.

You made a strangled noise somewhere between a squeal and a whimper. “It’s so cute, I’m going to die—” You crouched down, voice pitching up, “Look at you! You precious, round little thing, oh, I could just eat you up—!”

You didn’t mean it, of course.

But unfortunately, someone else heard you.

Mydei.

The prince of Kremnos, the undying guardian of Amphoreus, stood several paces behind you, his eyes narrowing with alarm. His cape caught the wind behind him, rippling like a stormcloud as he strode forward with soldierly precision.

“You—what did you say?” His voice was quiet, low, and filled with that heavy authority that could make even generals stop breathing.

You blinked, still half-distracted by the chimera nuzzling your feet. “I said it’s cute! Like… so cute I could just—eat it up.”

There was a moment of stillness. A long, silent beat in which even the breeze seemed to hesitate.

Then, in the span of a heartbeat, Mydei moved.

He scooped the chimera up into his arms like a soldier snatching a wounded comrade from the battlefield and took off in a sprint that could’ve put cavalry to shame.

“Mydei—wait, what—”

He didn’t wait.

You stood there frozen for a moment, blinking, as the prince vanished into the deeper paths of the Garden, crimson cloak disappearing behind flowering trellises.

“…Oh my Titans,” you groaned, breaking into a run after him.

By the time you caught up, Mydei had taken refuge in a secluded corner of the Garden where the sunlight filtered through lattices of vines, his back pressed against a pillar as he held the chimera protectively against his chest. The creature blinked sleepily, clearly unbothered by the chaos, while Mydei glared over its fluffy head as though daring the world itself to try him.

“Mydei,” you wheezed, clutching your side. “Why are you—running away—with a chimera—”

“You said you were going to eat it,” he replied flatly.

You stared at him. “Mydei. That’s an expression.”

“It sounded like a promise.”

You blinked once. Twice. Then burst out laughing so hard you had to grip the nearby railing to keep yourself upright. “You thought I meant it literally?”

His brows furrowed, visibly unamused. “Words should mean what they are spoken to mean.”

“Oh gods, you’re serious.”

He didn’t flinch. “If someone declares an intention to consume another being—especially one under my protection—I will not stand idly by.”

You tried—really tried—not to laugh again. “It’s called cuteness aggression, Mydei. You see something adorable, and your brain kind of… breaks. You say things like ‘I could squish you’ or ‘I could eat you up,’ but you don’t actually mean harm.”

He stared down at the chimera, whose small paw had found the edge of his golden gauntlet, patting it curiously. Its big eyes blinked up at him, tail wagging softly.

“…So you were not intending to devour it.”

“No.” You were still catching your breath. “I was intending to cuddle it.”

A pause.

Mydei looked like he was trying to process this new data. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease forming between his brows—the look he always got when someone’s logic didn’t align with his carefully ordered worldview.

Finally, he exhaled. “…Then I have misjudged you.”

“Just a little,” you said, lips twitching.

He looked at the chimera again. “I may have startled it.”

The creature yawned in his arms, nestled closer, and promptly fell asleep.

You snorted. “Oh, definitely terrified.”

A faint sound escaped him—half sigh, half laugh, the kind of quiet release you’d learned was rare from him. He sat down on the ground, the chimera still tucked safely against him, and for a moment, the garden was peaceful again.

You joined him, leaning lightly against his shoulder. His body was warm beneath the sun, and you could smell faint traces of sandalwood (or anything else idk) and smoke on his cloak—the scent of a warrior who had lived through too many fires.

“You know,” you murmured, watching the little creature’s chest rise and fall, “you holding it like that is maybe the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He gave you a sidelong glance, lips curving in the barest hint of a smile. “Do not attempt to ‘eat’ me either.”

You laughed softly. “I make no promises.”

He shook his head, hair catching the light like threads of flame. “You jest too easily.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“…It is,” he admitted quietly.

You smiled at that.

For a while, you simply sat there. The garden rustled softly around you, alive with creatures present there and the faint fluttering of golden butterflies (or nymphs). Mydei’s posture was as rigid as ever—disciplined even in stillness—but there was something different about him now, something softer in the way he looked down at the creature sleeping in his arms.

He wasn’t used to moments like this. You could tell. For a man forged by prophecy and loss, tenderness was a foreign battlefield.

“Were you really going to run all the way out of Okhema?” you asked after a while, teasing.

“If necessary.”

You bit back a grin. “With the chimera?”

“I have carried wounded soldiers across battlefields twice the size of this garden. One small creature poses no burden.”

“Chivalrous as always.”

“Protective,” he corrected. Then, more quietly: “Promises are not things to be spoken lightly. If one swears to protect life, even the smallest one, it becomes sacred.”

The sincerity in his tone made your teasing die in your throat. Mydei didn’t just say things—he believed them. Every word was a vow, every action a principle. You suddenly felt the weight of what it meant for him to be “The Last Prince,” a man who had seen entire cities burn and still chose to cradle something fragile in his hands.

You rested your chin on your knees, studying him. “You’re really one of a kind, you know that?”

He looked at you briefly, then at the sleeping chimera. “You mistake conviction for uniqueness.”

“No,” you said softly. “I don’t.”

He didn’t reply, but the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. The kind of silence that only existed between two people who didn’t need to fill the air with words to understand each other.

A few minutes later, the chimera stirred. It blinked, yawned, and looked up at Mydei with a soft “Awooo,” tiny claws stretching against the gold of his gauntlet.

Mydei froze.

You bit your lip to hide a smile. “It likes you.”

“…It is mistaken.”

“It’s literally trying to climb your shoulder.”

Indeed, the creature had begun an unsteady ascent, scrambling up his chest with an astonishing lack of fear. Mydei sat completely still, unsure whether to intervene or allow the indignity. When it finally perched itself at his shoulder like a small, furry sentinel, he sighed.

“It believes itself a guardian,” he said dryly.

“Like master, like pet,” you teased.

He turned his gaze toward you, eyes narrowing faintly, though the edge was softened by amusement. “You compare me to a chimera.”

“I compare you to something adorable and fiercely protective. Take the compliment.”

“…Adorable is not an attribute befitting a warrior.”

You tilted your head. “You can be both.”

He seemed genuinely puzzled by that. “Both?”

“Yes,” you said, smiling. “A warrior who makes adults cry and chimeras fall asleep on his shoulder. Balance, Mydei.”

He made a quiet, resigned sound—something that might have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. “You speak like a sage from Okhema.”

“And yet you listen.”

“…Perhaps.”

The chimera sneezed, sending a faint puff of air against his neck. He blinked, startled, and you couldn’t hold it back anymore—you laughed outright, the sound ringing through the garden.

He gave you a long, assessing look. “You find amusement in strange things.”

“You ran across the entire garden because you thought I was going to eat a ball of fluff, Mydei. I think I’ve earned it.”

For a moment, his composure cracked—the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out with his free hand and flicked your forehead with a finger.

“Ow!”

“That is for frightening me.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you are reckless with words.”

You rubbed your forehead, still smiling. “Fair trade, I suppose.”

He looked at you for a long moment—long enough that you could see the warmth beneath his usual calm, the faint gleam of amusement in those eyes.

Then, gently, he placed the now-dozing chimera into your arms.

It was lighter than it looked, soft and warm, breathing slow.

“Hold it carefully,” he said quietly.

You glanced up. “You trust me now?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. “If you break your word, I will know.”

You laughed softly. “Then I guess I’ll just have to prove I’m trustworthy.”

“You already have,” he said, almost under his breath.

And with that, the Last Prince of Kremnos rose, the sun catching the golden edge of his armor as he turned to leave, cape fluttering behind him like a slow-burning flame.

You watched him go, the chimera nestled against you, murmuring a sleepy “Awoo.”

Somewhere deep in your chest, you felt something warm and steady take root.

He would die for a promise. You would live to make sure he never had to.

And maybe, just maybe, the Garden of Life was big enough for both.

Like his arm.

Not the metal one—you noticed that immediately, fascinated and careful and maybe a little intimidated at first. No, it’s his flesh arm that sneaks up on you.

Because Bucky, apparently, runs warm.

And when the weather turns, he swaps out his long sleeves for henleys pushed up to the elbow, or soft cotton t-shirts, or—God help you—tank tops that leave his entire arm bare. Sun-warmed skin, muscle shifting under it, veins faintly visible, soft in a way that feels… unfair.

You don’t even know when the thought first hits you.

Probably the first time he stretched in front of you, shirt riding up, arm flexing as he reached for something on a high shelf. You remember staring. You remember thinking, very clearly:

I want to bite that.

You don’t, obviously.

Because that would be insane.

So you ignore it. Push it down. Pretend you’re a normal person who doesn’t look at their boyfriend’s arm and think yeah, I could just… chomp that real quick.

Except the thought doesn’t go away.

It lingers.

It grows.

It shows up when you’re sitting next to him on the couch, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders. It shows up when he reaches past you in the kitchen, his skin brushing yours, warm and solid. It shows up when he falls asleep beside you, arm tucked under your head, your cheek pressed to it like it’s your personal pillow.

And every time, your brain goes:

Bite.

You never do.

Until you do.

---

It’s late. One of those slow, easy nights where neither of you feels like going out, so you order takeout and let some random movie play in the background.

You’re curled into his side, legs tucked under you, his arm draped over your shoulders like it’s always meant to be there. He smells like clean laundry and whatever body wash he uses, something faintly woodsy, something that makes you relax without even realizing it.

The room is dim, lit only by the TV.

You’re not really watching the movie.

You’re very aware of his arm.

Bare. Warm. Right there.

Your cheek rests against his bicep, and you can feel the subtle shift of muscle every time he moves, every time he breathes. It’s soft, too—softer than it looks, which somehow makes it worse.

Your brain goes quiet for a second.

And then—

Bite.

Before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself, you turn your head and—

Bite.

Not hard.

Not even close to hard.

Just a soft, quick press of your teeth against his arm. A little bite. A curious one. The kind you’d give something just to see what it feels like.

You freeze immediately after.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

What did you just do?

Bucky stills beside you.

Slowly, slowly, he turns his head to look at you.

“…Did you just bite me?”

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

You consider launching yourself off the couch and out the window.

“…No,” you say weakly, still very much pressed against his arm.

There’s a beat.

Then—

“You absolutely just bit me.”

His voice isn’t upset. It’s not even annoyed.

It’s… confused.

Deeply, genuinely confused.

You lift your head just enough to look at him, cheeks already heating. “It was a gentle bite.”

He stares at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green.

“A gentle—” he cuts himself off, blinking. “Why?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Because how do you explain this without sounding completely unhinged?

“I don’t know,” you mumble, dropping your gaze back to his arm like it personally betrayed you. “It just looked… biteable.”

Silence.

You risk a glance up at him.

Bucky is staring at you, lips parted slightly, eyes wide in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen before.

“You thought my arm looked biteable,” he repeats slowly.

You nod, just once, because there’s no going back now.

Another pause.

And then—

He laughs.

It’s not mean. Not sharp or teasing in a way that makes your chest tighten. It’s soft, incredulous, a little breathless like he can’t quite believe what’s happening.

“You’re serious,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re actually serious.”

You bury your face in his shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” he insists, though there’s still laughter in his voice. “I’m just—” he exhales, running his hand through his hair. “I’ve been called a lot of things, doll. ‘Biteable’ is a new one.”

You groan quietly.

“I can’t believe I did that.”

He shifts beside you, adjusting so you’re tucked closer into his side again, like nothing’s changed.

“You didn’t even bite hard,” he adds after a second, glancing down at his arm. “I barely felt it.”

“That’s not the point,” you mutter.

“The point is, you looked at me and thought, ‘yeah, I’m gonna take a little nibble.’”

You make a strangled noise.

“Please stop saying it like that.”

He huffs out another quiet laugh, but there’s something softer underneath it now. Something warm.

After a moment, he nudges your shoulder lightly.

“C’mon.”

You peek up at him.

He lifts his arm slightly, offering it to you again.

“If you’re gonna do it, at least commit.”

Your eyes widen. “Bucky—”

“I’m serious,” he says, lips twitching. “Go ahead. Scientific curiosity or whatever.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm. And you’re a biter, apparently. We all have our things.”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then—

Very carefully, very gently—

You bite down again.

This time, he feels it.

You know because his arm tenses slightly under your teeth, a small, surprised breath leaving him.

You pull back immediately, eyes wide. “Sorry—”

But he’s not upset.

He’s looking at you with something soft and fond and maybe a little amused.

“…You’re weird,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your arm, mirroring what you did to him. “But I think I like it.”

You smile, warmth blooming in your chest.

“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right?”

He smirks, just a little. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Sam would love—”

“James Buchanan Barnes—”

“Relax,” he chuckles, pulling you back into him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

You settle against him again, cheek pressed right back to his arm like nothing ever happened.

Except now—

Now he shifts slightly closer.

Like he doesn’t mind.

Like maybe, just maybe—

You drag Robby to the toilet letting his sit down with a groan. You stand between his opened legs and cup his jaw. Pressing kisses to his nose, and cheeks. "I'm gonna get these dirty scrubs off ya, okay?" You ask and he just nods. You smile down at him. "Arms up."

Grabbing the hem of the dark blue scrub top, Robby moves his arms so you can drag the rest of it over his head and throw it into the dirty laundry bin near the door. Then comes the white shirt underneath. When Robby is half-exposed he grab at your own shirt. "I'll get undressed when you're naked Mister." You tease.

He groans but understand that tonight isn't about anything but him, a feeling that he doesn't really enjoy, but for you he'll do anything. For you he'll sit through the uncomfortable feeling in his gut. You have Robby stand and help him out of his cargo pants, and boxers. "Get in the water, I'll be right behind you." You tell him sweetly, watching your sweet savior of a man step into the steaming water and hear him groan as the water starts to works his over worn and tired muscles.

You strip your clothes quickly, and shut the bathroom. Making sure that the two towels are sitting on the heated towel rack before you slip in behind Robby. You can tell the hot water is working his muscles, as his shoulder start to fall and he rests the back of his head on your shoulder. You grab at the forgotten wash cloth on the side of the tub, dipping into the hot water, "Close your eyes, Robby." You say quietly not wanting to disturb the peace the two of you have found in the tub together.

Robby listens to you. You press the hot towel over his features. Waiting for a few moments, before dragging it down his face gently. Pulling the dirt, sweat, city grime, and stress away. Robby believes that he has to be a strong man, because the ER has forced him into that position. Be strong for his patients, be strong for his interns, and nurses. Be strong for you.

For right now though he feels himself slipping from his role. He feels how you hold him, tilting his head gently to the side, and scrub behind his ears a place that Robby tends to forget about in the pre-work showers. Then how you drag the wash cloth along his jaw, his stubble grabbing at the soft cotton. Finally you drag the soft wet cotton cloth down the column of his throat. Your well manicured fingers dragging gentle over his adam's apple.

Robby forces his eyes open at your touch, "Robby will you grab the sugar scrub?" you ask. Right now in this state you could probably ask Robby to kill someone for you and he'd forget all about the Hippocratic oath he'd taken many years ago. "Of course angel." He mutters grabbing the small container that is just out of your reach and giving it to you over his shoulder.

He can hear you unscrew the top of the container. What he feels next he can only say is both relaxing and grating against his skin. The wash cloth from before drags agasint his skin that is exposed above the waterline. In small patterns you rub the sugar scrub into his skin. "That feel good, Robby?" You ask as you wait for his response.

Robby can't help the low sound that almost is a sigh of contentment. You smile, knowing that you can now continue. You drape the wash cloth over the rack. You massage his shoulder just under the water. Your thumbs sink into the tight knots until you feel them give loose. All while Robby groans and moans at the sensation of being taken care.

You grab the wash cloth again and Robby tilts forward. The water sloshes back and forth with his movement. You wash down his back, as you wash his back and skin you count the freckles that are strewn across his body. When you're done with his back you glide him back into your warm chest.

Robby brings both of his hands up and lets you grab ahold of his fingers. Each finger you clean individually. Running the wash cloth over his long fingers and then pressing a kiss into each knuckle when you're done.

Ringing out the wash clothe before throwing into the laundry basket. "I'm gonna wash your hair okay." You tell him as you wash him close his eyes and hum. You cup water in your hand and watch as it cascades down his scalp. You lather his shampoo in your fingers, and palms before gentle stroking it through his short brown hair.

Your well manicured nails barely scratching at his scalp, slow enough that Robby seems to be able to slow his breathing. It's a deep and steady breath every time and you know he's just melting against you. Robby melts in parts, first his shoulder seems to drop even more then before, then his neck and his head leans to one side, finally Robbys jaw loosen and his lips part just enough that he's pushing air from his mouth every time he breaths.

You let the shampoo sit in his hair for a moment before repeating the process of getting his hair wet. Making sure to keep the soap from his eyes. Robbys eyes open like he wants to thank you, but the relaxation has taken over his bones. It's not the same as when he walked in through the apartment door and wasn't able to answer your question. That was due to the stress, and fatigue. This is because he's melting into your touch the longer the two of you stay pressed together.

The water goes cold, and you're scooting out form behind him. Grabbing your towels. You help Robby stand and for the first time in a long time his knees don't crack as he stands up straight. You wrap the towel around Robby waist, and then wrap your towel around your chest. Robby sinks into the heat that the towel gives off from being on the heated towel rack.

You sink down to the floor in front of the sink, digging around in the cabinet. "What are you lookin' for angel?" Robby ask, his voice is filled with tiredness. "Don't you worry about it Robby." You say sweetly, finally managing to grab what you had been looking for. He nods and waits for you to return to him.

You once again sink down to your knee, this time in front of a half wet, half tired Robby. You flip the cap on the lotion bottle, and squeeze a sizable amount into your hand and warm it up between your palms. Robby brings is arms down, and lets you smoother his hairy arms in the lotion. You move on to his chest dragging the lotion over his pecs, and then his little tummy.

Lastly work the lotion into his claves. Slow and steady pushing the tight muscles until they loosen and Robby goes limp. Showing you just how much he trust you, how pliant you can make him under your small, warm, hands. "Bed?" You ask, "Yes, angel." You nod, and stand up.

You lead into the bedroom, and sit him on the edge of his side of the bed. You leave him there long enough to grab a pair of boxers, and t-shirt of his from the closet. You come back dressed in your own clothes. You make quick work to drag the shirt over his shoulder and stomach while Robby drags the boxers up his legs and snap them around his hips.

Robby falls into the mattress with a soft, and quiet grunt, his eyes falling closed with every passing second. You slip in behind him, and breath him in for the first time all night long. He's so loose in your grip. You brush Robbys wet hair back, and press a kiss to his temple. "Sleep now baby." You murmur gently. Robby doesn't last a minute before his breathing goes deep, and even.

The Next Morning

Robby wakes up when the cast of the morning sun falls over his tired, and worn face. The first thing that Robby takes in is how theres a warmth in his bone that he hasn't felt in years. There's a softness agasint his skin, and he smells like your lotion you apply after a deep needed shower, or bath. The smell clings to his skin and he prays that it will still be there when he goes back to work in a few days.

For a while Robby doesn't dare move in the bed, just breath deeply in and deeply back out. In pieces his memory floats back to him. The way you let him crumble into his lap when he walked in through the door. The softness in your voice as you dragged him off to the bathroom. The candles, and lavender, and the bath. The quiet as you massaged his aching muscles, and gave him the time.

For the first time in a long time his muscles don't feel like they are actively betraying him. He takes another deep breath in and blinks slowly. You're still asleep, and tucked into his side. Your hair is a little messy, but your face is relaxed as you dream. Something in his heart cracks, and he knows what he's doing to do.

You had taken care of him. Really truly taken care of him, not because it was something you were forced to do not because Robby had asked (Not that he'd ever ask) but because you wanted to take care of him. He lets himself lay in the feeling for a few moments more, staring down at your beautiful sleeping face. He can feel that burn in the back of his throat the one that says (if you don't stop looking at her, you're gonna cry). He can't help the words that come out of his mouth in a whisper "I should do somethin' for you Angel."

Robby slips from the bed, with an ease he hasn't felt in years. Carefully, and quietly hoping not to wake you up he pads from the bedroom to the kitchen. He tries to rub the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm. Robby still feels loose, and heavy mostly from the sleep he's gotten. Yet the thought of you still asleep under the warm sheets has Robby standing tall, and moving a little quicker.

A thought passes his mind, and has him reeling as he stands in the kitchen. 'What do you even get, or do for someone who just did something for you out of the kindness of their heart.' Looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on the fridge. Robby opens it and realizes that you two might need to go on a grocery trip.

Staring into fridge feels like a eon. Nothing really seems to jump out at him, nothing speaks to him as he moves condiments, and leftovers around in the fridge. That is until he lands on the fruit in the plastic containers. "Okay" He mutters to himself as he pulls the fruit from the fridge and rolls his shoulders. "Pancakes, and fruit. I can handle that." He says to himself.

Robby is a great doctor, an amazing chief attending. Robby can handle the most horrible cases that roll through his ER, but he can not handle making pancakes. The first pancake is burnt, and too thin. The second is thick and breaks when he goes to flip it on the pan. The third one sticks to the pan, all because he forgot to spray the pan down.

"Fuckin' Jesus." He whispers as he tries again. He goes to flip the pancake and it doesn't flip instead it folds in on itself. Robby has a staring competition with the pancake for a minute, before contemplating throwing the entire pan out the window and uber eating something to the apartment door.

Robby takes a deep breath in and then out again. He tries once more, and this time it doesn't seem like a huge fail. The pancake is a little burnt around the edges, but the middle is cooked through and he flips it with ease. He's exhales like he's back in the ER again. Robby removes it from the pan and put it on a plate before mutter to himself. "Okay, so only have three more… it will be fine."

He gets through the next three pancakes with out too many frail ups, and then he's off to grabbing a cutting board and slicing the fruit with an intense concentration. His tongue is pressed out to the side of his cheek, his brows are furrowed like he's working the hardest surgery of his life. Not cutting strawberries. Robby just wants it to look nice for you, because you deserve nice. Hell you deserve then nice, but for right now this is all Robby can manage.

Robby goes rummaging through the closet, and finds a tray. He's quick to arrange everything on the tray and makes sure it looks perfect, but something is missing from the setup. Robby puts the tray down on the table and goes into the bathroom, grabbing your bottle of lotion you had just used on him last night. The bathroom still smells amazing and it calms him slightly.

Robby sets the bottle on the tray. He stares for a minute to long and his confidence starts to fade. He shakes his head and looks up towards you bedroom. "You're gonna do this Micheal. Now get your ass in gear." He mutters himself under his breath and carries the tray towards the bedroom.

He pauses in the doorway.

You're sitting up now, mostly awake but still under the sheets and blanket. Blinking at him with sleep in your eyes still. Robby swallows hard so much that it hurts his adam's apple. "Mornin', angel." You smile up at him. It a soft and small one that melts him. Hits in right in his chest and ribs. His body is moving all on it's own now.

Robby steps into the room with the tray still in hands. The weight pushing him forward. "I… um… I tired to make pancakes. I also was… I wanted to return." Robby stands uncomfortable at the edge of the bed. He shifts the tray in his hand. Holding the bottle of lotion. "I wanna… I was gonna give you a massage like you did for me last night." He rambles.

You have to hide the grin that is blooming over your features, and it causes Robby to fluster. "I just thought I could return the favor." He musters. You shift on the bed, and the sheets fall as you come up to the edge of the bed. You press your hand into his chest, and his chest goes tight and his heart beats quickly against your palm.

"Oh Robby, you didn't have to do all this." He nods, "I know" He lowers himself and the tray to the bed, robby voice goes soft and seems to wear at the edges. "I wanted to, that's all that matters to me." He can't met his wives gaze right now, because he's close to crying and Robby doesn't want to do that right now. This is no time for a breakdown.

When you press a kiss into his cheek, Robby goes still, and then melts into the bed quicker then he did when his feet had touched the hot bath water. He watches from the corner of his eye has you devour the food.

You have settled back into the bed, but this time your back is exposed and bare for him to something equivalent to giving you a massage. 'okay, just breath. It's not that hard. People do this for their wives all the time.' Robby stares down at the lotion bottle in his hand it's so much smaller in his hands then it was in yours last night. 'she made it look so fuckin' effortless, she just touched me and it was like she knew exactly what she was doing. She got every knot.'

Robbys inner monologue won't shut up, but he wants his wife to be happy, and comfortable. He shakes the bottle in his hand and reads the label. 'god she's got so many lotions, why are they're so many different lotion, and why is this one sparkly? This isn't what she used on me last night.' "Well shit." Robby lets slip. 'What's wrong Robby?" You ask from your position on the bed. "I grabbed the wrong one." he admits. "That's okay baby. Use it anyways." You tell him sweetly.

Robby squeezes some into his palm and looks down at your back then back at his palm again. 'what is even pampering? This just feels messy, and gross.' He wants to do right by you, but something is his stomach twists and rolls over, its not nerves, or fear. Just something softer and kinder. It feels all to big for his chest.

Even though Robby and you have been married for a few years now, Robby is still secretive about the idea of you taking care of him, of you doing the heavy lifting. He doesn't like to let you seem him breaking down. Last night was the first time that you had seen him like that. 'how the hell can she look at me like that? No judgement behind her eyes, just kindness. After seeing my have an internal breakdown. I've never allowed to just take care of me like that.'

Robby sits down behind his wife, his hands hovering over her soft shoulder blades. it's not like he hasn't touched you before, but that's different. Everything about this is different. 'For fucks sake, touch her. Gently, also this isn't like your arresting somebody. Holy fuck stop shaking.' When Robby starts to rub you shoulders, his hands slip from the slipperiness of the lotion agasint your skin. You giggle as his fingers move to quickly.

Robby seems to short-circuit, and then he's rebooting. 'Don't panic you goof, she's just ticklish and it's not because you're horrible at this.' Robby adjusts, slows his hands down, and starts again after a deep exhale. Your head dips forward a little and your back relaxes into his touch. 'see this is working, but maybe this is just her being nice to me, she's always so nice to me.'

Robby kneads deeper into your muscles, and the sigh you let is an unguarded one that sounds like you're melting into the fabric of the bed. It warms his spine and makes Robby continue. 'see I can take care of her too. Not as good her, cause my wives hands are magic… but I can try.' You whisper his name and it's filled with sleep and tenderness.

Robby's heart breaks just a little, "I love you, angel" He mutters under his breath, you smile and Robby can tell from the way your ears shift ever so slightly. "I love you too, Robby." Robby leans forward gentle, and presses a few careful kisses to your shoulder, and head.

"Are you comfortable, angel?" He asks, you hum and lean into his large hands as they work your back muscles. 'Fuck I'd do anything for you, anything. Even pancakes…' He shakes his head and grimaces at the three fucked up pancakes sitting in the trash can burnt, and disgusting in the trash.

'Maybe not pancakes, but literally anything else I'd do for you. All of it, all for you.'

As the night wore on, the vibrant sounds of laughter and chatter from your comrades began to ebb away, leaving the bar enveloped in a tranquil hush. The lively atmosphere faded, replaced by the soft hum of the fridge, a soothing backdrop to the stillness that settled in. In the quiet, you found solace, relishing the companionship of Shush, who stood silently by, patiently awaiting the moment to craft a drink.

Seizing this opportunity to take the lead, you crept down the staircase with the stealth of a cat, your heart racing with excitement. Balancing a precarious stack of ingredients, you maneuvered carefully, each step a delicate challenge as you fought to keep everything in your grasp. At last, with a triumphant lift, you placed the colorful array of bottles and mixers onto the bar, a small victory that made you beam with pride.

As you scroll through the contents on your phone, a familiar recipe catches your eye—it’s the one you saved for Tarts. A sudden realization washes over you: you mistakenly prepared for Cream Tarts instead of Pudding Tarts. Surely there can't be much of a difference, right? You murmur this to yourself as you tidy your workspace, surrounded by all the ingredients you’ve assembled.

You take a moment to check your supplies: the refrigerated pie crust dough looks perfectly chilled and ready to work with, check. The instant chocolate pudding mix sits in its packaging, promising a rich indulgence, check. Milk, creamy and cold, is prepped next to the dry ingredients, check. You have the whipping cream, fresh and inviting, check. The powdered sugar, nestled snugly beside it, will add the perfect sweetness, check. Finally, you eye the grated chocolate, a decadent touch for garnish, check.

With everything in place, it's time to dive into the baking process.

You follow step one by preheating the oven to an appropriate temperature. Taking the chilled pie dough you prepared in advance, you began rolling it out on the surface you lightly floured, cutting out twelve 3-inch circles.

"Keep an eye on the dough scraps,” you remind yourself, knowing they will come in handy later for re-rolling to create the final circles. You think aloud, clapping your hands together, and watching as a delicate cloud of flour billows and settles softly over the dough. “Seems simple enough!” you muse, encouraged by the process.

Moving on to the next step, you carefully press each dough circle into a mini tart pan, ensuring they fit snugly against the sides, creating a perfect little vessel for the filling to come. The cool, smooth texture of the dough molds easily beneath your fingers. With a fork in hand, you proceed to poke small holes in the base of each tart shell, a crucial task to allow steam to escape during baking, preventing any error during bake. The rhythmic tapping of the fork against the dough fills the kitchen, a satisfying sound that echoes your anticipation for the delicious tarts to come.

Unbeknownst to you, a solitary figure had remained hidden within the confines of the room. As the soft sounds of your baking filled the air, he lifted his head, sharp golden eyes fixated on your delicate movements. He watched intently, every detail of your actions captured in his gaze, as he remained cloaked in silence to ensure he did not disrupt the rhythm of your culinary endeavor.

As moments passed, it became increasingly apparent to him that you were blissfully unaware of his presence. With each step he took, his feet barely whispered against the floor, a ghost gliding nearer to you from behind.

Suddenly, his voice broke the quiet, smooth yet edged with authority: "Hm. And what do we have over here?" The sound sent a shiver down your spine, for it belonged to none other than the last person you had hoped to encounter at this moment—drawing you from your creative sanctuary into the light of scrutiny.

His first reaction is one of surprise and curiosity, the corners of his brows lifting as he takes in the sight before him. You attempt to mask your baking efforts, going to great lengths to hide the evidence without making your fabrications too glaringly apparent. A flush of embarrassment creeps over you at the thought of being discovered by Sunday, your heart racing as you navigate the tension between your secret and the other person's inquisitive gaze.

You keenly attempt to spin a complex web of deception, artfully dodging the conversation’s focal point. Yet, your evasive tactics only serve to heighten his curiosity, drawing him deeper into a labyrinth of intrigue over your peculiar unease about the possibility of him uncovering your creation. After all, if your carefully crafted work were truly meant for the rest of the express members, he muses, there would surely be no reason for you to obscure it from him. He is not the type to divulge secrets about your playful mischief, especially if you wish to keep this particular matter under wraps.

As he begins to connect the seemingly disparate dots, a flicker of comprehension dances in his eyes; he starts to assemble the fragments of your intentions, gradually deducing the true identity of the intended recipient of your work.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” he says, his voice calm and sincere, each word carefully chosen. The seriousness of his expression reveals a deep understanding of the situation at hand, you didn't enjoy it despite his polite mannerisms. “I mean no harm. Would it be better if I step aside?” His gaze is piercing, filled with an awareness that suggests he has already unraveled your intentions, leaving you feeling exposed under the weight of his judgment, or perhaps, it's your mind raising the intensity on its own.

"I would appreciate that, though I—never mind." You shook your head, a sigh escaping your lips as your gaze fell away from his piercing eyes. Instead, you focused on the delicate pastry resting on the counter, its surface glistening under the warm kitchen lights as you awaited the oven’s familiar melody signaling that it was ready. A rush of conflicting thoughts swirled in your mind. Would it be more suspicious to ask him to leave, to disrupt the uneasy tension that thrummed between you? Or if you invited him to stay, would he see through your facade and guess that it was merely an attempt to quell his rising suspicion? It felt like a mental chess game, and with this man, there seemed to be no winning move.

Choosing to remain silent, you relinquish control and let him proceed as he wishes. As you turn your attention back to your work, an unsettling awareness creeps in, sharpening your senses to the weight of his gaze fixed intently on your creation. A flurry of questions swirls in your mind—had you inadvertently erred in some way? Does your work meet his expectations? You had felt confident in the process up until now, the steps seeming straightforward and manageable… but now, doubt tugs at you—what if you overlooked an important detail?

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

Placing the tart shells in the oven upon its chime, you'd crouch to the ground and eye your pastries closely through the tinted glass. It is recommended to bake for about five minutes or until they turn golden brown.

At last, your gaze drifts back to Sunday, where you find him deeply immersed in the well-worn pages of the book he carries everywhere. With a hint of curiosity, you step away from the warmth of the oven, your attention drawn to him. Despite the tumultuous events that unfolded in Penacony, a smile spreads across your face. Sunday appears remarkably transformed, his previous burdens all but lifted. No longer confined by the weight of his family legacy, he has shed the label of "Bronze Melodia." Instead, he stands before you as Sunday of the Astral Express, exuding a newfound sense of ease and self-assurance, while still carrying internal troubles which leech off of him. His ideology captured your interest when you first stepped foot in his dream, and you recall your initial instinct being that he couldn't possibly be a villain. Perhaps misguided, yes—most certainly—but not inherently bad.

"Sunday? I hope this doesn’t come across as insensitive, but I’ve been pondering something for quite a while now…" Your voice finally cut through the hush of the bar, like a soft breeze on a still evening, as you summoned the courage to speak.

"Hm?" he responded, the sound a gentle hum, his gaze lifting from the pages of the book he had been lost in. The warm light that filled the room caught the edges of his halo, causing it to shimmer ethereally, casting a golden glow that framed his features in an otherworldly light.

"What exactly is the burden that comes with being Bronze Melodia?" you asked, your curiosity intertwining with a hint of hesitation. It felt like a delicate subject to bring up—like disturbing the surface of a still pond, unsure if it would ripple out with unintended consequences.

"Ah, it is to bear the weight of listening to the myriad problems and vexations of the Dreamscape’s residents, offering them the guidance they seek. That was my solemn duty as Bronze Melodia," he answered, his voice steady and calm, yet a veil of unresolved emotion lingered in the air. It was challenging to decipher the depth of his feelings—he often cloaked himself in silence, guarding whatever turmoil may lie beneath that serene facade.

"What about you?" You could feel empathy radiating from you, a warm pulse of connection amidst the flickering shadows of the bar.

"Me?" Sunday questioned, his voice softening into an uncertain whisper. It was as if your inquiry had plucked at an untouched string within him, revealing a vulnerability he rarely displayed. No one had ever ventured to ask him such a straightforward thing; it was a simple question made complex by the weight of expectation. Who, after all, saves the savior? Who brings comfort to the strong? Destined to fend for themselves, he ponders your implication.

♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~ ♫♪♪~

"You need not carry the weight of others any longer, Sunday," you urged softly, your voice a gentle reminder amidst the bustling kitchen. "Take care of yourself for the time being; you truly deserve it, no matter what doubts you harbor." As you finished speaking, you sensed his intense gaze lingering on you, a mix of contemplation and vulnerability reflected in his eyes. With a heavy heart, you turned away, the aroma of baked goods wafting from the oven guiding your steps, feeling the warmth of his gaze on your back as you walked away, leaving him to ponder your words in the stillness that followed.

As you open the oven door, a rush of warm air escapes, carrying the enticing fragrance of freshly baked pastry that dances around the kitchen. You carefully extract the delicate tart shells, their golden edges glistening under the soft light, and gently place them onto the wire rack you’ve prepared, allowing them to cool and crisp. The sweet and buttery scent envelops you, a tantalizing promise of the delicious creation that awaits.

Suddenly, Sunday’s voice cuts through your reverie, warm and inviting. You glance over at him, noticing the subtle change in his expression—now softer, almost tender. A flutter of warmth fills your heart, stirring emotions you hadn’t anticipated. Yet, despite this newfound gentleness, a hint of hesitation lingers within you. Your gaze flits between him and the bustling preparations surrounding you; uncertainty clings to your tongue.

Before you can gather your thoughts, he speaks again, his tone earnest and encouraging. “It would be an utmost pleasure to help. You’re making tarts, aren’t you? I have experience with this process if you’d allow me.” His offer hangs in the air, filled with an unexpected promise of collaboration, leaving you to ponder the implications of letting him in.

"Sunday, I genuinely appreciate your eagerness to lend a hand, but… I want to handle this myself. Is that alright with you?" You feel a surge of determination as you envision impressing him with your baking skills, knowing that every detail is crafted with him in mind. Moreover, you smile softly, adding, "Didn’t I mention you should look after your own needs? I promise I’m perfectly fine on my own." The warmth of his thoughtful gesture touches you deeply.

With a nod, Sunday recognizes your longing for independence and hesitates momentarily before stepping back, allowing you the space to carry on. Yet, you notice a flicker of conflict in his eyes, as he tussles with your desire to prioritize his own needs while he is left wanting to ensure you’re truly okay.

You let out a relieved smile, the tension in your shoulders easing as you grab a large mixing bowl. With determination, you begin whisking together the rich, velvety chocolate pudding and cold milk, your hands moving in stirring circles. However, the absence of an electric mixer quickly becomes apparent; the task proves to be far more laborious than you anticipated. Within minutes, your arm begins to ache, the constant motion wearying and unyielding. You can only imagine how effortlessly the mixture would have transformed into a thick, luscious consistency had you only plugged in the machine.

Frustration wells up, and you set the bowl down with a soft thud, letting out a groan that echoes in the quiet kitchen. It doesn't go unnoticed—Sunday, with his unwavering attention, shifts his focus toward you. You take a moment to rub your tired face, finding solace in the brief respite. When you open your eyes again, you’re met with a sight that leaves you momentarily speechless. He quietly steps in to continue the task, his movements determined and graceful, a stark contrast to your earlier struggle.

His gaze finds yours, conveying an unspoken message full of insistence, urging you to take a break. Somehow, it makes you realize that both of you deserve a moment of pause—even as you remind him that he should do the same.

Once you feel prepared, you gently lift yourself, ready to tackle the task once more. With a playful nudge, you encourage Sunday to shift aside. Though he hesitates for a moment, a subtle smile dances across his face as he shakes his head in mock reluctance, ultimately giving way. With a sense of accomplishment, you carefully pop the now perfectly whisked chocolate pudding into the cool embrace of the refrigerator, the two of you working in delightful harmony.

After allowing the rich pudding to chill for a tantalizing ten minutes, anticipation bubbles within you as you dash to the fridge. Once back at your workstation, you dive in with enthusiasm, scooping a generous spoonful of the creamy filling into each delicate tart shell. As you work, you catch sight of Sunday thoughtfully tidying up the supplies you’ve set aside, effortlessly managing the clutter without any prompting. You can’t help but appreciate his consideration; perhaps his arrival in your kitchen wasn’t an obstacle but rather a serendipitous opportunity to deepen your connection in this serene moment.

In a separate, spacious bowl, you pour in the glistening whipping cream, its surface shimmering in the light. Gradually, you add a dusting of powdered sugar, the fine granules drifting like soft snowflakes into the bowl. Sunday takes charge of the electric mixer, the rhythmic whirring filling the air as he beats the mixture. You watch with a mix of pride and longing as it transforms into a thick, airy concoction, soft peaks forming elegantly. Yet, a frown tugs at your lips, a small shadow crossing your heart. Sunday catches the shift in your expression and looks momentarily puzzled, though his expression is somewhat hard to distinguish due to its subtlety.

With a pastry bag graced with a star-shaped tip in hand, you take a moment to admire the cloud-like whipped cream before you begin piping it atop the chocolate pudding. Each swirl is an artistic flourish, an invitation to indulge. Finally, with a flourish of your wrist, you sprinkle finely grated chocolate over each tart, letting the shards fall like dark confetti, completing the dessert with a touch of opulence. The tarts shimmer under the kitchen lights, each one a masterpiece waiting to be savored.

“What exactly is it that’s left you feeling dissatisfied?” Sunday’s voice is gentle, almost coaxing, as it weaves its way through the heavy air of disappointment that briefly clouds your expression. You take a moment, inhaling deeply, as though the breath might help you gather your thoughts and ease the sting of regret that’s been lingering ever since the mishap.

“I accidentally made the wrong pastry,” you confess with a hint of sorrow threading through your words. The realization washes over you like a cold wave, and you feel a mix of frustration and regret bubbling just beneath the surface. “Pudding tarts should have that perfect, rich custardy filling—something dense, comforting, and evocative of home,” you explain, your voice trailing off as the weight of your disappointment seeps into the atmosphere around you. Despite the undeniable beauty of the creation before you, it feels tarnished by the expectations you had set in your mind.

The tart glistens under the soft, warm light, the delicate surface boasting intricate patterns and hues that speak volumes of your skill and dedication. Yet, instead of pride, you find yourself marred by the haunting presence of your error. “But instead, I ended up with a lighter, smoother pastry cream…” Your voice falters, “I—I wanted to present you with a pudding, not this…” The words escape your lips softer than intended, almost like a whispered secret, and you feel a pang of anxiety rip through you, praying he hadn’t caught the slip of your tongue—the inadvertent mention of 'pudding' that hangs in the air, uninvited and heavy with unfulfilled intent.

The tension in your chest tightens painfully as you await his response, your heart racing. You wish more than anything you could snatch back the moment, rewind time, and recapture the perfect sentiment you had hoped to convey. Each passing second feels stretched, laden with anticipation, leaving you to grapple not only with the pastry but the delicate thread of expectation that now hangs between you.

“Haha—” Sunday chuckled softly, the familiar sound wrapping around you like a warm blanket. His tone, soothing and free from mockery, eased the tension in your chest. “It seems the use of coercion is unnecessary; you’ve openly admitted that your actions were motivated for me. Though, I wouldn't consider myself somebody worth this effort,” You felt your cheeks flush as you lowered your head, a mixture of embarrassment and defiance flooding through you. With a sigh, you crossed your arms tightly, trying to adopt a façade of nonchalance, though inside, you were anything but calm. ", I appreciate this, and while I may have my perceptions of who I am and how to make amends for my past, I'll make an effort to be open towards your guidance and support."

Even amidst the uncertainty of his potential error, he showered you with praise, his voice rich with warmth and encouragement. As his gaze lingered on you, a gentle glow sparkled in his eyes, illuminating the kindness within. Yet, there was also a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, a mischievous glint that ignited something within you. With a swift and daring sense of rebellion, you lifted your head, your hands dusted with flour from your latest baking adventure. In a moment of light-hearted defiance, you playfully swiped the white powder across his cheek, leaving behind a mark of your shared joy.

Sunday's expression transformed into a mask of confusion, his wings twitching in response and his eyebrows arched high as he sensed the powder settling onto his skin like fine dust. The Halovian slowly raised a gloved hand, fingertips brushing against his cheek, and stared at the pale residue now clinging to them, bewilderment etched across his features, as if he were piecing together a puzzle that made no sense. “That’s for laughing at me.” you declared, attempting to veil your embarrassment.

You quickly shifted your stance, the flour dusting your hands as you brushed them on the kitchen towel that hung over the oven, accompanied by a pair of well-worn mittens. A soft huff escaped your lips as you turned to look at him, unable to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Here,” you said, your voice laced with a hint of embarrassment. “I... I’m sorry for, um, this.” With that, you handed him the towel, offering him a chance to clean himself up from the minor chaos that had erupted in the kitchen.

As he took the towel from you, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach. A foreign affection blossomed within his proximity. You turned your attention to the nearby counter, reaching for a plate that gleamed under the warm light. Carefully, you arranged a couple of freshly baked tarts atop the plate, their golden crusts glistening invitingly. You hesitated for a moment, the weight of the moment making your heart race. “Welcome to the Astral Express, Sunday,” you finally said, your voice steadier now, filled with a mixture of excitement and a touch of apprehension about sharing this special place with him.

The weary man stood with his wings, once a proud emblem of paradise and hope, now curling protectively toward his lips, as if concealing a smile that flickered with the subtle brightness of a distant star, shimmering deep within the hazel depths of his eyes. Each gesture you made seemed to awaken a long-buried emotion within him, one he had long since surrendered in his ascent to the formidable role of family patriarch.

The crushing weight of responsibility had created an immense chasm between him and the warmth of joy he had once embraced so freely, a chasm that had only widened with the recent separation from his beloved sister. Memories of their laughter and shared dreams haunted him, leaving a palpable void that echoed with the yearning for those lighter, cherished moments of their youth. The gleam of hope he had once held dimmed, overshadowed by the ache of loss and the burdens of duty, yet as he looked at you, an ember of that joy flickered, igniting the faintest hint of a smile.

Sunday chuckled softly, breaking the comfortable silence between you. “You know, I appreciate this more than you realize. But there is no need to go through all this effort just to make me feel welcome,” he said, the warmth in his voice evident.

“I think you're worth it,” you replied with a smile, your eyes sparkling as you lifted the tart to your lips. The rich, chocolate flavor enveloped your senses, sending a wave of sweetness through you. As you savored the moment, you caught a glimpse of nostalgia flickering in Sunday’s eyes.

He stared into the distance, lost in thought. “This reminds me of my sister and those afternoons in the kitchen,” he began, his voice low and distant. “We’d whip up all sorts of things, but I always went straight for the pudding. I remember getting scolded for sneaking too much—” He chuckled at the memory, a light blush creeping across his cheeks. “I just couldn’t help myself. The way it melted in my mouth…”

You leaned closer, intrigued. “What did she say when she caught you?”

“She would get this stern look on her face, arms crossed. ‘Sunday, save some for everyone else!’” He recited her words, and the image was vivid; a younger version of him with a cheeky grin, caught in the act. "It had a considerable impact on my singing voice," he explained, his tone relaxed as he recounted the experience. "Because of this, my instructor urged me to avoid certain habits and practices, emphasizing the importance of preserving my vocal quality so that I could perform at my absolute best." He chuckled softly as he continued, "Our teacher referred to me as a duckling, a nickname that stuck with me throughout my lessons."

You both smile, the moment stretching comfortably as you take another bite of the tart, the chocolate-rich and decadent. The room felt warmer, filled with the echoes of shared memories and the sweet taste of connection. “Here’s to the pudding bandit,” you teased, raising your tart in a mock toast.

Sunday couldn't help but shake his head at the fond absurdity you displayed before playing along. "To the pudding bandit," he echoed, clinking his tart against yours, his eyes twinkling with delight. You both took a bite simultaneously, savoring not only the sweetness of the dessert but also the deeper bond forming between you—one chocolatey bite at a time.

Fin.

A/N | I pray I wrote Sunday accurately... I made it long to make up for my lack of Sunday content. I was afraid I'd write him poorly, and even now, I try my best to stick to what I know and describe more than include dialog. I fear writing them ooc. Sobs.