#meme thing answer

“Verysmart.”  Geno snatches up the pickle that's just plopped ontoSidney's plate and tucks it into his own sandwich.  “Canada is bestplace for Sidney Crosby to go during playoffs, for not think abouthockey.”

“Youknow I can just email Flower, right?  You talk in your sleep, I bethe could tell me stuff you've said on plane rides.”

“Thisis the boy Paulie thought you’d like to meet, isn’t he?” his momasks.  “I’d guess he understands the limitations of a hockeyplayer’s schedule, if the two of them are friends.  Besides, there’sno reason you have to wait for your jaw to be completely healedbefore you go out with him, is there?”

“Mom.”

“Youcan still talk, after all.  Which is all you shouldbe doing on a first date.”

Ohohoho, getting CRAFTY now eh?

“Granted,”Sidney says, nodding in invitation for good measure, and shakes hishead as Geno climbs onto the deck.  “I thought you were in Russia.”

Sidney doesn’t think anyone would be surprised, if they believed him enough to consider the issue, that there are several truly bizarre things about being in a relationship with a former selkie.  Naturally, he imagines they’d say.  Being human after spending a lifetime as a supernatural, shapeshifting creature must be a real adjustment!

Somehow, though, he doesn’t think that this would top anybody’s list of anticipated culture clashes.

“You like fish,” Geno says.  Pouts, really.  He’s pouting, and a six-foot-three professional athlete shouldn’t be capable of looking this pathetic and adorable.

“I know I like fish,” Sidney says patiently.  “I’m from Nova Scotia, it’s practically in my DNA.  I just thought we could eat something else tonight.”

“But--”

“This new steakhouse is supposed to be incredible,” he presses.  “Can’t we just try it?  It might make a nice change.”  He sighs when Geno hesitates, and adds, “I’m sure they’ll have fish there, too.”

“Cooked,” Geno complains, making a face, and Sidney groans.

“Geno, we’re not having sashimi for dinner again.  We’ve had it three times this week, I can’t.  I know I like fish,” he says before Geno can even open his mouth to voice the protest, “but I need something else tonight.”

“But . . . best,” Geno insists.  “Most pure when it’s not cooked, no spice.  Just fish flavor.”

“Sure, now you want food without spices in it,” Sidney mutters, and then it’s Geno’s turn to sigh.

“You want steak?” he says, sounding weary with defeat, and Sidney isn’t going to feel guilty over it, he won’t, he’s--

Damn it.

“It doesn’t have to be steak,” he allows, but Geno just shakes his head.

“No, you want.”  He reaches out, taking Sidney’s hand in his.  “Maybe they have tuna steak for me,” he adds, the hint of a genuine smile in his eyes.  “Just cook the outside.”

Sidney is being stubborn, which admittedly is nothing new, but this is definitely not the time for it.  He’s been feeling the itch beneath the surface of his skin for months now.  Longer, if he’s being truthful.  It’s bad enough now that Sidney’s noticed, though, and that means that soon it will be too bad for him to ignore.

If Sidney would just take his damn pelt, then Geno--the call would still be there, but he could stay.  If Sidney would keep him, he could stay.

Sidney won’t, refuses to even consider it, and Geno loves him for that.

He hates him a little bit for that, too.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, and he leaves his hand where it’s holding Sidney’s but stretches out his other to the cat in Sidney’s lap.  “Tell him he’s being stupid.”

Cats are wary of him, skittish and stand-offish and unwilling to come close.  He smells and feels too much like the sea, he knows, wild and wet and predatory, and they know better.  They let him feed them, and even approach them up to a certain distance, but despite his hopes and his very best efforts they’ve never, ever let him touch them.

The cat’s whiskers are bristly and stiff, the fur of its cheek silky soft when she rubs her head against his fingers.

She leaps away immediately after, but the damage is done.  Something has changed, something about him or in him, something that makes him more human than not, now.

“Two years,” Sidney says, his voice tremulous with age and emotion, and his crooked fingers tighten around Geno’s.  “You have to go, don’t you?”