#ozilious

PORTER & SALSA

“You’re gonna become huge if you keep eating all of Santa’s cookies.”“And you just want them for yourself, you greedy, egomaniacal, imperialist–”“I’M WELSH. YOU ARE IN WALES–”

WE HAVE NO COLONIAL AMBITIONS, he wants to finish, but instead, Pierce settles for punching Salsa in the arm before snatching up a handful of Mum’s unfrosted gingerbread men for himself. Raf gives a loud cry of pain (total mockery), and before they know what’s what, they tackle one another and slam onto the linoleum floor, limbs thrashing and curses flying. Because they are adults.

One of them, however, is more of an Adult than the other.

“Jesus– Christ– on a crucifix–”“What’s with the religious conversion, Ace?”“My back…”

Salsa pinches the bridge of his nose (a very Porter-isian mannerism, he’d make a note to bother him about it later if he weren’t enduring searing pain in his backside) before offering a hand to help his friend up and over to the couch. While Raf moves off to get an ice pack, Pierce pulls aside the drapes for a moment to see if Mum and Hester are back from the shops. They’re not. Which is good.

“Why don’t you just fix me?” he complains once the ice pack is sitting neatly on the small of his back. Salsa flips through the channels on the telly idly before settling on some telenovela. Of course. He doesn’t even bother to look at him.

“I will, eventually, but you just love getting fussed over, even if you won’t admit it. My gift to you. Merry Christmas.”

Well, he can’t fault that, but he’s going to try. Pierce pointedly ignores Raf’s shit-eating grin and groans long and low into a throw pillow. After a long while, he’s recovered enough to lift his head and sniff a little pitifully.

“Your first visit to Mum’s, and you break her favorite son’s back.”“You’re not even your mother’s favorite Porter, Porter.”

///

♡ PESTER

Our muses kiss under a mistletoe.

“Alright, let’s review. First thing to do in the new year–”“Make a doctor’s appointment.”“Good. And then, assuming that, you know, goes well…”“Cut down on drinks. And coffee.”“That’s actually the fourth task, but I’ll give it to you.”

The morning after The Christmas Party, Pierce and Hester lie side-by-side on their living room floor, their breakfast plates licked clean and piled on the coffee table. It took Porter a while to reach a conclusion, but he’s decided to write out their list of tasks on paper. There is the risk that someone might find it lying around, but that risk is much smaller than the risk he’d take if he typed the list up on his computer. Evie and Galen aren’t to be trusted. All he has to do is put the list somewhere away from prying eyes.

With the company they keep, it’s easier said than done.

Hester gazes at him, chin in hand and stupid hearts in her eyes, and causes him to lose his train of thought for a hot second.

“Um. What else?”“You can get those vitamins for me. And I think they make some for dads–”“Calm down. I’m not a dad yet.”“Actually, you kind of are.”“Fair point.”

She’s been sidling closer to him for their entire conversation. Pierce rolls his eyes to the ceiling. That’s when he notices the mistletoe. He glances back at Sands, who glances back at him coyly.

“I’ll start cooking healthier food. We can still have cheesecake after, though…”“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”“Shhh. Oh. I read that you should stop putting your laptop on your crotch, too.”“Okay. That’s a weird one, and it sounds fake, but okay. How long are we waiting, again?”“A month or two, just to adjust, then we can go all in.”“And we’re not going to track your… self… or anything?”“Ovulation. Come on, Porter, you need to know–”“I do know!”

He’s just trying to be Suave and Subtle about it. And failing. As always. Sands sighs and pulls the pen out of his hand, setting it aside. After rolling him onto his back, she crawls on top of him, blanket and all, and cups his face with her hands.

“You said you just wanted us to be ourselves.”“I do, Hettie.”“And… and you’re sure?”“As I’ll ever be.”

She presses a soft kiss to the tip of Pierce’s nose (it’s just as sweet as a kiss on the lips, honestly); it’s Pierce who takes hold of Hester’s chin and makes sure they get an actual Mistletoe Kiss, all warm and fuzzy and cozy, before she buries her face in his chest.

PESTER + 7(obaraisms i reget nothing)

“I almost lost you.”

Pierce sits up in bed, knees hugged to his chest and chin on his knees. Hester reaches out from her cocoon of bedsheets to touch his shoulder and discovers that he’s shivering. The sheets are immediately spread between them equally, but it doesn’t help much. If anything, it only makes it worse.

As of late, he can only think of one thing: Desi Jimenez, body broken and splintered every which way, lying in splints on a sterile hospital cot. It’s Pierce’s fault. How could it possibly be anyone else’s? He’d blamed Hester, originally, but that was because he had been living in his usual state of denial. Desi can’t be the one to take the fall for this – he already took a much more physical one. The person who did this is too obvious of a choice; a proximate cause, not an ultimate one. In the end, responsibility always falls on his shoulders.

He can only carry so much.

Hester reaches out again, this time taking his cold hand in her soft, warm grasp. “Bad dream?”

No answer. His silence speaks more words than he ever could. First, it’s yeah, you could say that, followed shortly by you were about to get swallowed up by the sea, then everything’s a mess, isn’t it, Sands, and I really can’t lose you, I think that’s what scares me the most, before finally settling on but at least you’re here now.

Somehow she knows. She always does.

“Okay, I’m here.” Her entire body envelops him in an embrace cozier than all the bedsheets and down comforters in the world combined. At least, that’s how it feels, and that’s all that matters.

///

PORTER/SANDS/SALSA + 16

“It could be worse.”“Really? Explain to me, Porter, how things could possibly be worse.”

Nobody is pleased that their favorite spot for a greasy post-stakeout deep dish pizza has been shut down by the Chicago health inspectors – Pierce moreso than either of his friends, since he’s the one who’s driven all the way across town at an obscene hour to reach a place that has closed its squealing doors forever. But, as always, he doesn’t really show it.

He tilts his head upwards so that he can stare Sands down with the proper amount of condescension. While he is perfectly ready to list off plenty of things that could be much, much worse – being devoured by a great white shark, the heat-death of the universe, throwing up slugs à la Ron Weasley – he decides to turn to Salsa with a look, back me up here.

Raf looks from Pierce, to Hester, then, with his gaze fixed firmly on Pierce, clears his throat and says, flatly, “You two could be married.”

Nobody finds it funny. Raf himself just finds it more exasperating, the way Porter scrunches his face in exaggerated incredulity and then glances at Sands, and Sands stares back at him with legitimate hearts in her stupid eyes until her face, too, twists into some half-hearted expression of pure disgust, and Porter doesn’t (or doesn’t want to) see any of her impressive emotional gymnastics routine, and poor Sands can’t discern that he’s completely into her too, and Raf wants to knock their heads together, make them get over themselves and just kiss already, dios mío–

“Okay, he has a point,” Sands concedes, finally, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket and kicking an invisible pebble off the curb. Just when Pierce starts getting all smug, however, she tacks on, “Shut up, Porter. You didn’t make the argument.”

“No, I didn’t,” he smirks anyway, puffing his chest a little in that way that slowly kills her on the inside, “but you were still wrong.”

PIERCE PORTER, ACE REPORTER

2-4 songs that are probably on their iPod

night people - robert palmer

danger zone - kenny loggins

let’s talk about sex - salt-n-pepa

no scrubs - tlc (the classic)

the one place they sometimes end up falling asleep – where they’re not supposed to

his desk at the gazette hq, usually with his door open. the other reporters have taken to sticking notes to his forehead while he’s asleep “for luck” (desi desifinitely started this tradition... and the worst part is he has told the rest of the snoopies about this so hester keeps sticky notes in her purse for whenever he nods off on stakeouts)

the game they’d destroy everyone else at

MONOPOLY. just imagine ‘i am a god’ playing in the background whenever it’s his turn. also, he is insanely good at cards against humanity bc he plays the judges and is generally a slimy bastard. he sucks at apples to apples, though. too politically correct.

the emoticon they’d use most often

:|

what they act like when they haven’t had enough sleep

very irritable, uncharacteristically sluggish, and more of a stubborn ass than usual. procrastinates. leaves things in weird places. walks into rooms and forgets why he’s there, then remembers as soon as he leaves and storms back in. very angry and unkempt and just about every other word is audibly italicized

their preferred hot beverage on really cold nights. or mornings. or whenever.

on really cold nights, he likes a cup of earl grey with lemon or a glass of hot apple cider, depending on the season. on cold mornings, his usual coffee will do.

how they like to comfort/care for themselves when they’re in a slump

he used to work through his low points but his material was always subpar when he read it over in the morning so now he just brews some tea, puts on his coziest socks, curls up on the couch with a book (normally he ends up twisting into a human pretzel while reading), and reads until bedtime.

what they wanted to be when they grew up

a “writer.” he left it pretty open-ended because that is a very practical thing to do when considering one’s future employment options

their favorite kind of weather

chilly, gloomy, dreary, foggy weather. not raining, but the air is so humid droplets of water end up on your coat anyways. the only thing he’ll complain about is the shitty visibility, but it reminds him of home!!!

thoughts on their singing voice (decent? terrible? soprano? alto?)

decent, but nothing to write home about. (he can rap anything by tlc or salt-n-pepa FLAWLESSLY, but you should pretend you don’t know this about him)

how/what they like to draw or doodle

circles over and over until his pen works. then he underlines and boxes in important words on the page. when that gets boring, he still does that pointy s drawing that everyone did when they were kids

HARRIET (THE SPY) HARPER

2-4 songs that are probably on their iPod (owu modern au!!)

the age of the understatement - the last shadow puppets

cold war - janelle monáe

pulaski at night - andrew bird

chicago - sufjan stevens

the one place they sometimes end up falling asleep – where they’re not supposed to

basterds meetings in the creepy parisian catacombs (oops). ‘harriet, were you sleeping??’ ‘no i was just resting my eyes…… i never sleep…… and why… how do i know that you, in fact, weren’t the one that was sleeping?? check and mate’

the game they’d destroy everyone else at

poker. this should not come as a surprise

the emoticon they’d use most often

e_e

what they act like when they haven’t had enough sleep

1000% done with everyone. can and will cut you with the serving knife if you are even the slightest bit rude to her.

their preferred hot beverage on really cold nights. or mornings. or whenever.

hot chocolate, when she can get it. or coffee, black.

how they like to comfort/care for themselves when they’re in a slump

go for a looooong walk until her feet hurt. then she goes back home, puts her feet up and a record on, and works on a crossword or two. (it’s either that or put more time in the kitchen and work on the meat pies)

what they wanted to be when they grew up

an actress, for a while, but she gave that up and decided she wanted to be a restauranteur. not doing all the cooking, but organizing all the things. which is kind of what she does now (since the actual owner of the cafe is a DICK) except she wants to strangle all her patrons. such is life

their favorite kind of weather

sunny, breezy summer days where the clouds visibly creep across the sky

thoughts on their singing voice (decent? terrible? soprano? alto?)

absolutely HORRIBLE do not ask her to sing or you will be the one who ends up singing

how/what they like to draw or doodle