Fic: Gokudera, Housewife Extraordinaire
Title: Gokudera, Housewife Extraordinaire
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 466
Excerpt: “Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish.”
1. Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish. Instantly aware, he brings a clammy hand to his forehead, habits left over from months of sleeping in his fighting gear. The base is perfectly silent but he sits up and turns on impulse towards the door, voice guttural: "What the fuck do you want?"
With a snarl, he draws blankets into his lap to hide the proof that the bastard's screwing with his head and fuck if it isn't working - he's not fifteen and tender anymore and all his thinking should be done strictly by his brain, not… other places.
"Couldn't sleep," Yamamoto offers from the doorway, looking a little apologetic but mostly just exhausted in his blue-and-white flannel pyjamas.
"So you thought it would be okay to wake me up?" Gokudera grouches, cursing whichever god made the idiot so damned vulnerable and good-looking, and the stupid pumping mass in his chest that cares. "Come in," he hisses when the idiot doesn't move, "You're letting in the cold."
2. Mothers tend to veer away from Gokudera at the best of times; at the supermarket they drop their apples and oranges and make off clutching their shopping baskets. He doesn’t like to spare too much thought on the phenomenon; maybe it’s because he smells like chimney and they’re wisely maintaining the Smoker’s Perimeter. Maybe it’s because of the way he dresses. Maybe it’s because he’s Italian. Either way, it makes buying groceries that much easier; he gets the best pick of the produce and no one’s around to witness him with the questionable items that Yamamoto doesn’t think about.
3. Gokudera twists the phone cord nervously as it rings. Click. He exhales, the rush of air crackling into the receiver.
"…dera?"
The connection isn't very good but Yamamoto's surprise carries anyway and Gokudera's almost certain that he's interrupting some vital part of the mission. He clears his throat. "Yeah. I - How -?" He swallows the end of that question because it's hideously mundane and not what he wants to know at all. "Where are you?" he asks instead. Arizona? Taipei? He's not supposed to know, of course; it saves him the trouble of someone trying to bludgeon the information out of him.
There's a pensive pause on the other end. "Hey. I… back soon," Yamamoto soothes, "Nothing… ry about."
Gokudera grips the handset with white-knuckled anxiety; wishes he was in on this stupid suicidal stint too. "Okay." Okay.
4. On good days, Yamamoto lifts Lambo in the air and lets him play Superman or hoists the kid onto his shoulders. Tsuna scoops the stupid cow up all the time, mostly out of harm’s way, but only Gokudera knows how to carry Lambo properly, the way his mother never got to.
Characters/Pairing: 8059
Word Count: 466
Excerpt: “Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish.”
1. Gokudera shivers abruptly in the dark as the curling embers of his dream sputter and vanish. Instantly aware, he brings a clammy hand to his forehead, habits left over from months of sleeping in his fighting gear. The base is perfectly silent but he sits up and turns on impulse towards the door, voice guttural: "What the fuck do you want?"
With a snarl, he draws blankets into his lap to hide the proof that the bastard's screwing with his head and fuck if it isn't working - he's not fifteen and tender anymore and all his thinking should be done strictly by his brain, not… other places.
"Couldn't sleep," Yamamoto offers from the doorway, looking a little apologetic but mostly just exhausted in his blue-and-white flannel pyjamas.
"So you thought it would be okay to wake me up?" Gokudera grouches, cursing whichever god made the idiot so damned vulnerable and good-looking, and the stupid pumping mass in his chest that cares. "Come in," he hisses when the idiot doesn't move, "You're letting in the cold."
2. Mothers tend to veer away from Gokudera at the best of times; at the supermarket they drop their apples and oranges and make off clutching their shopping baskets. He doesn’t like to spare too much thought on the phenomenon; maybe it’s because he smells like chimney and they’re wisely maintaining the Smoker’s Perimeter. Maybe it’s because of the way he dresses. Maybe it’s because he’s Italian. Either way, it makes buying groceries that much easier; he gets the best pick of the produce and no one’s around to witness him with the questionable items that Yamamoto doesn’t think about.
3. Gokudera twists the phone cord nervously as it rings. Click. He exhales, the rush of air crackling into the receiver.
"…dera?"
The connection isn't very good but Yamamoto's surprise carries anyway and Gokudera's almost certain that he's interrupting some vital part of the mission. He clears his throat. "Yeah. I - How -?" He swallows the end of that question because it's hideously mundane and not what he wants to know at all. "Where are you?" he asks instead. Arizona? Taipei? He's not supposed to know, of course; it saves him the trouble of someone trying to bludgeon the information out of him.
There's a pensive pause on the other end. "Hey. I… back soon," Yamamoto soothes, "Nothing… ry about."
Gokudera grips the handset with white-knuckled anxiety; wishes he was in on this stupid suicidal stint too. "Okay." Okay.
4. On good days, Yamamoto lifts Lambo in the air and lets him play Superman or hoists the kid onto his shoulders. Tsuna scoops the stupid cow up all the time, mostly out of harm’s way, but only Gokudera knows how to carry Lambo properly, the way his mother never got to.