What Lovers Own
Title: What Lovers Own
Fandom: PPG
Rating: PG-13ish
Character/Pairing: Blues
Summary: Bubbles and Boomer are great at being married. No, really.
Author's Notes: Birthday fic for essbeejay, who wanted "UMMMMMMMMMMMMM. SOMETHING BLUES-Y. LIKE... AFTER THEY'RE ALL MARRIED AND STUFF. AND IT'S AWESOME. OKAY YEAH DO THAT MAYBE?" Happy Belated Birthday, you Awesome Girl, you!
Sitting before the stereo, legs folded beneath her, Bubbles considered two “best of” albums. The first, and the one she was leaning toward, was Elton John; the second, Michael Jackson. She studied them for a few more moments before setting them aside and sifting through a small stack of CD cases beside one of the speakers. The day was turning out to be a beautiful one - warm, and a little overcast, but with a cooling breeze that made it perfect weather for turning off the AC and throwing all the windows open - and she felt very strongly that something classic was called for. She glanced briefly at Billy Joel, before putting it aside with a tiny shake of her head. It wasn’t a Billy Joel day. Elton would do just fine.
While she was putting the CD in the player and skipping to track three, Baby waddled up and barked expectantly, wagging a tail so fluffy it was almost a puff-ball. She nosed at Bubbles’ hand until Bubbles finally broke down and gathered the little dog into her arms. She kissed the pom’s head as she stood and made her way into the kitchen, humming along to the opening strains of Daniel.
“I’m pretty sure I said Black Sabbath,” Boomer mumbled, almost to himself, as he rooted around in the fridge.
Bubbles wandered over and kissed his cheek before replying sweetly, “I’m pretty sure I like Elton John better.”
He shook his head, and nudged her toward the kitchen table with his elbow, where two plates of reheated Chinese food were already waiting. As she sat down, Bubbles reached across the table, picked a piece of beef off of Boomer’s plate, and fed it to Baby.
“No wonder Banjo’s getting fat,” Boomer said as he put a glass of apple juice down in front of her and took his seat.
Letting out a scandalized gasp, Bubbles clutched the little dog to her chest. “Her name is Baby,” she whispered loudly, one hand over the dog’s free ear, as though to keep her from hearing the slander, “and she can hear you!”
He gave a little laugh and picked another piece of meat off his own plate, saying, “Nah, Baldwin doesn’t mind,” as he reached across the table. Baby squirmed around in Bubbles’ lap until she could get at the offering, scarfing it down without chewing before jumping to the floor and padding over to Boomer. She spent the rest of lunch pawing at his socked feet.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he said around a mouthful of rice, “I’d say you do this on purpose. Since Banzai won’t eat tofu or veggies, and you won’t eat anything but…”
Bubbles laughed and was about to take a bite when she heard the mailman coming up the steps. Baby’s ears perked up half a second later, and she was off like a shot, bolting to the front door to bark through the mail slot in a vain attempt to get at the poor man’s fingers. He was shouting something in Punjabi by the time Bubbles finally pulled Baby away.
“Sorry Mr. Gupta!” she called, gathering the mail off the floor. Mr. Gupta continued yelling- Bubbles was pretty sure he was swearing; he didn’t seem to like dogs very much - and she tapped the little canine gently on the nose with what appeared to be mostly bills and junk mail. “You bad thing. Go back in the kitchen.”
Baby yipped and attempted to get at the mail again as Bubbles returned to the kitchen. She’d been right about it being mostly bills and junk, and she told Boomer so as she sat down again, but there was also what appeared to be a card from Blossom. Something tickled in the back of Bubbles’ mind.
Boomer watched with only mild interest as she opened the cream colored envelope. She could feel the smile on her face getting bigger as she took in the pink and silver embossed cover - very pretty; very Blossom. The script inside read “Wishing you every happiness in your life together” and Blossom had written her own note: “To my beautiful sister and her loving husband. Happy Anniversary.” In very tiny handwriting down in the corner, was Brick’s handwriting. “Congratulations. You certainly proved me wrong.”
Then, because she needed to know, because it was still tickling and the feeling that she was missing something monumentally important was creeping up on her, she grabbed the envelope and looked at the postmark date. Her stomach dropped out.
“What date is it?” she asked, heart in her throat, even though she already knew. Blossom had been doing this for years. Every time she had to send a card, she drilled the postmaster at the local office for the exact time she would need to have it in the mail for it to arrive on the day of the celebration in whose honor it was being sent. The day of.
Boomer frowned at her, puzzled, and slowly, inexorably, his face slackened. They sat there for a few moments, staring at each other, then Boomer shot out of his chair so quickly it fell over. Baby jumped.
“Oh thank you, Jesus,” he sighed after a few protracted seconds, slumping against the fridge with his head on the calendar. He looked back at her. “It’s only Friday. It’s the fifth.”
“It’s Saturday, honey,” she said tonelessly, and spent the next few minutes listening to him swear and stomp around the kitchen.
“You know, we almost did this last year,” he said disbelievingly, righting his chair and dropping into it like a stone.
She felt like crying. “I know.”
“If Buttercup hadn’t asked if we were still going-“
She sniffled, and he finally looked at her.
“Bubbles,” he said gently, reaching across the table to take the card from her, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze.
She squeezed back, and said tearfully, “Are we bad at being married?”
He gave a small laugh. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “We’re great at being married.” He paused. “We’re just really, really bad at remembering dates.”
She smiled a little at that, and came around the table to sit down in his lap. He put his arms around her, coaxing her head onto his shoulder as he asked, “So what are we gonna tell them we did tonight?”
After a moment, she said, “Dinner at Carello’s, and a midnight movie.”
He nodded. “Very traditional. Kinda boring, but traditional.”
“Well,” she said, her smile growing as she looked up at him, “we could tell them what we’re actually going to do.”
His hand was still stroking her hair. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“When it gets dark we’re going to close the blinds and put on Tiny Dancer and slow dance in the living room. You can sing along if you want, but only if you do it quietly.”
He rolled his eyes at her, but he was grinning when he did it. “And then we’re going to put Straight Shooter on,” he added, “and do it on the living room floor. Right?”
Bubbles laughed. “That sounds wonderful.”
Fandom: PPG
Rating: PG-13ish
Character/Pairing: Blues
Summary: Bubbles and Boomer are great at being married. No, really.
Author's Notes: Birthday fic for essbeejay, who wanted "UMMMMMMMMMMMMM. SOMETHING BLUES-Y. LIKE... AFTER THEY'RE ALL MARRIED AND STUFF. AND IT'S AWESOME. OKAY YEAH DO THAT MAYBE?" Happy Belated Birthday, you Awesome Girl, you!
Sitting before the stereo, legs folded beneath her, Bubbles considered two “best of” albums. The first, and the one she was leaning toward, was Elton John; the second, Michael Jackson. She studied them for a few more moments before setting them aside and sifting through a small stack of CD cases beside one of the speakers. The day was turning out to be a beautiful one - warm, and a little overcast, but with a cooling breeze that made it perfect weather for turning off the AC and throwing all the windows open - and she felt very strongly that something classic was called for. She glanced briefly at Billy Joel, before putting it aside with a tiny shake of her head. It wasn’t a Billy Joel day. Elton would do just fine.
While she was putting the CD in the player and skipping to track three, Baby waddled up and barked expectantly, wagging a tail so fluffy it was almost a puff-ball. She nosed at Bubbles’ hand until Bubbles finally broke down and gathered the little dog into her arms. She kissed the pom’s head as she stood and made her way into the kitchen, humming along to the opening strains of Daniel.
“I’m pretty sure I said Black Sabbath,” Boomer mumbled, almost to himself, as he rooted around in the fridge.
Bubbles wandered over and kissed his cheek before replying sweetly, “I’m pretty sure I like Elton John better.”
He shook his head, and nudged her toward the kitchen table with his elbow, where two plates of reheated Chinese food were already waiting. As she sat down, Bubbles reached across the table, picked a piece of beef off of Boomer’s plate, and fed it to Baby.
“No wonder Banjo’s getting fat,” Boomer said as he put a glass of apple juice down in front of her and took his seat.
Letting out a scandalized gasp, Bubbles clutched the little dog to her chest. “Her name is Baby,” she whispered loudly, one hand over the dog’s free ear, as though to keep her from hearing the slander, “and she can hear you!”
He gave a little laugh and picked another piece of meat off his own plate, saying, “Nah, Baldwin doesn’t mind,” as he reached across the table. Baby squirmed around in Bubbles’ lap until she could get at the offering, scarfing it down without chewing before jumping to the floor and padding over to Boomer. She spent the rest of lunch pawing at his socked feet.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he said around a mouthful of rice, “I’d say you do this on purpose. Since Banzai won’t eat tofu or veggies, and you won’t eat anything but…”
Bubbles laughed and was about to take a bite when she heard the mailman coming up the steps. Baby’s ears perked up half a second later, and she was off like a shot, bolting to the front door to bark through the mail slot in a vain attempt to get at the poor man’s fingers. He was shouting something in Punjabi by the time Bubbles finally pulled Baby away.
“Sorry Mr. Gupta!” she called, gathering the mail off the floor. Mr. Gupta continued yelling- Bubbles was pretty sure he was swearing; he didn’t seem to like dogs very much - and she tapped the little canine gently on the nose with what appeared to be mostly bills and junk mail. “You bad thing. Go back in the kitchen.”
Baby yipped and attempted to get at the mail again as Bubbles returned to the kitchen. She’d been right about it being mostly bills and junk, and she told Boomer so as she sat down again, but there was also what appeared to be a card from Blossom. Something tickled in the back of Bubbles’ mind.
Boomer watched with only mild interest as she opened the cream colored envelope. She could feel the smile on her face getting bigger as she took in the pink and silver embossed cover - very pretty; very Blossom. The script inside read “Wishing you every happiness in your life together” and Blossom had written her own note: “To my beautiful sister and her loving husband. Happy Anniversary.” In very tiny handwriting down in the corner, was Brick’s handwriting. “Congratulations. You certainly proved me wrong.”
Then, because she needed to know, because it was still tickling and the feeling that she was missing something monumentally important was creeping up on her, she grabbed the envelope and looked at the postmark date. Her stomach dropped out.
“What date is it?” she asked, heart in her throat, even though she already knew. Blossom had been doing this for years. Every time she had to send a card, she drilled the postmaster at the local office for the exact time she would need to have it in the mail for it to arrive on the day of the celebration in whose honor it was being sent. The day of.
Boomer frowned at her, puzzled, and slowly, inexorably, his face slackened. They sat there for a few moments, staring at each other, then Boomer shot out of his chair so quickly it fell over. Baby jumped.
“Oh thank you, Jesus,” he sighed after a few protracted seconds, slumping against the fridge with his head on the calendar. He looked back at her. “It’s only Friday. It’s the fifth.”
“It’s Saturday, honey,” she said tonelessly, and spent the next few minutes listening to him swear and stomp around the kitchen.
“You know, we almost did this last year,” he said disbelievingly, righting his chair and dropping into it like a stone.
She felt like crying. “I know.”
“If Buttercup hadn’t asked if we were still going-“
She sniffled, and he finally looked at her.
“Bubbles,” he said gently, reaching across the table to take the card from her, taking her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze.
She squeezed back, and said tearfully, “Are we bad at being married?”
He gave a small laugh. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “We’re great at being married.” He paused. “We’re just really, really bad at remembering dates.”
She smiled a little at that, and came around the table to sit down in his lap. He put his arms around her, coaxing her head onto his shoulder as he asked, “So what are we gonna tell them we did tonight?”
After a moment, she said, “Dinner at Carello’s, and a midnight movie.”
He nodded. “Very traditional. Kinda boring, but traditional.”
“Well,” she said, her smile growing as she looked up at him, “we could tell them what we’re actually going to do.”
His hand was still stroking her hair. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“When it gets dark we’re going to close the blinds and put on Tiny Dancer and slow dance in the living room. You can sing along if you want, but only if you do it quietly.”
He rolled his eyes at her, but he was grinning when he did it. “And then we’re going to put Straight Shooter on,” he added, “and do it on the living room floor. Right?”
Bubbles laughed. “That sounds wonderful.”