#domesticcrosshair
~Was thinking about how when Crosshair’s nieces come over they always sleep between him and his wife and this happened.~
———
“…And the three little tookas said—”
The bedtime story is made complete when an exact chorus of human tookas make their debut.
“Goodnight.”
“Sleep tight!”
“Don’t let the Yalbecs bite.”
Laughter rings out in the form of Hunter and Cyare’s daughters, and the wife of Crosshair can’t help but join in, relishing their existence that’s sweet.
“Ba’vodu Cwoss, do the sound!”
Reclined back on what little section of mattress he was afforded through a wife and three nieces span across, Crosshair sighs to himself as he contributes to the tale with a signature “purr.”
More laughter resonates, and he’s suddenly reminded he doesn’t mind the cramped space.
“The end,” his wife concludes, closing the children’s book - a not-so unconventional artifact in their home as the years (and small guests) multiply. “Now, everyone scooch in.”
There’s a series of squirming as the rambunctious bunch seek out places to settle, hopelessly jostling Crosshair in the process. Once they find a satisfactory position tangled up amongst each other - though they’re bound to incorporate Crosshair at some point during the night - she tucks them under the comforter all cozy and tight.
“Goodnight, my loves,” she plants a kiss to each of their heads, and upon reaching the youngest, the three-year-old pulls her in close.
“Auntie, I like when you tell us stowies.”
“Me too!” cries the middle girl.
“Yeah, you’re good at it,” says the eldest, a certain sage and innocence in her eight-year-old eyes. “Maybe you can tell them to your own babies one day.”
The wife involuntarily holds her breath. There’s a change in the air that’s swift and seizing and she dreads it every time. She wills her gaze to remain trained on the children and not flicker up to Crosshair, knowing full well the reaction she’ll find.
He’s doing it again.
She releases a breath after a moment too long, a moment not lost on the expectant girl before her. She smiles softly. “Maybe; one day.”
The answer is enough to satiate inquiring minds, as all three girls sigh with finality then, letting the folds of slumber take them.
She sets the book on the nightstand and encourages her mind and heart to do the same.
Though she can’t bring herself to submit with Crosshair still upright, plagued and unmoving, his eyes downcast and lost in translation. The thoughtful silence she’s grown so accustomed to is suddenly stifling. She reaches for him. He’s unresponsive to the hand settling on his cheek.
“Hey,” she whispers, relishing his sharp features underneath her palm - she’ll never grow tired of him, the feeling. “I love you,” she breathes vehemently; quiet devotions genuflected within the walls of their bedroom on many occasion but this time it’s desperate, pleading for his acknowledgment of it. “More than anyone, or anything.”
More than the thought of children he may or may not give.
(Hewantsto…)
Her heart leaps when he finally leans into the touch, broken down by all the things he wants to say, and all the things she wants him to find respite from.
“You know that, right?” A further plea.
He gives a half-hearted grunt.
She couldn’t ask for more.
She presses a kiss - sweet, dissolving lips - to his cheek. “Get some rest,” she murmurs, withdrawing from him and lying down flat. Her arms find their way around their clan of nieces, his and hers, and she holds on tight.
*clears throat* Yeah sorry I will never get over this.
Crosshair: I suffer from a disease called “can load the dishwasher correctly.” It’s incredibly rare, very few people have it.
Wrecker:What abt unloading it.
Crosshair:Unloading doesn’t require you to think about jet angles or the unique shittyness of any given dishwasher, and can be delegated to any household member with a brain.
Crosshair:My body is a temple.
Crosshair:Ancient and crumbling.
Delana:You’re 25.
Crosshair, not listening: Probably cursed or haunted.
