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Bard is weirdly impressed with the ease with which Bofur navigates Berkeley Bowl.
He's lived in the bay nearly all his life, but every time he goes to this particular grocery store he feels like he's on the verge of a breakdown the entire time. Which is a shame, really, because it's definitely cheaper than Whole Foods, but with the same organic selection. However, now he can shop there to his heart's content, because Bofur is one hundred percent competent and unintimidated by the crowds and the hellish parking lot and the generally nonsensical layout of the store itself. “You’re remarkable,” he says as they weave through the aisles until they find their intended destination and park. “I think this is the only time I’ve ever gone here without feeling myself getting more grey hairs by the minute.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Bilbo,” Bofur announces, always quick to dismiss his talents. “He dragged me here once a week all summer. Built up my immunity.” Then, Bain skids around the corner, brandishing a giant tube of rolled oats, panting.
Bofur, who has been using his phone as a stopwatch for the last five minutes or so while the kids complete their missions, raises a critical eyebrow and does not bother to mark the time. “Aaaand Bain is disqualified. How many times do I tell you, it doesn’t count if you run? This is a no-running game,” Bofur scolds, taking the oats and dropping them into the cart while Bain groans in defeat.
“I also now realize you’re also enlisting my children to do the heavy lifting for you,” Bard observes. “In regards to navigating this labyrinthine monstrosity”
“They’re little and fast and competitive, it’s a perfect trade off,” Bofur says with a very kissable grin. Bard refrains from leaning in and tasting it, though, because aside from the fact his son is standing right there and will absolutely give them a hard time about it, he also remembers he has a role in the Grocery Store Game, which is to assign whatever item is next on the list for retrieving.
“Ok, Bain, next item up is two cans black beans. And do not run.”
“Wait! Not until the girls are back,” Bofur says, shooting out an arm to catch Bard in the chest, halting him here in the prepared meals aisle before he can accidentally sabotage the game. “Cheaters don’t get head starts.”
“My god. You’re right. I’m a neglectful dad,” Bard jokes, though only sort of. Bofur has been doing the heavy-lifting where childcare is concerned, coming up with these ingenious games to make even the most boring tasks entertaining. It’s great, really. This is the first shopping trip in awhile Tilda hasn’t gotten frustrated and tearful towards the end of.
She is decidedly dry-faced, though, as she is the next to appear at the head of the aisle. She and Sigrid are both power walking in an attempt to beat each other, faces twisted into dual masks of determination which is ridiculous because they’re on the same team, since Tilda isn’t allowed to wander off alone. Still, she’s giving it her best effort, hands clutched tight on two packages of ground turkey. Sigrid is on her tail, a canister of coffee under one arm, and a huge bag of frozen vegetable blend under the other. They’re neck in neck as they arrive, and Bofur hits the stop watch, smacking the cart handle triumphantly. “Excellent time on the dream team. But I’m sorry to report back that this whole round is a bust, because Bain ran.”
Sigrid gasps, punching Bain in the arm. “You get disqualified if you run,” she reminds him for what is probably the hundredth time.
“I can’t help it! I get caught up in the moment!” he whines.
“Ok, ok, listen to your dad, now, he’s got the next round,” Bofur interrupts, sneaking a warm hand up into the space between Bard’s jacket and back, so that only the thin layer of cotton tee shirt separates their skin. Bard’s stomach drops at the contact, because he hasn’t really gotten it through his head yet that Bofur isn’t ashamed of this. That he wants it forever and in public and as desperately as Bard wants it. He tilts into the touch, smiling a watery smile at Bofur before turning back to his kids, who are all eagerly awaiting whatever items they’ll be racing to retrieve. “Ok,” he says, clearing his throat. “Sigrid, two packages of spaghetti, and a bag of yellow onions. Bain, one box Kashi crackers and a head of garlic. And Tilda….two boxes Annies Mac and Cheese. The White cheddar kind.”
“Oh a twofer, and not even in the same section? Your dad plays dirty,” Bofur says, moving his hand from the small of Bard’s back to rub his palms together conspiratorially. “The girls get a ten second advantage since they have more stuff to collect in more places, got it?”
“Got it!” Tilda says before sticking her tongue out at Bain, ever so briefly.
It’s something Bard would usually comment on, but Bofur lets it go, because his parenting style is to pick his battles. Bard is still getting used to that, to not correcting every little thing they do, to not trying to keep their interactions tension free and perfect. They’re kids, they’re gonna argue a little Bofur usually says, and Bard knows he's right.
Bofur hits the stopwatch on his phone. “Meet us in the bulk section once you've got it all. And…ok—go!”
The kids hurry off as quickly as they can without running, and Bard snorts affectionately at how silly they look. “Cannot believe they’re having fun at Berkeley bowl,” he says, shaking his head. “ Actually, I cannot believe I’m having fun at Berkeley Bowl, either.”
“What can I say, I’m a giant kid at heart too, if I don’t make things into a puzzle I get bored and zone out and suddenly—I’m buying shit I don’t need and not buying shit I do need. I’ve had to figure out a system that works,” Bofur explains with a self-deprecating air, like he’s damaged instead of brilliant. It’s infuriating, and a little heart-breaking, so Bard dips down and kisses his cheek for good measure. To remind him how much he appreciates every little thing he does.
“I think its great,” he admits, voice soft and tattered how it always gets when he tells Bofur how much he fucking loves him without actually saying the word love. Bofur’s cheeks flush, and he tries his hardest to school a smile, so Bard knows he got the point across, regardless.
They park in the bulk section and Bofur then busies himself with scooping various dry things like rice and garbanzos and split peas into bags and tagging them with the appropriate number.
Bard watches him, marveling at how easy it is to admire very simple tasks when they’re being carried out by someone you’re very attracted to. “Have you ever made daal?” he asks conversationally, tapping his fingers on the side of a massive barrel of lentils, imagining sticking his hand into them the way he used to get away with as a kid. He keeps thinking about being a kid, lately, probably because Bofur makes him feel young all over again.
“I don’t think so? What’s that?” Bofur asks, cocking his head and wrinkling his nose
“It’s an Indian lentil stew type thing. My mom used to make it, when she was going through the India chapter of her New Age Phase. It’s a comfort food, but I haven't had it outside a restaurant in ages.”
“Babe, your mom’s New Age thing isn't a phase, sorry to break it to you,” Bofur jokes with a grin, elbowing Bard in the ribs gently. “Pull up a recipe on your phone, we can get the stuff for it. I’ll make it for you,” he says easily then, flipping the lid of the lentil barrel and starting to scoop.
Bard’s heart clenches, and he stares at Bofur, stunned to silence and stillness again at how very lucky he is to have a man like this. A man who makes mundanity exciting without even trying. Who fearlessly endeavors to cook him his favorite foods, just because. “Ok,” he says. “But let me kiss you first. Before the kids come back and yell at us for the PDA.”
Bofur stops scooping, grins, and lets Bard cup his face between his palms and press their mouths together.