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Blood opens the door to his apartment by saying, “s’rry,” which is probably not the best way that you’ve been greeted over the years, but it’s also not the worst. It’s actually pretty normal when it comes to dinner dates with your very large and very handsome skeleton boyfriend.
“Nope,” you say, firmly but gently cutting Blood off. You have to stand on your tiptoes to reach Blood, tapping your fingers against the flat curve of his very, very sharp teeth. “Unless you spill wine on me, I don’t want to hear you say that.”
Blood flounders for a moment and then shrugs, opening his door up the rest of the way. “kay. y’look sweet.”
You step into his apartment. It’s always very warm at Blood’s and you’ve taken that into account in regards to your outfit. Holding your arms out, you give a little turn about to show off, and then head for the dinner. “Sweet enough to eat?”
It didn’t take long for you to realize that Blood didn’t mind a bit of morbid humor, especially in regards to his past and the sorry state of the Underground he came from. A deep, rumbling chuckle is his answer. Before you can reach the table, Blood curls his arms around you, pulling you up against his front and pressing his teeth to the crown of your skull.
“only if d’ssert t’rns out bad.” Blood doesn’t let go right away. Which is fine. You’re never going to complain about being held by him.
He’s bigger than any human you’ve ever met, with sturdy bones and a firm (but careful) grip. Tilting your head back, you smile up at him. “If dessert is that ice cream you had in your freezer last time I was here, there’s no way it’s going to turn out bad.”
Blood pauses. Tilts his head to the side. “i got ice cr’m?”
It shouldn’t make you laugh, but it does. You pat him on the hand. “Yep. Mint chocolate chip. We can have that for dessert.”
“kay.” He still doesn’t let go of you. Blood presses his teeth to the crown of your head again, a little more firmly this time around. “missed ya, sweets.”
“Missed you too.”
You’re content to just stand there for a while, being held. Eventually the draw of food is enough to lure Blood into letting you go. He ambles over to the table instead. He tried to get dressed up for the affair – a romantic dinner meant to be a dual celebration for your recent success at work and his recent success with training The Dog to ask for walks by bringing the leash to Blood instead of just sitting quietly by the door – but slacks aren’t really meant to accommodate tails, and claws aren’t that great when it comes to shirt buttons.
The result is him looking dashingly a mess.
The table is already set. Blood grabs dinner from the fridge. Eating outside of the house is still miles beyond anything that your boyfriend is capable of doing, but the meal spread is a combination of delivered food from the local Thai place and a lovely looking salad that Sugar probably put together earlier in the day.
He puts the food out, pausing next to your chair to bend over and give you another nuzzle. His sole remaining eyelight is brighter than it usually is. “y’smell good.”
“You’re just biased,” you say. “And probably smelling the food.”
Blood makes a sound deep in his rib cage. It’s not an outright denial. He gives you another nuzzle before grabbing the back of one of the chairs, hauling it over so it’s closer to your own chair. He sits down, taking a moment to reach behind him and adjust the set of his tail. Then he sets about filling his plate.
Food is – tricky.
Blood has gotten better in leaps and bounds since coming to the surface, but meals are still very hard. Routine is important, and it’s easiest if you just eat in Blood’s apartment or, on the rare occasion, over at your house. And that’s fine for you. It’s cheaper, anyway, right?
But...you can tell that he gets in his own head at meal time, and it’s even worse on Special Nights. You knock your foot into his leg under the table.
Blood gives a full body jerk and stares at you.
You grin back at him. “Hey. Where is The Dog.”
“wit sugah,” rumbles Blood. “outta th’dog house fer now.”
Which probably means that Sugar is half away across town trying to locate The Dog after another successful escape. Cute.
You dump one container of noodles out on your plate, by passing the cheap chopsticks in favor of a fork. Blood waits for you to take the first bite before starting his own meal. Conversation falls away, but it’s a comfortable silence.
It doesn’t bother you that dinners are something different these days. Everyone has their own issues, right? You’re just glad that Blood’s around to share them with.
Conversation about what happened in the underground is sparse, but between rumors floating around online, off-hand comments Blood’s made, and the scars carved into your boyfriend’s bones, it’s pretty obvious that Blood came close to not making it out.
So if you don’t get to talk while you’re eating, or if Blood always eats a little too much – if there’s no meat allowed and no red wine ever brought out after meals are done with – well, those are all allowances you’re happy to make.
Blood eats twice as much as you and twice as fast. He rips into the noodles and salad like he’s starving and then sits, skull in his hands, and watches you eat. His lone red eye light is blown large with contentment.
You wiggle your fork at him, noodles hanging, and ask, “pasta for your thoughts?”
“mhm. yer cute,” says Blood. “pasta ya wait’n’fer?”
Snorting, you go back to your meal. “Like I said. Partial.”
Blood hums at you but doesn’t comment. You take the hint and go back to your meal. It used to bother you that he always finished first; you rushed through your own meal for a while, so you didn’t keep him waiting. But now you know better. He likes watching you eat. Likes making sure you’re healthy and fed and cared for. And you like seeing your boyfriend get that big dopey grin on his face, the one that’s all teeth and contentment.
When you do finish eating, you stand up first, walking around the table so you can throw your arms around Blood’s shoulders. He turns his head and presses his skull against you, nuzzling up against the side of your neck. His bone is rough against your skin.
“So,” you start. “How about that ice cream?”
Blood settles a big hand on your waist. The tips of his claws scratch lightly at your side, over the fabric of your shirt. “y’sure i g’t any?”
“I’ll grab it.” You press a kiss to the side of Blood’s skull.
He doesn’t let go of you. Just presses his skull more firmly into the crook of your neck. “kay.”
“...Gotta let go of me for that, big guy.”
“m’gonna.”
Not any time soon, though, you suppose. You settle in, content to stand there for the time being. “Did I mention you look nice?”
Blood grumbles happily. “though’it suited th’night.”
“I hope it didn’t tie you up trying to pick it out.”
A long, comfortable pause. At first you think that Blood’s just having to work his way up to a good pun, but then you hear the soft rattle of a purr behind your boyfriend’s ribs and realize he’s just gotten distracted.
That happens a lot. Less so than when you first met him, but still.
He’s too busy running a hand over the soft fabric of your shirt, and pressing his cheek against the skin of your neck. His tail thumps happily against the side of the chair, a steady beat-beat-beat that almost matches your heart.
With a laugh, you untangle yourself from him. “Alright, alright. Ice cream, and then sleep.”
Blood follows you into the kitchen, bracing one arm against the side of the counter. He watches you pick your way through the freezer, eventually coming up with a frosty looking tub of ice cream.
“how. g’ss i did have some.”
“Told you. I can’t believe you doubted me!”
“d’n’t doubt ya, sweets.” Blood takes the tub from you, cracking it open and fetching two spoons. The apartment that he shares with Sugar and The Dog is small and worn and cluttered, but he leads the way to the living room, where their couch has been traded in for a mattress and piles of cushions, and settles down.
You are instantly in his lap, snuggling right up against him. “Sounds like you doubted me.”
“dun get chilly ov’r it.” Blood hands you a spoon. “ya can cream a’me fer it lat’r.”
You chuckle. He holds the tub down so you can take the first bite. He waits until you’re well into reaching for your fourth scoop before taking one of his own. Even with his faulty memory, he’s still far better at puns than you’re ever going to be. But that’s fine. You’re far more interested in the slightly freezer burnt cookie dough ice cream.
Leaving the puns to Blood is just fine by you.
Whatever he’d been apologizing for at the start of the night is completely forgotten. Blood has been thoroughly distracted from whatever fault he thinks he must have committed. His tail-thumps are muffled by all the soft fabric.
This is good for you. It’s good for him, too. And it might not be how most people celebrate but honestly, you can’t picture it going any differently. This is closer to perfect than either of you ever expected to find.
And if Sugar shows up with The Dog not even a whole hour later, well, that just means Blood purrs twice as hard. You know for a fact that there’s nothing quite as good for him as when he gets to spend time with his brother and you both.
The Dog is just a bonus. You and Sugar both pretend to look the other way when Blood gives him the last spoonful of ice cream, making sure no member of his little family goes hungry – not the our legged chronic escape artist, not his brother, and certainly not you.