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Bofur was feeling as if he finally, fucking finally, had it all.
He was newly married to his most favorite, most handsome husband in the entire universe. He was then a stepfather to his three favorite smaller human beings, who loved him back and asked for piggy-back rides and who slow-danced with him just for fun at the wedding. He had the house repainted a cheerful viridian green with black shutters but kept the white picket fence, worked weekends as a roadie for the Gilman for extra pocket money, and even last month they had taken a family vacation (instead of a honeymoon, because who can find a sitter for that?) to Disneyland.
He was living the dream of a suburban housewife but with an upturned mustache and a hot-as-hell man to come home and ravish. It was perfect and ideal and he wasn’t going to ask for anything more, but then the kids caught on.
“Da, please,” Tilda was practically begging on her knees, clad in her second round of pajamas since she’d decided to help Bard and Bofur paint was a good idea for practice regarding her future as an ar-tist. Since the heat outside was no longer unbearable and Bard had more days off from Whole Foods (promoted to assistant manager, thank you), they had finally gotten around to transforming the youngest child’s bedroom to a proper big girl room. “Can we please get a puppy?”
“Think I already informed you of the answer, missy,” Bofur smiled crookedly, his hands occupied with a paint roller caked in magenta semi-gloss. Okay, Bard had let him do their bedroom in a deep, almost-black gray and pin up vintage metal posters, but despite Tilda’s musical revelations into proper music, she was still a seven-year-old girl. She liked pink. “Your dad says no, and we probably want to refrain from asking again, hm?”
Tilda sighed dramatically and went back to painting flowers and ponies and a big dragon in magenta over her lavender wall.
“I told her not to ask again, sorry,” Bofur muttered quietly, his cheeks such a shade of pink it made the paint seem unmatched. Bard was just so hot—clad in blue jeans and an old v-neck with his hair tied in a high ponytail—and it made asking for that damned puppy so much more difficult.
Bard tossed him a weak smile. It was a sad smile, which caused Bofur to swoop him and peck him gently on the lips. When they broke, he tucked his head into the crook of the shorter man’s neck and let out a breath. “We don’t have time for a puppy.”
Bofur shook his head rapidly. “No, we don’t. Also, like, potty-training. I’m not good with diapers.”
“Oh my god,” Bard chuckled, clubbing him in the side. “It’s not a baby! But I would have a baby with you if we didn’t already have these three monsters to look after.”
Bain made an inaudible hacking sound from across the hallway. He was preoccupied with his ninja guys, but obviously not enough to overhear the very adult conversation happening. "Bofur's having a baby?! Ewwww!"
"Impossible but also disgusting," He shot back loudly, adding a wink in there for good measures. Bain's face fell and he threw a ninja clad in a red jumpsuit, but it didn't go far and ended up halfway in Tilda's bedroom. He showed it to Bard, proudly rocking it against his sternum. "I had a baby, see?"
"I have no clue why I married you," Bard giggled, shaking his head. "You are preposterous."
"I thought we were talking about getting a puppy, not a divorce." Bofur settled his hat back onto his head since the room had cooled down, and returned to painting the east wall while Bard worked on the ceiling trim.
"We're not getting a puppy."
"We're getting a puppy?!" Tilda screamed, and that noise was enough for Bofur to drop his roller, landing pink paint splat down onto his Docs. The room froze—those were his favorite shoes. Tilda winced, and hid behind her hands. "Uh-oh."
"Ah," Bofur was quite angry with the fact that his beloved boots were now ruined (unless you like magenta, because in that case, not ruined at all), but he wasn't going to shout nor react badly. It was something he'd never believed in, yelling at your kids nor your husband. But Bard shot a devilish look in Tilda's direction, hopped down from the ladder, and strode over to where Bofur was staring at his shoes, the paint dripping down onto the plastic floor covering.
"I am so sorry," He pleaded, touching his husband's shoulder. Gently, he leaned down and unlaced the boots, tugging them off of Bofur's feet. He showed them to Tilda with an angry frown. "Apologize, now. If only you were older, I would have you buy him a new pair."
Tilda scampered, eyes puffy with tears as she glared up at Bofur, ignoring all traces of eye contact. Honestly, it was enough for him to really no longer care about his boots. His kids were too cute. She hugged him tight, and he squeezed back, sending Bard a loving smile. "I'm sorry, Bo."
"It's okay, champ," He petted her hair back and kissed it gently. "I needed new boots anyways."
"We'll go and get you new Docs right now," Bard promised, already cleaning up their tools. The painting could wait—Tilda was having too much fun staying in Sigrid's bedroom anyways. "Just you and me."
"Boot date," Bofur said devilishly, walking on his socks around the mess. "I'll finish this tomorrow. I should have some time." Everything smelled like paint and sweat and although Bard's sweat smelled sweet and delicious and musky, he really needed a shower and an escape from the cramped bedroom. "What color should I get?"
"Honestly, you'd look... shit, all right, listen," Bard was laughing hard. "I know you just spilled magenta paint on them, but those rose-pink Docs that all of the college kids are wearing—"
And that's how they ended up at the mall, and Bofur walked around in circles, breaking in the fresh pair of light pink Doc Martens laced on his feet. The Journey's employee had the lamest expression on his face, shocked that he was in charge of sizing a grown man for pink boots.
Bard whined from where his lips wrapped around the straw of a food court Coke. "They look so good."
"They're, well, very gay," Bofur chuckled, spinning around in them enough that Bard spit his drink. "Kind of like them, though. If you look hard enough, they might be considered grunge."
Bard rose to plant a kiss upon his nose, employee be damned. "Please get them. For me, you look really hot in them."
"I cannot believe I am buying pink Doc Martens for my husband because he thinks I look hot in them." He gave in anyway and unlaced them to place them into the box, swapping them out for his dirty Nikes. "You owe me a puppy."
"I have no issue getting you a puppy, you know. It's the kids I'm worried about." Bard said as Bofur walked the shoes to the checkout counter. "You're the perfect candidate to be a dog dad. You'd fucking walk the thing and show it off and take it to the vet and tuck it in at night. But I don't want it to be your responsibility, it should have to be the kids' job."
Bofur felt like crying; he loved the image of him and Bard strolling through the park with a big Rottweiler or a Doberman, holding hands and picking up dog crap like it's a flower. "I know," He handed off his credit card, wincing at the toll for fucking pink boots. "It's a lot of work."
"It is," He agreed. His tone foreshadowed dropping the conversation for good, but then he smiled shyly and they walked the boots out and he laced their hands together. "But if you think the kids can handle it, then I don't see why not. I can't keep fighting the fact that I kind of want them to have a dog."
"I want a dog," Bofur spoke louder, his finger poking at his own chest. "Poor kids are getting all of the credit for it—I swindled them into the idea. I want to take that fucking puppy camping with us and have it lick my face and for it to sleep with us in our bed and protect us from the monsters that lurk in the closet at night."
Bard's expression dimmed, and then he heartily laughed, beautiful and warm and deliciously heart-clenching. "Then get the fucking dog, love. I love you way too much to not let you have what you want."
Bofur thought about screaming and then plummeting onto the floor, but then again, he was an adult. With a child's mind, of course. "But it's not going to be like Kake. The kids want one like him—I want a real dog."
Thorin and Bilbo's puppy had originally been the reason Bofur and the kids started dreaming about a dog of their own. Kake, whose name was entirely too weird for the children to get the reference to Touko Laaksonen's character, was a black toy poodle and lived very proudly (and very luxuriously) with his two dads and his sister, a fluffy blue-grey cat called Hades.
The cat had come first as a birthday present for Bilbo; the most beautiful, precious baby kitten for his most beautiful, precious man. It was a cute idea, and Bilbo's heart was full, but quickly Thorin began to realize he was immensely allergic to cat hair. Beyond the sneezes, he could take medication for it; Bilbo felt bad enough that he'd loved the cat enough to make his partner take pills for it that he got Kake (a hypo-allergenic puppy, thank you very much) for his beloved. Thorin ugly cried—he was a dog person at heart, and so they ended up having two furry critters.
Bard almost snorted but forwent it to save his friends' love for their dog. It was impossible that Thorin nor Bilbo could love a dog so much; Kake was their legitimate fur child. He even had a little pocket and a helmet on Thorin's Harley and rode in the baby seat at Berkeley Bowl.
"If you want a very small, very gay black poodle, be my guest," He ultimately said, having to block his grimace. They were nearing the parking lot, and Bard clicked the keys to his Jeep, trying to locate it in the mess of cars.
Bofur's eyes stung with the idea of seeing Bard with a miniature poodle. "Our dog is not going to be named after a naked Tom of Finland character, nor wear a leather harness and a red bandana to the supermarket. I'll let the kids pick. And of course, adopt. I'd never buy a dog."
"You're so serious about this," Bard muttered, sliding into the driver's seat.
Bofur cocked an eyebrow and bestowed Bard his phone. "Yes, serious, look. I made an account on Petfinder. I'm getting a damned dog and it's going to be my best friend."
"I thought I was your best friend," He pouted, pretending to take the gold ring off his finger that he shared with Bofur. "You're replacing me with Murphy."
"Murphy," Bofur grinned, reaching over the center console to press a hard, tongue-wetted kiss to Bard's mouth. Then he snuck his phone back up and revealed a photograph. A puppy, no older than a year—a fat white pit-bull with black spots and half an ear. "Thanks for picking the name. Love it. Love you."
"I'll go with you to get him after work tomorrow," He sighed, his lips short. For a second, Bard doubted ever even agreeing in the first place for a dog, but the future image of Sigrid, Bane, Tilda, and Bofur chasing their mutt around the backyard while he barbequed in the hot summer heat made him it all worth it. "Love you too."
"And you love Murphy," Bofur played, tugging on the ends of his hat. Bard shook his head, laughing, and ended up getting smacked in the shoulder. "Come on," He egged, planting the phone close to his face. "You love Murphy."
"Fine, I love Murphy, too."
"Good. We love you back." He lamented, clicking on his seatbelt. Their future was unforeseeable and he expected some cloudy skies, but Bofur knew for sure that their family was the best family in the universe, and he couldn't ask for anything more in the entire cosmos. Except... "Sigrid wants a cat, too."