Archive of Our Own ^beta

After the subtle escaping from the fans and then immediately ducking into a restroom to hide, Whiskey spent another hour just checking every exit in case Scraps’ cousin was a wanderer. When that pulled up nothing (except making Whiskey have to do more selfies), Whiskey realized that maybe Scraps’ cousin had already left.

“He might have left without me noticing?” Whiskey tries as he parks the car.

“Okay, great.” Kent says sarcastically. “You lost the dude before you even met him.”

Whiskey sighs as he turns off the car and grabs his things. “You can’t lose something you never had.” Taking a quick look around, Whiskey stuffs a cap on his head and lightly jogs to get into the supermarket, snatching a basket on the way.

“Don’t get all philosophical on me! You’re the one who lost the dude!” Kent’s voice sounds tinny coming from his phone speaker. “What are you going to tell Scraps?”

“That the airport was busy and I genuinely could not find his cousin.” Whiskey replies easily despite his nerves. “...and also by giving him a shit ton of raspberry yogurt.”

“You’re gonna bribe him into forgetting that you lost his cousin?” Kent sounds somewhere between amused and horrified. Whiskey dodges the sample counter as he makes his way to the dairy aisle. The poster advertising a giant sentient fruit was not very appealing.

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.” Whiskey says it a bit too loud, and the lady pushing a stroller gives him the side eye. The baby just stares at him. Whiskey ducks into the nearest aisle.

“It is bad!” Kent exclaims. “That’s why I’m saying it like that!”

“He can’t eat solid food until he heals, so it’s also thoughtful.” Whiskey counters.

“Still a bribe!” Kent says unconvinced.

“A thoughtful bribe.” Whiskey says as he rounds the corner, only to come face to face with the lady with the stroller again. The baby stares at him. Whiskey decides to go the other direction.

“Did you even tell Scraps that you lost his cousin?” Kent questions as Whiskey tries his best to avoid the judgmental stare of a baby. When Whiskey doesn’t say anything, Kent groans. “Seriously?”

“He’s getting out of a wisdom tooth removal, so he probably won’t even be able to respond when he’s like, high on painkillers and laughing gas.” Whiskey is sort of hoping on it. Kind of.

“Swoops is there, too, y’know? You could have asked him for advice.” Kent points out. Whiskey purses his lips at the thought. Swoops has a tendency of making Whiskey realize that he did something stupid and he does not need that energy right now (or whatever Kent says when Swoops does the same to him). 

Kent is still waiting for a response as Whiskey finally sees the diary section and does the most mature thing he can in this situation. 

Whiskey hangs up the phone.

It takes a few moments for Whiskey to actually get into the aisle, but he does a quick scan around for the fancy yogurt that Scraps loves for some reason. He finds it in the middle of the aisle, partitioned off with a giant sign for the brand. Someone is standing nearby and looking at something, but Whiskey pays him no attention as he immediately stands in front of the section to find the raspberry flavored yogurts.

When Whiskey can’t find any in the front, he starts to shove the yogurts in the front to the sides. Some of them tip over and Whiskey feels a bit bad, but tells himself he’ll put them back when he found some of the raspberry yogurts. Or, he would go back to put them upright if not for the fact that there is not a single raspberry yogurt in the section.

Whiskey just stares into the small tunnel he’s made in the yogurts, looking around. He goes to the section below it, only there to be the same lack of raspberry yogurt. It’s like the world wants to spite him. Did someone decide today was a great day to take every single raspberry yogurt-

“Uh, excuse me.” A voice to the left of him pipes up, making Whiskey realize that he’s been standing there having a yogurt induced crisis. Whiskey watches as an arm place a vanilla yogurt back onto the shelf (in the middle of the tunnel Whiskey had made), which prompts Whiskey to follow the arm to the owner.

It takes a second for Whiskey to recognize him, but Whiskey can place the paint streaked hoodie immediately, which makes Whiskey frown. Tango just leans back after putting the yogurt back, the movement jostling the basket on his other arm. For a moment, Whiskey is briefly concerned that Tango somehow followed him from the airport, which is insane. Whiskey tries to think of something else to say, or to just step back and say nothing at all.

Only, his eyes catch on the basket on Tango’s arm. A basket which is filled to the brim with various snacks. Specifically, what seems to be every one of the raspberry yogurts he was looking for. 

The universe really hates him today, huh?

Tango looks like he’s about to take a step back. But Whiskey needs those yogurts, and he’s willing to give up his dignity for them.

“Hey! Uh, Tango, right?” Whiskey asks, trying his best to do a friendly tone.

Tango stares for a second. “Yes?” Whiskey nods, waiting for Tango to say more, like he did before. Tango just looks around like he’s waiting for something else to happen.

“Did you get to where you need to from the airport?” Whiskey thinks that it’s probably an innocent question to be like, nice or whatever. Tango’s face just goes a bit blank, then even more confused. Which. Is not good.

“Yes.” Tango says simply. Whiskey nods again. Tango just stares.

“Well.” Whiskey clears his throat, mind racing. “It’s pretty hot out, huh?”

“...sure?” Tango says it more like a question. Whiskey wants to facepalm, but instead just tries to keep a smile on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s, uh, a lot of yogurt. That you have.” Whiskey winces at his own word choice. Tango looks even more confused. “Is there a reason why you have so much raspberry?”

Tango’s expression turns happy-confused for a moment, a smile peaking out. “They’re my cousin’s favorite. His friend told me to buy a lot because he’s going to need it, so I just took what I could find.”

Which was all of them, much to Whiskey’s dismay.

“That’s great.” Whiskey says, sort of meaning it. “But, uh. I need some too. For my friend. Who I need to apologize to?” Whiskey doesn’t really know where he was going with that sentence.

Tango just blinks at him for a second, then he scrunches up his face like he’s thinking hard. “Well, my cousin kind of needs it. And they didn’t have that many left.” Whiskey stares at the basket full of them in Tango’s arm.

“Well,” Whiskey tries, “could I have a few? I kind of need to say sorry.”

Tango thinks for a moment, his whole face showing it. After a moment, Whiskey thinks he might need to sweeten the deal.

He adds in with, “I could give you that ride you wanted?” It seems like a good idea.

Tango’s face just looks at him in surprise. Then immediately flattens.

“He’s probably going to need all of them.” Tango says neutrally.

Shit. Well, time for the next option.

“How would you like tickets?” Whiskey offers, trying to think of where he fucked up again.

“No, thank you.” Tango starts to back away, and Whiskey follows.

“Um, how about a signed jersey?” Whiskey knows he can pull a few favors from the guys on the team. Even if it means doing more favors.

“I’m good.” Tango is walking towards the self check out, and Whiskey knows he’s running out of time.

“Wait!” When Tango actually stops and turns to look at him, Whiskey doesn’t know what to say. Part of him wants to apologize for some reason. But another, more frazzled part says, “We have meet and greets?” 

Whiskey immediately winces as he says it. Tango looks slightly insulted. The bustle of other people around them contrasts the way that Whiskey is pretty sure he’s butchered every moment of this interaction.

It takes a few moments for Whiskey to try to say something else, but Tango beats him to it. Or rather, Tango takes a solid step back, takes a deep breath, then says in a voice just shy of an announcer, “Wow! I can't believe Las Vegas Aces Forward, Connor Whisk, is here!”

The sound of surprised voices comes from all sides. Whiskey looks at Tango in disbelief. Tango smiles, then turns and walks to the self-check out lanes just as the first fan walks right up to Whiskey’s face.

In between the third and fifth autograph, Whiskey loses track of Tango. After the seventh, his sharpie runs out of ink. Whiskey is still stuck in a selfie line, but a part of him thinks he deserves it.