Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You have to take a break. You need to eat.”

Aphrodite’s tone leaves no room for arguing — he isn’t one for much arguing anyways — and with a sigh Hephaestus sets down the tool he was using to fix Athena’s grandfather clock. In truth, he’d been wanting to stop for a while now, not because he didn’t enjoy his craft, but because Aphrodite is here. He’d like to enjoy her company, but at the same time, he’d been concentrating harder than ever because holy shit: Aphrodite is here. 

The two are slowly mending what little they had of their relationship, and while he truly does enjoy her company….she scares him a little. Her presence alone makes him nervous, for though he’s surrounded by the most beautiful objects in Olympus for the better portion of his days, nothing can compare to the living, breathing personification of beauty. Objects are easy: easily crafted, easily held, easily set aside. Aphrodite’s different. She requires constant attention and she’s unpredictable — there could be an argument that the basics of being alive weren’t so much different — and while it causes a shift in the atmosphere of Heph’s workshop, he has to admit that those are two reasons he loves her company so much. 

He straightens to walk to the sink — also dirty in its own right, even as a sink — to rinse his hands, but before he can take a step, Aphrodite has reached out and taken one of his hands in her own. 

He’s about to protest, to warn her of the incredibly obvious grease and oil and soot on him, but the words get stuck in his throat, stuck in his head, as she wordlessly turns his right hand over and examines the flesh. 

Aphrodite traces the hard callouses, first with the tip her finger, then dances along his palm with three fingers, and she’s in awe of how worn yet strong a hand could be. Sure, Ares’ hands are also battered and rough, but there are centuries of dedication and passion in these hands, in the creases made from the lines of his hands, buried underneath the black remnants of the eternal fire of the forge. Tracing over various shaped scars and scabs, she wonders the stories behind the markings, and that’s when she finally notices that…

Hephaestus is breathing hard. 

He and Aphrodite have held hands many times by now, but it’s in the still, quiet moments like these where he’s the most shocked when it happens, when the line between friendly and intimate that he already isn’t well acquainted with becomes blurred, and he’s left wondering how the hell can hands be so soft? He hadn’t even known that hands could possibly be that level of flawless and smooth, but what stuns him the most is how gentle her hands are. 

How gentle with his hands her hands are. 

The first pair of hands he’d encountered had thrown him off Olympus, as if they could laugh in his face at the phrase of “a face only a mother could love”, but here is Love herself, showing him that her hands aren’t scared of him. 

That terrifies him. 

And it terrifies her too. 

She’s used to holding pretty, desirable things — nymphs, people, gods — in her palms’ grasp, so does this mean she desires Hephaestus, the social outcast, her husband, now? She didn’t think it was possible. 

But then she’s bringing his giant hand to her lips, for she’s decided it’s either now or the next time she might have the courage to do this, and when she tastes the sweat and soot and the bitterness of grease mixed in with the unveiled stories of the beauty and life these hands have created with the utmost of passion, she decides that yes, she cannot go another day without these hands…or more accurately, their owner who has taken it upon himself to return the gesture, ever so timidly, but with all of the same sentiment and none of the awkwardness. 

“I shall go eat now.” 

Chapter Text

“More salad!” 

Aphrodite’s beam was so bright that Hephaestus swore it put the blazing flames in his forge to shame. He watched as she wiggled in place in her seat across from him in an odd but very endearing happy dance before pouncing on the second bowl of greens. The stack of bracelets on her left wrist clinked together as she heaped her plate. He’d made each of them for her; her choice to wear them didn’t go unnoticed. He also noticed a trio of friends sitting in a nearby booth shoot Aphrodite a nasty look at her noisiness, but he just smiled at her enthusiasm. 

“Remember to save room for the main course,” he joked lightheartedly, surprised at how easy the teasing rolled off his tongue. When was the last time he was able to feel so anxious-free around her? He honestly couldn’t remember. 

They’d only been on three dates since mutually agreeing that they should at least try to be friendly with each other — the first at a little crepe cafe in downtown New York, the second at the beach where he built her a massive sized sandcastle, the third at a paint a piece of pottery workshop — but with each subsequent outing, he’d been undeniably falling for her a little bit more each time. 

Aphrodite’s eyes went big and her bottom lip jutted out in a over-exaggerated pout. “I will!” she promised. “But it’s sooo good, Hephy!” His heart quickened at the nickname. Apollo had tried calling him that a week ago as a jest, and it had taken all his will not to glower at the sun god, embarrassingly possessive of keeping the silly title in Aphrodite’s mouth only. “Try some!” 

“I did, thank you,” he replied, gesturing towards his own salad plate. In truth, even though he was quite hungry from a day in his shop, he wasn’t as impressed with the salad as she was. Lucky for him, his hunger was easily forgotten as long as his mind was preoccupied with her…her nose scrunch, her one dimple, her slow blinks of contentment…. He didn’t want to be caught staring, so he cleared his throat and tried to make conversation, something that wasn’t really his strong suit, but for her? He’d speak in front of thousands of people if he knew she was somewhere in the crowd. 

He raised an eyebrow. “So, Olive Garden?” he mused. “Why didn’t you want to go somewhere more…sophisticated? More luxurious? I mean, its great here, but it’s not even Greek food, and we’re….you know….” 

Aphrodite giggled. “Oh, that’s easy!” she said. “It’s because it’s just fun! There’s no pressure to have perfect posture or be fancy or anything here.” 

At first Heph thought she was directing the comment at him, which he didn’t really mind since he knew he fell short when it came to what a god should look and act like. But as he watched her shovel another forkful of lettuce — her sacred veggie, no wonder she loved the stuff — into her mouth, he realized she was talking about herself too. Something he was scared to name happiness blossomed inside him at the fact that she felt comfortable enough to let a little loose in his company. 

Their food showed up then. After they thanked the waiter, Aphrodite leaned forward. “He looked at me weird! Did you think he looked at me weird?!” Her eyebrows scrunched together in worry. 

Heph squinted at her, trying to find a reason their server would have given her a strange look other than the fact that she was insanely gorgeous. 

Of course she was pretty. The prettiest girl he had and ever would lay eyes on, but she was also cute. All he wanted to do that very second was pull her close and pepper that adorably concerned face all over with kisses, and he nearly jolted in place at the thought. The lovesick stranger controlling my thoughts is so evil for putting me through this, he thought, wondering if his heart could truly be considered the enemy in this situation. 

“You got some salad dressing on your cheek,” he finally said, nodding to her right side. “I think that was it.” Her rambunctious devouring of the salad had been more messy than she’d realized. 

Fucking adorable. 

Aphrodite’s hand flew to where his line of sight was painted. “Where?” she tried feeling for the spot before diving into her purse, digging around to find- “ugh! I can’t find my mirror,” she said with disappointment, and Hephaestus hated seeing her pout for real. 

“I got it.” 

Aphrodite looked up, thinking he had created a mirror from scrap metal. It would be very like him to carry some random bits around. 

Now, did Hephaestus happen to have his handy-dandy pocket watch with a metal lid that could serve as a reflective surface? Yes, because he was a certified nerd didn’t like things on his wrists — it interfered with his work too much — but before he could talk himself out of it, he reached across the table and carefully swiped the offending dressing off her face. 

Aphrodite gasped a little at the feel of calluses in his thumb, at how rough his skin was yet how gentle of a touch he had. She resisted the urge to lean in for more. 

Hephaestus watched as a happy, light pink blush splashed across her cheeks, and his heart soared, no longer the enemy. 

Sure enough, just like he’d suspected, Aphrodite barely made a dent in her food before lowering her fork and looking embarrassed. “I…I guess I shouldn’t have eaten all that bottomless salad, huh?” she said sheepishly. 

“We can just take it home,” he reassured her, and then paused, wondering if she noticed what he wasn’t sure was a mistake: we. 

It was weird to speak about the two of them as if they were a pair, because from the start it was that very insistence, the arrangement, that had driven them to bitterness with the other. Ten years ago neither could have imagined they’d be having a civil, voluntary time together alone, let alone enjoying it. “We”, when it came to Aphrodite, held more weight than some of the heaviest metals in his forge, and Hephaestus was honestly and secretly terrified that it was one of the creations he wouldn’t be able to perfect. At Aphrodite’s small shy smile at the word, though, he realized that maybe it didn’t need to be perfect, just…possible. Together. 

“Did you want dessert?” All throughout dinner he’d watched her sneak peeks at the small, single piece of laminated paper that served as the dessert menu, but even if he hadn’t, anyone who knew Aphrodite knew she had a major sweet tooth. 

Aphrodite’s eyes went big for the second time that night. “Can I?” she whispered in disbelief. “I didn’t finish dinner, so I didn’t know if I should ask.” Now he really wanted to kiss her. 

He insisted she get her little treat of the day (she ate it all of course), and she even offered him some (but he was full and politely declined).

Chapter Text

It was the cold that woke Aphrodite up. Or at least to her it was. Snuggling down into the fluffy comforter in effort to conserve heat and heighten the chances that Hypnos would grant her just a few more minutes in his realm proved futile, and to her dismay, her growing consciousness only lead to becoming aware of the small puddle of drool she'd made on her pillow. Wait- pillow? 

The goddess shook the teasing remnants of sleep off as she sat up and looked around for who she’d fallen asleep on, but he was gone, leaving her in a bed that was all hers to spread out on. But she didn’t want to spread out if he wasn’t there to jokingly grumble about how she was only half his size yet took up double her share of bed. He wasn’t there enveloping her in a protective crook made from his warm body — no wonder the cold had yanked her from slumber — and she let out a sad sigh at the reality. 

She knew he had to get up early to go to work. It was purely innate of him to yearn creativity nearly every second of the day, and millennia of waking up at the crack of dawn wasn’t an easy habit to break for a god, especially one of such discipline as himself. Still, the selfish part of her itched for a remainder of his touch, of his love for her, to wake up to. 

Maybe that’s why when she realized he hadn’t briefly woken her to kiss her goodbye for the first time in the past ten days, her heart nearly stopped. Maybe it did stop. She wasn’t sure she could tell the difference. 

It seemed like a dramatic response even to her, but Hephaestus had, without fail, followed that routine every day, so what had happened? Not only was he a god of great stamina, but he was also a god of unwavering consistency — he had to be to keep up his reputation as the Great Craftsman — so it was unlike him to simply stop doing something he loved. 

Did…did he not love her anymore?

The thought materialized out of nowhere, swiping at Aphrodite’s heart with a razor sharp claw, and she pulled herself away quickly enough to not be injured, but there were scratches and they stung. She immediately soothed them with reassurance that she was overrating, that of course Heph loved her, that all their progress to make it to this seemingly-impossible point — her in his bed so they could fall asleep and wake up in each other’s presence — wasn’t for nothing, wasn’t a lie. 

Aphrodite started thinking about the couples she had poured her heart into, so hopeful and convinced they were meant to be, and how she'd had to watch too many of them fall out of the love she believed they were in until they were no more than screaming and fighting matches at 2 a.m. It was the worst part of her domain, seeing her sense of what true, genuine, unconditional love was fail so miserably. Was that what was happening now? Had she tricked herself into believing Hephaestus loved her? When she and Hephaestus had decided to give their relationship another try, she’d had the secret fear that she was never going to be able to be a good wife no matter how hard she tried. The lack of the kiss made her think he thought so too. 

It was crazy to speculate, but she imagined him giving his first kiss of the day to some other girl, any other girl, that wasn’t her. A hot, white flash of jealousy streaked through her. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, for it was merely a front for the betrayal she felt at the idea that he was simply humoring her while being in love with someone else. And then she became angry, not at Hephaestus, but at herself for being so damn hypocritical. She had done that very thing to him when they were first married. It would only be fair that he do the same, right? Anyways, they had never promised to be mutually monogamous to one another when they’d started seeing each other four months ago, so who was she to exude such anger to a girl that didn’t even exist? 

Unable to escape musing about the possibility of her marriage becoming as desolate and barren and broken and hopeless as the mortal ones she sometimes cried at night over, the sob that had been building up in Aphrodite’s throat escaped its confines. She slammed her eyes shut, and as tears refused to respect the dam of her eyelids, she buried her head into the sleeves of Heph’s oversized crewneck sweater she was wearing. It smelled like him — lingering smoke, wet wood, metallic notes from the gold and silver he shaped — and the thought that maybe there weren’t too many more days where she could be wrapped in the source of the smell she called home somewhere along the way made her cry harder, longer than she thought was possible, and in between sparse and spare breaths was her plea to be loved, only to realize that there was no higher deity to pray to for love. There was only herself, and right now? She was the last person she trusted with her heart. 

Damn you, Fates, Aphrodite cursed in her head as she haphazardly crumpled back onto the bedding, now cold, void from its lovers’ embrace from the night before. If this is your idea of entertainment, by all means, go ahead! Break my heart! Gods know I deserve it. 

She didn’t really mean that, but it was easier to pin the blame for her feelings on anyone but herself right now. With great effort she pulled herself out of bed and tried to get ready for the day that had already tapped all her energy and will to move. She ate a small breakfast even though she wasn’t hungry, and half-heartedly started on matching up couples in the room dedicated to her craft: a sunroom with stained glass windows, plush couches, and a mini snack area. Hephaestus had built the entire area for her. Usually she loved checking up on her favorite lovebirds, loved seeing budding romance, loved watching mortals surprise each to her with kisses, but her work today was bittersweet due to her grief about the kiss that refused to relent its sabotage on her. 

She kept insisting to the sadness that it would all be okay, that Hephaestus would come home and they’d make good on their unspoken promise to not give up on each other this time around. They were better than that, right? Having hope for her and Heph was proving more difficult than Aphrodite liked to admit. She especially didn’t want to acknowledge her insecurity when she remembered that there had been people who rolled their eyes at the idea of her and Hephaestus working on their marriage. 

Unsurprisingly, not everyone thought they would work out. Zeus had done a poor job of stifling a laugh at the news of their dating. Her godly and  demigod children alike had exchanged subtle but unmistakeable glances with each other when she’d told them her current love life. Even the nymphs at the riverbank had no shame in gossiping out loud when they knew Aphrodite enjoyed frequenting that spot. 

“Do you really think she loves him?” one had wondered as the group had lounged by and in the water. There was no doubt about who she was talking about.  

Another nymph had scoffed, scornful. “You think she’s really capable of loving anyone she thinks is less beautiful than herself?” Aphrodite had started to seethe. “No. She loves the way he makes her feel, but she doesn’t love him. I mean, c’mon, it’s pretty obvious: she’s in it to make herself look good, and for his gifts and naïve adoration-”

Aphrodite had had enough. Under normal circumstances, she would have smited the bitch on the spot, but she was too shocked, too hurt by their accusations to do anything but flee the scene. In the moment it had felt good to run, but their words had evidently stuck with her, for they haunted her now, and she didn’t know what she was more scared to find out: if Hephaestus didn’t love her, or if it was justified that he didn’t. 

I do love him! She told herself, back in the present, as she angrily stirred the components of the chicken lemon orzo soup she’d made for dinner. (Though not a cook by any real means, Aphrodite often did so when she needed a distraction from her thoughts or feelings.) But when she tried to think of reasons why, they all pointed back to how he made her feel….proving the nymph’s point exactly. 

By the time Hephaestus came home, dinner was ready, and under other circumstances, Aphrodite would have proudly grinned from ear to ear while bragging about how good it smelled in the house. Tonight though, all she could do was put on her bravest face. Finally seeing him in the flesh after thinking about him all day should have made her heart swoon — usually it did — but right now it just reminded her of how much she had to lose. With a growing lump in her stomach, her appetite was nonexistent, and she picked at her soup, careful to keep her eyes downcast so he wouldn’t see her blink back the sting in her eyes. 

Just talk to him! the sensible part of her mind scolded her, annoyed at her irrational overthinking for the past nine hours. Do you want answers or not? 

Fear of what the worst that could happen held onto her tightly in its clutches though, and she could feel his curious gaze on her as her spoon clicked against the dish in a fake show that she was hungry, happy, and fine. 

Silence hung heavy in the air, and with it accompanied Heph’s growing concern and unspoken wonder about why his normally chatty wife was so quiet. She could feel his gaze on her, and the pressure to stay strong was slowly but surely cracking. 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s going on?” 

His deep voice startled her. Dropping the garlic bread she’d been nibbling on, crumbs went everywhere at the sudden impact, and it took her a moment to realize he’d spoken at all. 

He looked worn and dirty and tired, per usual after a long day in his shop, but every time she’d sneaked a peek at him, he’d offered her a half smile, obviously not upset at her, so she’d taken that as a good sign. Now he just looked concerned and a little lost about the dampened happy aura that usually graced the house. His brown eyes searched hers, and she swore he could see straight into her soul and all the secrets she kept. He’d laid down his spoon and it was clear he wouldn’t be picking it up until he got an answer. 

Words she hadn’t prepared beforehand scrambled to piece themselves together, her mouth opening and closing in effort until she just gave up. She gave up trying to keep her composure. She gave up convincing herself that maybe it was better if she kept these feelings buried. She gave up on the pride the older, meaner version of herself had plenty of that told her she could do no wrong.

But she’d be damned if she gave up what they had. Their marriage might not be much to look at now, but it was hers — theirs — and one thing she always was? She was selfish with her possessions. 

The anxiety and insecurities that had made her life a living Tartarus were voiced in one long incoherent run-on sentence, and to her horror, she didn’t make it to the end before her voice cracked and she started crying, the words getting incomprehensible as they were jumbled up with her tears. By the startled and bewildered expression on her husband’s usually neutral face, she could tell she was scaring him with her emotional outburst, and that just made her cry harder. To him she didn’t want to be such a burden, a basket case, a baby about the littlest things, and she wouldn’t blame him if he added this to the library she had of why she was Too Much. 

The sharp, harsh grumble of wood against wood interrupted the conversation between the silent air and Aphrodite’s crying, and when she looked up, he’d pushed his chair away from the table. Her heart sank. This is it, she thought thought, her head fuzzy from grief and preset to prepare for the worst. This is where he realizes I’m not worth it, that he was better off before he met me, back then and now. 

When he didn’t move, Aphrodite wanted to scream. She wanted to shout at him to just leave already, that she couldn’t keep the new onslaught of tears from coming and that she really didn’t want him witnessing just how much power he had over her heart. 

But then he opened his arms instead, and her heart leapt from the pits of her stomach to the top of her throat. Nearly knocking her own chair over, she launched herself into her husband’s welcoming embrace with another sob, the first one of the day to be one of relief instead of sorrow, and it was a good thing he was so sturdy because otherwise she would have knocked him over too. She buried her head in his neck, unbothered by the sweat and stains of his labor, and clung to him like she was scared he was going to change his mind. For a few moments she just cried, unable to let the weight of this horrible day express itself except through the outlet of tears, and when he rubbed her back with one of those strong hands she loved and kissed her head with those lips whose absence had sent her into this whole frenzy, she thought she’d never stop. Her body eventually got tired from exerting so much emotion, and when her cries turned into sniffles, Hephaestus peeked down at her. 

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

My love. She bit back one last sob. Oh how she loved it when he called her that! It was a fairly new addition in their relationship, but after seeing her eyes light up the first time he’d tentatively tested it out, he’d had to keep himself from saying it every chance he got.

“What are you apologizing for?” she asked, confused, her voice worn and hoarse from corrosive tears. “I’m the one who should say sorry. I’m the one who got worked up over a stupid kiss.” 

“Except it isn’t stupid.” The seriousness in his voice and the way he held her tighter caught her off guard. “You were upset because you thought there was a chance I didn’t love you, if I’m understanding this right?” 

Aphrodite nodded weakly, embarrassed, not trusting herself to speak.  

“That’s on me, or at least partially is. And I hate that.” His face darkened. If Aphrodite hadn’t picked up that his disappointment and disgust wasn’t directed towards her, she would have lost every ounce of composure all over again. “I hate that you felt unloved by your own husband for even a moment, and that a simple kiss was what it took to plant doubt in your mind.”

She supposed it was true, but she felt awful that he was taking the blame for her breakdown. As if he could hear her thoughts, he relaxed his tense body a little and peppered more kisses on her head reassuringly. “I’m not going to beat myself up over this, at least not for long, but no matter how crazy you get or how pretty other women are, I love you, and going forward, I’m going to try — no, I need to be — more obvious about it.” 

She blinked up at him, eyes wide with happiness and awe at his promise, chest tight with how earnestly and effortlessly he’d said he loved her. 

He loved her!!! A streak of elation fought its way through the wasteland of hopeless despair that had accumulated within her. She knew showing emotion wasn’t something instinctive to him, so his promise to be more affectionate for her made her want to kiss him. And so she did. 

And in that moment, Aphrodite knew she loved him. The nymphs and everyone else had been wrong. She knew because she had never cared so much about losing a man — this man — before in her entire life. If she had only loved his adoration and gifts for her, it wouldn’t have mattered if he dumped her or not. There were loads of men who would pounce on the chance to worship the very ground she walked on. She could replace affection for herself easily, but she didn’t love those mortals. When it came to Hephaestus, not only his love for her was unique, but also hers was for him, and her heart had been trying to tell her that this whole time.

“Okay,” she whispered after pulling away, finally smiling for the first time that day, and pressed up against her husband’s chest, she could feel his heart speed up at the sight. 

“Okay,” he echoed and brought his face down to rub his nose against hers, something he knew without fail made her giggle. “And for the record, I didn’t forget to kiss you this morning.” 

Aphrodite’s jerked her head away to stare at him. So he had meant to do that. 

“But-” he tacked on before she could butt in. “I only stopped because every morning when I woke you up for the kiss, you were always so grumpy because I know six thirty is much too early for the princess to be awake.”

She had the decency to blush at his accurate teasing. “You don’t have to wake me up,” she murmured, playing with the collar of his thin, fading, grey t-shirt he wore exclusively for work. “I can tell when I’ve been kissed even if I’m not aware at the moment.” 

“You can?” 

“Mhmm!” She grinned. “All kisses. Air kisses, envelopes sealed with a kiss…you name it, I know it. I do have a specialty in them.” Then she grew more serious and a bit sheepish. “I guess as goddess of love I also shouldn’t doubt when I know I’m special to someone.” 

He caught the meaning of her statement immediately. 

“You are more than just someone special.” The determined glint was back in his eyes. “You are my wife. I didn’t come all this way to give that up.”

Aphrodite felt her breathing slow to almost nonexistence. If it hadn’t been for Heph’s embrace around her, she would have believed she was falling.

Hephaestus lifted his free arm that wasn’t supporting her back and cupped her cheek with his hand. She nuzzled into it as he spoke. “Before we reconciled, I didn’t love anything. Wait, no- I take that back. I loved smithing. I loved building and sculpting and molding. But I didn’t love anyone…not until you. You came along and made my heart feel, but even more than that, you gave my heart life. It belongs to you, Aphrodite. It’s battered and bruised and not much to love, but it’s all yours if you will have it. It only breaks more when I see you cry, so all I ask for is that you please show me, tell me, when something is wrong so I never have to repair new cracks.” 

She couldn’t say anything. How could she when the lump of tears was back in her throat with a vengeance? With her her face buried into his neck anew, Aphrodite nodded again and again and again, making sure he knew she heard him. She trembled with emotion in those capable arms of his, and the only thing she focused on to keep her tears in check was breathing in that smoke and wood and metal. She barely registered when he stood up from the chair with her still in his grasp, the only hint the faint protesting groan of his leg brace. 

“Am I too much?” she whispered, fearing for his comfort over her own desire to be carried to, where she could only assume, bed. 

“Never,” came the firm, low-dipped voice, and she smiled a tiny smile at knowledge that they both understood the double meaning to her question and his answer. 

She was barely aware of the gold automan that was cleaning up their dishes from the table. She’d always found the little guys Hephaestus had scattered around a little unnerving, but now she loved them if that’s what it took for her to never touch the ground between here and their bedroom. 

Once back in that bed where she’d cried her heart  earlier — had that really been this morning? It seemed so long ago now — Aphrodite could barely keep her eyes open as she watched Hephaestus slip his shirt off and head into the adjoined bathroom for a quick shower. All the exhaustion from the rollercoasters her heart had been on all day came crashing down, but knowing she had a soft place to land this time around, she welcomed it instead of succumbing to it. The last straw was her husband spooning her from behind. She gave up fighting sleep, but Hypnos was gracious in keeping her conscious long enough to feel one last gentle but very deliberate kiss on her head. 

It wasn’t cold when Aphrodite woke up. 

In her haze, she thought Hephaestus must still be in bed for it to be this warm, but alas, it soon because clear that he had left already. The warmth came from how he’d tucked their bedding snugly around her as if it would have to suffice in being her cocoon if he wasn’t there to do the honors, and she giggled at the thought of how ridiculous she must look. 

Growing serious, she wiggled her right hand free and tentatively lifted it to her cheek…and smiled. Not one but two small tingly sensations met her fingertips, and the resulting happy fluttering in her stomach was a feeling she wanted to spend forever never tiring from.

As she turned to turn off the pretty little antique gold alarm clock before it could ring the call of her doves cooing — she recalled how Hephaestus had chuckled in good nature when she requested the sound — she noticed an unexpected addition to her nightstand.  She leaned in, squinting to help her brain catch up with her eyes, and burst out laughing. There on a plain napkin was- 

A singular Hershey’s Kiss. 

And written on the paper cloth underneath the chocolate in uneven, undeniably Hephaestus’ rough, blocky handwriting was the following message: just in case. 

Chapter Text

“Where’s your costume?”

The grumbling grind of metal against iron groaned to a halt as the goddess of love came into view. Hephaestus had been so absorbed in finishing his work that he hadn’t sensed her arrival, and he was surprised to see her, since she didn’t often visit at this time of the day, right as he’s ready to head in for the night.

“What- what costume?” he said, immediately regretting asking and afraid of the response. 

Aphrodite graciously hopped up onto the only clear spot on his work table and casually swung her legs, fiddling with a small gold figurine sitting to her left. “What do you mean ‘what costume?’ The one for Hecate’s party tonight, hello?” 

At the blank stare received, Aphrodite groaned. “You forgot today was Halloween, didn't you? Wait, no, let me guess: you weren’t planning on going either way, were you?” she accused him with a disapproving frown. He thought it was a bit dramatic of a response and wondered why she cared about his attendance all of a sudden.

He ignored her first question. “I never go to that. What makes you think I would this year?” Hephaestus turned away and began cleaning up so he could shut down his shop.

Aphrodite snorted, undignified for her, and Hephaestus wasn't about to comment on how he thought it was hilarious. “Because it’s fun, duh! Everyone’s gonna be there, and there’ll be candy and bobbing for apples and a haunted house and even a hayride.”

“Oh boy,” Hephaestus said sarcastically. “A hayride! Everything I’ve always wanted.” 

“Oh, come off it! You know you want to go.”

“I most definitely do not.” Hephaestus knew she knew he was right. He did not do parties unless it was mandatory, and the ones where dressing up in something that took more thought than a suit? While he was probably the most creative god on Olympus, he had no desire to try to create or even buy a costume and make a fool out of himself. He'd had enough of that for a lifetime already.

He stopped cleaning for a moment and finally took in the sight of his visitor, realizing that she wasn’t in her normal clothes. The pink dress wouldn’t have stood out from her usual attire if it wasn’t so poofy and sparkly. She also wore accessories, but those were out of character as well: elbow-long white gloves, a gold tiara, and a blue broach clasped to the front of the dress. 

“And what are you supposed to be? A Barbie?” 

Aphrodite scowled. “What? No! I’m Princess Peach!” 

“Princess Peach?” Hephaestus echoed dumbly. “Who- Who is that?” 

“Were you born in a barn?” Aphrodite’s eyes grew huge, her tone incredulous. “Princess Peach! From-”

“That Nintendo game, right.” Hephaestus filled in the blank at the last second, finally recalling where he’d seen her outfit before. He went back to sorting his tools. 

“Right,” the goddess huffed, sounding insulted at his ignorance. 

When silence fell between the two, he glanced over his shoulder to see his usually chatty wife quietly looking at her hands in her lap, a small frown on her face. She looked worried, and that made him nervous, not because he didn't think she was incapable of handing her business, but because he saw that he was about ten seconds away from caring about her problems. Life had been simpler when he only had himself and his demigod kids to think about...but then again, responsibility came easily to him, and though he was nervous that he'd fail at looking after her, there was a thrill he got whenever he realized that she was letting him get close enough to her to show he cared. 

“What is it?” he sighed, leaning against a shelf next to the oven. He flicked his hand to tell the flames to simmer down. They were reflecting his feelings and he didn't really want Aphrodite catching on. “I know you didn’t come down here just to berate me about not going to some stupid party.” 

“Well, I was just thinking…” A small blush crept up Aphrodite’s neck. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “That maybe we could go together.” 

It took almost four heartbeats long for Hephaestus to comprehend her words. Firstly, she'd said it very fast, and secondly, he really couldn’t believe the unexpected proposal. 

When he spoke finally, it was slow and careful. “Why me? Why don’t you go with Ares?” 

Aphrodite let out a displeased huff, a single hollow thunk echoing the room as the back of her light pink high heels angrily hit the side of the bench for the first time since she’d begun swinging her legs. “That’s what I wanted, but he ended up going with Athena because they’re both into this one war video game and want to be characters from that. I told him I’d be okay going alone since I always make him dress up with me, but now I’m regretting that.” 

“Oh.”

The theme must be video game characters, Hephaestus mused as Aphrodite lamented on her lost partner. Probably says so on the invite that I threw out. 

“-and now that I think of it, you’re really the perfect candidate out of everyone I’ve asked,” Aphrodite said a little too cheerfully for Heph's liking.

“Mmm, so I’m the last resort. Wonderful. I feel really obligated to go now.” Hephaestus didn’t mean for his tone to sound so sarcastically harsh, but it did anyways, and Aphrodite’s shoulders drooped at the accusation. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

Either Aphrodite was truly sorry, or she had a great fake remorseful face. Seeing that their relationship had slowly been getting better in the past previous year than it ever was in the past, he hoped it was the former, wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt. Deciding to not dwell any more on it, Hephaestus shrugged. “Okay, well…what would I be, if I decide to go with you to this dumb thing?” He made sure to put emphasis on the “if”. 

Aphrodite swallowed nervously. “I’m scared you’re not going to like it.” 

“Just tell me.”

When Aphrodite continued to stall, Hephaestus put the pieces together. He remembered when video games were first invented because he had looked into the production of many of them since he was god of technology. He suddenly knew exactly who his wife wanted him to be. 

“No-” he shook his head. 

“Heph, please!” Aphrodite scrambled clumsily down from her seat and threw her arms around him. 

“You want me to be the dumpy little dude with the Italian accent?” 

“He’s not a dumpy little dude!” she protested. “He’s the main character.” 

“I’ll look stupid.”

“No, you won’t! Not if we go together. It’ll just be like any other couple’s costume.” 

He raised an eyebrow at that, having to twist his head to look down at her clinging form, and she had the decency to flush, because outside of their recent, carefully-planned moments together that he could count on one hand, they didn’t exactly always acknowledge that they were officially together. It was an unspoken status that both of them understood but were too scared to say out loud, as if voicing it would ruin the magic of what they realized they had, would force them awake and somehow make the other regret even trying at this whole thing called marriage.

“And you’re sure you can’t just go alone?” 

“No!” Aphrodite wailed, a strong whine in the one syllable. She hugged him tighter, as if he were going to bolt if she let go.

She looked up at him with big eyes and she stuck her bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. She hadn’t planned on moving to phase three of her methodical steps to persuasion — crying — and didn’t wish to have to use phase four — throwing a tantrum — but it looked like just asking (phase one) wasn’t working. 

“You don’t even have to do much,” she insisted. “I know you have a pair of blue overalls. All you need to wear with it is a red shirt, red cap, and loafer shoes.” 

Hephaestus glanced down at her again. He wanted to tell her off, to go find someone, anyone else but him, or to just suck it up and go stag, but his empathy got the better of him. It hit him that she wouldn’t be asking unless it was really important to her, and while he knew part of her just didn’t want to look stupid arriving alone, he also knew she had some degree of social anxiety she didn’t like to talk about. If she needed someone to be there for her, it might as well be him, right? Anyways, how bad could a silly little party be? He could do this one thing for her. 

Who was he lying to? He would do anything for her.

And it wasn't to gain her approval of him. It wasn't because he wanted ammunition so he could shoot her with her with an IOU bullet if he ever needed something from her in return. It wasn't for show so that the others would ooh and ahh over how good of a husband he'd become — hell no, it'd be a long time until he called himself the h-word and feel as if he'd earned the title. He'd do nothing short of setting the world ablaze (a surprisingly easy feat for the god of fire) for this goddess because his near-bankrupt heart had gotten rich from loving Aphrodite, and it spent its newfound wealth and power on creating a monopoly on all the other properties of himself he thought he had ownership of: his soul, common sense, dreams, thoughts, free time...

He finally said, “okay, fine”, followed by a grunt of defeat, and watched with amusement her eyes light up and a grin replace her pout, 

“You won’t regret this!” Aphrodite squealed, pulling him down for a quick kiss.

“I most definitely will,” he muttered, but couldn’t help but smile lightly at her giddy dance of joy. 

“I’ll come back in about hour with the hat, but I know you have the rest,” she chattered on. “Oh, hey! I have an idea!” 

“Mm?”

“You could shave your beard and leave the mustac-”

“I’m not that dedicated to this dumb thing.” 

“Okay, okay! I get you. Bodily autonomy, yes, yes. Very important. Well, if you want a prop, Mario’s a plumber, so you could bring, like, an unused toilet plunger or-”

“Aphrodite, no.” 

“Okay, no to the toilet thing. Yeah, that’d be weird anyway-” 

“Hey,” he interrupted her, and she finally stopped jumping up and down for a moment. He took advantage of this to reach out and pull her in by the waist with one arm. She let out a little gasp as the gap between them closed not from her doing, but when he cupped her face with his free hand and bent down to give her a warm kiss of his own, he felt her smile. 

“So no to doing an accent for the whole night?” she giggled after they broke apart, knowing the answer already. 

“Not a fucking chance.” 

Chapter Text

Aches and pain.

Barely a comprehensive thought existed inside Hephaestus’ exhausted state before it was squashed by the sharp twinge ricocheting up his left side as he stumbled though the door and into his home. The unforgiving physical reminder of how badly the ache in his leg could sometimes become had been persistent for the latter half of the day, and now he was starting to wish he’d listened to common sense and retired from work today when he’d had the initial thought. 

He hissed in half agony, half relief at the motion of kicking his thick leather work boots off, freeing his sore and worn feet, one step closer to shedding his dirty clothes and tending to his discomfort. At the sound of the resulting echoing thunks, though, he stooped down in great effort to fix the scattered footwear. The reason? She had walked back into his life. More specifically, into his home. 

Dating Aphrodite was one thing….living with her was a whole different story. But fuck did Hephaestus love to read when it came to that. If the other gods gossiped that the amount of space taken up her massive amount of clothing and even bigger makeup collection must annoy him, they were wrong. If they guessed that her constant hair brushing made her hair shed everywhere, or that bad tendency of hers of not refilling the Brita pitcher, or the way she kicked and drooled in her sleep, were all guaranteed habits to drive him nuts, they were wrong. If they even had the passing thought of how fed up he must be by her tendency to ask whoever she’s with to get her Taco Bell at midnight, or how her environment needs to be set at her preferred temperature or else she’ll throw a fit, they were wrong. Hephaestus took the changes Aphrodite brought into his home with surprising ease for a man whose dwelling place had remained largely unchanged for the majority of his life. 

If anything, he found himself adjusting his household habits in her favor, and messiness was one of the hardest ones to break. While he wasn’t an outright slob or a hoarder by any means, living alone had meant he could procrastinate and skimp on tidying his space without feeling guilty. But he’d almost immediately changed his act when Aphrodite started spending more of her days and nights with him, all because he wanted nothing less than to make this space as much hers as it was his. In his eyes, her wish was his command, if that what would make her more comfortable and happy here. He remembered her tiny frown as she witnessed him dumping his shoes carelessly by the door, how she adorably worried that one day he was going to trip over them, and since that moment, his shoes had never laid on their sides. He indented to keep it that way. 

Then the scent of honey-tinged perfume made him aware of the goddess’ presence, the smell a stark contrast to his smoke-soaked jeans and tangy sweat-doused shirt, and the suddenness of it made his head spin slightly, delightedly. Looking up, his consciousness switched from breathing to gazing in awe at Aphrodite as his form of life support. There she was, glowing bright as he remembered her when she first arrived at Olympus, and his pain was momentarily forgotten in his mind’s preoccupation with her importance. She wore a solid black dress that reached just above her knees, poofy in overall shape and also in the sleeves, and one of her many blue high heels cradled her feet. Hair pulled back into a sleek updo, her collarbone was left exposed, and sure enough, he recognized his handiwork hanging around her neck. A gleam danced in those green eyes he daydreamed about. A manicured hand gripped an impossibly small silver clutch. Excitement vibrated from her body and sent aftershocks into his simply by its sheer amount, and he felt a twinge of jealousy for whoever was going to be the recipient of her zeal for life tonight. 

“Going out?” he queried rhetorically, though not unkindly. He understood that Aphrodite needed to express and encompass her domain’s essence to truly be happy, just as he did with his innate need to create, and that she couldn’t be confined to only one person or god to do so. He was more than fine with her partying out late if that was what brought her happiness; all he wished for was two things: for her to be safe, and that his arms was where she knew she could seek as a resting place from such tiring activities. He expected a yes and the small spark in him that only came alive when she was near to fizzle out at as he watched her leave. But neither came, confusion at his question coming instead. 

She cocked her head, eyebrows drawing close to each other. “Well, not without you. We have plans for dinner, remember?”

Shit. 

Hephaestus shut his eyes, mentally kicking himself a thousand times. He wouldn’t have cared if the metaphorical punishment was as real as the ache that cried in his leg — nothing could have made himself feel worse in that moment when he remembered how Aphrodite had asked two weeks ago when his birthday was because she wanted to add it to her calendar of important dates to remember. 

Embarrassed, he had revealed he neither knew of the day, nor wanted to due to the uncomfortable reminder it would bring of how unwanted he’d been at birth, but all she’d done was think for a moment, pull out her phone, and pressed something on speed dial. “I won’t stand for that,” she’d said with no allowance for arguing in her voice while cradling the ringing device between her ear and shoulder as she dug in her bottomless bag of a purse. She retrieved a piece of crumpled paper and a pen. Before he realized what was happening, she was reserving a table at a restaurant whose name sounded much too sophisticated for his presence.  “Your abandonment in the past doesn’t dictate how much you’re loved now. Everyone deserves a special day. You’re no exception.” She’d turned back to the call to confirm the reservation and scribbled the date down. Handing the pale pink slip to him, she’d smiled. “Yours is in two weeks.” 

And now he’d fucked it up. All because he’d been distracted today. All because of his damn leg. 

Had the foreign idea of a set time solely focused on him scared him? A little. Had the chance he’d be eating snails at the upscale Parisian restaurant of Aphrodite’s choosing made him queasy? Undoubtedly. It pushed him off balance, out of his comfort zone, but his wife’s steadfast and genuine desire to celebrate him when nobody else could — would? — had caught him in an unexpected embrace of safety to which any ounce of worry in him had no choice but to shrink back in fear. Now the worry was back with a vengeance, and it’d brought its ally, insecurity, along with it, and the twins of self-destruction whispered horrible, rancid promises into his ear as he felt the dread of having to break the news that he simply couldn’t do anything else today but relax for his limb’s sake. 

Hephaestus licked his lips nervously. Letting out a breath, he decided it had to be said. “Hey, so…I don’t think I can do that…tonight.” Two confused blinks responded. “My leg…” he gestured to the offending body part as if she didn’t know what a leg was. “It’s been hurtin’ somethin’ awful today, and I don’t know if it’d be wise to venture out…” He trialed off, knowing she wouldn’t be mad, but also knowing this wasn’t what she’d planned. 

Aphrodite kept an understanding attitude, offering a small smile he knew would have been bigger if he’d just been able, but there was no mistaking her shoulders sag the tiniest bit. When she exclaimed that it was all okay, that they could simply go another time, he saw right through her overenthusiastic tone which was covering up what he guessed was disappointment. 

“I’m real sorry,” was all he could muster, at a loss of what else to say, upset that he felt the apology had came off as insincere. 

“Go tend to yourself,” was all she said, softy, with an understanding nod, a flicker of sympathy in those gentle eyes. 

He felt like shit for being a letdown, loathing his physical hindrance more in that moment than he had in the past century, and as he passed her perfect, gleaming, untouchable self, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he had no choice but to limp in order to the bathroom. The unsteady gait on the hardwood may as well been the sound of curse. 

“What a great husband you make,” Sarcasm chuckled cruelly while the water for his shower warmed up. “Can’t even take your wife out to dinner. Bet that makes her feel like a million dollars.”

As Hephaestus wrestled the shower chair from the bathroom closet and propped it open, Truth chimed in. “No wonder she didn’t want you in the first place.” 

And Worry with, “Don’t be too surprised when she wakes up from your daydream and realizes you’re nothing compared to her mortal boyfriends or the other gods.” 

Finally sitting under the warm caress of water, Heph tried to shift his concentration on how the heat soothed his aching joints and strained muscles, but the lump in his throat and a pit of dread that had somehow dug its way into his very core couldn’t be tamed. He couldn’t stop thinking about Aphrodite, how she must’ve carefully planned out her outfit and makeup, and waited patiently for him, all for nothing in return. 

Of course it had to be now that his leg started acting up. Of course it was just as he felt he and Aphrodite’s once-strained relationship was getting better that there had to be a setback. Logically he knew this wasn’t grounds for divorce. He knew Aphrodite would be mad about something that wasn’t under his control, but dissatisfaction with himself weighed heavy on his shoulders, and he wondered if this was how Atlas felt. 

You should have made something quick for her before leaving the forge to make up for this. Or gotten her some flowers or a small treat or-

A knock on the bathroom door jolted him from his thoughts. He stared in confusion though the glass shower door at the only possible source of the sound, wondering if his ears were playing tricks on him- but no, the tap came again, more sharp and with urgency this time. 

“Yeah?” he voiced over the stream of water, pausing his cleansing and positioning himself to stand up if it was a matter needing his immediate attention. But then to his surprise the door cracked open, just wide enough for Aphrodite to be heard clearly, and he nearly doubled over in surprise when she spoke.

“Can I come in?” 

For the better half of a moment, he froze, the seconds slowing down into minutes as his tired brain tried to process what she meant by that. What she wanted. Surely she hadn’t been insinuating that she wanted anything….sexual, right? Her words replayed in his head, and there was no flirtatious undertone in them. But she couldn’t have needed to go to the bathroom so badly that any of the other bathrooms in the house couldn’t have done the job. So…him? Was she asking to see him? Now? His curiosity overshadowed his worries, unable to fathom what she could possibly want. If he were her, he’d try to avoid himself tonight for as long as socially acceptable. 

“Yeah, sure, come in-“ He cleared his throat, forgetting to speak louder, and repeated himself. 

With a creak the door swung open — he’d been meaning to WD-40 that thing for a while now — and then she was there. A small smile couldn’t help but tug on his face, the automatic reaction only she could pull from him. She was smiling back. She was taking off her jewelry. She was….undressing? A state of surprise at this left him disbelieved and perplexed, and his smile wavered as the lone black piece of clothing slipped onto the tile and left Aphrodite in nothing but her underwear. When she reached behind her to undo her bra clasp, he immediately averted his eyes as if something very interesting had magically appeared on the ceiling. A little lithe laugh from the goddess at his actions made his stomach flutter, but he kept his gaze away. It was then that Aphrodite seemed to realize his discomfort was more than just a funny quirk for her to laugh at, and that just because most other men would have reacted to her nudity in the typical way she expected, it didn’t mean Heph was automatically inclined to invite her into his shower. 

“May I join you?” 

His concentration was broken and he glanced at her by accident. Redness that had no relation to the heat of the water colored his face, and through the anti-fog glass of the shower door, she saw his Adam’s apple bob. “Um-” he tried to tear his eyes away without success. She was flawless, from the seashell anklet she always wore to slender curve of her hips to the tattoo of the sky stretched across the length of her collarbone, and he was instantly uncomfortable with the fact that he was just as exposed as she was for observation. His scars and burns and goddammit, his fucking leg- But… Her question hadn’t had any indication of her will to mock him, and though he knew she’d respect his space if requested, for all his insecurity, he didn’t think he wanted her to leave. And that was due to more than just his innate male attraction to her soft feminine divinity. He’d missed her. He missed her every day when he left her slumbering in their bed, and he loved spending time with her in various new ways. This setting just hadn’t been on his expected list. “Sure.” 

Aphrodite stepped into the water, almost timidly, and joined him on the seat. “Hi,” she said sweetly, cocking her head and waiting for his response. He was dumbfounded, unsure of what to say. What did she want him to say? 

At his uncertainty, she reached out and gingerly plucked the washcloth from his motionless hand, frowning once it was in her possession. “Really, Heph?” Her nose scrunched up and he held a breath, completely clueless as what was to come, but scared nonetheless. It was probably due to how terrible he’d felt prior to her company, but he expected the worst. “Grocery store soap?” 

That left him at a yet another loss for not only words but thoughts all together as she stood up and plucked one of her many clear bottles with colorful liquid —  this one was purple — from the built-in shelf he’d installed upon her move into his home. In one fluid movement, she squirted a generous amount onto the cloth, lathered it up with practiced circular motions, and advanced towards his torso. He didn’t mean to in the least, but startled, Hephaestus flinched away, then silently swore when she retreated as well, annoyed at himself for being so jumpy. 

“Sorry- May I?” Still shorter than him when they were both sitting down, she blinked up at him, the descending water jumping off her long lashes onto the tile below, and Heph’s heart nearly gave out at the sight of her face, pure from disgust, void of anything less then genuine concern. He wanted to tell her she shouldn’t apologize for anything, that he was the sorry mess, but he just mutely nodded, having to focus controlling his breathing as she worked on scrubbing the dirt, sweat, and grime off his body. The body others detested and made him know of their thoughts. The body he didn’t always love, much less today, and had decided a long time ago to hide away as much as he could. Her brows furrowed in concentration, not from exertion, but in determination to do a job well done. Her touch was gentle, more compassionate than he’d ever been with himself, and as he followed her every command to shift and turn this way and that, it dawned on him that he was in her hands, vulnerable to whatever she wanted. For the first time, he wasn’t creating, caring for others through his work, but instead allowing himself to be cared for, permitting his walls to come down from their defense around his heart. And fuck, did it feel good. 

The god of fire allowed himself to succumb to her expertise until she motioned for him to lift his leg up for its turn in being made new. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lift his leg; he just didn’t want to. This very limb that had sucked the joy out of her evening didn’t deserve her kindness, he thought, and to his horror, a wave of grief at his predicament overpowered the happiness in him that he now realized had been too good to be true. At his reluctance, Aphrodite put two and two together. Instead of pushing her nurse-duty agenda, she took a moment to assess the situation. When a slender touch absent from the square cotton barrier cupped the side of his face  and guided his shame-filled eyes to hers, all he saw was understanding. She knew what he wanted to say. 

She knew. 

“Love is not stored in your ability to do things for me.” 

There was that damn overwhelming feeling of loss of control, but it didn’t scare him this time. In the beginning of his life, he’d been regarded as a god by the other immortals for what he could do for them, how well his creations could be of use to them or make them feel or look esteemed, and though that had been a long, long time ago, it had been ingrained into his mind, far too late to change, that his worth lay in how well he could prove himself. And it wasn’t just how productive he was that was of importance to the gods and himself, but also his ability to be. Be at this required party. Be the poster child for how hardworking the Olympians were. Be seen but not heard- Wait, no. Observed but not approached. He loved Aphrodite, but somewhere along the way, he’d fallen victim to thinking that in order to be that perfect husband, he needed to show her his worth the way he’d learned it. He should have known that the ways he was breaking what were the laws of love in the superficial eyes of the other gods were nothing but trivial offenses to the goddess of love. 

The dull throb in his leg was numbed from the warm tone of her voice rather than the warm water, and it was no longer a bull in the China shop of his heart. “I don’t think there is a luckier man in all the universe than I am.” It was a genuine comment on his end, but Aphrodite waved it off. 

“I am the lucky one.” 

The water falling from above couldn’t disguise or hinder his free-falling tears. 

They weren’t foreign sensations: the tightness in his throat, the even more demanding ache in his heart, the cloudy mind that left no room for thinking reasonably. The first time it had happened was at the ripe age of four when realized that his birth mother hadn’t wanted him. The next incident was spurred on by his first failure in the forge. The most infamous account that was the catalyst for the trio of feelings was his discovery of Aphrodite and Ares in his bed with the net. He’d truly lost all hope for himself then, because if he hurt the goddess of love, then who was he to demand she loved him back? He deserved nothing from her, and that was why he kept his distance. But here they were, more naked in the metaphorical sense than their current literal one, and it was the form she was most comfortable in and he was least confident in, but she was proclaiming that she was lucky to have him. That triad of familiar sensations rose up once more, but today was the first time he let it out.

He blinked hard, wondering how this wasn’t a dream. He was still convinced it was. She was an angel. A real-life angel who had saved him simply by existing in the same world at the same time as he was, and he’d always denied his worth of her. Until now. He noticed the whispers and glances people thought were more subtle than they actually were as they had no shame in commenting about his appearance. Outwardly he acted as if it didn’t bother him, but the words cut deeper than he’d let on, down to the bone where pain wouldn’t show. He felt less like a god and sometimes even less than a mortal when the ghosts of those murmurs haunted his thoughts without allowance, but the only being in the entire cosmos capable of truly hurting or healing him was her, and she’d chose the latter option. She’d chosen him, because she loved him. For exactly who he was.

He’d spend the rest of his immortal life saying 'thank you' if that’s what it took to show her even a fraction of his gratitude for this moment.

Aphrodite saw the tears, and instead of insisting he suppress his newfound of emotion, she simply slid next to him on the shower chair and kissed them away, only stopping when she was certain they were gone, confirmed by the lack of saltiness on her tongue. She didn’t say a word more. She didn’t have to. And when she couldn’t tell if his sigh was one of weariness, appreciation, or both, a coaxing arm urged him into her side’s embrace all the same. 

The position for Heph was a little awkward due to their height difference, and he could see the stiff neck he’d have in his nearby future, but he’d never felt more content. 

She was his person, he’d been aware of that for a while, but it hit him like his hammer on his anvil that he was also hers. A couple thousand years had apparently been the minimum length of time for him to realize it, but he knew now that he’d be homesick without her. 

They stayed in that position for what seemed like forever, and if they’d really wanted to, Hephaestus could have made it happen. The water didn’t turn cold in his home. It was an underrated perk of being a god of heat, but eventually they both accepted that it was getting ridiculous how long they’d been in the shower, and Heph had yet to wash his hair. 

“What- what’s wrong with grocery store soap?”

If Hephaestus could imprint one sound into his head to live in, it would be, with no competition, the laughter of his wife. He lived for her smiles, but he would die for her laugh, the only thing that could bring him to his knees other than his damn legs giving out. 

Worshipping her would be easier that way, anyway. 

Aphrodite playfully swatted his arm, resisting the urge to unnecessarily run her arm over the muscles. “Nothing,” she said with a faux grumble, admitting that his supposedly subpar choice was technically fine. “But why would you want to smell like-” She side-eyed the bottle as if it was her enemy. “‘Pine and woodland breeze’ when you can smell like lavender and honey?” It only occurred to him then that the scent of her body wash was strong enough to make him reel with sensory overload. He coughed as the smell filled his head but didn’t have any intentions of protesting when she laughed again and began messaging her equally as feminine scented shampoo into his hair. He let her massage his scalp, felt on his head the hard, thin band of metal on her left ring finger he’d made his, tasted the damn soap when he forgot to close his mouth due to how heavily her ministrations were making him breathe.

After she directed the water — as a goddess from the sea, she had a very limited power over water — to rinse out the suds, he opened his eyes and fell in love all over again. Wet strands of blonde hair clung to the sides of her face, happiness etched into her face, especially pocketed in that one dimple that only made its appearance when she wasn’t controlling it, and his heart nearly stopped at the realization that he was the reason she was beaming so hard like the ray of sunshine she was in his dreary life. He wanted to ask what he’d done to deserve her and make a comment on how he wasn’t worthy of her affection, but he stopped himself, thinking how his rugged appearance didn’t stop her from wanting to be in a public restaurant with him, how his his disability meant too much to others but nothing to her when it came to being together, how he didn’t have to be more or prove anything when it came to her. In that moment, he felt like love's favorite, and it was the safest place he could imagine calling home.

Chapter Text

Contrast to popular belief, Aphrodite’s birthday is not February 14th. That day actually is Eros’ birthday, which makes sense if one were to think about it since his Roman counterpart, Cupid, is associated with the holiday. Additionally, Aphrodite rose from sea-foam out of the Cretan sea; how would she possibly pull off such a feat in the middle of winter when the water around Grecian land would be partially frozen over? Besides, she’s too emotional to be an Aquarius. Indeed, the goddess of love is a water sign, given her origin, and seeing that one of her many titles is “Pearl of the Sea,” since she rode to shore on a giant seashell, it comes as no surprise that her birthdate falls during the month whose birthstone is the pearl. 

And so the event in question takes place during the last week of June, and the goddess claiming her sun sign to be Cancer is contentedly glancing around at the laughter and joy radiating from the enormous surrounding crowd at the fair. Usually she doesn’t enjoy loud, crowded spaces unless all the attention is solely on herself, but she loves the energy blowing in the cool evening breeze of this warm summer day. This past year has been surprisingly good to her, and there’s no better way, in her opinion, to top celebrate the closing of the last 365 days than surrounded by her Olympian family where all their worries are gone for even just a few hours, where she can feel the happiness and love heavier than the sunscreen she’d applied generously before heading out. 

A pair of children run near her suddenly, squealing with giggles while holding blue and purple balloons, and she smiles at their innocence. The delicious stench of fried food from pop-up concession stands makes her mouth water, and she considers indulging in a once-a-year birthday treat because gods do the elephant ears seem tempting. Before she can entertain the idea longer, her eyes catch sight of the Ferris wheel suddenly light up with multi-colored light as the sun dips lower into the horizon, and as the goddess of beauty she’s naturally attracted to the sight and grabs the first familiar face that’s the closest in proximity. 

“Will you go on that with me?!” she asks the immortal in her clutches. Turns out the goddess in question is none other than Athena. 

The two goddesses haven’t always seen eye to eye, but they’ve managed to be civil and almost friend-like more often than not, so Aphrodite isn't insane for hoping for a yes. However, Athena shoots her a apologetic look. 

“Sorry, Aph,” she says. “Me and Artemis were about to go get henna tattoos before the arts and crafts tents close for the night.” She gestures with her free arm to the area in the distance that’s free of rambunctious teens and overtired parents and children high on sugar. Of course she’d be drawn to the creators’ section of the carnival, but Aphrodite takes no offense. She’s too happy to let something as trivial as rejection disappoint her. Anyways, she doesn’t want to even attempt tagging along with the two maiden goddesses: Athena she can handle, but Artemis still can get on her nerves. She’ll simply find another family member to go with her, or if that’s not possible, simply snatch up one of the many men who are unabashedly staring at her in awe and make them think they’ve won the lottery. 

Fortunately, Hermes is eager to be her companion, and not only because of her incessant allure, but because as messenger god, he genuinely enjoys heights. Once in the air, Aphrodite leans over and surveys the scene below, spotting, recognizing, and recalling with fondness all the various rides she’d been in earlier, and the rigged carnival games that had Ares’ pride spend too much money on trying to win her an oversized stuffed animal. 

Speaking of Ares, she can see him flexing his muscles and flirting with a gaggle of girls, and she rolls her eyes. She spots Poseidon playfully messing with the water spurting from the ground fountains, causing the kids running through them to laugh until their sides hurt. Over by the alcoholic beverage tent is an unmistakable Dionysus and Ariadne, and that has to be Apollo absolutely demolishing everyone else at bumper cars. Hera and Zeus have just emerged from the Tunnel of Love ride, and Aphrodite can’t help but suppress a giggle at Zeus’ tired face as Hera drags him off the ride just to get in line to go again. On one of the horses of the peaceful carousel rides the gentle, ever-loving Hestia, accompanied by her sister Demeter. Aphrodite wonders what they’re talking about, thinking smugly to herself, “see? The fair has something for everyone here!”, but her elation in herself is short-lived when her wandering gaze lands on a tall, muscular man in overalls. He’s being clapped on the back by one of the ride operators in what must be commemoration because the long line of people for said ride suddenly cheer, overjoyed that the rollercoaster is back in operation. The man gives a half-hearted smile and curt nod and limps away, and if Aphrodite has to guess, he’s blushing at the unaccustomed, onslaught of praise. 

He is Hephaestus after all. 

Aphrodite’s soul gives a little pang when she thinks about him. He looks tired and disheveled, per always, but also a little lost and lonely. More than the usual amount. She wonders if he’d had any fun at all during this outing she dragged the whole council on, if any of the other immortals had hung out with him, or if he’d spent this entire time checking out the mechanics of each ride — which could easily be written off as embarrassingly sad in her judgement if she didn’t know that he’d be doing it out of concern for the mortals’ safety. But she does know, and something about his everlasting empathy extending its invitation to even the commoners makes her heart speed up.

And having her pulse dictated by her husband for even a moment is terrifying to her. 

Suddenly the Ferris wheel isn’t so fun anymore, and as it rapidly dips downwards for its last rotation, she feels a wave of nausea come out of nowhere, clinging to the metal bar at her waist for comfort. Hermes takes this as a display of excitement instead for some reason, and asks if she wants to ride again. 

“No thanks,” she quickly replies, scurrying off the giant circle. “I’m gonna text the others to meet on the lawn for the fireworks.”

The fireworks. This specific Californian fair has the best firework show Aphrodite has ever seen in her 2000 (and counting) years of existence. Sure, the ones back home are fine, and the ones illuminating the sky all Fourth of July weekend in New York will be wickedly awesome as well, but for some reason Aphrodite loves these fireworks in particular. They’re always majestically colorful and beautiful and larger than life, and she sees herself in them in that sense. She swears she could watch these fireworks for hours and hours and never get bored, the suspense of what pattern and color combination would come next keeping her attention rapt. Though it’s silly to think so, she can’t help but think that this annual show of glowing beauty (much like herself, again) is put on just for her since it falls exactly on what she considers her birthday each year. Perhaps, she realizes with a start, I’ve never considered a solid day to call my own until I saw these for the first time. 

That’s how much she loves these fireworks. 

And so one can imagine the crushing feeling she experiences when word ripples through the seated crowd — some in lawn chairs, some like herself on picnic blankets, and other on the bare grass — that due to the explosives being exposed to last night’s rain, the light festival is cancelled with no chance of saving it. 

“Aw, that sucks,” comments Zeus without much remorse in his tone at all. 

“Guess we’re gonna have to go home,” says Artemis, yawning. 

“It’s late anyways,” chimes in Ares, who’s sitting beside Aphrodite, and he stands up a little too enthusiastically for her liking. 

She wants to punch them all. Have they forgotten that today is her birthday? (She’s only mentioned it fifty times since this morning.) Do they really not give a damn that the end of best day of the year has just been ruined for her? Sure, the fireworks don’t mean nearly as much to them as they do her, but it’s as if they can’t wait to go home, as if the crumpled expression on her face (that she’s trying and failing so hard to hide) isn’t enough to warrant even a half-assed pitied look. At least many of the strangers around them share her disappointment, and Aphrodite would consider making a scene to evoke a sense of sympathy from her peers, but she uncharacteristically decides that it’s not worth it. She picks up the plaid-printed blanket with one hand and sadly shakes off the grass remnants, and that’s when she feels a tentative tap on her shoulder. She whirls around to tell whoever it is off, but she can’t express her bad mood over her immediate state of surprise. 

There they are: soft, serious brown eyes that have seemed to live a thousand burdened lives instead of one continuous one, but there’s a small glimmer of hope in them too, and they’re staring right at her. 

Hephaestus  

The god of the forge has been silently watching Aphrodite. Not in the creepy serial killer way, or even the pathetic loser kind of way, but instead simply as the quiet observational person he is. (He learned a long time ago that his presence, much less input, was less than welcome when it came to his family, and Aphrodite was no exception.)

However, he’s enamored by her radiant, carefree happiness that has been influencing the rest of the fair, and seeing the change in her demeanor go from zealous and bubbly to upset makes his chest feel a little tighter than he’d like to admit. He watches her from across the fairground grass, unsure if approaching her is a good idea, but when he sees her nose scrunch up with a sniff and her long blonde lashes blink rapidly to fight off an onslaught of incoming tears, he can’t in good conscience do absolutely nothing. He can’t stand around and play dumb while his wife is hurting with nobody’s arms to comfort her. Sure, she’ll probably snap at him to leave her alone and push him away, but he has to at least try. Nobody deserves to feel dreadful on their birthday. He knows plenty about that particular gut-wrenching emotion for that particular day himself from personal experience. 

When she turns around to face him and doesn’t scamper away like he assumes she most likely would, his tongue dries up and his palms start to perspire on their own. Because he didn’t think he’d make it this far, he hadn’t actually had a solid plan as to what he’d say to her to console her shattered spirit, so he’s left silently grasping in his mind at straws of possibilities, and that’s when it hits him. The answer as to how he can fix her mood is so painfully obvious, and to his luck, it doesn’t require many words involved at all. But first he has to do the hard part: ask about her well-being to confirm his suspicions. 

Aphrodite

She’s staring at the brown eyes for what seems like forever yet simultaneously not long enough before he breaks the silence between them. 

“I, uh…” He seems to be at a loss for words, and while Aphrodite’s used to men acting as if they’ve never formed a coherent sentence in their life due to the presence of her beauty, she really isn’t in the mood for her time to be wasted right now, especially when she’s on the verge of tears. Especially when the man in question is someone she knows isn’t fond of her. 

She barks at him, a little more harshly than she means to, to spit it out, but it does the trick and gets him talking. 

“Are you okay?” He immediately shakes his head to dismiss the question. “I mean, um, it looks like you’re upset. What’s wrong?”

Aphrodite can’t believe it: The one god who’s actually giving half a crap about her just happens to be the one she wants the least sympathy from. Damn. She peers into his gaze and attempts to find some sort of mockery in it, or a flicker of satisfaction at her sadness, any sign that will allow her to disregard his query and stomp off dramatically and sulk. That’s what she half expects from him, and if she’s honest, would likely do herself if she were in his place, but all that’s written there on his homely face is genuine concern and an unspoken, gentle reassurance in those deep pools that everything will be okay. 

So she sighs and shrugs and, seeing that nobody else is around to lament to, spills her thoughts. They come out easier than she expects, and to her horror, when sharing how she was really disappointed that there were no fireworks, tears start threatening to saturate her face. Then she feels one slip out of its confines and knows if she doesn’t turn away now, she’ll break down into a blubbering mess, and that would be humiliating.  

“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologizes, interrupting herself and swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand to hide the evidence of the accumulating wetness. “I shouldn’t be whining about it to you. Gods, I’m so embarrassed. It’s a stupid thing to get worked up about. And it’s not your problem. Sorry.” The last word is all but choked out because the knot in Aphrodite’s throat tightens and restricts her airway of anything but more tears. She turns away, shivering as a cool summer breeze sweeps through the clearing and her knuckles turn white from clutching the non-utilized blanket so fiercely, but then something large and warm and innately comforting clasps her shoulder gently. 

“Wait, Aphrodite-”

By the time she’s spun around to face her husband again, his hand has retracted, gone from her exposed skin as quickly as it had been there, and if she hadn’t witnessed it falling to his side after being yanked back, she would have questioned if it had ever brushed against her at all. But it had been there, she knows this to be true, for the heat from his touch lingers for a moment longer, and she finds that her shoulder is the one place unaffected by the chill of this damn wind. 

She can’t be thinking of this now. She shakes her head to clear her mind. “Yeah?"

Hephaestus looks shy all of a sudden, glancing at the ground, and he stumbles over his words. “It’s not dumb to be upset over,” he tells her, and it sounds more like a promise to her ears than the thoughtless reassurance that would be an expected courtesy from the common person. “And I, uh- I was over there-“ he waves nondescriptly in no particular direction- “and overheard some of the fair workers say the show is still on. That they’d, um, just had some technical issues but it’ll happen momentarily.”

Aphrodite blinks, surprised at this news. Her sadness is forgotten, and a small glimmer of hope blossoms in its place. Would she still get her fireworks tonight after all? More people brush past them on their way to go home, and that’s when it happens. Seemingly out of nowhere, completely unannounced, a lone streak of orange light shoots vertically upwards from nowhere in the sky until it reaches its apex, and with the tell-tale sound of a firework crackling and exploding, it bursts into a glittering, array of falling glowing rain. It’s the stereotypical firework one could find the image of when doing a Google search, but it’s something at least, and Aphrodite feels the color coming back into her knuckles and a small smile sneak its way onto her face. 

Without so much as a second thought, Aphrodite shakes the piece of wool open, lays it smoothly right at her feet, and plops down. She feels Hephaestus staring down at her awkwardly, so she pats the spot next to her. Because the main event of her birthday is unexpectedly happening, she’s so high on surprise elation that not even being within close proximity of her spouse can deter her new mood — at least not if she doesn’t think about the specificities of him and her…of them — and anyway, she would look so lame watching fireworks all by herself. Seeing that the other Olympians all but bolted when they got the chance, she has little choice for company. Sure, she could grab some random man from nearby who would happily be her victim, but for some reason she can’t explain, nor does she want to even attempt explaining, she’s uncharacteristically satiated with just the forge god’s presence. 

Hephaestus takes a long moment to settle into a comfortable position on the blanket, partially due to his leg being of no assistance in maneuvering to the ground, but he also looks mildly anxious to be so close to Aphrodite. So he twists and turns in place, and if his squirming wasn’t so damn amusing to the love goddess, she would have snapped at him to stay still or leave. He ends up sitting a safe distance (according to him) from her, not completely near the edge of the cloth but enough to put a noticeable gap between the two immortals. Enough to hint to any passerby’s eyes that they were not together romantically, and while this should make Aphrodite breathe a secret sigh of relief, she finds herself a smidge disappointed that he’s fine with his end of their millennia-old, unspoken agreement to keep their distance from one another. 

But soon her worries are long forgotten as she stares up at the sky which is now teeming with fireworks, and if she thought she’d seen the best fireworks before, this year’s show of them puts its past competitors to shame. Burning reds and turquoise blues and emeralds and magentas and violets and all different colors Aphrodite didn’t know even existed or were possible to see with fireworks explode against the white-speckled black canvas. She finds herself unable to stop from joining in the crowd’s collective sounds of admiration and excitement. Intricate patterns she never could have dreamed of render her speechless, and as much as she wants to pull out her phone to record a video and take videos of the event, she’s too paralyzed to move, almost as if her subconsciousness is protecting her from missing out on any second of action if she were to glance away for simply a moment. 

Only after the a pink firework’s explosion becomes smaller groups of light in the form of four hopping bunnies does Aphrodite sneak a peak at Hephaestus to see if he’s reacting the same way as her and everyone else. She realized that he’s been very quiet this whole time, giving “hmms” of appreciation here and there, but that’s about it. She tells herself that she doesn’t actually care about his feelings towards all this, that she’s just curious as to what a creator of magnificent metalworking thinks about such a well-planned display of genius.

And she’s about to ask out loud what his thoughts are, but she instead ends up studying his face, for once not thinking about it’s imperfections, and she sees that he’s staring intensely at the sky. Very intensely. Aphrodite notes his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and his posture rigid and impenetrable. And this is when she’s forced to bite down on her tongue to bite back an audible gasp as it dawns on her: He’s not scrutinizing and evaluating the beauty of the fireworks…

…he’s concentrating in order to make them spontaneously exist. 

His brilliantly creative brain is working a mile a minute to keep producing spectacular image after miraculous image that would burn the back of any person’s mind for the rest of their life. These fireworks will easily be the talk of the town for a week, and the credit is his. As the god of fire, it makes surprising sense that willing fireworks into reality is within his domain. It makes sense that doing this is really no sweat off his back. It makes sense that this could be enjoyable for him. 

But what doesn’t make sense is why he’s going to such lengths to produce such a joyful environment. He’s not a showy, boastful god in the least. Sure, he’s proud of his work in the forge, but he’s not demanding that people know he’s the one responsible for their current ooh’s and aww’s. 

Oh for crying out loud. She knows exactly the answer to her question. And her heart feels squeezed tightly with emotion and her eyes brim with tears of gratitude as she realizes that he’s doing this all for her. There had been no planned firework show prepared by the fair beyond the one that had been cancelled. But Hephaestus had seen her disappointment and taken it upon himself without hesitation to fix it. Something tells her he wouldn’t have told her he was behind the show after it was done, too. Though he’s sitting less than two yards away from her, here he is, silently taking care of her heart from afar, and this very thought forces a small whimper out of Aphrodite. 

The noise catches Hephaestus’ attention, and when he turns to face her, he sees her face scrunched up as if she’s back to holding back tears. 

“Are you okay?” he asks for the second time that night, and oh, there it is: that same look of tender, genuine concern sprawled unabashedly across his face, as if nothing in the world means more to him than her happiness and he’s not afraid to go to any lengths to ensure it. And just as Aphrodite thinks her heart can’t be more dramatic than it is now, pounding away furiously against her ribs as it attempts to keep up with her inner hyperventilation at how sweet he’s being, the same organ drops from her chest to her stomach as a question arises and demands to answered:

When was the last time Ares ever looked at you like that? 

Which quickly becomes,

When was the last time he ever did something this thoughtful for you?

Aphrodite struggles for a moment to find a conclusion that satisfies herself before she gives up, realizing that Ares never would have put effort into something so meaningful, at least not without a crowd to be his audience — which then in turn would take away from any genuineness. While the war god definitely would’ve tried to fix her frown — if he’d stuck around long enough to notice it, she thinks bitterly — Aphrodite knows he wouldn’t have done it gracefully. He would have marched up to the fairgrounds people and yelled in their face to start the show or else he’d string them up by their mutilated toes, or something violent like that. Prior to tonight, Aphrodite truly believed her ideal version of a man was one who was all muscle, all hardcore, and all destructive all the time in the name of masculinity, but now she’s not so sure. 

All because of the fact that one of the simplest gods has done what her self-proclaimed hero can’t.

If she’s truly being honest with herself, she knows that every other men she dated wouldn’t have taken it upon themselves to make her this happy, not without the promise of a reward, which would most likely be sex. 

“You did this all for me?” she squeaks out, still in disbelief at the reality that such consideration and dedication for her happiness can exist. She knows they both know what the answer is, but it doesn’t stop her from blinking up at the forge god with wide blue eyes in awe. 

Hephaestus awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, nods, and turns red with a blush. Funnily enough, the next set of fireworks reflects his state: small bursts of crimson that almost seem shy about doing their job of exploding into the sky. 

And suddenly the emotions bubbling within herself is all too much to handle, and Aphrodite’s will to not cry crumbles, leaving her with wet streaks racing down her cheeks and a nose that is quickly clogging up from tears. She grits her teeth together and bites her lip to keep her mouth from quivering but it’s no use. She’s a mess of overwhelming gratitude and happiness and shock (and maybe even love) and there’s nothing she can do about it but cry. 

Unfortunately, her husband takes her tears the wrong way. While Aphrodite can tell he’s immediately worried and confused at her change in demeanor, there’s an underlying sadness in his eyes that overshadows his whole self as he watches her break down. His shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh. 

The firework display ceases to almost nothing when he redirects his whole focus to her and whispers, “I’m…I’m sorry. I should go.” He makes a move to stand up, and this time it’s Aphrodite who grabs his shoulder. Though he’s one of the tallest and most muscular Olympians, she need not apply much force to sit him back down…probably has something to do with his surprise at being touched by the most beautiful being in existence. 

She examines him quizzically, as does he to her, neither of them moving for what might as well be a few minutes instead of simply a few seconds. The air is nearly silent and still around them, and it’s as if Kronos himself has entered this grassy acre of California and stopped time. 

“Go?” she finally echoes in one exhale, making her bewilderment obvious. “Why would you go? You just threw a whole firework show for me and I haven’t even gotten the chance to thank you for it.”

Hephaestus sticks an arm behind him to lean back on his hand and stare at her. “I just thought…I thought you were upset. I thought I ruined fireworks for you.”

Ruined fireworks for her? Aphrodite’s beyond the state of confusion now, her tears have dried up as her brain scrambles to decipher his confession. Hephaestus has never been a man of many words, choosing to express himself in fine creations instead, so if she asks him to elaborate, she knows she’ll just be putting too much pressure on him. 

Oh. Oh. 

It feels like small needles are stabbing her heart as it dawns on Aphrodite that he was going to leave her against his will because he assumed that was what she wanted. She hasn’t had a very good track record of letting him near her, much less when she was crying, so of course he thought it was best to leave her alone. He’d really tried his hardest to cure her initial sadness tonight, had succeeded, and then felt like he’d ruined her happiness all over again when she found out he was behind it all. The lump is back in her throat. 

“Hephaestus,” she says in her clearest voice. It wobbles anyways but she forges on. “I loved the fireworks. They are not ruined in the least. If anything, they’re even better coming from you.” She realizes with a start that she truly means what she says. Hepaestus really is a god who puts thought into his actions. She finds that she rather likes being at the forefront of his thoughts….of his care….of his love…? The idea of being loved by Hephaesus sends a thrilling chill down Aphrodite’s spine. Before, she would have upturned her nose at the very thought; now she wonders if being cared for so attentively by this god is something she could get used to. 

She looks down self-consciously — and it’s a hard feat for anyone to make Aphrodite act less than her loud, dramatic self — and shyly tacks on, “Thank you for making me the happiest goddess in existence today.” 

Slowly but surely a small smile spreads across Hephaestus’ deformed face, and Aphrodite wants to tell him that it’s a good look on him. Before she can say anything, though, he breathes out, “Oh, good. I’m glad they make you happy. That was always what they were intended for.”

His voice drops at that last part. Aphrodite wouldn’t have considered it significant or payed much attention to its implication, too caught up in watching him watch her with his eyes filled with nothing but adoration, if he hadn’t subtly winced as if he had messed up. As if he hadn’t meant to say that but it had slipped out. She thinks about what it could mean. 

That was always what they were intended for. 

Wait. 

Aphrodite’s mouth feels dry, and suddenly she’s incredibly aware of her pulse everywhere within her. She’s only had a handful of moments where reality has seemed to shift so drastically in her favor, so when it happened as it did now, she was actually, physically aware of it. She sucks in a breath to compensate for the feeling of being punched in the gut. She has to ask. 

“Are you responsible for the fireworks here each year?” 

She’s really not sure if she’s ready to hear the answer on the basis that she doesn’t know what she wants the answer to be. She’d be elated if he said yes. She loves being the reason for beautiful things’ existence, for she is beauty itself, and nothing pleases her more than to have spectacular items made in her name. However, she prays he’ll say no, for as crushing to her ego as that would be, a yes would mean he was purposely thinking of her. Every year. On her birthday. It meant that he had been caring about her for much longer than just tonight, and that feeling of her heart leaping out of chest comes rushing back. 

Why was the idea of Hephaestus loving her so appealing but the reality of it so damn terrifying? 

His answer comes as a surprise, though she supposes that at the rate of how this night is going, she should start expecting everything out his mouth to shock her. 

“Kinda,” he says softly in that low, deep voice of his that always made him sound like he was deep in thought. He probably was. 

Another shiver down her spine. 

“I had the general idea for fireworks around second century BC but then never really acted upon it. Then one day in the middle of the 1800’s, we were all checking out the first big fair in the States here in California. I remember you said something a year or so prior about how tired you were of people frantically digging in the ground for beauty, for they were all just shouting and shoving and having no respect for one another — it was the gold rush year, I believe — and how you wished there was something just as big and bright and beautiful in the sky that would make people just stop acting like animals and look up and appreciate being in the moment. I guess I saw a sparkle in your eye when you said that and was inspired to create the world’s first firework show that night… You seemed to like it a lot, so the next year when we all came back, I made fireworks mortal-friendly, showed one of my demigod kids here how to work them, and told my kids in future years to keep it up annually…”

Aphrodite can’t breathe.

He made them for her. 

He made them for her! 

She wants to cry out with sheer emotion but can’t find the air to do so, only able to stutter out a thankful, “Oh-!” before she submits complete control of her body to raw instinct. Her lower limbs, which have a mind of their own, have tossed out all common sense and cause her to throw one leg over his waist so she’s straddling his lap, her arms following suit so they are wrapped around his neck, locking her to him. She hears a sharp intake of breath and it doesn’t register to her for a second that it’s her who made the noise when it rightfully should have been him — he’s too shocked by her action to even blink — but how can she not gasp when she makes the wonderful discovery that their bodies fit so right together? How can she give a damn about their past history as she feels her soft breasts rub deliciously against his hard chest, as his arm that isn’t supporting both their weight finally comes to its senses and wraps around her small waist possessively? 

She doesn’t give a damn about the people around them as she presses her mouth against his in a heated kiss that’s been calling her name all night. She thinks it’s too dark out for anyone to see them anyways, but even the knowledge that Ares could be watching them can’t stop her from finally fulfilling the need to show love to the man who has proven love to her tonight. It had felt nice to take a small break from being love to being loved, but now it’s time for her to get back to her job. Kissing Hephaestus doesn’t feel like a job, though. It feels right. It feels like coming home. Her head starts swimming from the heat emitted between their bodies, and she can’t stop a small moan from escaping her throat when he kisses her back softly, full of want and passion. 

Her fingers are tangled in his brown hair, her hips slowly rocking subconsciously back and forth into his when she hears it. Explosion of fireworks after explosion go off in succession, not one millisecond between them, lighting up the sky. Aphrodite doesn’t need to open her eyes from her continued kiss to see the colors going crazy above; she sees enough sparks behind her closed eyelids, feels them light her body on fire, and then she’s pulling her face away for a second to catch her breath because for once in her life, a man has made her melt right into him, breathless and delightfully empty-minded, from just one kiss. 

“Oh, Heph,” she says again, this time with a groan as he buries his face in her neck, the hair from his beard tickling her exposed skin. Her hips scream and jerk with want as one of his large hands fondles her waist and the other plays with the ends of her free-flowing hair. 

“Aphrodite,” he growls huskily back in response, driving her wild as he drives his lips onto her neck, giving her an unapologetic hickey or two, and bucks his own hips up. She can feel his desire for her though the jean material of his clothing, and my, does he seem large. She’s clinging to him for dear life as the boom of fireworks incessantly go off, and somewhere in the back of her euphoria-induced mind she’s smug that she’s responsible for a firework finale like no other.  

“Aphrodite! Hephaestus! Where are you?” someone calls for them over the racket of the noise, and the two gods jump apart instantly on instinct, scrambling to put distance between them as if they’re two lovers caught cheating with one another instead of a couple that’s been married for centuries. Aphrodite smooths out her skirt, blushing as she feels a puddle of dampness pooled between her thighs, and looks up. 

Hera, queen of the gods herself, stares down at them, eyes bugged out and mouth dropped open when she sees who Aphrodite had been heavily making out with. If the whole situation hadn’t felt so incredible to Aphrodite, she would have found the strength and decency to be somewhat ashamed of practically humping her husband in public, but she just shoots her mother-in-law something between a smirk and a bashful smile. 

“Sorry,” she apologizes on both their behalves so they won’t get a lecture. 

“I’m not,” Hephaestus murmurs and leans over to peck her cheek, as if to purposely defy his mother and get the last word. He never had never fully forgiven her for what she’d done to him upon his birth. 

Aphrodite giggles and cuddles into her husband’s side. Hera just shakes her head in disbelief. 

“Everyone’s been waiting for you back on Olympus,” she sighs. “We have cake and presents for Aphrodite, so it’d help a lot if you were there for that.” She looks the pair over again with dismay, the image of their previous activity undoubtedly burned in the back of her mind. As much as she wanted Aphrodite to be a faithful wife to her son, she had not ever wanted to stumble upon the two doing that. “After that, you two can get a room and bang to your hearts’ content, but right now, just come home!”

She walks away, murmuring “excuse me”s to the people of which she gets in the way as they try to catch the end of the show. The fireworks have died down immensely since Aphrodite slid off the most comfortable seat in the house, but she watches Hephaestus flick his wrist to allow for a few last bursts of his creativity, thereby satiating the viewers. He’s smiling fully now, unable to suppress it any longer, and if anyone was to ask Aphrodite in this moment if she thought he was ugly she would immediately say no. 

They make eye contact out of the corners of their eyes and burst out laughing. Whether it be at Hera catching them in the act of making out, or the make out session itself, or the hilarity of the reality that they were getting along like an actual married couple, or whatever else, it feels wonderful to Aphrodite to be at such ease around him. 

As their laughter dies down and people shuffle around them walking to their cars to leave, Aphrodite reaches out to take her husband’s hand in hers. It’s absolutely enormous compared to her own small one, but between the two of them she holds the power and they both know it. 

“Ready to go?” she asks with a ghost of a smile still on her lips. Neither are sure if they’ll continue acting friendly towards one another back home, so maybe that’s why Hephaestus does what he does. 

Leaning forward he murmurs, “of course, but first”, cups her face with his free hand, and pulls her into a long but gentle kiss. She smiles into it and deepens it before he finally pulls away. The happy, tingly feeling running through her veins is back, especially when he pulls her close and she feels them begin to teleport home. 

She hears a mix of the fading voices of people from the fairgrounds laughing and the crescendo of her family members bantering. Her favorite sound is right in her ear, and it has the sweetest message of all.  

“Happy birthday, Aphrodite.”