Work Text:
They’re just about to watch an orca beach itself on a shoreline in an attempt to get a seal when Luka’s phone rings. It wakes her up, honestly, because the alarm is something of a mixture between a siren and some weird vocals that’s on the precipice of burning her eardrum, even though it’s on the other side of the Libertwo. Groaning as she lifts her head off his chest to let him get up and go get it, she treats herself to a quick back stretch; yawning to herself, pawing for the remote control, calling out for him.
“What’s going on, Luka?”
“Oh, Kitty, I’m sorry. Did that wake you up?” he asks, when he’s back, tossing his phone onto the coffee table and climbing back onto the couch. She makes room for him, scooting her kneecap over so he can throw a massive leg onto her couch cushion.
“Yeah.”
“Falling asleep?” he asks, smile showing up in the flickering TV light.
“A little bit,” she replies, honestly. A rub of her eye makes something shapeless show up behind her lid. “You put an alarm? Why?”
“For your birthday.” It’s all he gives her as an indication. He’s trying to figure out what button to press to get the TV to keep playing the documentary. He can’t see it. Obviously. Unlike her, alphas can’t see in the dark as well, so he’s pawing for it in a way that’s almost endearing. The show is about fish, primarily about whales; in this episode, they’re following predators around, trying to enjoy learning about why it’s called a killer whale in English. It’s fun. The narrator’s voice is methodical and smooth, low enough to get her to purr in content. It’s possible that Luka hasn’t actually been listening to the show, since when she purrs, she’s loud enough to be obnoxious, but they preemptively put the subtitles there for a reason.
“What?”
“Your birthday is in three minutes.”
Well, she knew that, actually. Knew that really well. She was kind of born with the knowledge. Has been stimming at the idea of the following day, because she likes presents and cake and silly string and colorful, rainbow banners.
But it doesn’t exactly make sense why he would put an alarm on his phone for something that she already knew— just as she’s about to open her mouth and question him about it, he’s easing his massive arms around her waist. She’s stolen one of pajama shirts, just like always, with the neckline just a smidge too wide for it to sit correctly. A peek at her thighs would give away to her underwear. Crew-cut sucks, obviously, because she shivers too much to be barefooted in such a drafty houseboat.
His thumb drags loving, gentle circles on her waist, just above her underwear.
“Why do you have an alarm for my birthday?”
“It’s a yearly thing.” When she makes no indication of understanding, he pinks. “I have an alarm that goes off three minutes before midnight, so I can say Happy Birthday to you on time.”
“Why?”
“Why do I say Happy Birthday to you?”
“You know what I’m asking.”
“Because I don’t want to miss it.” He gives a little shrug. “A few years ago I was touring and the time zones were all fucked up and I didn’t want you to wait for me to call.” She remembers that. It was the first world tour; the Stony Kitten concerts had been such a massive hit for both his band and for Jean, too. Juleka had stayed behind, on the cusp of finishing college, and Anarka never needed a reason to stay home. Marinette had come over often just to hang out and steal as many duck sauce packets as she could from Anarka’s kitchen drawer, because what kind of friend-of-the-family would she be if she didn’t inconvenience them a little? “And I always want to be the first one to say it.”
“You always are.”
Oh, he’s smug. “Good.”
“I just… can’t believe you have an actual ringtone.”
“Wakes me up, too. Just in case I fell asleep, though that’s kind of rare.”
“So you’ve had this since… half a decade ago? More?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
She sags a little, hands on his chest. Their position is a little bit suggestive, but there’s no heat to it: she’s sitting on him, big thighs over proportionately slim hips; if she wanted to, she could squirm in his lap and get him to harden up. They’ve done it before. Multiple times. Just lower his pajama pants down enough to take him out and she wouldn’t even have to remove her panties, because he’s got this quirk about him where he’s deliriously aroused at the idea of doing it with their clothes on. It’s a secret pleasure. Even her hands, splayed on his chest as it rises and falls, doesn’t grab and sink her claws into his skin like she would if they were getting frisky. Instead, she just stares at him in the dark, taking him in as he raises a brow and looks her over with amusement lifting the corners of his kissable lips, blue eyes glazing over as his pupils open up to take in more light.
She kisses him before she can shy away.
Just light, peppering kisses. Chaste. Smoochies. Enough to get a noise out of him, something of a mix of her name and a question and something indescribable that she’s under the impression is an attempt at a purr. He can’t do it like her. Not because she’s an omega, but because he’s just bad at it. It’s cute, though.
Her fingers touch the stubble on his jawline, her mouth slants against his, and the kiss is so nauseatingly sweet that even as a baker’s daughter she feels a little nauseous with it. There’s no heat. Barely an ember. She kisses him as a thank you, as an oh my god, as in seriously? you do that for me? which has her purring louder.
“If I think about it too hard, I’ll cry. So I’m not going to think about it.”
“Think about what?”
“Nothing,” she tells him, knowing that teasing smile.
“Think about how much I love you?”
“Stop it.”
“Think about how I make sure to tell you Happy Birthday right on time, as usual, because I want to be the first one always?”
“I live with you. At this point, it’s practically unfair.”
“I wanna say it forever. Especially in person. You get this shiny thing in your eye that I absolutely adore with a passion. You have trouble showing excitement on your face unless you’re putting on an act—”
“—Wow, thanks for that—”
“—It’s so subtle,” he continues, because he can. “When you get actually happy, you do it with your eyes. I don’t know how to explain it. You get so happy whenever I tell you in person. It’s my favorite thing.”
“Please don’t make me cry on my birthday.” Maybe if she bonks her forehead against his, he’ll shut up? She doesn’t actually want him to stop, but it’s an impulse she can’t quite curb, because any type of affection has her wanting to bite her tongue until she bleeds, just in an attempt to atone for receiving something she’s not sure she’s allowed to have.
He says nothing when their bangs flatten.
“I love you.”
“God, Luka. You’re such a sap,” she chokes out. “I can’t believe this. You’ve got me tearing up. I love you so much.”
What she wouldn’t give to stay right here! Right here, looking at him in the TV light! It’s like moonlight because they’re currently stuck to a panned shot of the arctic, so it’s just bright and white and one black smudge that looks like an orca but it’s caught midframe. In a few minutes, her phone will buzz from cousins and friends who are awake that will send her well wishes who realize that it’s way past midnight, and this time she won’t have to expect a phone call from him like always. Instead, he’s right here in front of her, melting into her kiss like an absolute loser, laughing low when they part and she’s purring hard enough to slip off the couch entirely.
She’s so happy.
“Happy Birthday, Kitty.”