Work Text:
The rain didn’t start out so bad. You were still working in the field as it started to drizzle, and headed to the coop when it started to rain a little harder—you figured that you could get a little more work done while you wait it out. Only, as soon as you opened the gate, one of your hens had darted out, heedless of the quickly worsening storm. You ran after her, but as the sky opened up above you, she just kept going—and by the time you finally caught up to her, you were slipping in the mud, drenched to the bone, and shivering. Now you’re way closer to Marnie’s than you are to your own house, so you scoop your hen up into your arms and make a run for it.
---
It’s a lazy ass Saturday. Jas is over at Sam’s house having a playdate with Vincent, and Marnie is... somewhere—probably with Lewis, though Shane doesn’t want to think about that—so he’s got the ranch all to himself. He woke up late, checked on the chickens, and then got down to the very important business of playing old video games until he’s forced to leave his room and microwave a pizza or something.
At least, that was his plan.
Who the hell is knocking at the door in this weather? Marnie’s got a key, obviously; though... he has the panicked thought that maybe something’s happened with Jas, and that spurs him off his ass pretty quick.
He’s worked himself into half a panic attack by the time he yanks open the door but... it’s just you. It’s you, and you’re drenched, covered in mud, and shivering... with a chicken in your arms. He blinks.
“Hey,” he says lamely. Jeez, it’s really pouring out there.
“H-hey,” you say, and shit, your teeth are chattering.
He ushers you inside. “What the hell are you doing out in this weather?”
You lift up the chicken in your arms, dripping water all over the entryway floor. “She decided this was a perfect time to run away from home. Had to chase her down. Storm got worse.”
He rubs at the back of his neck. You look miserable . “Well, get in here. I’ll take her to the coop for now.”
“Th-thank you,” you tell him, your shivering very apparent.
“I’ll be right back.” He takes the hen gently from your arms—she’s soaked, too—and heads out to the coop. Thankfully, it’s attached to the house, so he doesn’t need to go out in the rain. “Play nice,” he tells his blue chickens, and then goes back inside.
When he gets back to you, your hands are wrapped around your middle, and you’re still dripping water everywhere. “Hold on,” he says, and you nod. He needs to get you out of those wet clothes.
Hang on, that came out wrong . He just... needs to get you dry. And warm. So you stop shivering. Because you’re his friend and he cares about you. Not to mention the fact that you’ve helped him in ways that are ten times more important. He goes to his room and starts rifling through his drawers. He’s gotta have something in here that’s clean and smells okay. Something old that’s too small for him. Like the shirt and sweatshirt at the back of his closet that he stopped being able to wear who knows how many beers ago. He sniffs them and decides they’ll do.
“Uh, here,” he says as he returns to you, holding out his clothes to you. “They’ll be big on ya, but they’re dry.” Then he looks you up and down and realizes how much mud is on you. “You can use my shower if you want.”
He watches you sigh in relief, and you look at him with those fucking pretty doe eyes of yours and grin, and he thinks that he’d probably do just about anything for that smile as you thank him, accept his clothes, and head for the bathroom.
Selfishly, he’s really glad that he’s the only one home right now, as much as it also makes him a little nervous. Which is stupid; he’s been friends with you for over a year now, and you’ve literally helped him start to crawl out of a black-hole-level pit of self hatred, it’s just that... he’s realized recently that he’s—as he’s heard Sam say multiple times now— down bad . Which makes him feel some things about the fact that you’re about to be alone in the house with him, wearing his clothes. He just sorta wishes that he could be the one to help you warm up, and not the hot water.
Granted, the thought of you in the shower...
You like tea, right? Marnie’s got tea. Maybe he should go start some tea.
He gets out the kettle, but realizes he doesn’t know what kind of tea you’d want—or maybe you want hot chocolate, he’s got some of that too, since Jas loves the stuff—so he stops and paces a little instead. He feels like a goddamn teenager again, telling himself to be cool. It’s just... been a while. And he’s not sure he’s ever had feelings like these before.
Pretty soon, he hears the water stop, so he forces himself to go sit down, and at least pretend like he wasn’t just pacing the kitchen worrying about how hard you’re going to judge him for using Joja brand 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash.
You head into the kitchen and—oh Yoba , he thought he could handle the fact that you’d be wearing his clothes but he can’t . He feels like he’s going to combust. Your skin’s all dewey and red from the heat of the shower, and his shirt’s way too big on you, and you have the drawstrings of the sweatpants he loaned you tied as tight as they’ll go but you still sort of have to hold up the waistband and for the life of him he just wishes you’d let them fall.
Shit, he’s been staring.
“Uh,” he says intelligently, “you want some tea? Or hot chocolate?”
You laugh, and it crinkles your nose. He’s such a fucking goner.
“What kinda tea you got?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t know. It’s Marnie’s.” He goes to the cabinets to look, if only so that he can gather his thoughts and not have to be looking at you in his clothes. Not that he ever wants to stop looking at you in his clothes. “There’s earl gray, green, and chamomile,” he says, pulling them out one by one to read the labels. He honestly didn’t know there was more than one kind of tea.
“Ooh,” you say, and he almost startles at how close your voice is; he hadn’t realized you had come to look with him, hovering over his shoulder. He can feel your breath on his neck and it sends chills up his spine. “Chamomile sounds good.”
“A’right,” he says, pulling out the box and handing it to you while he turns to grab the kettle.
You lean against the counter and watch him fill it up at the sink, your hand still at your waistband. “Seriously, Shane, you’re a lifesaver. I was really afraid she was gonna drown out there.”
He turns over his shoulder as he lights the stove, one brow cocked and a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Wait, you know chickens don’t actually drown in the rain, right? That’s just an old wives’ tale.”
He delights in the way you go bright red. “...Oh,” you say, suddenly looking at the floor. “Well. Learn something new everyday.”
A little huff of laughter escapes him. “She would’ve been fine if you hadn’t chased her down. Still weird that she didn’t try to seek shelter, though.”
You shrug. “Maybe she’s just brave.”
He hums. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”
You look up at him quickly, and internally, he panics. Why did he say that? But a sly smile steals its way across your face, and he relaxes a little.
“And who might that be?” you ask, and now he’s panicking again because, shit, you really want him to actually say it?
He racks his brain for any jokey little quip that’ll get him out of telling you how brave you are to your damn face, but he’s coming up empty. So he just shrugs. “Only one of us is out here taking a sword into the mines all the damn time.”
You look pretty self-satisfied at that, which only makes him want to say more nice stuff about you. Ugh, gross . When did he turn into such a mushy sap?
“Well, for the record, I think you’re pretty brave, too,” you tell him, and wow, his heart might just beat out of his damn chest at the way you’re looking at him right now.
Still, he scoffs. “Yeah, right.”
You frown, tilting your head. “I mean it,” you say.
He knows you meant it. You mean everything you say. He just doesn’t agree. But... he also doesn’t want to make you all concerned like that. Still, he doesn’t think he can avoid saying something self-deprecating—
The kettle whistles, and it startles you both. He watches you jump, and he grins a little. “So much for brave.”
You pout, and like everything else you do, it’s adorable. “I can brave the mines just fine. I just can’t brave loud, sudden noises.”
And Shane laughs.
He never really realized how little he’s laughed in the past few years until you came along. You just bring down his walls so effortlessly, remind him what it’s like to be happy—even if it’s only for a little bit. And the way you’re looking at him right now makes him think that you know. You know how much better you’ve made his life. You know how unfamiliar laughter still is to him, and you know how he can’t help but laugh anyway when he’s with you.
You look like you want nothing more than to refamiliarize him with the concept.
He wants that. He wants that badly .
Of course, he could never say any of that out loud. So instead, he turns and pours the boiling water into two mugs, and you come up beside him to drop a tea bag into each. And with smiles on your faces, you let it steep.
The rain shows no signs of stopping, so once you each have a mug in hand—as it turns out, he does not like chamomile tea very much—he says, “hey, wanna play Mario Kart?”
You light up. “Hell yeah, I do. Which version?”
“GameCube.”
“Fuck yeah, double dash? I’m gonna kick your ass!”
He raises his eyebrows, not expecting quite that level of excitement from you, and laughs again, leading you to his room and putting in the right disk. Outside, the storm rages on, but inside, you lean your body against his, trying to throw off his game as your kart trails just barely behind his.