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A pause passed over the room for the first time in hours as the end credits crescendoed and faded into the background. The Daggers extended invitation to dinner at Mav’s house while they were all still in town, before their holiday leaves kicked in, had somehow turned into drinks which turned into a sleepover which turned into marathoning The Lord Of The Rings.
Some of the aviators had turned it into a game, Fanboy of course pioneering the list of prompts from the films to chase with alcohol. And through the first film, everyone had stayed going strong. It was halfway through the second where some of the drunken sailors began to flag.
Hours had gone by and two more films later, they were well into the wee hours of the morning. And as Mav surveyed the room, he observed that most of the kids were well into dreamland.
In the dim glow of the screen, he scanned them each one by one.
They’d formed a discombobulated sort of pile at some point, between the couch and the floor, while Mav himself curled into the corner of the loveseat. In the leftmost corner sat Phoenix, head tilted over onto Bradley’s shoulder, drooling onto his shirt. Bradley had his left arm threaded over her shoulder while his right pulled Coyote close on his other side.
Coyote sat beside Bradley with their heads leaning on one another, Hangman practically curled into his lap and nested on his chest. Across all of their laps laid a stretched out Bob, whose head was buried in Phoenix’s stomach, her hands playing softly in his hair.
Further down the couch from them, Harvard and Yale were spooned together along the length of the cushions, their feet entangled with Bob’s. And in front of the couch, Fanboy and Payback leaned against one another, back between their fellow aviators’ legs. Omaha, Halo, and Fritz were similarly sprawled in a nest of throw pillows and spilled popcorn.
Mav sighed softly, something endearing flooding his heart. He gave a soft grunt of old age as he stood, mourning the joints of a younger man, hissing and stretching his back. But once gravity and old bones allowed it, he scooped a couple throw blankets from the back of the couch into his hands and, one by one, tucked his aviators into bed.
First was the pile on the floor, a huge throw big enough to fit a queen bed that Ice had messily spent his two years in cancer treatment creating.
He’d learned how to knit to keep his anxious hands busy, and instead of creating multiple small projects to learn, instead he poured his all into one giant blanket. He’d called the pattern a ‘temperature blanket’ when Mav had asked, the colors a seemingly blocky gradient of blues, greens, yellows, oranges, and reds. Mav tossed the large yarn creation over all five aviators sprawled across the hardwood, chuckling to himself at their ongoing snores.
Next, he draped a cheap sherpa lined throw that he’d won in a white elephant a few years back over Harvard and Yale. It was cozy enough, a neutral sage colored plaid on top with the creamy sherpa on bottom. Harvard, the little spoon, curled his hands into the edge of the fabric and pulled it tighter. Mav smiled.
Lastly were his most chaotic children. For them, he held a soft chenille blanket that had been a house warming gift from Ice’s sister when they bought the house.
This one, he placed carefully so as to keep from covering Bob’s face, not that the WSO seemed to care as pressed into Phoenix’s stomach as he was. Regardless, Mav unraveled the folded fabric with love and care to cover each each of bare skin as best as he could.
He watched Hangman snuggle further into the warmth of his best friend and the soft touch of the blanket.
“Thanks, Pops,” the roused pilot murmured with a gentle smile before drifting back into dreamland.
Mav chuckled quietly to himself once again before turning the TV off, collecting half-empty glasses of spiked eggnog, snack bowls that were mostly emptied, and any other mess he could find. When he ran out of things to tidy, he leaned in the doorway of the living room and watched his group of aviators sleep, safe and sound under his roof. And he smiled, blinking away the sting of tears as he realized he’d cultivated that for them. A comfortable, kind sort of relationship that allowed them all the space to breathe. It was the sort of thing he’d yearned for for years and only ever found in peer circles and romance. Even then, it was rare.
Mav shook his head, dismissing the emotional musings for another time. Instead, he turned out of the room and headed off to bed. Knowing he’d have a whole gaggle of hungover aviators to cook for come morning had him smiling as he fell into his own comfortable slumber.