Archive of Our Own

Inspired by this picture: 

“You know,” Dean said after a moment, “that’s going to become family legend.”

Moth frowned.

“What is?”

“The blanket thing.”

“It was funny.”

“It was insane.”

“It solved the problem.”

Dean smiled.

“Our daughter is going to hear that story for the rest of her life.”

“She better appreciate my genius.”

“She’ll probably inherit it.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Dean had laughed again.

Before any of that—before the baby, before the blanket over Moth’s head in a café, before Dean could say “my partner" with that smug, unbearable expression on his face—there had been years of them being a complete disaster.

Dean and Moth had never started cleanly. There had been no sweet beginning. No obvious love story.

At twenty-four and twenty-six, they had been the kind of people other people warned each other about.

Dean was beautiful in the obvious way.

Too charming. Too easy with his hands and his smile and his attention. He had spent most of his twenties moving from one person to another, never cruel exactly, but never staying long enough for anyone to mistake him for dependable. People constantly fell in love with Dean.

And that beauty was once actually the obvious menace for this society as we knew it. Because Dean had never stayed long enough for anyone. He was infamous for going around deciding whether he was done with the people in his life, and those relationships usually didn’t last more than 3 months. 

Yet somehow, puzzingly so, he found himself attracted to Moth, everything that had been his opposite. Moth was older than Dean. That alone usually had been something he checked off his list. Moth, despite being insanely handsome and physically attractive, was so far out of everything Dean had liked in a person: doting, adoring him, seeing him like some kind of god to be worshipped – and they had been the lucky ones for even having the little time or attention that Dean would be interested in sparing. 

In other words, Moth was insanely difficult to come by. He was quiet, mean when cornered, and impossible to get close to. He had this habit of disappearing the second anyone wanted too much from him. If someone texted too often, he would stop replying. If someone got attached, he would disappear. If someone started sounding like they needed him, he would block them before they could say it out loud.

Dean used to say Moth approached intimacy like a feral cat approached being trapped.

Moth used to tell Dean to fuck off.

They met in a bar because Dean had been challenged to approach Moth first, because Dean wasn’t aware that it had been a tactic too, just so Moth’s best friend would be with this person who had challenged Dean. 

“Can I flirt with you?” Dean’s pick-up line had become a permanent mockery for Moth. 

“Only if you dare.” Moth’s nonchalant reaction would cement itself on the back of Dean’s head, and Moth would often say something that meant entirely different. 

At first, they couldn’t stand each other beyond the bed frames. Dean thought Moth was too cold and rude. Moth thought Dean was too easy and whor-ish (if it was even a word). 

The only time when Dean and Moth had agreed on something would be in bed, naked, the only time Moth was undone by everything Dean had given him — in the only exact ways that Moth would approve. 

“Do you flirt with everyone?” Moth had asked once, cigarette hanging from his lips. Not even fifteen minutes before, Dean had finished the third condom of the night, followed by him wiping the abundant traces of cum atop Moth’s happy trail. 

Dean remembered himself grinning, “Only the hot ones.”

Moth had rolled his eyes then, puffing the smoke towards the terrace of Dean’s apartment, “You sound exhausting.” 

“You sound obsessed with me,” Moth remembered Dean smiling, trying to set aside all his cushions and curtains to not sustain the remnants of the smoke. Because surprisingly, despite all his labels, Dean didn’t – had never smoked. He didn’t even look remotely interested. 

Moth had lived with it, didn’t mind it even. He just asked Dean not to butt into his life, who still wished to smoke. One more time, as he tried to hide the widest smile and warmth from appearing, Moth had remarked, “I’d rather die than obsess with you.” 

And then, the fake—boyfriend proposition. Dean had stared at him for a full ten seconds.

“Sorry,” Dean said finally. “I think I blacked out. Did you just ask me to be your fake boyfriend?”

Moth looked furious already.

“My best friend won’t leave me alone.”

“The one who keeps trying to confess to you?”

“Yes.”

“And your solution was me?”

“Well, you’re always available,” Moth had smirked. But, before Dean had been quick to retort, he had continued, “Besides, I think my best friend said that I can have the power to make anyone – and he did say anyone — love me. So, in my head, you’re a good choice, because there’s no way I would like you for real, nor you like me for real.” 

Dean had laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Are you going to do it or not?”

Dean looked at him for a long moment.

Then he smiled.

“Fine.”

That should have been temporary. Dean had convinced himself so, believing that there would be no way that he would be swayed by someone as incompatible as Moth would. Even if he were to finally decide to settle down, Moth would be nowhere near his top ten list.

Instead, Dean found himself choking on his own words each day. Because suddenly Dean was expected to touch Moth in public.

To be precise, the expectations were normal: holding Moth’s hand, sitting close, looking convincing, social media updates as a couple, and giving gifts. Those, Dean could handle. 

What Dean could not handle was how Moth did not expect any of those from Dean. Beyond what was “necessary” to “look convincing,” Moth would ignore Dean, and did not even ask anything. Dean would tell Moth the days he would party, where many other people would be present, notorious for flirting or being blatantly sexual towards him. Usually, Dean’s past “attachment” would react with large insecurity or anger flooding in.

Then, there was Moth, who would only reply simply,

“Oh, sure, have fun!”

“That DJ is nice, I heard.”

“Don’t forget to secure your essentials. I heard that place had its pickpockets now.”

Dean was used to people who would demand a lot of him at some point in their bond. Usually, that would be his alarm to leave and to find a new one. 

And yet, with Moth, who was so secure to live in his own space, Dean realized one thing: 

Suddenly, Moth’s insistent that Dean would never like him “that way” sound…. Impossible. 

Then, there was Moth, who was notorious for keeping everything in his own space, his own life. Even the very idea of dating Dean was surprising to him, but it must be done, in order not to ruin a very great friendship he had never had a problem with. 

Moth hated being touched. He wasn’t a virgin per se. He just didn’t like it when people trespassed on his boundaries — something which he had held widely.

Moth convinced himself that he would eventually grow tired of Dean’s touch. He had imagined someone who had slept around like that would be rude and selfish in bed.

Moth had never expected Dean to service him exactly in ways he would approve. Dean would put Moth’s needs first. One night, Moth was initially eager for sex — but found himself losing interest midway. He had told Dean about it gently, ready for a rejection or anger. He had prepared himself to reprimand Dean for it, too. What he did not expect was Dean backing off casually, smiling gently, despite his giant erection, “Yeah, sure. Another time.” 

Or there would be days when Dean said that he needed sex or some company, and Moth was simply not in the mood. Moth would say it aloud, preparing Dean to react big, calling him names for being selfish. He had never overseen how Dean would always reply casually, 

“Oh, sure, I hope you get a good rest!”

“Yeah, sleep is important! Thank you for telling me that, though.”

“No worries. I would be okay. Another time then, Moth.”

Moth had convinced himself that one day – one day — there would be a reason for him to let Dean go. For example, it could be that his STI test came back bad, so Moth could finally call it off.

But those instances never come. 

Each day, Moth found himself being pulled even stronger towards the current of Dean’s gentle presence.

And staggeringly, Moth found his own stance that he would never fall for someone like Dean to… swallow his whole pride. 

So, of course, they ruined it, not because something went wrong… Oh no…. They “ruined” it because suddenly, everything feels like they had fallen where they exactly needed to be.

Moth had panicked when it became real. Dean had panicked when Moth pulled away.

They spent nearly a year trapped in that horrible space between wanting and refusing to admit they wanted.

Dean stopped sleeping with other people first. Moth noticed immediately

“You don’t have to do that,” Moth had said one morning before the office. Dean was still sprawled in his bed, naked, smiling lazily — and looked insanely charming in Moth’s eyes. 

Dean had looked up from where he was lying, “I know.”

“Then why are you?” Moth had to try really hard not to have Dean hear the insane beating of his heart.

Dean had shrugged, “Because I don’t want to.”

Moth had gone completely silent. That had terrified him more than anything. Because people had wanted Moth before. But Dean was the first person who stayed.

The first person who learned all the ugly parts and stayed anyway. The first person who looked at him like having him around hit his quirks, and insane need for personal space, was not a burden.

And if only Moth knew that Dean had been terrified, too. Because for the first time in his life, he had wanted to stay for more than three months with a person who looked nothing like his type. 

If only Moth knew how much Dean faced each morning terrified, not because Moth would be there — he was terrified if Moth would not instead. He was constantly terrified that one morning, Moth would nonchalantly murmur, “Let’s be done with this, Dean.”  Dean often could not stomach a morning because he just realized that maybe, he was the only one wanting this.

Because the truth was, Dean — they — knew that they were, after all, had only been friends with benefits.  That had happened by accident, too. Or maybe not by accident.

Maybe it had happened because Dean had spent too long looking at Moth’s mouth.

Maybe it had happened because Moth secretly liked that Dean never expected softness from him.

Maybe it had happened because they were lonely.

It was messy. Very messy.

So one day, when someone was openly flirting with a sleepy Moth, in one of the music evenings they attend, ready to brace himself towards Moth, Dean had reacted angrily, dragging Moth for the first time. 

That had shocked both of them, especially when Dean was obviously holding on to an indescribable amount of anger. His whole face was flushed, as he murmured, in an extremely restrained tone, “He was into you.”

Moth stared at him weirdly, “So? How is that my fault?”

“You’re enjoying that.”

Moth raised his eyebrow — although some part of him had oddly begun to enjoy this sense of possessiveness. Yet, he found his mouth moved quicker, “Again, so? Isn’t it good to feel liked? You of all people should know it better.”

Dean’s face only grew redder, “I don’t like it.”

“Well, it’s not my fault, Dean. You should be asking him, not me.” 

Dean found himself huffing, feet stomping, “I don’t like anyone near someone I love.”

And Moth clearly widened his eyes. He had braced himself for this to come. And yet, the instinct was quicker before he found himself saying, “Well, I told you not to love me, didn’t I?”

He surely didn’t expect Dean to breathe really harshly, clenching his fist so hard, “If you don’t want me to love you, then stop being so damn lovable.” 

Moth swore that he almost went into cardiac arrest because of how rapid his heart was beating now. Yet, as he had always been, Moth found himself walking away, ignoring Dean, who was shouting and calling him from afar.

He still regretted that even much later.

They didn’t talk at all for the next three months. For three months, they became experts at absence.

Dean deleted Moth’s chat thread at least six times.

Then he would panic five minutes later, go into his archived messages, restore it, and stare at the last thing Moth had sent:

"Take care getting home."

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that sounded like the end of the world. And somehow that made it worse.

Because Dean had always thought heartbreak would look louder than this.

He thought it would be screaming matches, blocked numbers, someone crying outside his apartment door, throwing glasses, demanding explanations.

Instead, heartbreak looked like reaching for his phone at 2 A.M. after seeing something stupid online that Moth would have laughed at.

It looked like leaving a club at three in the morning, drunk and annoyed and touched out from too many people trying to get close to him, only to realize there was nobody to text:

Come pick me up?

Not because Dean needed a ride — but because Moth always came.

Always with that permanently unimpressed face, messy hair, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, muttering things like, “You’re past twenty-five. Why do you still act like a frat boy?”

And Dean would laugh, leaning too close, feeling strangely safe.

Now, Dean would stand outside alone, chugging into another drink, staring at Moth’s contact.

Moth.One press.

That was all it would take.

One press, and maybe Moth would answer in that sleepy, rough voice Dean had memorized too well.

But then Dean would remember the look on Moth’s face that night.

‘Well, I told you not to love me, didn’t I?’

And Dean’s pride would rear its head like something violent and wounded.

Fine, then.

If Moth did not want him, Dean could survive that. He had survived worse.

So he would shove the phone back into his pocket, go home alone, and hate himself for checking his notifications every five minutes anyway.

The worst part was that people noticed.

Dean started going out less. He stopped flirting, stopped bringing people home.

At first, his friends thought he was just tired. Then they started asking questions.

“Where’s your weird little situationship?”

“You mean Moth?”

“Yeah. The one who looks at you like he wants to stab you and kiss you at the same time.”

Dean would laugh too hard.

“Don’t know.”

“Did you guys break up?”

“We were never together.”

That answer always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Because maybe that was the problem.

Maybe if they had actually been together, properly, openly, there would have been rules for this.

A breakup. An apology. A reason to call.

But what were they supposed to do when they had destroyed something that had never officially existed?

Meanwhile, Moth was not doing much better. 

Moth, who had always been so good at being alone. Moth, who had once prided himself on how little he needed anyone.

He found himself turning his head every time someone entered a room, with some pathetic, traitorous part of him expecting Dean.

He would hear someone laughing too loudly in the hallway at work and immediately think of Dean.

He would pass the bars Dean liked, or encounter songs Dean used to play in the car. His eyes would not stop catching the stupid snacks Dean always bought and left at Moth’s apartment because “you eat like an old Victorian child with tuberculosis.”

Moth hated that the whole city seemed full of him.

He hated that every inconvenience made him want Dean specifically.

Because Dean would know how to fix it.

Dean would know how to make him laugh. Dean would know how to take one look at him and say, “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”

And worst of all, Dean would have come.

That was the terrible thing.

Moth knew with humiliating certainty that if he texted Dean right now—right now, after three months of silence, after all the damage and all the pride—Dean would still come.

That certainty ruined him.

Because it made him want to reach out.

Sometimes, late at night, Moth would type entire paragraphs.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean it.

You scared me.

Come over.

I miss you.

The worst one had simply been:

I love you too.

He stared at that message for nearly ten minutes once.

His thumb hovered over send. He could practically feel Dean on the other side of the silence.

Dean, who probably still slept on the left side of the bed even when nobody was there. Dean, who probably still bought too much food because he always unconsciously accounted for Moth. Dean, who loved too hard, too openly, despite pretending he did not.

Moth’s chest had hurt so badly he thought he might be sick.

Then he deleted the message, locked his phone, and went to bed.

Neither of them knew that the other was doing the exact same thing.

Dean had Moth’s contact open nearly every night.

Moth still knew Dean’s schedule by heart.

Dean still slowed down whenever he passed Moth’s street.

Moth still checked if Dean had gotten home safely through mutual friends’ Instagram stories.

They existed like that for months: orbiting. Hovering. Loving each other in every direction except the one that actually mattered.

And the truly stupid part was that neither of them stopped belonging to the other.

Not really.

Because Dean still could not sleep properly without imagining Moth’s cold feet shoved against his legs.

Because Moth still woke up, reaching toward the other side of the bed before remembering.

Because sometimes love did not leave when people did. Sometimes it stayed, sharp, humiliating and impossible. Sometimes it settled into the spaces between your ribs and made a home there.

And for six months, both of them lived with that unbearable thing inside them, convincing themselves that silence was easier than being the first person to break.

It all had ended when one night, six months after that, they had slept together for the first time after a party where Dean had blacked out after a party. His friends, who apparently were flooded with Dean’s sob stories about Moth, decided to call the slightly older. Moth had hesitated for fifteen good minutes before finally picking up his keys and deciding to pick Dean anyway. 

Moth found Dean outside the club, sitting on the curb, jacket half off his shoulders, body laying limp by the stairs of the club. People had passed him by, and he just grazed emptily to the far.

He looked awful.

Not physically—Dean was unfairly beautiful even drunk, all flushed cheeks and messy hair and long legs—but there was something wrecked in his face that made Moth’s chest ache instantly.

Dean looked up when Moth’s shoes appeared in front of him.

For a second, he only blinked.

Then his whole face cracked open.

“Oh,” Dean said quietly, voice rough with drink and something much worse. “You came.”

Moth hated how much those two words destroyed him.

“Your friends wouldn’t stop calling,” Moth muttered, because if he admitted the truth—that he had put his shoes on after three rings and spent the drive over gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands hurt—he would die on the spot.

Dean nodded as if he understood.

He let Moth help him up.

For the first few minutes in the car, Dean was quiet. Which was strange in itself, because drunk Dean was usually louder, all stupid jokes and reckless affection and messy honesty.

This Dean only sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window.

Moth kept his eyes on the road.

“You should’ve let me rot there,” Dean mumbled eventually.

Moth’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

Dean laughed weakly at that. Then he went quiet again.

Moth thought maybe that would be it.

Then Dean said, so softly Moth almost missed it, “I really tried.”

Moth glanced over.

Dean was still looking out the window.

“I tried not to miss you,” Dean continued. “I tried sleeping with other people again. I tried going out. I tried pretending you weren’t…” He swallowed hard. “You.”

Moth felt his throat close.

“Dean—”

“But nobody was you.” Dean laughed again, uglier this time. “Which is so humiliating, by the way. You’re annoying as hell.”

Despite everything, Moth almost smiled.

Dean wiped harshly at his face before Moth realized he had been crying.

“I hate that I still wanted you,” Dean whispered. “I hate that I still want you.”

Moth had spent six months imagining this moment.

In every version, he had imagined himself being cooler about it.

He had thought it would be calmer, made up, which was odd since they were not a couple. He thought there would be more in control.

Instead, he pulled over so abruptly that Dean jerked in his seat.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then Moth turned toward him fully.

Dean’s eyes were red-rimmed.

His face looked tired in a way Moth had never seen before.

And suddenly, Moth was so angry.

Not at Dean.

Moth found himself furious at himself. At the six wasted months. At the fact that they had both nearly destroyed themselves over something as stupid as being afraid.

“You absolute idiot,” Moth said, voice shaking.

Dean blinked.

“You think you’re the only one?” Moth asked. “You think you’re the only person who spent half a year feeling like they had a limb ripped off?”

Dean stared at him.

Moth could feel his own heart trying to punch its way out of his chest.

“I missed you so much I thought it was killing me,” Moth said, each word rougher than the last. “I missed your stupid face. I missed you leaving your clothes everywhere. I missed you making coffee wrong. I missed you texting me every five minutes because you saw a dog on the street.”

Dean let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“And I was so angry at you,” Moth continued. “Because you said you loved me like it was easy. Like you had not just ruined my entire fucking life with it.”

Dean was crying openly now.

“So what now?” he asked quietly.

Moth looked at him, really looked at him.

At the man who had been wrecking him for years. At the man who had somehow become the first person Moth wanted beside him when things were bad, or good, or boring, or ordinary.

The man he had loved long before he had known what to call it.

Then Moth reached across the center console and held Dean’s face.

Dean went still instantly.

“So now,” Moth murmured, “you stop acting like I don’t love you back.”

Dean’s whole face collapsed.

Moth kissed him before he could say anything.

It was messy. Dean still tasted like vodka and salt, and his clothes reeked of cigarette ashes.

But the second Dean kissed him back, something in Moth finally unclenched for the first time in months.

Dean made this horrible, wounded sound against his mouth, like he had been starving.

Maybe they both had.

Later, back at Moth’s apartment, Dean followed him inside like he was afraid Moth might disappear if he looked away for too long.

Neither of them said much. They did not need to.

Moth handed Dean water. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, looking dazed and exhausted and impossibly young somehow.

Then he looked up at Moth and asked, very quietly, “Can I stay?”

Moth thought his heart might stop.

“You were always going to stay,” he said.

And Dean looked at him like that was the first kind thing anyone had ever said to him.

It took them until their thirties to stop being idiots about it. By then, they had already built a life together without meaning to.

Dean had a toothbrush at Moth’s apartment.

Then clothes. Then a drawer.

Then somehow Dean’s entire life was there.

Moth still pretended to hate it when Dean left his shoes in the hallway.

Dean still pretended not to notice Moth sleeping better whenever he was there.

Eventually, there was no point pretending anymore.

They loved each other — hopelessly, embarrassingly.

The kind of love that made their friends want to throw things at them.

Dean, especially, became unbearable.

Because Dean had spent years unable to belong to anyone. Then he met Moth, and suddenly he belonged entirely.

By the time they were thirty-two and thirty-four, Dean barely looked at anyone else.

Not because Moth asked. Moth would never ask (no matter how much he had wanted to).

Because Dean genuinely did not want anyone else.

He wanted quiet mornings with Moth. He wanted arguments over groceries. He wanted Moth’s feet in his lap while they watched television. He wanted to grow old beside him.

And surely he did not expect the dream to expand.

The baby came as a surprise.

Mostly because Moth had never wanted children.

He hated noise. He hated mess. He hated being needed.

Children, to Moth, were all that. Children had always sounded like sticky little disasters.

The day that he found out he was pregnant, something in him shifted. It wasn’t immediate or all at once.

At first, he panicked. He sat alone in the bathroom staring at the test until his vision blurred. Then he sat in the car outside the clinic after the blood test confirmed it. Then he drove around for almost two hours because he could not make himself go home yet.

Because this was impossible and terrifying. It had felt too much.

And yet somewhere underneath the fear, there was something else.

Something quieter. Something that only got worse every time he imagined Dean holding a baby.

Every time he imagined Dean’s smile. Every time he imagined a little person with Dean’s eyes.

Moth had spent most of his life running from anything that could trap him.

But this?

This did not feel like a trap.

It felt terrifying — but it also felt like something he wanted. Moth found it somehow worse.

So he hid it. For four months.

Partly because he did not know how to say it. Partly because he was afraid Dean would be angry.

And partly because Moth had always been the kind of person who dealt with fear by carrying it alone.

It was easy enough at first: he wore loose clothes. He claimed he was tired because of work. He blamed the nausea on food poisoning.

Dean noticed, of course – Dean noticed everything.

But by then, Dean had learned Moth’s rules. He had learned that if Moth was not ready to say something, forcing him would only make him retreat further.

So Dean stayed quiet. He watched. He waited. He noticed the vitamins in the bathroom cabinet. The sudden refusal to drink. The way Moth touched his own stomach, absentmindedly, when he thought nobody was looking.

The little ultrasound photo was hidden badly in the bedside drawer.

Dean found it by accident while looking for a charger.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he put it back exactly where it had been.

And that night, while Moth slept beside him, Dean lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Because he knew – he always knew.

And he did not know if Moth was keeping it from him because he wanted the baby or because he did not.

Dean told himself he would support whatever Moth wanted. He meant it.

If Moth wanted to end the pregnancy, Dean would drive him there himself. If Moth wanted to leave, Dean would let him. If Moth did not want Dean involved, Dean would still find some way to survive it.

But deep down, in the quietest, most humiliating part of himself, Dean wanted the baby to stay.

He wanted it so badly it hurt. He just never let himself say it out loud.

Then one night, four months in, Moth asked Dean to have dinner with him, which was suspicious already. Because Moth hated formal conversations.

Moth had cooked pad thai, something that screamed domestic and not complicated. Something easy to keep his hands busy.

Dean set the table while Moth stood at the stove, stir-frying things that no longer needed stirring. 

Moth needed a distraction because his heart would not slow down. He had already packed a bag. It was hidden in the closet.

He had packed essentials: clothes, documents, and cash. He hated himself for it.

But he knew that his old habits died hard. Moth had spent his entire life preparing for people to leave him. Eventually, he told himself that night, he had learned to leave first.

Dean sat across from him at the table. He knew that Moth hated sitting down like there was something serious to discuss.

Dean knew immediately.

Still, his hands shook under the table.

Moth barely touched his food. He sat there in an oversized shirt, eyes fixed on his plate.

Dean waited. Eventually, Moth said quietly, “I need to tell you something.”

Dean looked at him. Moth swallowed hard.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room went silent.

Moth’s hands were shaking.

Dean noticed immediately.

“I found out four months ago,” Moth said, voice thin. “I know I should have told you earlier.”

Dean stayed completely still.

“I know this is selfish,” Moth continued. “And I know I should’ve discussed it with you before deciding anything.”

Dean’s throat hurt.

“I just…” Moth stopped, looking down at the table. “I think I want to keep it.”

Dean’s eyes burned.

“And if you don’t,” Moth said quickly, already sounding like he was bracing for impact, “I understand. I already packed some things. I can leave tonight if you want space.”

Dean made a broken sound.

Moth looked up immediately.

Dean was crying, not dramatically. It was just quiet tears slipping down his face faster than he could stop them. And strangely enough, Moth could feel the joy that came out of it… It was like tears from fulfilled wishes.

Still, Moth stared at him gaping, “What—”

“I knew,” Dean said softly.

Moth froze.

“I found the ultrasound picture weeks ago.”

Moth’s face went blank.

Dean laughed weakly through his tears, “You hid it badly.”

For a second, Moth just stared.Then his entire expression crumpled.

“You knew?” he whispered.

Dean nodded.

This time, Moth had teared up too, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you didn’t,” Dean wiped at his face roughly.

I thought maybe you didn’t want it,” he admitted. “I thought maybe you were waiting to figure out if you wanted to keep it or not.”

Moth’s breathing turned uneven.

“I would never stop you,” Dean said. “If you didn’t want this, I would never make you feel guilty for it.”

Moth looked down at his lap.

“But,” Dean said, voice cracking, “I really hoped you’d want it.”

That did it. Moth started crying properly too. There was nothing loud about it, just silent tears, falling so fast, like it had offended Moth. 

Dean stood up too quickly, chair scraping against the floor. Then he hesitated.

Because even after all these years, even after all this love, Dean still knew better than to touch Moth without permission when Moth was overwhelmed.

So he stood there awkwardly beside the table, clearly yearning, wanting—but waiting.

Moth looked up at him. Then, slowly, he reached for Dean’s wrist.

Dean moved immediately. He knelt beside Moth’s chair, one hand settling carefully against the side of Moth’s face.

Moth leaned into it like he had been starving, “You really want this?” Moth whispered.

Dean laughed through his tears, “So much.”

Moth looked down at his stomach. Then back at Dean. Slowly, awkwardly, he took Dean’s hand, before placing it there.

Dean went completely still. There was barely anything to feel yet. Just the slight curve beneath Moth’s shirt.

But Dean looked at it like the entire world had been placed in his hands.

“Hi, baby, my love” Dean whispered shakily, voice aimed toward Moth’s stomach.

Moth let out a wet, broken laugh.

Dean pressed his forehead against Moth’s shoulder.

Then he said, softly, “You can stay as long as you want, okay?”

For a second, Moth could not breathe.

Because Dean was not just talking to the baby.

He was talking to both of them.

And for the first time in four months, Moth stopped feeling afraid.

The first thing people learned about Moth as a parent was that he did not become softer.

He became sharper.

Not colder—not less loving. If anything, the love made him more dangerous.

Because before, Moth had only ever cared about himself and Dean in that feral, ugly, all-consuming way they had learned to survive with. Dean had always been the center of him: his home, his weakness, his violence, his calm.

Then their daughter had been born, tiny and furious and red-faced, with Dean’s mouth and Moth’s eyes, and suddenly the entire world had become something Moth had to guard against.

People had expected motherhood—or fatherhood, depending on who was speaking and how stupid they were about it—to turn him gentle in some picturesque way.

Instead, Moth remained Moth.

He still walked around with that same bored expression that made strangers think twice about speaking to him. He still swore under his breath. He still rolled his eyes when people offered useless advice. He still dressed in his usual immaculate style, looking charming, hair messy, expression unreadable.

The only difference was that now there was usually a baby strapped to his chest.

Their daughter spent most of her first months attached to him.

She liked Dean, of course. Loved Dean. But Dean had a way of existing like gravity—steady, grounding, inevitable. He was always there, always close, always within reach.

Moth was motion. Moth paced with her in the middle of the night. Moth bounced her against his shoulder while making coffee one-handed.

Moth carried her through grocery stores, meetings, long car rides, and lazy afternoons on the couch.

She would be half-asleep against his chest while he sat outside smoking—not smoking, Dean would correct automatically, because he had quit the second they found out about the pregnancy, and now he just stood outside with a cup of ginger tea and a bad attitude.

Sometimes Dean would wake up in the middle of the night and find Moth standing in the nursery in nothing but sweatpants, their daughter tucked against his bare chest, swaying silently in the dark.

“Why are you awake?” Dean would murmur.

“She’s awake.”

“She was fussing for like three seconds.”

“She looked stressed.”

Dean would have to physically stop himself from smiling.

Because Moth would say it as if it were obvious. Like a three-month-old baby having the emotional inconvenience of existing at three in the morning was a legitimate emergency.

“She looked stressed,” Dean repeated one night, climbing out of bed.

“She did.”

“She doesn’t even know taxes exist.”

“She doesn’t have to know taxes exist to be stressed.”

Dean laughed quietly and stepped behind him, wrapping his arms around Moth’s waist and pressing a kiss to the back of his shoulder.

Their daughter made a small sound, something between a sigh and a squeak.

Immediately, Moth looked down.

“You okay?” he whispered to her.

Dean had never been so helplessly in love with anyone in his life.

By the time their daughter was five months old, people had already learned not to say stupid things around Moth.

Mostly.

There had been the woman at the supermarket who had leaned into the stroller and said, “Oh, she’s too attached to you. You hold her too much.”

Moth had stared at her for a long moment before replying flatly, “She’s a baby. What do you want her attached to? Taxes?”

There had been the older man at a café who had said, “You’re spoiling her. Babies need to learn independence.”

Moth had looked at him with open disgust, “She can’t even sit up by herself.”

Dean had nearly choked on his coffee.

And then there had been the nursing.

Moth had never cared.

He had spent too long in his life letting shame dictate what he could and could not do with his own body. Pregnancy had cured him of most of the remaining embarrassment.

He had thrown up in public bathrooms, cried in hospital corridors, and waddled through the last trimester with swollen ankles and an attitude problem.

After that, breastfeeding in public barely registered.

His baby was hungry.

That was the beginning and end of the conversation.

Usually, nobody said anything. Sometimes people stared. Moth would completely ignor them.

Sometimes people looked uncomfortable. Moth would ignore them too.

Dean, however, noticed everything.

He noticed every lingering look. Every muttered comment. Every person who stared just a second too long.

He never said anything unless Moth wanted him to.

But Dean’s protectiveness had always been quieter than Moth’s.

Moth would bite – Dean would wait.

Then he would make someone regret it.

Dean would often asked Moth to take turn in holding her. In a lot of instances, Moth would refuse, truly being an overprotective mama bear. There were days where Dean — against his typical approach to Mok — would (not so gently) insisted that Moth should let Dean hold their daughter. And in those times, Moth would begrudgingly agree.

Still, when it was Dean’s turn to hold their baby, the fiasco would remain.

The day it happened, it was hot.

The kind of hot that made the city feel sticky.

They had been out longer than expected because Dean had insisted on stopping at some outdoor market after lunch.

“Our daughter deserves fresh fruit,” Dean had said, looking down at the baby strapped to his chest..

“She’s five months old.”

“She can look at the fruit.”

“She doesn’t know what fruit is.”

“She’ll absorb the atmosphere.”

“She’s absorbing sweat.”

Even so, Moth had gone.

Because Dean liked things like this. And because their daughter was awake, wide-eyed, staring around from where she was sitting in Dean’s embrace.

Dean walked beside them with one hand in Moth’s back pocket and the other carrying an iced coffee.

And just because Moth wasn’t holding her, didn’t mean that he would stop being proactive. Every few minutes, he would reach out and touch the baby’s foot or fix the little hat that kept sliding over one eye.

They looked domestic in a way that would have embarrassed Dean years ago — Now he wore it proudly.

By mid-afternoon, their daughter had had enough.

She started with fussing, then openly whining. Then it turned into a full-body, deeply offended crying that meant she was tired, overwhelmed, hungry, or possibly all three.

Moth stopped walking immediately.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, grabbing her from Dean’s embrace, bouncing her lightly. 

Dean didn’t protest, only leaned down to look at her, “She’s hungry.”

“No shit.”

“There’s seating over there.”

The outdoor café area nearby had half-shaded tables under large umbrellas.

Moth sat down heavily in one of the chairs, already pulling the diaper bag onto his lap.

Their daughter was properly upset now—face red, fists tight, angry little cries breaking out of her like she had personally been betrayed by the entire world.

“Hey, hey,” Moth murmured, unbuckling the carrier.

Dean crouched beside him.

“You want water?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean stayed anyway, always.

Moth shifted their daughter into his arms, automatically loosening the neckline of his shirt.

He had done this so many times by now that there was no hesitation in it.

It was just pure instinct, neither shame nor a performance.

Their daughter latched immediately, small hands curled against Moth’s chest, entire body softening with relief.

“There you go,” Moth whispered.

Dean looked at them like he always did, like he still could not believe something so beautiful had happened to him.

Then somebody ruined it.

“Excuse me.”

The voice came from beside them.

Moth looked up.

There was an elderly couple standing nearby, probably in their fifties, both holding shopping bags and wearing the kind of expressions people wore when they think they were morally superior.

The wife smiled tightly, “Could you maybe cover up a little?”

Moth blinked once. Dean straightened slowly.

The husband was quick to continue, apparently mistaking silence for encouragement, “There are children around.”

For a moment, nobody said anything.

Moth looked down at his daughter. She was still eating, tiny hand spread against his skin.

Then he looked back up, “Children?” he repeated.

The husband nodded toward a nearby table where two boys, maybe eight or nine years old, were eating fries and not paying attention to anything except ketchup.

Moth stared at her for another second.

Then, very calmly, he reached into the diaper bag.

Dean knew that look. It was the exact expression Moth got right before he did something terrible.

“Baby,” Dean said softly, already smiling.

Moth ignored him. By the time the couple turned their heads slightly, probably savouring their orders, he had pulled out the thin muslin blanket they usually used for shade.

The couple visibly relaxed.

“Oh, good,” the husband had said.

But Moth had unfolded the blanket. Then… without breaking eye contact… 

He threw the entire thing over his own head. Not over the baby, over himself.

Immediately, his entire face disappeared beneath the floral blanket. Their daughter remained perfectly uncovered, happily nursing.

There was a beat of complete silence.

Dean stared. The couple stared.

Then Moth’s muffled voice came from under the blanket, “Better?”

Dean broke. He laughed so hard he had to grab the table. There was nothing polite or quiet about his laugh. He bent over, shoulders shaking, one hand over his face.

The elderly couple looked horrified.

“What is wrong with you?” the husband had snapped.

Dean straightened just enough to look at her, eyes bright with amusement.

“That,” he said, pointing at the blanket-covered head that was Moth, “is what you get for pissing off my lover and our baby.”

Moth, still under the blanket, added, “Now I’m covered. Problem solved.”

One of the boys at the nearby table looked over and immediately burst into delighted laughter.

“Mom,” he shouted, “that person put a blanket on their head!”

His brother laughed too.

The couple looked around, realizing several people had started watching. A young woman two tables away was openly grinning. Someone else snorted into their drink.

Dean leaned casually against the table, all smug satisfaction.

Because this was his favorite version of Moth.

The dangerous one. The ridiculous one. The one who would rather turn himself into a public spectacle than let anyone shame him into hiding while feeding their child.

“Unbelievable,” the wife muttered.

“You’re right,” Dean said pleasantly. “It is unbelievable that you thought this was your business.”

They left quietly after that. All they left behind was the stiff, offended posture of people who were not used to being embarrassed in public.

The second they were gone, Dean completely lost it again.

He had to sit down.

“You’re insane,” he said, still laughing.

Under the blanket, Moth shrugged.

“I covered up.”

“You covered your own face.”

“They didn’t specify.”

Dean laughed so hard tears stung his eyes.

People nearby were still smiling.

The young woman at the next table caught Moth’s eye and gave him a thumbs-up. Moth lifted one hand from beneath the blanket and gave her a thumbs-up back.

Their daughter remained entirely unbothered through all of it.

She just kept eating. Because, unlike the adults around her, she had priorities.

Eventually, Dean reached over and pulled the blanket off Moth’s head. His hair was sticking up wildly.

“You look stupid,” Dean said fondly.

“You shared custody with me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Moth smirked.

Dean leaned over and kissed him anyway. Right there, in front of everyone. Because if strangers were going to stare, Dean wanted to give them something worth staring at. Their daughter made a small, annoyed noise at being interrupted.

“Sorry,” Dean murmured, brushing a finger over her tiny foot.

Moth settled back in the chair.

The heat pressed around them, but the shade kept most of it away. People went back to their own conversations. The world moved on.

Dean watched Moth nursing their daughter, one hand resting protectively over her back. There was something so deeply intimate about it, not because of the exposed skin or the act itself. 

Rather, it was because of the trust. Because their daughter knew, without question, that she would be fed when she was hungry.

She knew that there would be hands holding her when she cried. She knew she would be protected if someone made the mistake of angering her parents.

Dean had spent most of his life believing love had to be earned.

That it had to be repaid. That it came with conditions. Then, Moth had crashed into his life like a disaster.

And now here they were: a baby. A blanket. A public argument over breastfeeding. A life so absurdly ordinary that sometimes it still made Dean feel like he might cry.

Moth looked over at him.

“What?”

Dean smiled.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Dean reached over and touched the baby’s hair.

“I just love you.”

Moth’s expression shifted immediately to something softer and quieter. He still looked dangerous. He always would.

But Dean knew him better than anyone. He knew the way Moth’s entire body changed around the people he loved: by the way he leaned closer unconsciously. The way his hands always sought contact. The way he never stopped watching.

Even now, Moth’s free hand rested against Dean’s thigh under the table. Grounding himself. Grounding Dean.

Dean covered Moth’s hand with his own.

“You know,” Dean said after a moment, “that’s going to become family legend.”

Moth frowned.

“What is?”

“The blanket thing.”

“It was funny.”

“It was insane.”

“It solved the problem.”

Dean smiled.

“Our daughter is going to hear that story for the rest of her life.”

“She'd better appreciate my genius.”

“She’ll probably inherit it.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

Dean laughed again.

Then he leaned over, pressing his forehead briefly against Moth’s shoulder.

He could feel the warmth of the baby between them. His ears caught the soft little swallowing sounds and the couple still whispering about their antics from afar. His olfactory nerves would memorize the smell of sunscreen, milk, coffee, and heat.

Home.

That was the terrifying thing about love, their love. It wasn’t the violence, nor the fear. It wasn’t even the vulnerability.

It was how something as simple as this could become everything.

A café. A hot afternoon. A baby nursing.

A blanket over Moth’s head.

Dean looked at his lover and thought, helplessly, absurdly:

Mine.

It wasn’t an ugly possessiveness or a sense of ownership. There was only recognition that ran deep – overwhelmingly understanding that this was the person he would spend the rest of his life standing beside.

To Dean, this would be the person — people — he would always defend. This would be the person — people —  he would always be proud of.

Even when the adult one was sitting in public with blanket-pattern lines in his hair because he had chosen pettiness over dignity.

Especially then.

Their daughter finished nursing a few minutes later.

Immediately, Moth shifted her upright against his chest.

She let out a tiny, offended burp.

“There she is,” Moth said.

Dean took the now-useless blanket and folded it neatly.

“You know,” he said casually, “I think you really made that elderly couple rethink some things.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. People like that never rethink anything.”

Dean hummed.

“Maybe not. But you embarrassed them.”

“That’s almost better.”

Dean smiled. It was better, not because Moth had won, nor because he had humiliated two strangers.

But because their daughter would grow up seeing this. She would grow up knowing her parents never let shame decide who they were. She would grow up watching Moth feed her without apology.

She would watch her other father, Dean, stand close by without hesitation. She would watch her parents love loudly, protect loudly.

Exist unapologetically.

And maybe that was the best thing they could give her, not perfection, not politeness.

Just the certainty that she would never have to make herself smaller to make other people comfortable.

Moth looked down at their daughter, now half-asleep against his chest.

“Think she’s okay now?” Dean asked.

Moth pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Then he looked up at Dean.

“She looked stressed.”

And Dean swore that his image of that ring he had stored for Moth to pop the question with was immediately changed by the fond exasperation.  

- END

Let's be moots@ShadesofShipps