igotacrossbow | open post

Thankfully, he doesn't tense more when Cougar slides his arm around his waist, instead shifting to lean against him.

"Adam is six years old," he points out dryly, settling one hand on Cougar's where it rests on his stomach. "He's not a shit for brains, you big meanie."

He feels like such a fucking idiot for acting this way. He knows Cougar loves him. He knows that their family is the most important thing to him, that he'd lay himself down on barbed wire to save them, would take any number of bullets for them, would do anything he had to to keep them safe. He shouldn't need something as stupid as a ring and a piece of paper to know that, but he can't help wanting it.

Elbowing Cougar in the ribs, he pulls up a smile and steps out of his arms. "You need to go wash your hands too, babe. Don't want to set a bad example for our kids."

Those big, perfect, enviable shoulders are still tense. Cougar squeezes them to show that he's still noticing before he pulls away and heads to the tap in the kitchen so he can wash his hands while still staying in Jake's eyeline. His hair falls over his shoulders and he eases it back with his elbow as he watches him, hopping up on the counter to sit in the corner, munching on pieces of macaroni that didn't exactly make it into the pan. "Why are you so upset?" he asks quietly, because the children have learned stealth very well and can sneak around more than Cougar likes.

Jake takes the minute it takes for Cougar to wash his hands to take a deep breath and let it seep between his teeth as quietly as he can, willing the tension out of his body.

He doesn't want to have this conversation now. Or ever.

"I'm not upset," he protests, moving to wash his own hands since he doesn't want to be a hypocrite. "Why would I be upset?"

Cougar gives Jake a long, unimpressed look. "Shoulders. Lips. Brow." He could go on and on, but he doesn't think Jake will want him to keep listing all the things that give him away as tense. The problem is that Cougar doesn't know what happened. Soon, the kids will be back to eat dinner and Cougar doesn't want to have a tense conversation in front of them, but he also doesn't want to let it lie.

He hears trampling footsteps and leans over to kiss Jake's cheek. "After dinner, we talk," he insists.

He's really not looking forward to any talk he's going to have with Cougar after this painfully disastrous attempt, but there's nothing he can do about it now. "Sure thing, Cougs."

Javier comes careening over and slams into Jake's legs, lifting his arms immediately and making imploring noises.

"Use your words, buddy," he chastises, but ruins the effect immediately by leaning down and picking up his son so he can set him on his hip. "You wanna set out the cutlery for me?" he continues, walking over to the drawer with Javi clinging to him. The kids are still too small to really be responsible for setting the table, but forks and knives are within his capabilities.

Cougar reaches over to hand Jessica the condiments that they might need, watching her hug the ketchup to her chest like a teddy bear as she leans on her tiptoes to place it on the table. He ruffles Javi, then Jake's hair as he passes them, taking his place at one head of the table. Swiftly, he makes the sign of the cross and says grace in Spanish before uttering a quick 'amen' and nodding towards the food on the table. "Eat," he coaxes, already halfway through his plate. He loves Jake's cooking because he can eat a lot of it and it goes down easily, so he never complains when he gets a night off cooking.

Having spent time under the broiler, the casserole is crispy and bubbly and actually looks really delicious. Especially, it seems, when smothered in ketchup like the kittens like to do.

They all pause to bow their heads when Cougar stops to say grace, their kids looking solemn and serious, and Jake follows suit out of habit. Jake doesn't believe in God, but he has no problem with his kids being raised Catholic. It makes Cougar's family happy, and even though they don't see them often, but it's important to Jake that Cougar's parents at least approve of how their grandchildren are being raised, since they're not going to get anything from Jake's family.

He eats a little more slowly than Cougar does, but still manages to pack away about a third of the pan by the time dinner is over, happily listening to their kids natter on about school, Jessica talking over her brother as usual.

Cougar stays quiet as he usually does, observing his family like their guardian. Some habits die hard and in this case, he keeps a careful eye on all of them as he reaches for a roll, stuffing it in his mouth as he nods along to the stories, interrupting to make sure Javi gets a turn to tell them about what's been happening. The marriage question almost comes up again, but the twins exchange a look and seem to have a silent agreement not to talk about it, because they go on to talk about the class puppy they've been raising.

Through this, Cougar's gaze slides to Jake to monitor him. He's quieter than usual and Cougar's beginning to think that something's wrong, but he doesn't know what. It's going to pick at him until he figures it out, which is why he won't let Jake out of his sight after.

There's a part of him that wants to draw out dinner so he can avoid having to talk to Cougar about what's bothering him, but the kids would start whining if he dawdled too much, so he refrains from being too obvious about taking too long to finish eating.

He cooked, which means Cougar has to clean up, so he herds the kids out of the kitchen and into the living room, bribing them with the promise of coloring together so they'll leave papí alone while he cleans.

The subsequent half hour or so is blissful, really, Jake solemnly proclaiming that the weird blobs his kids produce are art worthy of the Met, letting them tell him all about their robot spaceship alien princesses and nodding along solemnly to encourage them. As soon as Cougar appears in the doorway, though, he checks his watch and declares it bath time, shooing the twins along as they clean up and head upstairs. Bath time will take at least another half hour, and then they'll have to go through the whole bedtime routine, which means Jake might just get away without having to talk to Cougar at all tonight, especially if whoever is chosen for story time duty falls asleep in one of the twin's beds, as happens fairly often.

He's so sneaky.

The only problem with Jake's plan is that it requires Cougar to go along with it. So when it comes time for the bedtime routine and the story, Cougar calmly cuts Jake off and closes the door after he turns on the nightlight, kissing each of their foreheads as he sits on the edge of the bed and sings them a story in the form of a lullabye. It's shorter than usual, but the kids always respond quickly and shuffle off to sleep -- if not half-drowsiness.

Once they're nearly out, he gently closes the door behind him and heads back to find Jake, clearing his throat. "Why are you avoiding me?" he demands, too observant for his own good.

Jake had retreated downstairs, knowing that a confrontation is on its way no matter what he might want, and even went so far as to creep out onto the back porch with a beer in his hand. If there are any raised voices tonight, he doesn't want to wake the kids, so sticking to the back of the house is their safest bet.

Technically, the basement would be the ideal place, being the farthest away from the kids' bedroom, but it's a weird place to have a conversation like that and it would look too much like he's hiding.

Cougar finds him quickly, as he was expecting.

"I don't know what part of dinner-bathtime-bedtime seems like avoiding you to you, but you're wrong," he says, holding out the second beer he got for Cougar out of habit. "I'm not avoiding you."

"You come and watch me when I tell the story," Cougar says, which is why he knows that something is wrong with Jake. He knows something is wrong in the way he's tense and the way he won't meet Cougar's eye, exactly. "Tonight, no you." He accepts the beer and takes a long drag as he settles down on one side of the swing on the porch, getting comfortable as he gives Jake an expectant look. "If you don't want to talk to me, I will call Jolene. Pooch."

"I would have just kept them up, and you know it," he protests, although he knows Cougar isn't going to let him off that easy.

The swing starts to move now that the weight is balanced, and Jake lets it, keeping one heel braced on the porch to control the gentle back and forth motion.

"I don't want to talk to Jolene. Or Pooch." No, he doesn't want to talk to their married friends about how Cougar doesn't want to marry him. It's not even a 'he doesn't love me enough to marry me' situation, because he knows Cougar loves him. He just doesn't seem to think it's necessary.

Jake can't help but wonder if things would be different if he had tits instead of a dick. Would Cougar marry him if he was a woman?

Cougar's gaze is unflinching as he looks at Jake. There isn't a moment when he isn't staring right at him, unblinking, and trying to figure out what's going on in that man's head. He loves Jake more than anything in the world, but it doesn't mean he understands him all the time. "Querido," he sighs. "Please, tell me what is wrong."

"Why don't you want to get married?" he blurts out, and winces. He hadn't meant to give in so easily, but he's never been able to say no to Cougar, and now is clearly no different.

To avoid looking at him some more, he fiddles with the label on his bottle, picking at the paper with his fingernails until it shreds into wet little pieces.

And then, because in for a penny...

"...Would you marry me if I was a girl?" He hates how small he sounds, unsure of himself and scared. He sounds like a girl, like someone small and weak from the telenovas that Jake pretends are on their DVR for Cougar's sake but are really for him. To further avoid having to look at Cougar, he clenches his beer between his knees and pulls off his glasses, rubbing the lenses on the hem of his shirt for far longer than is strictly necessary since being functionally blind gives him a great reason not to make eye contact. At least it's too dark out here to tell that he's blushing, a miserable and embarrassed tide of red creeping up from under his collar and staining the tips of his ears a deep pink.

So that's what this is about. Cougar is a bit surprised, having built up possibilities in his head that are worse than this. Jake is sick. Jake's met someone else. Instead, it's just asking why Cougar doesn't want to marry him. "Paper and a ring aren't important to me," is what he says, because Jake is his partner in all ways.

When Jake asks his next question, he shifts over on the swing and reaches over to take the glasses from him, giving them a slow and gentle clean with his shirt. "No," is his quiet answer. If his family, if Jake were a woman and were pregnant, they might have pressured him into it, but Cougar's answer still would have been a firm no. "The world sees how I love you. We have a family." He's never liked the word boyfriend and husband is something he never thought he'd be.

Partner, though. Partner means something to him.

"Jake," he says tenderly. "I didn't know you wanted this."

Cougar has never wanted to be called his boyfriend. Not that Jake had ever been super wedded to the concept of boyfriends, but he likes having labels to define things, and the culturally acceptable label for what they are is generally boyfriends. But Cougar had always balked whenever Jake tried to call him his boyfriend, his lips thinning and his eyebrows twitching, so he'd stopped calling him his boyfriend and tried just not calling him anything at all.

It was clearly a warning sign that Jake had completely ignored.

"Oh," he breathes, feeling something twist painfully in his gut. He'd known the answer even before he asked it, but somehow it's still worse to hear it spoken so definitively. "Okay."

Cougar holds his glasses hostage, but that won't deter him for long. He manages to reach out on blind faith and snatch them from Cougar's hand, slamming them back on his face and smudging up the lenses with his fingers in his haste to put them on so he can stand. "I don't, really, I was just, like, curious. Man, I can't believe how tired I am. I guess they weren't lying when they said kids wear you out, huh? Even our little angels." He laughs, and it sounds fake even to his ears, but it's too late now. "I'm gonna go get ready for bed. Don't forget to lock up when you come up."

Cougar's like a dog with a bone when something's bothering him, but right now, fleeing is the better part of valor, and Jake needs to get out of here.

Cougar growls under his breath and thinks several unkind things about Jake and his suddenly fleeing. He does lock up, even takes a little longer than it requires because it gives him a chance to calm his brain before he gets into a fight. for all that Jake talks and talks and talks, sometimes he's bad at asking for what he really wants. He heads upstairs and closes the bedroom door, standing at the edge of the bed.

"Do you know this is?" he says, nudging the bed with his knee. "This is a marriage bed. Our marriage bed. We don't need to be married for it to one." It's all just words. Words and words and words, which Cougar gets tired of.

He manages to wash his face and brush his teeth and change into his pajamas — once upon a time, he'd slept naked, but now that they have kids he usually puts on underwear and and old t-shirt, at least — and even crawl into bed before Cougar appears in the doorway, curling up on his side with his back to the door so he won't encourage more conversation.

Normally Jake sits up in bed on his laptop for hours, tapping away with the screen illuminating his glasses. Not tonight.

"Okay," he mumbles, not turning his head to look at Cougar as he jerks his knee against the mattress.

Jake is all about words. Jake is a million words a minute. Words are important to him, words have meaning, words have weight and value. Words make things real. But Cougar doesn't like words, prefers gut feeling, and he knows that. He knows what he's like. He shouldn't be acting like this.

Cougar sighs as he starts a slow strip of his clothes, hanging them neatly to keep order in the room. He reaches for one of Jake's old t-shirts that he sleeps in, enjoying the room at the shoulders and how it hangs a little longer on him. He tugs on sleeping pants and knots them at the waist before he slides into bed and runs a palm up Jake's back, beginning to truly understand how upset he is.

He can feel it, in a way. And now he knows that he's the cause. "Por qué no has dicho algo?" Some things, some things they are easier in Spanish than English.

There's a part of him that wants to shy away from the hand at his back, wants to shun human contact and wallow in his own misery. But he's kind of at the edge of the mattress already, and if he shifts any futher away he'll wind up on the floor, so he just lies there with his shoulders tense as Cougar slides his palm across his back, clenching his teeth miserably.

"Carlos, drop it," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and resolutely not moving. "It's fine. I'm fine. Just go to sleep."

"You're not fine," Cougar points out, half miserable himself to feel the tension underneath his fingers and how Jake sounds like he's going to shout or scream at him if he gives him the chance. "Carino," he murmurs, pushing in to kiss his neck. "Why didn't you say something?" he asks in English, because he needs to know. "I didn't know, Jake."

"It's not important." The to you goes unsaid, as he manages to bite it off before it comes spilling out, thank god. And he would never shout at him. They have two six years old asleep a hundred feet down the hall, there's no way he's shouting at anyone, he's not going to wake up their kids when they went down miraculously easy tonight. He doesn't relax when Cougar shifts closer to kiss his neck, torn between wanting to elbow him away and wanting to sink into the affection.

"The kids ask why we're not married and now, after we talk for two minutes, you look like you're going to cry," Cougar says, concern radiating from his every pore. "Jake," he says, trying to pry him back so they can do this face to face. Cougar likes to catalogue every eye twitch and motion. He wants Jake to read the honesty on his face. "It is important," he insists. "So talk to me. You talk about everything else, why not this?" he demands, voice already rough from how much use he's putting into it.

He stiffens, resisting the hand on his shoulder that tries to pull him back. He doesn't want to see Cougar's face right now. He doesn't want to have this conversation at all, honestly, but Cougar isn't going to drop it. He knows that.

"Because you don't want to marry me!" he finally whispers, the words harsh on his tongue, cutting his mouth like knives. "You didn't want to be my boyfriend and now you don't want to be my husband, and that's fine. It's not important. I know you love me, I know you love them, I don't need a piece of paper and a ring to prove that."

It should be obvious he's basically quoting him, there, because while he doesn't need anything legal to prove they're together, that doesn't mean he doesn't want them.

"Now fucking drop it, god."

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