'Friendsgiving' (Beckett Version)

This is a B. Warrick POV set prior to your return to Fernweh!

Within this writing, the two of you were roommates; however, this is something you'll be tailoring in Book Two or it can be left to headcanon as well. The choice I'm referencing is how the two of you met, so rooming together in university or just in general is an option among others. You could have met B in the foster care system and still ended up eventually rooming together, etc. Also, not living together works too! Imagine it however you desire, just in this piece you're roomies. 😌

Also, this implies a potential, future B romance. 🧡

Another muffled thud threatens to draw Beckett's attention away from the butter and sugar he's creaming together. The highest setting on this electric hand mixer can't beat out those noises. Its small motor whines, but he uselessly mashes the button higher to—

"Got any water?"

His eyes snap away from the aerated mixture to settle on Alistair, though they just as quickly flick away from him. That's the blanket he bought you, the one with your favorite animal blotched all over it. Where's this man's pants? Is he at least wearing boxers beneath that wrap? The blanket looks better wrapped around you, its color complimenting your skin and soft fleece perfect for a cuddle—a nice, friendly cuddle—on the couch. It's all wrong on him.

"The fridge…?" Beckett hesitantly replies after turning off the mixer. Alistair makes no effort to move to said stainless steel appliance that holds an abundance of drinks. He simply waits with a distracted smile aimed at where your room is located that unfortunately backs up to the kitchen area. "I'll just get it for you."

"You're the best!"

Beckett musters up a polite smile that instantly pinches once his back is turned to your 'guest' who shouldn't be here. It is Friendsgiving, not Bang-Fest-I-Forgot-Where-Water-Is-Giving, Smashed-Potatoes-Day, or Baste-Something-Else-Time. Beckett's thoughts come rapid fire, building with the flush infiltrating his cheeks that the fridge's cool air quells. This is why he is keeping himself extra busy on top of being the main person cooking for today's mini-feast.

"Get lost in there?"

Alistair's joking question reminds him of the task at hand. "Is it for [Nickname] or you?"

"[Name], why?"

Beckett doesn't directly reply to that, handing over a bottle of spring water that's unlike the smart water he'll sometimes drink. You claim this one tastes crisper and more natural, possibly because you grew up somewhere woodsy. He doesn't judge, always buying two cases at the store if that's what you prefer. You both agree sparkling water is a crime against humanity though. "It's a long story," Beckett says.

"I bet it is."

With that dubious remark, Alistair returns to your bedroom without a 'thank you', but definitely with a bounce in his step, an eagerness. Beckett catches himself mid-glare when a timer goes off that he's usually able to preempt. It's one benefit of being anxious. He had thought you'd still be asleep before hearing various noises from your bedroom that aren't really his place to judge. Maybe Alistair didn't want to overstep by rifling through your refrigerator. It could be Beckett who's taking it too negatively.

Technically, it's your choice to share the blanket he bought for you, even if disappointment nips at him.

He's definitely making it weird.

Stop it!

Beckett returns to the apple spice cake he's determined to bake so it can sit before dessert time. Making rolls from scratch would've been preferable. He could be kneading—okay, 'pounding' fits better—dough instead of half-listening out for any thumps while carefully measuring dry ingredients. Alistair is… He is kind of funny to be around, and you deserve someone who makes you laugh. He also has a corporate job instead of taking classes and freelance photo gigs. There's something solid about him, yet he doesn't take things too seriously or overthink them, which might be better for you. His parents invited you on a family vacation to—

Beckett dumps more cinnamon into the mix, halting that comparison because that's what he's doing. There shouldn't be one. He's your best friend. Alistair is your… uh, occasional date/hook-up/intruder-during-Friendsgiving person.

Beckett's concern is your happiness. You deserve someone who treasures you.

He's only concerned.

"—turned it off?"

Your slightly raised voice ends with a dash extra of cinnamon in the cake before Beckett puts aside his ingredients to avoid spills. In an instant, he angles towards your door. His need to learn more wars with being respectful.

But there is some stray flour on that end of the counter, so… Beckett slowly wipes up the spot.

"Because I wanted some me-time—us-time."

"It's my alarm."

"Don't make a big deal about it, baby," Alistair says, dismissive. "You clearly enjoyed yourself."

That borderline demeaning tone masked with humor provokes anger in Beckett. His counter cleaning stalls at the wrong moment because you're out the door of your room while he's still by the end of the counter. Fortunately, you miss his wide-eyed look at being caught since you're taking in the laden countertops, upset.

At least you're wearing pajamas, fully dressed without any makeshift bedding cover-ups.

Did Alistair take your blanket from your bed? It's your favorite.

"I'm late," you lament. "Sorry, Bee."

This year you promised to be his sous chef and taster because Beckett can get a little intense about everything coming out right, if not perfect. You soothe that part of him by lingering in the kitchen. He'll glance up and see you standing there, which makes him extra determined to cook something you'll love and that would make his grandmother proud. "No, it's okay, really," he decides. "There's a lot to—"

"It's literally just baking." Alistair cuts through Beckett's reassurance. "He's got it covered."

Your upset heightens to irritation because Beckett can spot the change in your face—how you do that thing with your eyes paired with a slow turn in Alistair's direction. Should he warn him…? Cover for him? "I mean, I can handle it—no need to stress if you've got things to do."

"That could be my new pet name," Alistair teases you. "Why slave away in a kitchen? I can get us reservations somewhere." His grin widens when you give a recognizable warning look, suggesting to everyone this has been brought up already. "It can be a table for three or whatever." Alistair angles his head in Beckett's direction. "What do you say…? It'll be fun."

He has the impression he's supposed to say 'no' to going along with you both, but 'yes' to abandoning his own holiday. 'Friend' is in the title! Beckett focuses on you, suddenly unsure if this would be a superior evening, classy with less work and more time with your not-boyfriend.

"That idea is still DOA," you assert. "Drop it."

"I'm asking the reason for its death. Beckett is probably a helluva lot less weird about it."

He's the reason you're staying here for dinner?

Beckett's elation at that is engulfed with worries of if you're settling by staying in tonight. Alistair was technically included, except that may have been a compromise on your plans. He sets his wet dish towel aside after accidentally squeezing water out of it. "You two could—"

"No, that's all me," you retort. "I think it's best if you skip our dinner entirely. See? All me."

That was hot.

No, wait, no that means you're uninviting Alistair, which Beckett is confusingly happy about after what he overheard. No one should ever speak to you rudely. He avoids Alistair's questioning stare, moving to stand by your side in support.

"You're canceling on me?" Alistair demands, laughing uncomfortably at this turn of events. "I—that wasn't even an option I gave you…?"

"You wanted to cancel ours, just go," you request. "'Give' me some space. I'll call you."

Alistair shakes his head in disbelief, shooting a look at Beckett before grabbing his keys from the hook and storming out of your shared apartment. The door slamming shut gives him a good guess of who was making all of those thumps. "I… Are you okay?" he tentatively asks. You're still watching the door, clearly frustrated. "Or is there anything I can do?"

That wasn't really a break up, but still…

Beckett wrangles his conflicting emotions to be someone you can feel safe leaning on, opening his arms for a hug. He smiles weakly once you instantly step into them, hugging him for all he's worth. He'd take that and more. The two of you stay like that for what's longer than a conventional embrace, not that Beckett's too worried about that now when savoring it. Your pajamas are soft, smelling of your body wash, and you know how to wrap him up perfectly.

Above all else, it's comforting.

"He is kinda an ass with a great ass."

"Fair," Beckett mumbles. "But I didn't like some of his comments. He should treat you better."

You pull back after he says that, meeting his eyes for a moment where Beckett wills himself to concentrate on being reassuring rather than think about how stunning you naturally are.

"You're gorgeous and too good for Alistair."

That resolute thought is accidentally given voice, although Beckett doesn't regret it at all after you smile for him and resume your hug.

"Thanks, Bee."

"Anytime." Honestly, 'all the time' is what he believes. Hopefully, you don't notice the way his heart is both fluttering and racing slightly from what just happened. You've hugged him close before, so it must be from the minor confrontation. Beckett does his best to ignore his thoughts by pulling you closer and then dropping his voice to a teasing murmur. "…But you'll be on pan washing duty for being late. 'Kay?"

"That's cold," you mock complain.

"At least my cake will be served warm. Let's get cooking."

Finally, the two of you separate, sharing a look that says more to each other than anyone else would ever hope to understand.