You'll Be the Death of Me (Rated T)
aka the one where Benvolio calms down a flustered
Rosaline and gets a little something in return.

I've just been itching to write something for the ship that has basically taken over my life right now, yeah you know which two, so a drabble series here we go! It will be set entirely in the modern universe (I think the show & book did a good job at telling Rosvolio's story, and don't feel the need, yet, to play around with canon—maybe post-canon later on because they can't just end it like that)

Rated teen and up, but each story will have its own rating accordingly and warnings for anything explicit, triggering, abusive etc. will be given in advance. And lastly, I'm sorry if any of the characters seem or are OOC; it's definitely not my intention, by any means. (Also posted on AO3)

Enjoy (:

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Still Star-Crossed or their characters. All rights go to their respective owners.

"Did you get it?" Rosaline asks, the second she hears her husband's heavy boots coming towards the kitchen archway.

"Wife!" Benvolio greets in return with a boisterous yell. "You've been . . . busy." He quirks a brow in amusement at the scene before him—cabinets were open, cookware haphazardly strewn about, the sink almost overflowing, and in the middle of all that, stood his wife, with a deep scowl marrying the space between her brows.

It was a sight to behold—one that would no doubt grace the pages of his notebook.

She inwardly rolls her eyes, ignoring his words all together. Typical Montague. Always trying to be witty when not needed. "Did you get it?"

"Yes, my beloved, just as you asked." Benvolio answers, placing the small bag of said requested goods on the side of the counter that hadn't been taken over by the onset storm of pots and pans.

"But what makes these apples so special that it had to be bought all the way from the other side of town?" He plucks one out and holds it to the natural sunlight with careful curiosity, as if it weren't the reason why the sheets were ripped out from under him this morning—on his day off too, not that it mattered to his wife.

"They look like ordinary Granny Smiths." He gathers, absently tossing it into the air.

Rosaline is quick to catch the apple before he could so much as blink. "Not to my aunt they won't." She brandishes it like a weapon, casting him with a stern look of disapproval, her lips thinned and eyes narrowed.

Ah, yes, the reason for all this madness. Typical Capulets. Always bringing unwanted animosity to the picture.

The Capulets decided to call in the middle of a very . . . compromising condition—on the very same counter might he add—last night to announce they would be coming by for a visit, because as Rosaline's aunt had so sweetly claimed, 'it was time for a real family affair.' Her voice clipped, that you could practically hear the disdain dripping as she spoke each word.

And with Livia medical volunteering overseas and her cousin Juliet backpacking through Europe, it was her duty to put the whole thing together. Needless to say, his wife had been on edge since, bouncing around their small villa from cleaning to cooking to decorating, even replacing the light bulb fixtures in the den.

"These are slightly sweeter, and juicer — and why am I only seeing three apples here Benvolio? I specifically asked you to get four so there would be an even amount of flavor in each pie."

"Well, it was very juicy and certainly hit the spot," his low chuckle quickly dissolves into a sigh when he notices her shoulders tensing in a wave. "Do you want me to get another one?"

Shaking her head, Rosaline moves over to the sink and begins to wash the apples, quite vigorously. "There's not enough time." It wasn't even noon yet. "I'll somehow make do. But you can find my grandmother's bone china set and the good silverware, while you're being helpful."

There's a hint of a smirk leaking through his voice when he notes, "Should I start working on the stone sculptures too or better yet, make it marble?"

Rosaline whips around to face him, dark spirals of hair falling in front of her eyes. She looks as breathtaking as ever, even with the mixture of fatigue and frustration swirling in their deep depths. He just wanted to savor it, drink it all in, for it was something no painting or sketch could even capture the essence of.

"This is not funny, Montague!"

Really, she was the one being completely ridiculous: the fancy plates, the particular fruits — there wasn't a need for any of it. But deep down, he knew this was more so her way of coping with the stress that came with having to deal with the Capulet name.

"Capulet, calm down," he says softly, slowly stepping into her space until they're touching toe to toe. "Breathe. Look at me. You don't have to put yourself through all this trouble."

"Yes, I do! Need I remind you of your uncle's pleasant visit last summer?"

How could he forget the dinner that started off with a disgruntled match between his wife and uncle before the first course could even be consumed and ended with him struggling to hold back a very infuriated and red-faced Rosaline that left his arm feeling sore for the following week.

"And thanks to you, he hasn't returned since, which is a blessing in itself."

Rosaline heaves a sigh through her nose, weighing his very true point. Without Damiano's strident bark constantly grating her husband's ears anymore, his steps were lighter—almost waltz like, his face more content.

"You know I'm right." He teases, and she lets out an involuntary shriek at the sudden invasion of his beard prickling against the tender flesh below her ear.

"Ben—"

But her plea is futile when the warm pillow of his lips suddenly takes its place, followed by his tongue and she's six feet under. He repeats, "Tell me, Capulet. Tell me I'm right," his voice deeper, huskier, vibrating the air around them.

Oh god was he right — but she would never admit it, no matter how potent he was under all that leather and dark clothing, or if he was her husband bound together till do them part.

All this fuss and exertion and to what end? For people she no longer considered family? Maybe her uncle—No. Not even him a little bit. To hell with this, she thinks.

She needed a break. She needed away from all this. She needed a long, bubbly, rose-scented bath. But first — her fingers quickly find the belt loop of his slacks, pulling him close till their hips ground together, earning an appreciative groan from him.

She wanted the upper hand.

"Tell me Montague," she echoes, caressing each syllable of their family name. "What do you plan on doing for the rest of the afternoon?" her dark gaze burning brands into his green ones.

Heat begins to spread through him like an unstoppable tide, crawling up his spine to the tips of his ears, making a . . . certain region down there constrict a little too much—which his dear beloved sweetly reciprocated by arching herself further into him.

"Is that so? Because, I have a few activities in mind that will keep us both occupied . . ." She pauses, her voice dropping to a mere low and conspiratorial whisper. " . . . For, dare I say, a long, long, long time."

Dear sweet Jesus Christ Almighty, this woman was literally going to be the death of him – in quite the best way possible, but still the death of him nevertheless.

"And it starts with you . . ."

Lips inched closer and closer. Yes.

"Cleaning up this mess."

And just like that, with his pulse pounding, eyes lidded and breath heavy, he's completely caught off guard. "Capulet!" He yells out clearly unsatisfied to be left in such a state.

"All is fair in love and war, dear beloved." Came his wife's innocent rejoinder, already halfway up the stairs in a flurry of laughter.

He should've learnt his lesson the first time.

I know, it goes without saying, I'm super late to the Rosvolio party, now that show is done and dusted for good—boo ABC, they deserved so much better—but I will continue to write for these two babies because I'm not ready to say goodbye to them just yet—or if I'll ever be.

Knowing we'll never see them live out their happily married life together, I imagined it would be light-hearted: a mixture of love, teasing, and serious moments, which I wanted to showcase in this drabble—at least I hope I have.

Anyhow, any feedback/comments/suggestions would be really appreciated! Sorry if this one feels slightly rushed, I just really wanted to get it out there. I have the next story out-lined and hope you'll stick around for it. Thank you for reading, Nishita (: