Summary: Fun fact: Travis can knit. Wes really doesn't mind. Oneshot.
Warnings: Knitting. Crochet. Fluff. Canon-compliant. The boys have a moment or two. Kind of pre-slashy I guess.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.
Inspired by a conversation I had with autisticwesmitchell aboutwhat kind of crafts the boys would do. Knitting just really seemed to fit Travis and it was a cute fluffy little idea so I went with it.
OOOO
Yarn, Knitting Needles, And Other Comfortable Things
"In the rhythm of the needles, there is music for the soul."
—Anonymous
XXXX
Ten minutes into the stakeout, Travis groans, says, "My god, this is going to be just as boring as last night isn't it?" and reaches into the backseat. There's a rustle of plastic, and then Travis turns with a grocery bag in his hand, bulging with…yarn.
Brightly colored yarn in all shades of color.
Wes blinks. "What is that?"
"Baby socks," Travis says cheerfully, pulling the yarn from the bag, along with a pair of thin knitting needles and a tiny, half-finished sock. "Or, they will be. Shouldn't take long, though. Socks are pretty easy."
And, with a well-practiced ease, Travis sets the yarn in his lap, picks up the needles, and starts knitting.
Wes can only continue to stare, the gentle click-clack of the needles filling the car. "I don't…what?"
"Should've brought a book or something, babe," Travis says, flashing a grin his way. "I mean, judging by last night, we're in for the long haul."
Wes did, in fact, bring a book, tucked in the backseat alongside the cooler containing drinks and snacks, because he'd listened to enough of Travis's incessant whining last night to know he needed to supply his partner with a steady supply of snacks tonight or risk throttling him.
But Wes can't look away from what Travis is doing. There's something…something almost incongruous about Travis, rough-and-ready, reckless Travis with his leather jacket and motorcycles, knitting tiny, rainbow-colored baby socks.
"I, um…" Wes clears his throat, tries to tear his gaze away from the hypnotic motion of the needles. "I didn't know you could knit."
"Oh, sure, ever since I was a kid," Travis says blithely, like this is something obvious, like of course he can knit.
Wes finally drags his eyes to the windshield, staring at the building they're watching with more interest than it really warrants, considering there is absolutely nothing occurring right now. "How did you learn?"
The steady click-clack of the needles continues; Wes valiantly doesn't glance over.
"One of my foster moms taught me." Travis chuckles, soft and fond with remembrance. "You may not have guessed it, but I was kind of a wild kid."
"No," Wes mock-gasps, making the mistake of rolling his eyes in Travis's direction. He finds his gaze caught once more by the flash of the needles, click-clack, moving so deftly, tiny loops forming a tiny baby sock.
Travis grins, a flash of white teeth. "Yeah, well. I got in trouble a bit, getting into stuff I shouldn't, that sort of thing. So my mom sat me down and forced me to learn how to knit. It kept my hands occupied. And, you know, it's pretty cool completing a project, creating something out of practically nothing."
Wes knows that feeling, every time he takes a tiny seed and plants it and watches it sprout into something amazing, guided into new life by his hands, and he feels a stunning sweep of—comradery? fondness? for his partner.
Wes ignores the feeling and gives his head a little shake, looking out the window once more. "It's hard to picture you knitting."
Actually, it's disturbingly easy, imagining Travis as a young, precocious child, forced to sit and learn how to knit. He probably complained, at first, tried to get out of it, but eventually he would have settled down and learned, knitting spooling from the needles, stillness falling over him, gentle and serene.
Click-clack, click-clack, goes the needles, and it's a peaceful sound.
Travis smirks at him. "Hey, you spend your weekends on your knees in the grass, so don't even talk to me about weird hobbies."
That makes Wes frown slightly. "That sounds dirty when you say it."
"It'd be a lot more fun if it was dirty my way instead of, like, actual dirt." Travis wrinkles his nose in distaste, not even seeming to pay attention to what his hands are doing but his pace never slows. "I just don't get it, man. How can gardening possibly be fun?"
"You just say that because you have a black thumb."
"That…is not the only reason," Travis protests.
"Sure, sure," Wes says, rolling his eyes once more, which leads to a hearty round of passive bickering. Eventually the conversation moves on to other topics, but throughout the night, Wes finds his eyes drawn to the needles in Travis's hand, moving steadily without pause, a peaceful and soothing cadence.
XXXX
"Wes," Travis says, "I need you to come over now."
Wes frowns at his phone. "Is it an emergency?"
"Oh, don't give me that, I've come over to help you weed your stupid garden a bunch of times, so just get your ass over here," Travis snaps, hanging up before Wes can protest.
That's not entirely true—Wes has cajoled Travis over maybe three times, and honestly, Travis spends so much time whining and shirking the task that it's almost faster to just do it all himself. But, Wes points out to himself, Travis has come over to help, so he takes a breath and drives to Travis's place.
Which is how he finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands out with his fingers splayed, as Travis winds and untangles yarn around his fingers.
"Why am I here?" he bemoans, hanging his head. "Why?"
"Because you're an awesome partner who loves me greatly," Travis chirps, threading another few loops of bright blue around Wes's hands. The basket between them is a tangled, unruly mess—apparently, one of Travis's foster sisters was attempting to make a baby blanket, and finally gave up, shoving the unused yarn upon Travis.
And somehow, being Travis's partner means it is Wes's solemn duty to Help Untangle The Yarn.
Sighing, Wes lifts his head, glaring balefully at the basket, which is overflowing with loose yarn. They're going to be here all day at this rate.
"Do you know what you're going to make yet?" he asks.
"Nope," Travis says, cheerfully easing the blue yarn from Wes's hands. Wes takes the opportunity to flex his fingers while Travis searches the basket for the end of another color. "I mean, I'm gonna make my sister's baby blanket, obviously, but I haven't figured out what else I'm gonna make."
"Aren't there tons of patterns for knitted stuff?" Wes asks. At Travis's beckoning, he holds his hands out once more, and Travis starts winding a vibrant pumpkin orange around his hands.
"Oh, sure, there's all sorts of patterns out there." Travis shrugs. "Unfortunately, most of them are for gloves or scarves or hats. Winter clothes. Not much call for that sort of thing in sunny LA. I mostly stick with socks and blankets. I make a mean afgan."
"Huh," Wes says. He hadn't really thought about that, but it makes sense. "Well," he says before he can think about it, "You'll have to make me an afgan sometime, then."
Travis looks up, grin blinding. "Yeah?"
Wes feels a flush cross his cheeks, and he ducks his head. "Alex would love it," he mumbles, watching the yarn cover his hands, and Travis hums in agreement.
XXXX
There's no special occasion, no holiday, so Wes is quite surprised when Travis thrusts a paper bag at him and says, "Here you go."
Wes blinks and peers inside, seeing bright blue yarn. It looks familiar, somehow, and it takes a moment to place it—it's the same bright blue as the yarn Travis had him help untangle, all those months ago.
Slowly, he pulls the object out, unfolding it. It's a blanket, thick stripes of bright blue and pumpkin orange and soft green and deep, rich purple. It should clash; somehow, it doesn't.
Wes feels an unexpected lump in his throat. "You made this for me?"
"Well, yeah. You said you wanted one." Travis blinks. "Were you joking?"
"No." Wes runs his fingers over the soft yarn, smiling softly. "No, it's great. Thank you, Travis."
Travis smiles, ducks his head, looking unexpectedly bashful, and Wes runs his fingers over the blanket again, feeling something warm and sweet in his chest.
XXXX
(When he moves out of the house, he takes the afgan. Alex doesn't say anything, just gives him a small smile that has a wealth of meaning he can't—or doesn't want to—interpret.
Later, when he comes back to visit on one of his yard-watering sprees, he sees a new blanket draped over the back of the couch, done in pastel greens and yellows and hot oranges and pinks. Alex sees him looking, and says, almost defensively, "It was a lovely blanket. I wanted one for myself."
"Okay," is all Wes can say, and when he goes home that night all he can do is run his hands over his blanket and wonder at the disquiet in his chest.)
XXXX
Although Wes didn't know of Travis's hobby at first, it's quite apparent that it's not a secret. For her birthday, Travis gifts Kate with an infinity scarf, an endless loop of pale purple yarn; Amy gets a lacy shawl in fiery oranges and yellows that bring out the reds in her hair. And while there is no real evidence of knitted gifts among the captain's things in his office, there is a picture on his desk of the captain and his wife, sitting on a couch, with a striped blanket thrown over the back. A striped blanket that looks very much like the one Wes has, though the colors are different.
(Paekman had a blanket, too, an oversized throw in variegated threads that shifted from sunset gold to deep, rich umber and back again. After Paekman died, Wes found the throw folded neatly at the base of Travis's bed, decoratively draped over the comforter. Wes didn't mention it.)
It's become such a standard thing for Travis to whip out a couple of knitting needles and a ball of yarn when they're waiting around, because it seems like Travis always knows someone who needs a baby blanket or socks or, hell, a coffee mug cozy. It just becomes something steady and familiar—they're waiting for something, so Travis will take five minutes to add another couple of rows of stitches, the needles going click-clack, click-clack, soothing and repetitive.
It's so common anymore that Wes doesn't even think about it when, on a slow day in the office, Travis pulls a half-finished beanie from the bottom of his drawer, puts his feet up on the edge of his desk, and starts knitting, right there in the bullpen.
It's familiar by now, comforting, and Wes finds himself relaxing where he sits, listening to the familiar cadence of the knitting needles with one corner of his mouth curving up.
And Wes has seen enough evidence of Travis's gifts being spread around the office that he just figures everyone knows by now, so it's quite a surprise when Dietz walks by, scoffs loudly, and says, "When'd you turn into an old lady, Marks?"
The knitting needles pause, and Wes looks up. Travis is looking up at Dietz blankly, an unexpectedly vulnerable look in his eyes, and Wes feels his hackles bristling, feels the urge to leap to his feet and stand between Dietz and his partner.
Travis blinks, and the vulnerability vanishes like it never was. "What?"
Dietz sneers, takes a sip of his coffee. "Knitting. Who knew you'd have such a girly hobby?"
That's when Travis smiles, saccharine sweet, the sort of smile that has Wes's hindbrain screaming Run for the hills! Without taking his eyes off Dietz, Travis's hands start moving once more, the steady silver flash of the needles, normally so soothing, somehow turned threatening, the way Travis is wielding them.
"I'll shove this knitting needle up your ass, we'll see how girly this hobby is then, yeah?" Travis says, just as sweet as his smile, and maybe Wes isn't the only one nuanced in the Ways Of Travis Marks, because Dietz actually flinches a little, backing off a step. Without another word, Dietz turns and stalks back to his desk. Travis calls after him, "See if I ever make you anything, asshole!" to his retreating back.
Later, when Wes is driving Travis home, Wes is thinking. And he's thinking that Travis has been acting normal all day, but there was that moment, that one, fleeting glimpse of vulnerability on Travis's face when Dietz spoke, like Dietz's words hit harder than expected, and Wes—Wes wants to say something, or do something, something to make it better. To fix this, because Travis has never looked vulnerable like that, and Wes doesn't like it.
"Dietz is an asshole," he blurts out, staring at the stoplight ahead.
Travis barely glances over. "Dude, that's not a revelation, we all knew that."
Wes tries again. "I…my hobbies would be considered girly. Objectively speaking." Not that Wes believes in girly hobbies and manly hobbies, that's a stupid notion in the first place, but…technically speaking cooking, cleaning, and gardening are often considered feminine.
Now Travis glances over, a smirk curling at his lips. "Are you trying to make me feel better? Wes, that is so sweet."
"Shut up." He's commiserating here, dammit.
Travis just chuckles, leaning back in his seat. "Babe, I knit, and I grew up in foster care. I've heard worse from punks half Dietz's size." He reaches out, gently punches Wes's arm. "But thanks, man."
A week later, Travis gives Wes a set of leaf green coasters, and Wes can see the meaning behind the gift and smiles to himself.
XXXX
For Christmas that year, Travis gifts everyone with knitted socks. Except for Dietz. Dietz gets a five dollar gift card and a scornful, superior look from Travis as he hands it over.
Wes's socks are blue, shifting, variegated threads, from brilliant turquoise to deep, ocean blue. Wes is unexpectedly reminded of Travis's eyes.
Wes wears those socks at home more often than he'll ever admit.
XXXX
"I'm bored, Wes," Travis groans, dropping his head in his hands and slumping over his desk. "Wes, I am so bored."
"There is a stack of paperwork right by your elbow," Wes says dryly, "entertain yourself with that."
Travis mock-gasps, dramatically clasping his hand to his chest. "Wesley Mitchell, how could you say that to me?" He shakes his head mournfully. "What kind of person do you think I am?"
"An asshole who won't do this paperwork, apparently."
"But are you really surprised anymore?" Travis waves a dismissive hand. "No, that's not what I was talking about at all."
Wes sighs, sets down his pen, and looks up, because he knows this game and it's just easier to give in and get it over with. "Please, Travis," he says, as tonelessly and with as much disinterest as possible. "Enlighten me. What are you bored with?"
"My knitting, Wes!" Travis smacks his hands lightly on his desk, slumping dramatically. "I'm tired of making blankets and socks and baby socks and baby blankets. I'm running out of family members who are having babies!"
"How awful," Wes says dryly, and picks up his pen once more.
"It's the worst," Travis moans, forehead dropping to his desk with a dull thud. Sadly, it doesn't stop his whining. "I can make a blanket in my sleep, dammit. Why can't we live somewhere colder where I can make scarves and hats and—and gloves, I wanna make gloves, I bet that pattern's super interesting!"
"You made Kate a scarf once," Wes says absently, tapping his lips with his pen as he studies the form in front of him.
Travis looks up with a scowl. "One scarf, Wes. In thirty years I have made one scarf. Not exactly an astounding variety here."
"Then find patterns for other things," Wes says. "I'm sure there's something online. Or, I don't know, find a new hobby. But in the meantime, why don't you get started on that stack of paperwork, hmm?"
His partner stares at him mournfully, lower lip jutting out just enough to make him look like a pouting five-year-old. "Why do you say these hurtful things to me?"
It takes twenty more minutes and a bribe before Travis can be convinced to do his damn paperwork. By then, Wes has completely forgotten about his own comment.
XXXX
They're sitting across from an electronics store, hoping their suspect will come in for his weekly visit, and Wes hears the crinkle of plastic. He doesn't need to glance over to know that sound—that's how Travis always brings his knitting supplies, in a plastic grocery bag rather than getting something sturdier, and any moment now the gentle click-clack of the needles will fill the car. Wes bites back a smile and watches the store, relaxing into his seat.
But a minute passes, and another, and the reassuring rasp of the knitting needles doesn't come.
Trying to be subtle, Wes looks over. At first glance it appears like Travis is doing what he always does, but—he's clearly not. There's only one needle, instead of two, and this one has a little hook at the end.
"What—" Wes clears his throat. "What are you doing?"
"Crochet," Travis says, propping his foot up on the dash. "It's kind of like knitting, except in all the ways it's not."
Wes swallows hard, staring. It shouldn't be that different—there's still the flash of a needle, still an abundance of yarn. Clearly crochet isn't very dissimilar to knitting, at least as far as Wes can tell.
But it's not right.
"Why?"
"Why not?" Travis shrugs with abandon. "You're the one who told me to get a new hobby, and this one seemed as good as any."
"I…" There's really not much Wes can say to that. "I did, didn't I." He'd said it, but he certainly never imagined Travis would take him up on it. And now, frankly, he's not quite sure what to do about it.
Quietly, he turns back to the front, but his mind is a million miles away from the electronics store they're supposed to be watching.
XXXX
The fruit of Travis's new craft appears on Wes's desk, sitting beside his phone. Wes picks it up, fully aware that Travis is watching him with a pleased, proud little grin. Carefully, Wes examines the little animal, with its pointy little nose and tufted back.
"It's a….hedgehog?" he ventures forth.
Travis makes a loud, exasperated sigh. "It's a porcupine, Wes. It's just like you. Sharp and prickly on the outside, soft and squishy underneath."
That's a surprisingly accurate assessment. Wes throws the porcupine at Travis's head.
Travis just chortles, holding the little toy up. "Don't be like that, Wes. Porcu-Wes just wants to be your friiieend." He draws out the last word annoyingly long, and Wes rolls his eyes and says, "You're an idiot."
Travis just laughs again and deposits the porcupine back on Wes's desk. Wes stares at it.
It is kind of cute, even he can admit that. But…it's not the same.
XXXX
Like Travis's knitting, presents of crochet animals soon become gifted around the squad room. Amy receives a delicate butterfly, the same bright yellows and oranges as the shawl Travis gave her, so long ago. She hot-glues a clip to it and attaches it to the side of her monitor. Kate's takes a little longer, a kitten with the same patterning as Milo, the little cat she adopted after a case. Kate lights up when she sees it and promptly places it on her desk, beside a framed photo of her holding Milo.
Randi gets a miniature of Hudson. Kendall receives a fat little bumblebee, and Travis has Wes deliver a purple bat to Jonelle. It's almost a shame that Travis is too scared to face Jonelle on his own, because the medical examiner's face softens as she holds the little toy, and it's a sight to see.
The captain gets half a dozen tiny fish, strung up with colored sticks and string into a mobile. The captain hangs it in the corner of his office, above his sound machine, and Travis looks inordinately pleased whenever he walks in and sees it.
Dietz, as promised, receives nothing.
And it's great that Travis's gifts are going over so well, great that Travis is enjoying his new hobby so much, so Wes keeps his odd disquiet to himself. It's selfish, and the last thing he wants to do is take away from Travis's joy.
XXXX
But seriously, it bugs him, seeing the bright yarn, but not hearing the click-clack of the needles. It's strange and uncomfortable and Wes doesn't like it.
But he can't say anything, not when Travis is so pleased with his new craft. He can't do that to his partner.
He finds a video online, just fifteen minutes of the gentle, familiar rasp of metal knitting needles hitting each other, click-clack, click-clack.
Wes stops the video a minute in. It's simply not the same without Travis's chatter filling the air.
XXXX
"You okay?" Travis asks with concern, studying him.
Wes grits his teeth, glaring at his computer screen. "I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cuz you've been tense and edgy all week." Travis leans in, coming into Wes's peripheral vision. "Something on your mind?"
Wes turns his head so he can no longer see Travis even in his peripherals. "No." Short, sharp, brusque, it's a single word that says Fuck off Travis leave me alone.
Travis sighs, chair creaking as he leans back, but he doesn't say anything else. Wes types vehemently for a while, trying to vent his frustration by hitting his keyboard extra hard. It doesn't work.
And then he hears that sound, that delicate crinkle of a plastic grocery bag, and his hands freeze on his keyboard. Slowly, knowing what he's going to see, he turns.
Sure enough, Travis has leaned back in his seat, crocheting…something, a ball of bright orange yarn resting in his lap.
Crocheting, and quite without meaning to, Wes curls his fingers into his palms.
"Must you do that?" he demands, the words coming out sharp, brittle. He sounds angry; he doesn't mean to.
Travis's hands stop moving, and he looks up, eyebrows rising. "Who pissed in your Wheaties this morning, Wes?"
"No one. Just—" Wes grits his teeth. "Do you have to do that at work?"
"Do what? Breathe?"
"That!" Wes jabs a finger at the ball of yarn in Travis's lap. "The thing with the yarn! Do you have to do that?"
Travis goes still, and Wes is suddenly aware of how quiet the room is. There's a moment where it feels like everyone is staring at them, at him, and he feels an uncomfortable flush cross his skin. Oh god, what an ass he must seem, because he's never had a problem with Travis doing his crafting at work before.
Wes isn't even entirely sure why he's upset, because it really isn't like there's that much of a difference between knitting and crochet, so it shouldn't bother him so damn much. He opens his mouth to apologize for his outburst, for flying off the handle for no good reason, but—
There's this look on Travis's face, uncertain and vulnerable, and Wes freezes, heart constricting. He saw this look before, a brief flash of emotion, and it had made him want to rise up and protect Travis, keep that look from ever crossing his partner's face again.
This time it's his fault, and he doesn't know what to say to make it better.
"Sorry, Wes," Travis says quietly, hastily rolling up the yarn and shoving it all into his desk drawer. He smiles, the vulnerable look gone like it never existed, but the corners of his mouth are taut and his eyes are wary. "Didn't realize it bothered you so much."
"Travis," Wes says quietly, and then stops. He doesn't know what else to say.
"It's fine," Travis says, because Travis always says it's fine, even when it's not. Especially when it's not. He sits forward, picks up a report from his desk. "It's cool, man."
It's not. But Wes doesn't know how to fix it.
XXXX
After that, things are…subdued. Oh, Travis still acts like he always does, loud and brash, reckless and idiotic. He still banters with Wes, tosses insults and endearments in the same sentence. He still pushes Wes's buttons and drives him to the brink.
But during the quiet moments, the in-between moments, it's different. Before, Travis would whip out his knitting or that damn crochet and add a few rows, chattering all the while. Now he taps his hands on his knees and stares out the window and only talks when Wes asks him something.
Goddammit, Wes thinks to himself, and desperately racks his brain for a way to fix this.
XXXX
"I want you to make me a sweater," Wes says, bracing himself on the doorway to Travis's apartment.
Travis blinks. "What?"
"A sweater," Wes repeats, trying not to look as nervous as he feels. "Or a hat, or a scarf, or—or gloves. You want to make gloves, right?"
Travis blinks again, then slowly frowns. "I thought you hated my crafting."
"I don't hate your crafting," Wes protests weakly.
"Oh really." Travis crosses his arms, one eyebrow raised incredulously. "So your little bitch-fit was, what, you showing your affection?"
Wes doesn't say anything; his hands tighten on the doorframe.
Travis sighs. "Look, man, Dr. Ryan has talked about this. You gotta tell me when things are bothering you, 'cuz let's face it, you're damn good at not letting on. I've been knitting for years, you should have told me to bug off a long time ago if it ticked you off that much."
"I don't mind you knitting," Wes says, before he can think about it. "It's the crochet I don't like."
Travis rears back, both eyebrows flying up. "What? Why? It's basically the same craft."
"No it's not," Wes protests. "It's different."
"Well, yeah, I know that. Why are you saying that?"
And suddenly Wes realizes that he's being stupid, that this entire thing is stupid, and he really, really needs to go away before he embarrasses himself any further. "Nevermind," he snaps, pushing away from the door. "It's nothing."
He's halfway to the stairwell when Travis catches up and grabs his arm. "Wes, dammit, stop." Reluctantly, Wes stops, glancing at Travis, then looking away.
Travis sighs. "Will you just…come inside for a minute?" Without waiting for a response, Travis guides him back to his apartment; despite his better judgement, Wes follows.
Travis deposits Wes on one end of the couch and sits on the other, arms and legs crossed and a frown on his face. "Okay, talk," he orders, "or I'll tell Dr. Ryan about your irrational need for gloves in the middle of a heat wave."
That's one thing Wes really really hates about therapy, having the Dr. Ryan card used against him.
He exhales, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Look, it's nothing, really. I overreacted. It won't happen again."
"Dude, you practically bit my head off last week. That's a bit more than an overreaction."
Yeah. Yeah, it was. Wes sighs, folding his hands in front of his face, stares at the coffee table instead of Travis, and tries to formulate his thoughts into something that might actually make sense.
"That's okay, Wes. We don't have to talk now. Friday is just two days away, it'll keep till then—"
"It's the sound," Wes says, cutting him off, because the last thing he wants to do is bring all this crap up in therapy, god.
Travis blinks, dropping his arms. "What?"
"The sound. When you crochet, it doesn't sound right." Wes waves a vague hand. "Because there's only one needle, so it doesn't—it doesn't click."
"Doesn't…click," Travis repeats slowly.
Wes can feel his face heating up, and he ducks his head. If he stares any harder at the coffee table will just melt. "I…find it…relaxing. The sound of the needles. It doesn't do that when you crochet."
"Relaxing," Travis says slowly, and god, Wes must be scarlet by now. It sounds so stupid when he says it like that, because okay, it's one thing to find the knitting needles relaxing, but flipping out on Travis over the crochet was a little over the line. He should have just kept his damn mouth shut—
"Okay."
Wes sits up, can't help glancing over. "Okay?"
Travis nods thoughtfully. "Okay. Yeah, I can work with that." He grins, shrugs a little. "Just means I crochet at home. So it works."
"You don't have to do that, Travis."
"Naw, man, it's fine." Travis makes a dismissive motion. "Been meaning to start on a baby blanket for Dakota, anyway, so this works out." He scoots across the couch, clapping Wes's shoulder, letting his hand linger. "Don't worry about it."
"Travis," Wes says softly, "I'm sorry. For yelling at you like that." And for putting that awful, vulnerable look on Travis's face, the one that meant Travis had been hurt a lot more than expected. He never wanted to hurt Travis like that.
Travis gives Wes a little squeeze. "It's alright, man. I've said my share of shitty stuff too." Then he grins, an impish, wicked little thing. "Besides, you'll make it up to me at Christmas by wearing the ugly sweater I'm gonna make you. It's gonna be great."
"The what?" Travis just keeps grinning, rising from the couch. "Seriously, Travis, the what?"
XXXX
Travis plops into the passenger seat and immediately rummages in his knitting bag. "So, I know you hate crochet—"
"I didn't actually say that—"
"—but I made you these." Triumphantly, Travis pulls out two of his little crocheted dolls, tossing them into Wes's lap.
Wes picks them up, studies them. They're tiny people with blue button eyes; one of them has yellow hair and a grey suit, and the other has brown skin and a wide stitched grin.
"See," Travis points, "that one is you, and this one is me!"
"Yeah, I—I got that part, Travis." They're not very big—maybe six inches tall, at best. He holds them next to each other, looking at the neat little rows of loops and stitches, and he has a dozen questions on his tongue, the most important one being Why?
But then he looks at Travis, at his partner's pleased, grinning face, and the why isn't so important after all, because—yeah, Wes kind of gets it.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They're cute."
"Aren't they, though? And you gotta admit, mini-me carries off my rakish charm quite well."
Wes snorts, carefully placing the two dolls side by side on his dash. Still beaming proudly, Travis pulls out the beginning of Dakota's baby blanket, already chattering away.
As the gentle click-clack of Travis's knitting needles fills the car, Wes can already feel himself relaxing, tension easing out of his muscles like it was never there. He looks at his partner, then at the two little dolls on his dash, and he smiles.
XXXX
ALTERNATE SUMMARY: Wes Is Definitely Autistic And Travis's Knitting Is Totally A Stim.
I don't know anything but the basics about knitting, which is why this fic is from Wes's point of view and not Travis's.
This was cute and fun to write and I hope you enjoyed it. It's nice to write these light fluff pieces sometimes. Comments, reviews, and constructive criticism are always welcome.
Until next time~!