Friends, this week has been rough. I've been part of the Rooster Teeth community for a number of years now, and even though I never had the privilege of meeting Monty, his unexpected and tragic loss has left us heartbroken. His RT family suggested honoring his memory by doing something artistic, and writing helps me process.
So.
Keep moving forward.
29. simple
Before, things would have been easy.
He would have taken her out for dinner at the Segarra. The place had been nice enough, yeah, with high ceilings and chandeliers and crystal goblets and private little booths for each couple, but it was still stupidly expensive. Not that he would ever gripe about the price. In fact, he wouldn't even look at the menu. He'd just tell her that she could order whatever she fancied, including desert.
The maître d' would come by and greet him by name, offer up the best vintage of the evening, maybe even compliment his date. Then they would order and no one would bother them for the rest of the night. He wouldn't even have to pay; it went straight on to the Baird family tab. He loved that, using his father's money to get laid. Two birds with one stone.
But things aren't that simple anymore.
For one, the grubs had torn the Segarra apart in the early years of the war. And Sam isn't the type of woman who would drop her panties when he threw money around—even if he still had money. No, she'd grown up with food shortages and food riots. If he'd met her sixteen, seventeen years ago, she would have found him a spoiled little rich boy, arrogant and selfish. And he really hasn't changed all that much in nearly two decades.
So, as grand (if insincere) gestures are unavailable to him, Baird settles for making the little things count.
There are mornings when, despite his best efforts, he can't get Sam to wake up in time for her shift. He sighs, heads downstairs to the kitchen, and brews the disgusting instant coffee that Gears have been living with since E-Day. Five minutes before Sam is supposed to start, he hears her finally wake with a loud "Bloody hell!" As she comes dashing down the stairs, Baird holds out a travel mug filled with coffee. Sam grabs it and bolts out the door, still swearing. The door has barely banged shut before she bursts back in, hurrying over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, and then she's gone again.
And if Baird smiles to himself, no one's around to see it.
There are afternoons when they both have the day off, which they usually spend lounging in the living room. Baird sits on the couch, pouring over the precious few textbooks he's managed to convince Hoffman to loan him, while Sam flips through an old, dog-eared paperback. She's stretched out, her legs flung lazily over his thighs, and she hums every so often as she turns a page. Baird tries to keep his eyes on his own book, but he keeps sneaking glances at her. She looks relaxed, content, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
And if Baird waits a few minutes longer than he normally would to get up and go to the bathroom, no one's any the wiser.
There are evenings when, true to his word, Baird attempts to teach Sam how to cook. Baird had taught himself out of necessity; his father the magistrate had been a busy man and kept odd hours, and there was no way in hell that his mother would go anywhere near the kitchen. Baird learned from watching the staff, so when he was hungry and no one was around he could actually do something about it.
It's slow going as Sam gets easily frustrated when things go wrong, so Baird learns to pick the meals carefully. Tonight he's showing her how to make a slightly fancier version of the basic egg-on-toast. Sam finds the idea of breakfast for dinner absolutely enchanting, which Baird attributes to growing up with a somewhat overbearing mother. They're going to toast buttered slices of bread in a frying pan; the "fancy" part comes from cutting a hole in the centre of the bread and then cooking the egg inside of it. Baird makes a circular hole and places both pieces in the pan. He looks over at Sam and sees that she's cut her hole in the shape of a heart. She smirks at him as he rolls his eyes, but he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He expects Sam to go back to making the toast; instead she keeps her eyes on him, and even though he's not looking directly at her he knows what expression she has on her face, and warmth begins to pool in his belly.
And if the toast is blackened and burnt later, well, neither of them seems to mind too much.
