Chapter Text
December 24th, 1996
He hadn’t thought this through.
In his eagerness to escape the family for even a half hour, he’d volunteered for this matter-of-life-and-death trip to the only grocery store still open on Christmas Eve, valiantly promising his sister he’d return with baking soda or die trying. Helaena was the only one in their family who didn’t appreciate morbid humor, and with the roads leading up and down the mountain that Rhaenyra's estate was on being known to ice up if the sky even threatened snow – which it had been since late afternoon – she’d nearly considered his jest a bad omen and called the entire ‘make cookies as a forced family bonding experience’ off. He’d assured her he’d be fine – guardrails meant he wouldn’t plummet to his death, only fuck up his car and have to hoof it back up the mountain – then fled the scene before she could poke a hole in that assumption.
Also, before she could specify what type of baking soda he should buy, and in what quantity.
His right hand rhythmically squeezed the handle of the shopping basket hanging empty at his side (he wasn’t sure why he grabbed it upon entering the store, except perhaps out of habit) while he stared at more varieties of baking soda than could possibly be necessary.
There was the ever-familiar orange Arm & Hammer, but he’d only ever seen it being used to clean grout or fabric stains, deodorize refrigerators, or alkalinize swimming pools. Was it even food grade? And if so, should he get the half-pound box or the 3-pound bag? Because one pound sounded like a lot, but the box looked quite small and Aemond had never baked cookies or breads or cakes or whatever Helaena had planned. He supposed there was no harm in buying too much as opposed to not enough, except that if baking soda was one of those ‘little goes a long way’ things, he’d feel like an idiot for arriving with that 3-pound, resealable bag. Bad enough his nephews, the oldest of whom were only a couple years younger than him, used to ask their mother if Aemond was ‘special’ because he didn’t talk much when he was young, and even into his teens, except when he was mad in which case he’d become so incensed that he couldn’t stop talking – or rather, shouting. He’d shout what was effectively gibberish because his brain couldn’t decide what bad or hateful words to use. Rather, it tried to use them all at once. Kind of like when one’s brain thinks to say either ‘take care’ or ‘so long’ and ends up saying ‘take long’.
He took a deep breath and studied the options that looked less like they belonged under a sink and more like they belonged in a pantry. There was a white and red box that he suspected was the store brand equivalent of Arm & Hammer, and a pink bag of ‘Bob’s Red Mill Baking Soda, A Baking Essential’.
The last two words sold him, along with the fact that Bob’s was, allegedly, employee-owned, and he was reaching for the one-pound bag when his only eye landed on a small, dark red jar of Rumford Baking Powder with a small photo of biscuits on the label. Next to it was the store brand version in the same size jar, and next to that a competing brand – Davis – and next to that another competing brand – Hain.
What the fuck? Could the world possibly need four different varieties of baking powder? And, more pertinent to Aemond, had Helaena asked for baking powder or baking soda? He’d walked into the store certain it was the latter, but now…
The sound of approaching footsteps on his blindside, which he knew to be feminine (people with one weakened sense really do learn to compensate with the others), forced him to make a decision so as not to look like a weirdo who agonized over baking products when a snowstorm was brewing outside and the store was due to close in about fifteen minutes. He grabbed the Red Mill baking soda and the Rumford baking powder, dropped them in his handbasket and turned to head to the front of the store.
And fuck him for commending his sense of hearing. Fuck him for even still being in the aisle thanks to five solid minutes of deliberation over fucking baking soda and baking powder. Fuck him for caring enough about his family’s opinion to feel self-conscious around them when around anyone else in the world he appeared poised or even cocky (even if a ball of self-consciousness on the inside). Fuck him for all of it, because he turned and the basket swung and hit the girl walking down the aisle right in the ass. Her winter coat was long enough to cover it, but also revealed enough of her shape for him to know that was precisely where the basket hit her – square in the derrier.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, but it was drowned out by her much louder, “So sorry!” peeped out as she turned to face him.
So she was a habitual apologizer. Well, better than her being the sort to squawk an accusation of sexual harassment, he supposed.
“My fault,” he said, a little more loudly than his half-ass apology had been, though he figured she’d take in his glass eye and the scarring around it and realize that he couldn’t quite help it. Well, he could’ve been paying more attention to his surroundings and less to jars of baking powder and bags of baking soda, but she didn’t know that.
“Baking?” she asked after a quick glance down to his basket then back up to his face.
“Uh…” he was taken aback that she was engaging him in conversation instead of continuing on her way. Christmas Eve, going on seven PM, with snow in the overnight forecast, was not when people lingered in fluorescent-lit grocery stores talking to strangers. “Yeah,” he belatedly replied. “I mean, not me. My sister. Well, and the other women in the family, but it was my sister’s idea.”
(Maybe his nephews had been right about him all along.)
“That sounds fun!” the girl smiled like she actually meant it. That, too, took him aback. Mainly because she looked like the sort of girl – young woman – who should be on magazine covers and fashion show runways. Long-legged, slender, with clear, flawless skin and green-blue eyes and kissable lips and auburn hair and a perfectly straight nose and a perfectly shaped face.
He became all too aware that his too-long hair was windblown and likely falling weird from the two dozen or so times today he’d tied it back then released it. He’d never broken the habit of playing with his hair when he was nervous. As a kid he would pull the hair he refused to allow anyone to cut in front of his face, ostensibly to play with it but really to shield the eyepatch from others’ view. He’d only look truly simple-minded if he did that as an adult, so he settled for running his fingers through it and smoothing it back into a careless bun or, if it was already in a bun, pulling the hair tie out and combing his fingers along his roots.
He resisted the urge to do the former now, while also resisting the urge to pivot so the unmoving glass eye would be out of the girl’s sight.
“I’m baking too,” she added after giving him plenty of time to respond to her assumption (which he hadn’t), “except only with my little cousin who has the attention span of a puppy.”
Aemond forced himself to smile, though wasn’t sure he held it long enough. “How old?” he managed to ask, also unsure whether it sounded like he actually cared.
“Fourteen.”
He raised a brow quizzically. Now he did care, or at least felt a stirring of curiosity, because a fourteen-year-old ought to have the attention span needed to bake a batch of cookies or whatever they were doing.
“I know,” she smiled and rolled her eyes, “But he has epilepsy and some other medical issues, so his parents never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to, for fear of upsetting him. Also didn’t let him do certain things he did want to do if it involved strenuous physical activity. As a result, they ended up with a spoiled kid who is impatient, sensitive, and somehow simultaneously hyperactive and lazy.”
“Wow. Makes me actually think the kids in my family aren’t so bad.”
She shrugged, “Robert actually isn’t so bad when I’m with him long enough to break him of his bad habits.”
“So you’re just here for the holidays?”
Before he could clarify that he wasn’t hitting on her, or planning to stalk her, she held her free hand up and teetered it, “I used to live here, but only for about a year and a half before moving to Oldtown for college.”
“That’s where I live!” he blurted out. Waaaay too excitedly.
Or so he thought, until the girl’s mouth and eyes were gaping at him, and not in a horrified way but in a way that matched his excitement at the discovery, “Really?! What a small world!”
“You go to Citadel?” he asked. That was the likely answer.
She nodded passionately, “Yeah! Do you go there, too?”
He shook his head, “Graduated two years ago.”
“So you were a senior when I was a freshman. What school?”
“Business. You?”
“Science. I’m a sociology major.”
“Didn’t even know Citadel had a sociology track.” Shit. That sounded rude, didn’t it?
She only laughed, “I’m not sure it should count as one. I wasn’t really set on a major when I sent out my applications, and I was kinda trying to get as far away from my aunt and uncle as I could without leaving the continent. My aunt had a conniption. I’d only been living there a little over a year but already she’d become dependent on me to help with Robert. While finding fault in everything I do with Robert. And in everything I do, period.”
Aemond snorted, “Well, not to engage in a competition of ‘who had it worse’, but at least your aunt noticed your existence. I was my father’s fourth child, my mother’s third, and my half-sister and my older brother are both very squeaky wheels.”
“Well, not that it’s a competition or anything,” she grinned at him, “but I happen to have a pretty severe case of middle child syndrome. My older brother was the straight-A student, star running back, class valedictorian who hogged all the yearbook superlatives. My little sister was a hellion who routinely walked away from our parents in public to strike up a conversation with a stranger, ran away from home whenever our mom tried to make her wear a dress for a holiday or special occasion, and could barely manage a C-minus average, not because she was dumb but because she hated sitting still and listening.”
Though she sounded cheerful enough, he couldn’t help but notice that at one point she lived with two parents and two siblings, then had to move in with an aunt and uncle when she would’ve been roughly sixteen, assuming she started college at the normal age. He could only imagine that meant her parents were deceased, but knew better than to ask.
“So your brother got all your parents’ praise, your sister got all your parents’ punishment, and you got…?”
She shrugged, “Occasional appreciation for being low maintenance. The upside is – I like to think – it made me humble. The downside is I react like a puppy to even the most superficial and benign praise.”
He couldn’t help but grin mischievously as he said, in a very superficial and benign voice, “I like your coat.”
She rolled her eyes but, apparently, would not back down from a challenge. She gushed her thanks giddily then proceeded to tell him about how she couldn’t decide between the plum and the olive color and ended up getting both because she did have a 30% off coupon and she had gone a few years without buying a new winter coat, all in what was obviously meant to be an exaggerated impersonation of herself.
And as he was chuckling but before he could think of a response, a loud, crackly voice from above said, “Attention Price-Mart Shoppers. The store will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the checkout stands. And on behalf of the entire Price-Mart family, we wish you a very merry Christmas!”
He passed a tight smile at the girl, “I guess that’s our queue.”
“Yeah, I guess so. And I still have things to get!” she began looking around the aisle.
“Need help?” he offered, though he wasn’t sure why.
She stared at the section of shelving in front of her, “I don’t remember if the one recipe called for light brown sugar or dark brown sugar.”
He snorted, “Save yourself some consternation and just grab both.”
“Oh, makes sense,” she nodded before taking his advice, taking a bag of each and tossing them into the hand basket that contained only packs of hot cocoa and a can of whipped cream. He could appreciate her priorities.
“And for the chocolate chip cookies, is it semi-sweet chocolate chips or 60% bittersweet?” she asked aloud to herself, though obviously he could hear.
“You’re asking the wrong person, but my previous advice stands.”
“Right,” she nodded, grabbing a bag of each then deliberating a few more seconds before snatching a bag of milk chocolate chips off the shelf and tossing them all in the basket. She looked at him, blushed, and shrugged, “I can always eat them if I have to.”
“Sounds like a hardship.”
She chuckled at that, and he liked the sound.
Together they made their way to the sole open checkout aisle and Aemond realized the employees probably would’ve shut down twenty minutes ago if not for him and the girl. Woman.
He also realized he didn’t know her name.
He also also realized he was too chickenshit to ask.
He ushered her ahead of him, which made her blush and demur, but he insisted. So as not to make her feel rushed, especially after she added a pack of gum, a Cherry Chapstick, and the latest issue of Cosmo to the belt, he took his time putting his whopping two items on the belt behind one of the dividers, then really took his time withdrawing his wallet from his back pocket and counting out the six bucks he figured would cover his total.
A careful glance up and he saw the girl holding a plastic bag in one hand while the other accepted change from the cashier who added a hurried but not entirely disingenuous, “Merry Christmas!”
The cashier had already scanned and bagged Aemond’s two items when the girl turned toward him, a blush once again staining her cheeks as she said, “Well, thanks for the help! Merry Christmas! Enjoy your baking. Er, eating what the women in your family bake!” She waved at him, but by the way her blush deepened, seemed to be embarrassed by the gesture.
So he waved back, smiling a little.
She smiled back.
A loud sigh brought his attention to the cashier.
“Five ninety-seven,” the woman said.
Aemond handed over the six bucks he’d had ready then heard the squeak of a shoe spinning on the tile floor. He turned enough for his good eye to see the girl hurrying toward the sliding doors.
Ordinarily, he’d have been silently praising himself for possessing the sort of skill that could win him a base model Dodge on The Price is Right (though he had probably seen the prices on the shelves even if only subconsciously), but in that moment he could only wonder if that had been a missed opportunity.
Then again, the girl had left with pretty rapid strides. If she was hoping he’d ask for her number, wouldn’t she have taken her time, given him a chance to get his change and catch up with her?
And the blushing? He’d first thought she felt self-conscious, which could be a hint that she was interested, but it could’ve just as easily been due to finding herself in an awkward situation of wanting to get out of there before he could ask for a number she did not want to give, but not wanting to seem rude to the person she’d just spent five minutes chatting and joking with.
Three cold pennies landed in Aemond’s warm hand. “Can you toss the receipt?” he asked before the cashier could lay it on top of his change.
“Sure thing, hon. And yes, that was an opening.”
Aemond turned to the woman and frowned, “Huh?”
She jerked her head toward the front window, through which Aemond had been watching a sole figure walking hurriedly across the parking lot, which contained less than a dozen cars, her silhouette illuminated by one of the bright spotlights some twenty-feet high which also revealed the fact that the snow had finally started.
“Yes, she was giving you an opening,” the cashier clarified.
Now he was the one blushing, and he had no doubt the cashier knew precisely what it meant: I’m an idiot.
“Wasn’t interested,” he defended, though he knew it was too late and not all that convincing, besides.
“Mmhmm. Merry Christmas,” she turned to face her register squarely, “Gotta close out my drawer now. Won’t even notice if you run across the parking lot. Though if you slip and fall, I will deny saying that.”
Aemond snorted, “Merry Christmas.”
He’d never know if he would have run across the parking lot. He stepped through the second set of automatic doors just in time to see a powder blue Jeep Wrangler turn right at the end of an aisle of mostly open parking spots with only one that had a rounded rectangle of clear asphalt quickly becoming covered with snow.
He watched her brake lights illuminate to match the traffic light she approached.
He watched the left blinker intermittently glow amberish-orange.
He watched the traffic light turn bright green.
He watched the Jeep roll back a smidge in that fleeting moment between neutral and first.
He just stood there, a few feet away from the store’s entrance, watching.
He didn’t start walking toward his own car until she was driving down the main stretch, the bright blue car going at a safe speed on roads he knew would be wet but not icy. Not here, at roughly one hundred meters above sea level. He figured he’d have a tricky drive up Falcon Mountain back to Rhaenyra’s place – the stuff they treated road surfaces with was less effective when the air temp dropped below 20°F, and damned near useless when the temp dropped even a mere five degrees below that.
Somehow, having to abandon his Cherokee on the side of the road and walk the rest of the way to Rhaenyra’s where his nephews (and brother) would tease him mercilessly for not knowing how to drive would not be the worst thing to happen to him tonight.
The worst thing to happen to him was missing that opening.