rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

b. russo + first fight and make up

you nurse your drink with a frown. in the corner of your eye, the quick movements of a busy bartender dressed in white are replaced by an easy, confident black suit.

you tip the remainder of your cocktail into your mouth without taking your eyes off the glass. "don't you have a party to tend to?"

billy clicks his tongue. "you gotta at least give me a fighting chance to make up for whatever i did."

that's fair. but it doesn't stop you from motioning to the actual bartender, and having him pour you another drink. billy watches you, faltering from his confident stance—hands braced on the edge of the bar—just slightly.

minutes pass before you say, "you didn't thank me in your speech."

when billy's eyes narrow slightly, you cross your arms. "this isn't the academy awards," he asserts. "the speech was for thanking directors, donors—"

"people who supported you, right?" the tip of your pointer finger heavily traces the rim of your glass as you force yourself to take a breath.

so many nights spent massaging his shoulders, making sure he ate some fruits and vegetables instead of the constant takeout, and coaxing him into bed after hours on call.

maybe billy's public speech in front of all his hard-ass anvil employees wasn't the place to do it—to thank you—but when, then?

"honey—"

you let your heels connect with the ground before spinning, walking out of the banquet hall, and ordering a ride home.

sporting your soft pajamas and a face clean of makeup, you're cradling a small bowl of sorrow-induced cookie dough when billy shows up at your door, peering at you behind a truly gigantic bouquet of flowers.

"and the biggest thank you of all," he says softly, trying to fit through the doorframe without damaging any of the petals, "to the person who always puts up with my shit."

you roll your eyes, tugging him inside with a shy smile.