rodrikstark's headcanons (part 3)

r. drysdale + going to an arts & craft store

"this is not what i imagined when i said you could buy anything you want."

you inspect the skein of purple embroidery thread, wondering if it's as shimmery as it looks, or if it's the cellophane packaging reflecting the harsh light of the store. "what were you imagining?" with narrowed eyes, you throw it into the three-quarters full basket that ransom has been lugging around for you.

"i don't know, something nice?" he frowns at the pink plastic hoops hanging from the pegboards, flicking one with his fingers. "don't girls like, i don't know, jewelry or some shit—?"

"watch your mouth, drysdale, that's how you landed yourself here in the first place."

although you don't need it, you select a wooden hoop and plop it next to the rest of your purchases. for good measure. to make sure ransom is really sorry for when he lost his temper with you two nights ago.

"i just don't get it." he switches the basket to his other hand. "this is junk."

"it makes me happy." shrugging, you move as if to grab his hand, but really just slip three more skeins inside his warm palm. he looks at them, scoffing. "and you shouldn't knock it 'til you try it."

two hours later, ransom huffs as you cuddle against his side, your nails catching in his sweater. "told you it's fun."

he clutches his embroidery hoop to his chest. "don't look."

too late. "you wrote your name?"

you pinch your lips between your teeth to keep from laughing at the RANSOM sprawled across the fabric in jerky lines of dark thread.

he glares at you. "gimme a break—"

"what are you, five?"

"it's not fucking done yet." he seizes your hoop, scorning your wispy daisies and delicate green ferns. "it's not like yours is much better."

you frown. "i'm sorry my art offends you."

he mocks your pouty expression, then relents when he detects a little dash of hurt behind your eyes. "okay, i take it back."

you're loosening the screw to shift the hoop along the length your fabric, ready to expand your garden, when ransom taps your shoulder to show off his work.

your name now sits underneath his, a tiny red heart sandwiched between them.

"progress," he says, impressed with himself—trying to hide his goofy smile as you push him to lay flat on the couch, kissing the corner of his mouth.