(no subject)

The start of the sixth year, for both of them, seemed like a weird benchmark but it was what it was. Here they were, having made it this far: older than they ever thought either of them would be, further along, more themselves. A house and home, a little family of the two of them and their ward who didn't need to stay at home anymore but still did until he got his feet under himself, the cats, the memories of those they'd lost a constant presence in their lives. Six years starting wasn't the same as six years ending, but sometimes it felt like it.

Holidays were always a slightly strange time, but at least with Charlie at home, it was a bit more like knowing what he was doing. Thanksgiving wasn't quite as big a deal to Kavinsky as Christmas was, but it was still a big deal, especially when it meant an excuse to drag people into his home, to make them suffer his presence and familiarity, the closeness of built family.

He'd come a long way in the last five years, and the sixth with another year of it.

So, it wasn't Thanksgiving yet, but making food for Thanksgiving meant getting ready for it. It meant planning. And it was unseasonably warm, so right now that meant looking at recipes on his phone in the backyard with Newt nearby contemplating how to winterize or whatever when the weather seemed to have missed the memo that it was November and they needed to think about getting ready for winter already.

"Do you think I'd get my American card revoked if I refused to do turkey?"