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rudemaidenswrite · 7 years ago

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You & Me and Sherlock makes 3

part 12

beta read by @sylvanasthebansheequeen

written by @pusantheamazonian

July 19

John has officially gotten a steady girlfriend. Mycroft says she fits in perfectly with us. I have yet to meet her but I can tell Sherlock is jealous that someone else has the attention of his best friend.

Sherlock and John left early this morning to finish a case giving Eliza some peace and quiet. But an hour into the quiet she has turned on some music. Loud enough to be heard through the whole flat but not able to be heard upstairs.

Finally finishing the case John convinced Sherlock that they should go back home and get some sleep instead of bombarding Eliza. John begins walking up the stairs but hesitates for a moment before seeing Sherlock slowly walk towards the downstairs door. Smiling and shaking his head John keeps going, as Sherlock reaches the door he can hear the soft music coming from the flat.

And, darling, I will be loving you 'til we're 70

And, baby, my heart could still fall as hard at 23

And I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways

Maybe just the touch of a hand

Well, me — I fall in love with you every single day

And I just wanna tell you I am

Swaying to the music she doesn’t hear the door open.

“Eliza?” She turns around at the sound of her name to see Sherlock standing behind her.

“Sherlock, you’re back.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you know how dance?”

“The basics, why?”

Sherlock restarts the song and pulls her close.

“Let’s dance.” Sherlock silently glides her around the living room staying in beat. He only slows at the end before stopping exactly with the song. “You dance very well.”

“You too. Did you take lessons?”

“As a child but have you been listening to music like this the whole time?”

“No it’s on shuffle. It just happened to be on that song when you walked in.”

The new song plays and Sherlock is horrified at it.

In Venice Beach there was a man named Kage.

When he buskin he was all the rage.

He met Jables and he taught him well.

All the techniques that were developed in hell.

Cock-pushups and the power slide.

Gig simulation now there's nowhere to hide.

They formed a band they named Tenacious D.

And then they got the Pick of Destiny.

“What atrocity is that?”

“POD by Tenacious D. I do follow some of the American pop culture.”

“It’s horrid.”

“Hey it’s not that bad.”

Sherlock picks up her mp3 player and begins to flip through the music.

“David Bowie?”

“Yes and before you ask I have a wide variety of random songs.”

He picks a song and pull her close again.

There's such a sad love

Deep in your eyes.

A kind of pale jewel

Open and closed

Within your eyes.

I'll place the sky

Within your eyes.

“As the world falls down? I thought you questioned my musical choices.”

“This one is ok.” He smiles sweetly as he twirls her out then in. He shows no intentions to stop dancing any time soon.

July 29

To indulge on Sherlock’s curiosity and because I promised Q. Sherlock is escorting me to the medical bay tomorrow for my checkup. If he is good, he can terrorize the minions.

“Sherlock are you ready?” Eliza walks into his flat.

“Yes, let’s go.” He’s putting his scarf on.

“If you are good I’ll let you terrorize the minions.” She smirks as she heads down the stairs.

“Sounds exciting.”

Eliza and Sherlock are there within fifteen minutes because Sherlock insisted on taking a car instead of the tube.

“Now stay with me, don’t wander off.” Eliza reminds him as she walks up the steps to MI6. Once inside she heads directly to the so called security desk. “I need a visitor pass.”

“R, you’re back.” Winston the old security guard says with a smile.

“Yes on my way to the medical bay. I need a visitor pass for him.”

Sherlock gives a quick fake smile.

“Does he have clearance?”

“Yes.”

He quietly hands her a visitor pass which she clips to Sherlock’s coat. Grabbing his hand she leads him around the corner and down a hallway and through the double doors labeled Medical Bay. The front room is filled with empty chairs and one lonely looking reception desk with a bored looking nurse.

“R, I’m here for a checkup.” She lets go of Sherlock’s hand as she signs in on the clipboard.

“Yes come this way.” The nurse leads the way through the door into exam room one. “Any pain?”

“No.” She jumps up onto the bed while she silently takes her vitals and logs the information into the computer system.

“The doctor will be in.” She leaves giving a smile.

“She’s going to go gossip.” Sherlock states as he looks about the room, walking closer to her.

“Figures, but don’t worry I’ll eventually find out what she said.” R winks.

The door opens and it’s the doctor. Dr. Boyman, a balding middle aged man. Sherlock becomes one with the wall.

“R, back for a checkup. M’s orders right?”

“Yep he benched me until you said I could go back.”

“Well let’s have a look.” Immediately she raises her shirt up and lays back.

“Healed nicely, hardly a scar. Any pain?” He presses on and around the scar.

“No.”

“Trouble breathing?”

“No.”

“Have you regained full movement and balance?”

“Yes.”

“Demonstrate, sit up.”

She sits up without using her arms.

“Good, now can you stand and touch your toes?”

Jumping of the table she touches her toes.

“Very good, now twist your torso.”

Straightening up she slowly twists back and forth a few times.

“Good that’s all R. it seems like you had a lot of help when healing.” He glances at Sherlock with a smile. “I say that you are ready to return to work. You can start on Monday.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and you can give this to Q.” He fills out a note and hands it to her.

“Oh I will.” Pulling her shirt back down and Dr. Boyman opens the door.

“If anything changes or you have pain come back.”

“I will.” She drags Sherlock down the hall quickly.

“That was quick.” Sherlock says once they are out of ear shot.

“We’re lucky. Sometimes you can be in there for hours….besides I promised you some minion terrorizing.” She grins as his eyes light up.

Once inside the elevators they passed earlier she pushes the button labeled Q. An invisible screen lights up and R places her hand on it. Once it registers who she is the elevator begins to move downwards.

“Underground?”

“Yes.” The doors open to a wide and long hallway.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Sherlock pauses looking at the sticker, which is so conveniently placed underneath the plaque labeling the Q Branch.

“I put that there to scare the minions and any of the new staff.”

“So you chose the inscription that is on the gate of Hell in Dante’s Inferno?”

“Yes, you have a problem with that?”

“No.” Sherlock hides a chuckle.

One minion makes it to the doorway, sees her and scurries off scared in the direction they came from.

“You have that effect on all of them?”

“Most of the time. You should see them when I’m with Q or any of the double-ohs.” The doorway opens into a normal sized room littered with spare parts.

“I would like to see that.” Sherlock chuckles.

“You just might.” Through another door is an enormous room where all the minions are scurrying about. “This is the main floor below us is where we test and develop our inventions.”

R walk towards Q noticing something is wrong, she picks up a spare earpiece on her way. Q is typing furiously and barking orders at the screen on the wall.

“What is wrong?” R asks once beside Q.

“006, compromised trying to find an exit.”

“Where is he?”

“On a roof, Via Della Cisterna in Rome.”

“006 can you reach Basilica of our Lady in Trastevere? Its two blocks north.” R pushes Q out of the way and takes control of the computer.

“I should.” 006 responds and his signal begins moving.

“R what are you doing?” Q questions.

“Ok R now what.” 006 asks.

“Back in the left corner is the confession box. Go into the priest side”

“Ok.”

“The middle angel, turn it counter clockwise and the wall will open.”

“Damn…I’m in, anything else?”

“Get moving, you will have to follow the tunnel it will take at least five minutes. At the end you will come to a set of doors, pick the one on the right. It will lead you to the river bank so you can get a boat or car to get away.”

“You make it sound easy.”

For ten minutes there is silence, she sees that Sherlock has moved beside her. Everyone is holding their breath.

“Well R I got to admit good thing you’re here. I’m on my way to rendezvous.”

“Good we’ll be in touch.” R takes the earpiece out and gives it to Q.

“How? How did you know there was a passage?” Q is flabbergasted.

“She’s used it before.” Sherlock deduces.

“Yup and here you go Q.” She waves the note in his face.

“What’s this?” Q snatches the paper so he can read it.

“I start Monday the doc said so.”

“You are good to go?”

“Yup Sherlock was with me, he can verify.”

“So you decided to come down here afterwards?”

“I told Sherlock that if he behaved he can terrorize the minions for a little bit.”

“Sherlock don’t destroy anything but find out who started the rumor.” Q gives Sherlock permission to run amuck. Sherlock grins in delight and takes off.

“I thought that you didn’t care about the rumors.”

“I don’t.” Q huffs.

“You’re gonna have Bond scare them.”

“Talk not scare.”

“Oh you are!” She teases Q.

“R.”

“Q.” She stares at him for a minute. “So how far behind are we?”

“A week’s worth; you need to finish your prototypes and test the weapons I have done.”

“Have the minions been slacking off?” R ask leaning on the table.

“Without your iron fist rule, yes.”

“Q, minion Charles Winthrop started the rumor. He fancies R.”

“That was fast.” Q is astounded on how quickly Sherlock has returned.

“He’s the only one who hasn’t stopped staring since we arrived and is only looking at R. His body tenses whenever either one of us leans in ‘too’ close.”

“Thank you Sherlock, I will take care of the rest.” Q replies with a smile.

“They are easy to frighten but loyal to their job.” Sherlock responds slightly surprised.

“That’s what makes it fun.” She interlocks her hand with his. “Let’s go Sherlock, Q needs to get back to work before he gets behind.” She winks at Q before tugging on Sherlock’s hand.

#Sherlock #james bond #bondlock #Q #R #Q branch #MI6 #john watson #dancing

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hellacluttered · 8 years ago

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Dawn (Goodnight Robicheaux)

A/N: All right, here’s the sequel to One Thousand Miles :D this has been kind of a pet project for me and I’m thinking about doing a part 3 and bringing in Billy and stuff. We shall see :) I’ll be posting this on AO3 tomorrow, if you prefer to read on there. My username there is also hellacluttered. Also this is about what Goody would have looked like at the age he is in this. :)

“Where should we live?” Goodnight asked as he lay with his head in his wife's lap in front of the fire in the library as they so often did. The heat seeped straight through his still-weary limbs to his bones and he was utterly limp and content.

“Hmm… New Orleans?” she asked and he rolled onto his back to look up at her.

“New Orleans?” he repeated. “That's my home, not yours.”

“Those are the same thing now. I’ll go if you want to.”

He smiled. “You're too generous, you know that?”

“You're one to talk,” she teased, running her fingers gently through his newly-cut short hair.

“We could stay here, live downtown.”

“You'd do that?” she asked, a tender expression in her eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “I don't mind where I am, so long as it's with you.”

She smiled and he sighed contentedly, closing his eyes. He still had not readjusted to the comfy, relaxed life at the Cox manor, or the lack of a schedule dictating every moment of the day. With no strict regimentation keeping him distracted, his thoughts wandered far more freely, and he knew it was only Eliza’s company and patient comforting keeping him sane, and even that, just barely. He woke up in cold sweats in the night sometimes of his own accord and sometimes by Eliza’s hand, panicked and tangled in the sheets, and on nights like that he rarely slept again, only pretending to so Eliza would go back to sleep.

“Let’s figure it out later,” Eliza said finally, “You need to get some sleep; I know you didn’t get much last night, Goody.”

“I’ve gone much longer on much less sleep,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me, my dear.”

“I can’t help that, but I’ll try,” she said.

A shot rang out somewhere in the distance, a hunter, and Goodnight stiffened, images sliding behind his eyes in increasingly rapider succession, every one unique but a single thread unifying them into a horrifying art display- death. Eliza’s hand squeezed his, her gentle voice breaking through the haze of his thoughts like a sunbeam through fog, but her comforting words couldn’t dispel the terror in his head. “Eliza?” he said, his voice coming out quiet and rough.

“Yes?”

“I need a drink,” he said, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back later.”

“All right,” she said, standing likewise and kissing his cheek, her gaze filled with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Goody.”

“Nothing for you to apologize for, mon chéri,” he said, managing to force a smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

He urged the horse to a gallop, her flanks heaving against his legs, the metal in her tack clinking as they bolted down the road toward town. Riding brought back its own host of memories, but still, riding fast helped leave a few behind. He slowed as he reached the edge of town. For now, it felt that the dams in his mind had been strengthened enough to hold until alcohol weakened the onslaught they held back; he wondered if he would ever cease to need them, if the threat of a flood would ever lastingly diminish.

He dismounted when he reached the saloon, tying his horse up outside, and walked in, pleased to find it rather empty. The more people there were, the higher chance there was of war stories being recounted, and if those came up, Goodnight would leave.

“‘Evening, Mr. Robicheaux,” the bartender said as he sat down on one of the barstools.

“‘Evening, Jim,” he replied wearily.

“Your usual?”

“Yes, sir,”

“Coming right up.”

Goodnight could feel the pressure of eyes on him from behind, sensed the tingling sensation along his spine, his shoulder blades trying to pull together, but he was too tired and distracted to bother to see who it was.

“Here you are, sir,” Jim said, sliding him a small glass of brandy.

Goodnight nodded in thanks and raised the glass to his lips. The large draught of alcohol went down like fire, scalding his throat and heating his insides in a crippled imitation of how Goodnight had felt around Eliza before he broke, still a ghost even of how he felt now. She looked at him differently now, he knew that much. He didn’t like her to pity him.

He took another sip from his glass, checking his pocket to make sure he had enough money on him to afford a refill. He did, and soon he was ready for it.

The alcohol blurred the harsh edges of his worries, softening them a little as they cut into his hopes, dulled the wriggling, creeping feeling of paranoia that always hovered at the edges of his senses, never truly letting him believe he was safe. He drank until the pictures that flashed through his mind no longer came into focus, and then he stood, paid, and left, reeling slightly as he went out the door.

“Goodnight Robicheaux,” a voice called behind him, the distinct Northern accent sounding his name out in hard angles rather than the soft curves Goodnight spoke it with.

He stopped and turned, leaning casually against one of the posts supporting the porch, ready to go for his gun if necessary. Three men had just emerged from the saloon. He recognized them from a table in the corner, where they had been quietly drinking, as he recalled. All three were strapping, brawny, tall men, all armed, and none seeming friendly. “That’s my name,” Goodnight said. “What can I for you gents?”

“You killed a friend of ours,” the man in front said. “We’re here for retribution.”

“Fellows like you killed a lot of friends of mine,” Goodnight said. “I think we should call it even. Anyhow, your side won.”

“Yeah, well, it seems that’s not enough to put cocky scum like you in their place.” The man stepped forward and that was it; already on edge, Goodnight drew, the muzzle of his revolver aimed at the man’s chest.

“Now, you consider very carefully what you want to do next,” Goodnight said. “The sheriff here knows me; he’s gonna believe me if I tell him I shot you boys in self-defense, and he’s gonna believe me if I tell him you made the first move.”

“Not if you don’t make it to speaking to him,” the man said, and then he charged. He was only a few feet away, and Goodnight’s mind was clouded from the brandy, his hands moving slower than usual; he had forgotten to cock his gun and by the time he unsuccessfully fired and then cocked his weapon, the man was slamming into him with the force of a locomotive, knocking him straight off the porch and down the steps, where he landed, stunned, on the hard dirt street, pinned down by his bear-like adversary, his revolver skittering through the dust and landing out of reach.

“You think no one was gonna care that you were picking off our men from some hidey-hole where no one could get to you?” the man snarled, his face inches from Goodnight’s. He easily pinned down the smaller man’s arms, digging a knee into Goodnight’s stomach until he coughed, gasping for air, his struggles to escape growing weaker. “Thought they were just pawns, not men, didn’t you, you bastard?” He drew back a fist, driving it into the side of Goodnight’s jaw with such force he heard the joint pop and his whole head throbbed, thrown to the side.

“George Winthrope,” the man said almost reverently, throwing another punch to Goodnight’s nose. The crack rang out and instantly Goodnight felt the hot stream of blood streaming down his upper lip, the acrid, metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as a dull throbbing ache radiated out from the site of the blow. The man lifted him by the shoulders and slammed him back down in the dirt. His face blurred in and out of focus above Goodnight but his words were unmistakeable. “He was my like my brother, you coward! You shot him! He was seventeen, he was a private, he wasn’t gonna get much done in that damn war!” His words had risen to a shout, their impact much more painful that the blows that came with every accent in his tone.

“I’m sorry,” Goodnight slurred through the fog in his mind and the blood pooling in his mouth. He coughed weakly, repeating a little louder. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring him back!” the man bellowed, raising his fist again.

“Neither will your going to jail,” another voice said, calm and steady, demanding attention.

The man looked back, as did his friends, but Goodnight could not find the strength even to lift his head. “War’s over, boys,” the same voice continued. “This ain’t in your hands anymore.”

“He killed-” the man on Goody started.

“I heard,” the voice said.

“You don’t understand-”

“You might be surprised. Now git.” No one moved. A shift of leather, a metallic click, a cocked pistol. “I said git.”

The weight moved off Goodnight; the vague blur of the face over him was replaced by the night sky. Three sets of heavy footsteps moved away, and one set approached. “You all right there?”

“I… I think so,” Goodnight said, pushing himself into a sitting position and wincing as his light head pounded. A hand reached out to him, and he looked up, startled.

The man nodded at his outstretched hand. “Take it. Get up.”

Goodnight grabbed the man’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. He stumbled, almost collapsing again before the other man steadied him with one hand on his upper arm. “Who are you?” Goodnight asked.

“Name’s Sam Chisolm. I'm a duly sworn warrant officer. You are?”

“Goodnight Robicheaux,” Goodnight said, missing the look of recognition on Sam’s face as he turned to the side to spit out some of the mess of blood still turning his mouth bitter. “Why… why'd you help me?”

He looked up, his blue eyes meeting Sam’s dark ones. “The war’s over,” Sam said simply.

“But I had it coming,” Goodnight protested.

“You did,” Sam said. “Doesn't mean vigilantes should serve justice. All of us killed someone's friend; doesn't give us the right to break the law. Peace has been made. Break that, and you get what’s coming to you. There was no call for them to start things.”

Goodnight nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”

“You live around here?” Sam asked.

“Just a mile outside town,” Goodnight replied.

“All right then,” Sam said. “Let's go.”

“Why?” Goodnight asked. “I mean, why are you going with me?”

“I'm not confident you can stay on your horse by yourself,” Sam said and Goodnight looked away, embarrassed. He knew just as much as Sam did that it was true.

“Well, do you need a place to stay?” Goodnight asked. “I owe you one.”

Sam shrugged. “All right.”

Goodnight knew he was late getting home, especially since the ride back had taken so long, and contrary to the usual, there were lights on in the windows as they rode up the road to the house. Goodnight almost fell out of the saddle as he started to dismount outside the stable, but managed to land with some rough semblance of grace, which was, however, still clumsy in comparison to Sam’s easy dismount.

Goodnight was just taking off his horse’s saddle when he heard the stable door open and turned to see Eliza enter in in bare feet and a nightdress, her lips dropping open when she saw her husband’s condition. “Goody!” she cried, crossing the stable in quick steps, walking straight past Sam to stop in front of Goodnight, her eyes skimming over his numerous wounds. “What happened?”

“I… Some men confronted me; I had- I had killed one man’s friend in the War and they came after me. Mr. Chisolm here likely saved my life.”

Emma turned to Sam, saying curtly, “Thank you, Mr. Chisolm. If you’ll follow me, I’ll have one of the maids get you to a room; I need to take care of my husband.”

“Of course, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Sam said courteously.

Eliza wrapped an arm around Goodnight’s waist and he leaned against her, letting her support him as they walked out of the stable, Sam close behind.

“Thanks again, Mr. Chisolm,” Goodnight said as they entered the house and Eliza summoned a maid to take Sam to a room.

“Call me Sam,” Sam said. “And you’re welcome.”

“How much pain are you in?” Eliza asked as she and Goodnight slowly ascended the stairs.

“Not a whole lot,” he said. “I drank and I’m not feeling all too acutely right now.”

“That’s for the best,” she said. “Your nose, well…”

“It’s broken, I know,” he replied.

“This must have been brutal, eh?” she asked sympathetically, patting the edge of the bed and he sat down as she lit a lamp.

“It wasn’t too good,” he admitted.

She nodded, and he could tell by the stiffness in her shoulders and the tenseness in her movements how worried she was. “I won’t go back there for now,” he offered, hoping his words would relax her somewhat.

“Honestly, this is the least of my concerns about you right now,” she said, and he cocked his head slightly, confused. “I hate to see you hurt, and I know you’re in pain. But your body will heal, and I can help it do so. But I know the worst of it is in your head and there’s nothing I can do to help with that.” Her eyes met his briefly before returning to focusing on unbuttoning his shirt. She eased off his shirt and vest at the same time, wincing when she saw the dark bruises blooming across his torso.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I can handle it; it’s not something you need to worry about. You just focus on keeping yourself and the baby healthy.”

“I can’t help worrying about it,” she said. “All right, the stuff on your torso isn’t too big a deal unless…” She gently felt around his ribs. “None of that hurts too bad?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, good. I’m going to set your nose then. It doesn’t look too crooked so I don’t think this will be terrible. Are you ready?”

Goodnight nodded, and Eliza gently pinched the bones of his nose between two fingers, pushing them back into position. He grimaced, his jaw clenching as blinding white pain shot through his face, the sound of the bones grinding reverberating through his skull. When she let go his eyes were watering and he blinked rapidly, giving her a tired smile. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome,” she said. “Don’t bump that; the bones need to stay in place. I’m not done with you; let me get some clean water and rags.”

He nodded, leaning back against the headboard a little as she walked out of the room.

When she returned he was fast asleep, his head lolling back and his mouth hanging open slightly, peaceful and vulnerable, all the worries ironed out of his expression in the early, dreamless stages of his sleep. She sat down on the edge of the bed, dipping a clean rag in the basin of water she’d set on the nightstand, and got to work cleaning the cuts and scrapes on his face. He mumbled something in his sleep, his head tipping to one side, and Eliza reached up to stop him from waking himself up, gently guiding his head back upright until it steadied.

He didn’t rouse as she cleansed the cuts and scrapes, and that was an indication of how truly exhausted he was; usually he was a light sleeper, awoken by the lightest touch or noise, and now she was prodding around what had to be quite painful wounds and he wasn’t stirring in the slightest.

When she was finally content that all the scrapes were clean and no serious damage had been done, she set aside the rag she had been using and sat there for a moment, a sudden rush of tears welling up in her eyes. Helpless, that was what she was, powerless to pull him out of the pit he was sliding into, unable to do anything but watch as the light of youth and hope in his bright eyes slowly dulled. Even as she watched the peace began to slip away from him, his brows drawing together, his lips twitching, forming silent words.

Eliza slipped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him, one hand on the back of his neck guiding his head to rest on her shoulder. “Just sleep, Goody,” she murmured. “Sleep.”

“Eliza?” his voice was weak, uncertain.

“It’s me,” she reassured him and he just nodded slowly, his arms wrapping around her waist.

“I don’t want to dream tonight,” he said softly. “Don’t let me sleep, Eliza.”

She just nodded, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears that were beginning to overflow. They’d been sitting like that for a few minutes when she felt his breathing settle into a regular rhythm, deep and even, and she shook him gently. “Goody.” He jerked slightly, sitting up straighter, kneading his tired eye with the heels of his hands. “I’ll go make some coffee,” she said, standing.

“You should go to bed,” he said. “I’m sorry… I-I’ll be fine.”

She shook her head. “No.”

Dawn rose dewy and gray, the pale beams of sunlight finding the Robicheauxs huddled on the top step of the porch with a blanket wrapped around them, each with a mug in hand, and an empty coffee pot sitting on the step next to Goodnight’s feet. Goodnight was far past the point of sleepiness, instead a profound exhaustion had nested deep inside him, coiled around his cells, untouchable.

But when Eliza kissed his cheek and rested her head on his shoulder, his smile was genuine, and when he took her hand in his, the warmth of her familiar fingers and the relief of the dreamless night pushing back the tide a little more.

“Shall we go eat something?” he asked, and she nodded, stretching as she stood up.

Goodnight just looked up at her, watching the way the sunlight made her hair gleam as it streamed in untamed cascades down her back. “What?” she asked.

“You could have had any man you wanted, you know,” he said. “You’re kind, you’re thoughtful, funny, smart, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous. I could go on. I never really understood why you chose me.”

She reached out her hands and he stood, setting his coffee cup on the porch railing, and took her hands in his own.

“That one’s easy to answer.”

“Oh?” He squinted slightly, looking out from under his brows as the rising sun glared in his eyes.

She nodded. “Sure is.”

He loosely wrapped his arms around her waist, turning them away from the sun slightly. “Do me a favor and enlighten me.”

“It’s because I love you,” she said, reaching up to cup his cheek with her hand, her pinky resting along the line of his jaw and her thumb stroking back and forth beneath his eye. He turned his head slightly and kissed the palm of her hand, murmuring against her skin,

“I promise you the man you married is still in here somewhere.”

“The man I married is right in front of me,” she said firmly and his lips tugged upward of their own accord, his arms pulling her a little closer. “Got that?”

He nodded, a chuckle escaping him before he lightly pecked her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ready to eat?” she asked.

“Yep.”

Just as they turned to go inside, the front door swung open, and one of the maids stepped out, a tray of food in her hands, with Sam behind her. “Oh, good morning, Miss Eliza, Mr. Robicheaux,” she said, bobbing a curtsey. “Mr. Chisolm asked to eat outside, so… I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Goodnight said, giving Eliza’s hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Good morning, Mr. Chisolm.”

“Morning,” Sam said. “Thank you for letting me sleep here. I’ll consider us even, Mr. Robicheaux.”

“Please call me Goodnight,” Goodnight said.

“Then make sure you call me Sam.”

“I can do that,” Goodnight replied.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Goody; I’m going to freshen up,” Eliza said, and he nodded, his gaze lingering fondly on her for a moment as she disappeared inside the house before looking back to Sam.

“Did you fight in the War?” Goodnight asked as the two men sat down on the pair of rocking chairs that faced out toward the road. “I did,” Sam said. “Opposite side as you, though.”

“I figured,” Goodnight said.

“How long were you in?” Sam asked.

“The whole damn thing,” Goodnight replied, shaking his head. “Not a single good thing out of it except meeting my wife. And you?”

“Same as you- start to finish,” Sam said. “I wanted to see it through as long as I could.” He took a bite of the bacon on his plate and Goodnight didn’t speak for a few moments, watching a robin swoop low over the grass.

“Where are you from?” he asked finally.

“Lincoln, Kansas,” Sam said. “And yourself?”

“New Orleans, born and raised.”

“Then how’d you end up here?” Sam asked.

“My company stayed the winter in ‘61. I married Eliza during the War, and we’ve been here since it ended. How about you, you got a family?”

Sam shook his head. “Haven’t been in the same place long since a long time ago.”

Goodnight nodded. “Someone chasing you?”

Sam looked at him keenly. “Not quite.” He took a sip from his cup of coffee, but Goodnight didn’t look away for a few seconds, considering the man’s words. “You were running from something yourself last night,” Sam commented.

Goodnight nodded slowly. “I was.”

“Did you escape?”

“It’s hard to escape yourself,” Goodnight said. “Seems only death achieves that, and I’ve been running from that too.”

“I don’t know a single man who lived through that war and came out quite whole,” Sam said.

“Did you?” Goodnight asked.

“I wasn’t in the first place,” Sam replied. His gaze was contemplative as it rested on the worn floorboards of the porch.

No family… Goodnight couldn’t piece together the story yet, but he could begin to connect the details. This man knew loss all too well. “And you’re a bounty hunter?”

“Warrant officer,” Sam said. “And you?”

Goodnight chuckled. “No employment at the moment. Just taking some time with my family. Eliza’s going to have a baby and I’m…” He shook his head. “Like you said. I came back in one piece physically, but my mind…” He trailed off.

“I got lucky in that respect,” Sam said. “But I know people. I’ve seen things.”

Goodnight nodded grimly. “Haven’t we all?” He slumped in his seat a little, putting his feet up on the porch railing.

“Some more than others,” Sam said. “I heard you fought at Antietam.”

“You heard that, eh?” he asked, surprised, and then added playfully, “I see my reputation proceeds me.”

“You haven’t been out much, have you, then?” Sam said. “You’re a bit of a legend, least in these parts.”

“Really?” Goodnight said incredulously. “For what?”

“Fearless leader. Inspiration to your men. Crack shot. I’ve heard you called the Angel of Death.”

Goodnight’s smile faded at the final title. “That last one…”

“Title you deserved, not one you wanted?” Sam asked.

Goodnight considered his words for a few moments and then nodded. “The way I see it, I was doing my duty. I’d rather be remembered for that than what it was I did.”

“Duty is a heavy thing,” Sam remarked.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Goodnight said. Since the war ended, he hadn’t talked to anyone about his time as a soldier, and while talking to Sam pulled the familiar regrets and pains back to the surface of his already muddied thoughts, it also felt like pressure was slowly starting to be released, the tremendous buildup of unexplainable horrors that he had observed and that no one at the Cox manor could have understood lessening just slightly. Sam made him feel a little less alone, a little less alien. A hand to hold in the dark was better than to be alone with it, even if the sun still refused to rise.

It was then that the door opened and Eliza walked out, a tray in each hand, handing one to Goodnight, who thanked her, before sitting down on the porch swing next to her husband. “Did I interrupt?” she asked into the silence and Goodnight said quickly,

“Not at all.”

“The subject needed changing anyway,” Sam added.

Eliza nodded, her gaze moving to Goodnight, who gave her a small smile that eased her newfound concern about whatever they had been talking about until she came out. “How long are you in town for?” she asked Sam, more in an attempt to make conversation than because of actual interest in the answer.

“I’ll be leaving today,” he said. “I came out here serving a warrant, but I took care of that yesterday.”

“You’re welcome to stay longer if you like, Mr. Chisolm,” Eliza offered and Goodnight nodded in agreement.

“Thank you for that, Mrs. Robicheaux,” Sam said. “I’d better be going soon though. There’s always more criminals to catch.”

Eliza nodded and Goodnight said, “If you’re ever in the area, though…”

“I’ll stop by,” Sam said, and took the last bite of his toast before standing, dusting the crumbs off his pants as he looked for a place to set his tray.

“Table’s fine,” Goodnight said as he stood likewise, setting down his own breakfast. “I can have someone get your horse ready.”

“I prefer to do it myself,” Sam said. “But thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chisolm,” Eliza, who had stood as well, said. “We owe you.”

“Not a bit,” Sam said. “I got a place to sleep out of the deal, and, I think,” His eyes shifted to Goodnight, “a friend.” He then tipped his hat respectfully to Eliza. “Mrs. Robicheaux.”

“Safe travels,” she said and he nodded in thanks before turning to Goodnight.

“I’ll go back to the stable with you,” Goodnight said, and he and Sam descended the steps side by side, following the path that led around the side of the house to the stable. “What are you onto next?” Goodnight asked as Sam began to prepare his horse.

“Missouri,” Sam said. “Got another warrant to serve there on an outlaw from Texas. Are you looking for a job, Goodnight?”

Goodnight frowned slightly, surprised by the question. “I suppose after the baby is born, yes, I will be.”

“You might want to consider this line of work. It pays well, and you get a lot of freedom. I have a hard time envisioning a man such as yourself working at a trade,” Sam said.

“As do I,” Goodnight acknowledged. “Well, I’ll think about it. I don’t know if…” He trailed off. He didn’t need to say it.

“I understand,” Sam said, his eyes meeting Goodnight’s for a moment before he returned to the task of saddling his horse. They didn’t talk again until the creature was in full tack and Sam walked it out of the stable, into the still, damp morning, the heat of the rising sun promising a scorching afternoon. Sam mounted, tipping the brim of his hat down a little to shield his eyes, and looked away, a contemplative expression on his face before turning back to Goodnight. “All of us that made it through our own Hell need rebuilding just as much as the country does, he said finally. “But what we lost in the fire, we’ll find in the ashes.” Then he tipped his hat and spurred his horse on and Goodnight watched as the animal trotted down the road, Sam’s silhouette cut clear against the pale morning sky.

“Any better?” Goodnight asked, pulling back a runaway strand of hair and tucking it in with the rest in his other hand. He had woken to find Eliza heaving into the basin she kept next to their bed for this purpose, and immediately he had been with her, pulling back her long hair, one hand rubbing gently up and down her shuddering back as she vomited.

Eliza nodded, setting down the basin and wiping her mouth on a handkerchief before leaning back weakly against Goodnight. “Sorry about that,” she said, coughing when her voice came out rough, and grimacing at the acrid flavor in her mouth.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Goodnight said. “You wait here and I'll get you some water, all right?”

She nodded, sitting forward a little and Goodnight slipped off the bed, jogging out of the room and downstairs to get her some water. When he returned, she was less pale but still readily took the glass from him, downing the whole thing before setting it on the nightstand. “I’ll just empty this out; you go back to sleep,” she said, reaching for the basin.

“No, no,” Goodnight said, quickly moving to pick it up before she could. “I’ve got it. I’ll be back.”

When he returned, she was fast asleep again, and he climbed into bed next to her, settling in close to her growing form. Just a few months left until their family would be one person larger

“Whatcha thinking about?”

Goodnight glanced at Eliza, taking her hand in his as he did. “I’m considering something Sam told me.”

“Oh?” Eliza asked. “What’s that?”

“The possibility of being a warrant officer like him,” he said. “Sounds like I could make some good money.”

“But what about…” Eliza hesitated, and Goodnight reached for the poker next to the fireplace, prodding the logs into a better position. “Wouldn’t you have to shoot? And wouldn’t it be better if you could find a job that wouldn’t put you in so much danger?”

“It would be,” he said. “But when it comes down to it…” The poker clanked as he let it rest on the edge of the fireplace. His shoulders slumped. “Fighting’s the only thing I’m good at. I’m a good shot, I can track a man down. I can do it and get paid.” He chuckled humorlessly. “I survived the whole war; I’m sure I can make it through tracking down a few bandits.”

“But won’t this make things worse in your head?” Eliza asked. Cloth rustled as she shifted forward to sit next to him, one arm wrapped around his upper back, the other hand resting on his near shoulder.

“It could,” Goodnight said, finally looking up at her. “But it’s worth a try. I could always stop.”

Eliza didn’t speak for a few moments, considering. “To be frank, I don’t like the sound of it. But we got plenty of time to think and talk. Well, that is…” Her next words were tentative. “You weren’t planning on doing this right away, were you?”

Goodnight looked at her, shocked. “Good Lord, of course not! It’d be until the child is born and then at least another few months.”

“Oh!” she said. “Good.”

“Eliza,” he said. “I know I haven’t been quite myself recently, but I’m going to stay with you as much as I can. The only reason I’d go away is if we think it’s the best way to support our family. I know your father’s starting to think of me as a freeloader-”

“Goody,” Eliza cut in but he shook his head.

“He’s right.”

“Goody-” she said again.

“He’s right,” he repeated, this time more firmly. “It’s all right. It’s just the truth.”

“It may be, but my parents both still love you, Goodnight.”

Goodnight smiled. “I appreciate that, and I feel the same way. But… I know they lost a lot, and I never wanted to live off somebody else’s money. I also don’t want you or your parents to think for a second that was even in my head when I decided I wanted to marry you.”

“I don’t think that,” Eliza said. “I never did. Honest.”

“Really?” Goodnight said.

“Really,” she said.

“Good. Anyway. Give it some thought.” “I will,” she said, but her expression was somber even when she lay down to rest her head in his lap, the warm light of the flames playing across her face.

“I’m sorry,” Goodnight said. “I would hate to put you through that again.”

“It’s all right,” Eliza said. “We’ll do what we have to.” Now she gave him a small smile, reaching out to take his hand.

It was late on a fall night and Goodnight was just unbuttoning his shirt to put on his nightclothes when Eliza, who was sitting on the edge of the mattress, brushing her hair, shrieked and Goodnight whipped around, his hand reaching for the holstered pistol on his desk. “What is it?”

“The baby’s coming!”

The revolver clattered on the wood as Goodnight dropped it. “What!?”

“Goody!” she grimaced, a gasp of pain escaping her lips and he rushed across the room to her, the worn carpet slippery under his bare feet.

“What do I do?” he asked desperately, his hands moving erratically from her waist to her shoulders and then urging her to lie down, though the edge of the bed was sodden.

“Get my mother,” she said. “And Martha!”

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” Goodnight said, focusing on the task at hand as he ran out of the room, dashing down the hall to the Coxes’ bedroom. He knocked hard on the door and Mr. Cox’s voice called,

“Who is it?”

“It’s Goodnight, sir, Eliza’s gone into labor and she’s asking for Mrs. Cox!” Goodnight was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, his body coiled tight as a drawn bow, unstoppable energy coursing through him.

Moments later the door swung open to reveal Eliza’s parents on the other side, Mrs. Cox hastily wrapping a shawl around herself while Mr. Cox slid on his glasses, his hair mussed and his eyes tired.

“Is there anything I should do?” Mr. Cox asked as his wife stepped out of the bedroom.

“Find Martha and send her in. Other than that, no,” she said.

“How about me- what should I do?” Goodnight said, almost having to jog to keep up with Mrs. Cox as she walked down the hall in long strides, rolling up her sleeves as she went.

“You stay out of the way,” she said, “There’s no room in there. We’ll call you if we need you.” And with that, she went through the door to Goodnight and Eliza’s room and closed it behind her, cutting off the start of Goodnight’s protest. He had rarely seen Mrs. Cox in such a businesslike, no-nonsense mood before, but she was quite formidable when she was in it, and he knew there would be no talking her into letting him stay. Instead he slid slowly to the floor, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them, his forearms hanging limp in front of him.

After a few minutes Martha came down the hall with Mr. Cox close behind, and though she rushed into the room without speaking to him, her quick, reassuring smile at Goodnight lightened his heart, even if only for a moment. Then the door closed again, leaving him in the hall with Mr. Cox. He started to push himself to his feet out of respect for the older man, but Mr. Cox shook his head, leaning back against the railing that ran along the edge of the floor that skirted the open-topped staircase. “I understand what you’re feeling, Goodnight.”

Goodnight hadn’t been thinking about it, but it made sense. He looked up, saying nothing, prompting Mr. Cox to speak more.

“Martha and my mother delivered Eliza,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”

“Thank you for saying that, sir,” Goodnight said.

Mr. Cox nodded. “Care for a pipe?”

“I… Er, that would be nice.”

Mr. Cox nodded and walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet house. Goodnight could faintly hear voices on the other side of the door and pressed his ear to it, but it seemed just then all seemed to grow quiet except for the sound of footsteps and rustling cloth.

Soon Mr. Cox returned, sitting down on the floor next to Goodnight. He handed the younger man a pipe and offered him his well-worn leather tobacco pouch. Goodnight thanked him, filling the bowl of the pipe and waiting as Mr. Cox did likewise before lighting both pipes. Goodnight took a deep drag of the sweet-smelling smoke, concentrating on breathing in and out as the air began to grow hazy.

“Thank you for this,” he said after a few minutes had passed and he felt his pulse slowly beginning to return to normal.

“Of course,” Mr. Cox said. “She’s your wife, but she’s still my daughter. We may as well suffer together.”

Goodnight nodded slowly, breathing in another chestful of smoke.

The sounds from the bedroom ebbed and flowed and when at last Goodnight couldn’t take it anymore and burst through the door, asking how things were going, he was immediately pushed out by Martha and brusquely assured that everything was fine before the door was closed in his face. But he had gotten a brief glimpse of Eliza, and though she was clearly in pain, she was sticking it out.

When Mr. Cox looked up at him with eyebrows raised in question, Goodnight just nodded reassuringly, resuming his spot next to the older man.

It was nearly sunrise when he heard the unmistakeable sounds of Eliza hurting and every one went through him viscerally, the sound almost tangible, like he himself was the one in pain. He could no longer sit still, and pushed himself to his feet, puffing agitatedly at the many times refilled pipe still between his lips. Urgency and nervousness made him keep moving, but the helplessness in the pit of his stomach constantly reminded him there was nothing he could do.

The instant the door opened, he was there, every precipitous and forceful emotion pushing up into his throat. “Well?” he asked Martha, his eyes searching her face for some indication of how things had gone. And then her lips broke into a smile and she pushed the door open farther, stepping aside to allow him in.

“See for yourself, Mr. Robicheaux.”

He didn’t realize he had dropped the pipe (or that Martha had to quickly stamp out the still-burning tobacco so it wouldn’t catch the rug on fire); he just walked slowly across the room, tears of joy welling in his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Eliza, who gave him a tired but very real smile. He grinned back, his gaze shifting downward to the tiny bundle in her arms.

“This is…” he broke off, reaching up a hand and carefully, gently, touching the tiny hand that peeked out of the blankets, the fingers so tiny and delicate in comparison to his much larger, weathered ones.

“He looks like you,” Eliza said, and Goodnight looked up at her.

“He?”

“It’s a boy,” she said, her grin so big it crinkled the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, Eliza-” the sob burst out of him before he could muffle it and then he just laughed, utterly jubilant, moving to sit with his back against the pillows next to his wife, one arm going automatically around her shoulders and one cradling the baby alongside hers.

“Do you want to hold him?” she asked and he nodded eagerly, tentatively taking the tiny child in his arms when she held him out. Another tear traced down his cheek and he turned his head to kiss Eliza’s forehead, still barely taking his eyes off the baby even as he did.

“How are you feeling?” he asked finally.

“Happy,” she said and he chuckled, impulsively kissing her cheek.

“Good work.”

She snuggled a little closer, watching her husband with a loving smile on her face as he continued to marvel at the baby. “Is the name we thought of still sounding good to you?” she asked, reaching over to tuck the blanket a little closer around the baby.

Goodnight nodded. “Even better now I think of him being the one to have it.”

“Mama, Papa,” Eliza called. “You can come in!” The door swung open and the new grandparents entered, both positively glowing. “We'd like to introduce you to William Rafael Robicheaux.”

Midnights up with Eliza tending to the crying baby, mornings spent in warm snuggling with the sleeping little boy on one of their chests, afternoons taking him out on circuits of the fields, or simply sitting and watching him sleep in his cradle- life was filled with new bustle, and a new intensity of love Goodnight didn’t know his soul could hold, an amount of joy he didn’t think his scarred heart could comprehend.

One of the few practical benefits of having a baby was that Goodnight was rarely asleep long enough to have nightmares, and when Eliza was too exhausted to get the baby to sleep, he was always willing and ready. William needed him in a way that no one else did, and it brought a new drive, a new sense of purpose and intention to life, a new vigor when he got out of bed in the morning, no matter how long the night had been, or why it had been so.

His mind needed the time, needed the joy, even if it only patched over his holes rather than closing them, and he hoped some time with the new career he was fairly sure he would pursue could help him smite down the terrors that burned him from the inside out, could re-accustom him to the sounds and thoughts that triggered periods of inexpressible terror, could chase away the hallucinations that, when he saw them in full, seemed as real as the war he’d fought in, but still danced unbidden at the corners of his vision at times throughout the day.

So after weeks of long discussion, the morning came for him to depart to Little Rock, where he would be licensed by city officials as a warrant officer. It never got easier leaving Eliza, and it was no easier now that he left William as well. But it was the right decision, he knew that much, and that helped the heartsickness a little.

He looked back as he reached the end of the road leading up to Cox Manor, taking off his hat and nodding once to the familiar figures on the porch. A silent promise left his lips, to them, to himself.

I’ll be home soon.

#goodnight robicheaux #sam chisolm #mag7 #the magnificent seven #mag7 scenario #mag7 imagine #sequel #one thousand miles #angst #fluff

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glamour-ltec-blog · 8 years ago

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Edición #11 Febrero 2017

Confesiones

¡Déjalo salir!

Para Beathan Ty Ainsley: A veces me canso de ti y tu irritante forma de ser, existen ocasiones en las que desearía quedar sorda para no escucharte hablar; y no, no creo que sea una exageración, pero es que a veces dices demasiadas tonterías que me gana la curiosidad de saber, qué pasa por tu cabeza. Pero lo verdaderamente alarmante es que: pese a que tu presencia me es desagradable (en algunas ocasiones) se está volviendo adictiva para mi. Odio aceptar que con frecuencia pienso en ti, más de lo normal. —Anónimo.

Para G. William Winthrop-Scott: Las palabras quedan cortas cuando se trata de expresar una emoción ¿Cómo decirte en una frase, lo que significas para mi? Te adoro, y eso es obvio. Sé que tu amistad es sincera y que sin importar el momento o la situación siempre estarás para brindarme tu apoyo, en mi lugar te ofrezco lo mismo; una amistad a prueba de todo.—Myndee L. Mort

Para Zephry Knight: Tengo sueño y es por tu culpa, ¿por qué no puedo dejar de pensar en ti? —Anónimo

Para Josep Wideroos: Pidieron una confesión pero no tengo que confesarte algo que ya sabes ¿Por qué sabes todo lo que siento por ti, no? Hemos tenido momentos difíciles, todos los tienen, solo quiero decir que lamento el mal rato y que eres muy especial para mi. Espero seguir pasando más tiempo conmigo, no me iré tan fácil de tu vida. —Porwendee Redfield

Para Romee Beynon: estás loca, eres demasiado rebelde y caótica pero eso es exactamente lo que más me gusta de ti, simplemente eres tú o el 50% de ti porque el otro 50% te resistes a mostrarlo. Te quiero decir o recordar que eres una persona maravillosa, no dejes que lo que digan los demás te haga sentir triste en tu vida, jamás o tendré que faltar demasiadas veces al trabajo para poder consolarte en persona. Eres preciosa. PD: Deja de coquetear, no me gusta, me pongo celoso. —Anónimo

Para Queen Hamblenton: eres la mujer más encantadora que me conocido, me gustaría estar siempre a tu lado para protegerte pero sé que eres bastante independiente también así que me voy a conformar con que me des algunas horas de tu vida para poder verte y disfrutar de tu compañía. —Te quiere, Viktor.

A todos mis amigos, los conocidos y los no tan conocidos ¿Qué les puedo decir? Mi vida sería tan incoherente sin ustedes. Feliz san Valentín a todos, espero que nuestra amistad dure mucho tiempo, porque les necesito para ser feliz. —Françoise Hollande.

A mi esposo: los tiempos malos no duran siempre, y después de estos vienen los buenos. Creo en eso, ¿tú no? En cualquier caso, te deseo un feliz día del amor y la amistad. —Françoise Hollande.

Para Samuel Wooldrige: no sé qué decirte aparte de que te amo mucho, eres el mejor hombre de este mundo y yo sé que tuvimos una crisis muy fuerte pero lo importante de todo eso es que estamos juntos y más unidos que nunca. Gracias por dejarme ser parte de tu vida y darme a mi Samantha que es una de las mejores cosas que me ha pasado en la vida. —Lorea Wooldrige.

Para Siobhán Eisenhower, quiero expresar lo mucho que has cambiado mi vida, eres hermosa y parece un sueño cuando compartimos, cuando sonríes. Me gustaría que sepas que me esforzaré para conquistar tu corazón. —Anónimo

Para Evan Lambert: eres mi complemento, mi más bonita coincidencia, las cosas son difíciles pero seguiré enamorada de ti bajo los tiempos que sean. Hay cosas que no se pueden cambiar, como esto que siento por ti. —Atte, RWL.

Para Steph Whitelight: No hay necesidad que sea anónimo. No hay mucho para decir, y no porque sienta poco por ti...todo lo contrario, simplemente que mucho de lo que siento ya lo sabes. Te amo, te adoro. En sencillas palabras puedo expresar la magnitud de tu existencia en mi vida. Sé que últimamente no hemos estado en nuestros mejores momentos, y lo lamento, pero quiero que sepas que en verdad te amo y eres todo para mí. — Seren Baskerville.

Para Velkan Corbiau de su duquesa: Antes de ti no hubo nadie que pudiera hacerme sentir lo que tú provocas en mí, basta con escuchar tu nombre para que mi cuerpo entero sucumba ante tus recuerdos. Mi piel está tatuada de tus besos y caricias, las cuales ni el tiempo ha logrado borrar, llevo tu aroma a todas partes y me bastan tus brazos para sentirme protegida, es en ellos donde encuentro la paz y la fortaleza para continuar mi día. No importa que tan oscuro sea el camino pues a tu lado aprendí a no temer porque sé, que siempre estarás cuidando de mí. Antes de ti sólo era una cascara vacía que caminaba a ciegas por la vida, pero fuiste tú quien le dio un sentido a mi vida. Faltan palabras para describir lo que me haces sentir, lo mucho que significas para mí pero tengo la seguridad de que lo sospechas y es por eso que ante mis ojos eres el hombre perfecto, el único con quien quiero estar.— Zelda Fogelberg

Para Zelda Fogelberg: Mi princesita...desde que entraste a mi vida, la has puesto de cabeza. ¿Recuerdas cómo empezó todo? Fue un caos, ni siquiera podíamos soportar estar juntos por mucho tiempo, y ahora yo no creo poder vivir alejado de ti. Te volviste esa persona indispensable para mi, con tus adorables muecas, tus berrinches, tus momentos dulces, y esos detalles especiales que te hacen ser, para mí, la mujer más encantadora del mundo. Te amo, y mucho, que ni siquiera puedo creer que sea posible amar tanto a alguien. —Velkan Corbiau

Para Aaron Van België: No importa cuantas veces te alejes de mi, ni el tiempo que duremos distanciados, mucho menos me interesa sí me consideras la persona más vil o la más vulnerable. Qué importa sí por pensar en ti dejo escapar otros amores, incluso la soledad suena tentadora cuando tu recuerdo es mi recompensa porque cariño mío, tú te has llevado todo de ti, y sé, porque conozco mi corazón, que jamás te dejaré de amar. —Anónimo

Para Ariadna Voulgaris: Eres mi vicio favorito, mi obsesión más sana, la trampa más hermosa que la vida me puso en el camino, eres mi esperanza, lo que me da fuerza para seguir adelante, eres la razón por la cual despierto con una sonrisa en los labios, gracias a ti comprendí lo que es amar con sinceridad y sin egoísmo. Y aunque los años pasen jamás encontraré una mirada que me haga temblar, unos labios que me hagan suspirar ni una sonrisa de la cual me quiera yo enamorar. Yo sé y te lo voy a confesar, que contigo quiero estar, en esta vida y en las que siguen. —Walter Winthrop-Scott

Para Ian Winthrop-Scott: Quisiera decirte tanto, pero no me atrevo...no sería capaz de asustarte con todo lo que siento por tí. Tan solo necesito que sepas que no importa lo que suceda, siempre te voy a querer. Me encantas.— Anónimo

Para Vasilisa Dziahileva: Hay cosas que necesitan llegar a su fin, duelen, los recuerdos quedan, nunca se van. Eres especial, date cuenta. — Anónimo

Para Joshua Sturridge: Señor Sturridge, me gustas. No debería sentirme así pero lo hago, te has convertido en mi pequeño secreto. En los días que no puedo verte te extraño demasiado… así que se me ha ocurrido que podríamos hacer una escapada algún día, sería como una excursión y nadie nos molestaría, ¿qué opinas? —Anónimo

Para Tristán Nordhölm: feliz día del amor y la amistad. Sé que a veces hablo mal, que te hago creer que estoy loca y esas cosas, pero quiero que sepas por medio de esta confesión que en realidad te aprecio mucho. Me gustaría que las cosas entre nosotros hubieran resultado de otra manera, sí, pero también estoy agradecida de que seas tú y no otro con el que crucé caminos. Tú sabes de qué hablo, eres el mejor. —Freyja.

Para Viktor Corbiau: No te he dicho que valoro todos aquellos detalles que tienes conmigo, eres encantador y me cuidas, me tratas como pocas personas lo hacen, soy mala para las palabras, pero aprovecharé para decir que te quiero, y quiero que te quedes conmigo.—Anónimo

Para Seren Baskerville: Aunque las cosas estén raras, aunque creamos que tiene un fin, es necesario que sepas que no me olvido de nada, que mi promesa sigue en pie y que me mantendré esperando. —Anónimo

Para M. Anne-Lise Schleswig: Te cuidaré, eres especial para mí. —Anónimo

Para Françoise Hollande: Si estás sufriendo, yo sufro el doble. No importa lo que quieran creer los demás, nosotros sabemos qué es lo que sentimos y yo me quedo contigo en el bien y en el mal. Te amo. —Su esposo

Para Whitney Moscovici: Sé que no soy el cliente más agradecido que hayas tenido pero en realidad aprecio mucho todo lo que haces por mí, me pareces preciosa y voy todos los días al trabajo con ánimo esperando a la hora en la que pueda hablar contigo. —Un cliente satisfecho.

Para M. Eliza Windsor: Feliz San Valentín, pequeña. Sabes que si en el futuro necesitas a una persona que te apoye puedes recurrir a mí. ¿Para algo están los amigos, no? Y yo quiero ser uno bueno para ti. —Gilmat Ainsley.

Para Brooke Crawford: Hay algo sensacional dentro de ti, nadie lo nota, pero yo sí. Tendrás que hacerte cargo de lo que provocas en mí, ¿me aceptarías? ¿Dejarías que cuide de ti?— Anónimo

#Let them eat cake RPG #E11 #Confesiones

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mancow-icecreambowling · 5 years ago

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Jaded

Chapter 2

August 23, 2019 1:00 pm

“Lizzie, this is Nicole. She’s a sophomore at the academy. Nicole, could you show Lizzie to her room?”

Nicole nods and Belle starts to walk away.

“I’ll go confirm the plans for the weekend. See you at 6:30 for dinner.”

“Ok.”

Nicole leads me out of the foyer.

“Have you lived in Quincy long, Nicole?”

“I was born and raised in Winthrop.”

“I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to go to school near where I was born.”

“Where were you born?”

“Here. Well, in Plymouth.”

“Wow. So you might not need a tour of the city.”

“I haven’t been here in almost 10 years. It’s probably changed a lot being a metropolitan city.”

“That’s true. Well, your tour guide loves exploring so you’ll see a lot."

I nod and realize we’ve been stopped for a few moments.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you at dinner.”

I open the door and pause. It looks exactly like my dorm. The wallpaper, dressers, desks, and beds. It’s like a miniature version of my entire house.

I unpack quickly and go to the phone.

“Hello, Room 501,” Mikalya says.

“Hi, Mikalya. I wanted to let you girls know I landed.”

“Lizzie! I’ll put her on speaker. Calm down, Bianca.”

“Hiya, Lizzie,” Bianca says.

“Lizzie, how was the flight?” Rizalyn asks.

“Hi, everyone. The flight was fine. Finished reading the course guidelines.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s important, Jenn. It’s our senior year.” Lindsay says.

“Anyway, how’s Ms. Simms? Which Simms are there?” Tess asks.

“Belle Simms is nice. Delilah Simms will be here for dinner soon. I think the brothers live in the north.”

“Well, that’s disappointing. I wanted to know if Arthur is as nice as they say and if Caleb is naturally funny or if that’s simply prepared for interviews.”

“Maybe she’ll find out in the months, Tess,” Nascha says.

There’s an awkward silence.

“Some of us have work and others have shopping plans so we should go,” Mikalya says.

“Of course. Have a good day.” I reply.

“Thanks,” Rizalyn says.

“Liz, can I talk to you?” Lindsay asks.

“Sure.”

“Bye, Lizzie,” Bianca says.

I open the window.

“Mistress, I’m alone.”

“Lindsay, you were doing so well.”

“Right, sorry. Lizzie, have you made your decision?”

“What? No. I’ve only been here an hour.”

“That means it’s still in consideration.”

“Yes.”

“Fine. But make sure it actually benefits both of --.”

“No way!” I shout and duck behind the windowsill.

“Mistress?”

“Sorry. I thought a bird was coming in the window. Lindsay, I’ll repeat my promise to decide carefully. But I’m going to hang up to unpack now. Have fun reading on your day off.”

“Thanks. Choose well. And remember us.”

“Love you, too.”

It couldn’t have been. Right? That was a figment of my imagination. I didn’t just see him, did I?

----- ----- ----- August 23, 2019 6:35 pm

Finn.

Apparently I did as he is currently standing in the Simms foyer.

His back is to me. He hasn’t seen me yet.

“Delilah, there you are,” Belle says as her sister comes into the room. “Delilah this is Eliz—Lizzie. Lizzie, this is my busy sister Delilah."

I glance at Delilah and look back at Finn. Who has turned around and is staring at me.

“Hello, Delilah. It’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“No need to apologize. I’m late as well.”

“Eliza!” Finn runs up the stairs and picks me up. “Eliza, is it really you?”

I stare at him.

“Come on, Liz. What are you doing here?” A beat. “Did you lose your voice yelling at the girls?”

“No. I was invited. What are you doing here?” I whisper back.

“You two know each other?” A girl asks speaking for the group.

“Yes, Mandy. We do.” He responds.

“Finn, why didn’t you say anything?” Belle asks.

“You didn’t say Eliza Gent was the girl. I would have agreed right away.”

“Well, that makes everything easier. Lizzie, Finn will be your tour guide.” Delilah says.

We continue the introductions. Timothy Campbell, Finn’s dad, is in charge of the security detail. Nicole and Mandy are sophomores. They are SOS students and work for the Simms.

We sit down to dinner and Delilah asks Finn and me how we met. Finn tells me to relay the story.

“We met when we were 11. I was shopping with the manager of my home. Finn was touring the boys’ school. He was bored because it was the umpteenth time he’d seen it but he had never seen town so he…”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finn gesturing for me to stop.

“You were bored? You’re the one who asked to go every year after that. I was done too. Wait, was Lizzie going to say you ran off?” Timothy asks and I realize what I had done.

“I wouldn’t say I ran off. I excused myself, without telling you. Anyway, Eliza hasn’t said how we meet.” Finn says, knowing he doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

He looks at me asking me to continue.

“So he came into the store I was in. It was a thrift store which was fine. But it was an all-girl thrift store, which was strange.” Kala and Mandy laugh at that. “Mrs. Bachchan, the home manager, asked him if he was lost and he replied that he was. Since we were done with our shopping Mrs. Bachchan told me to escort him and to be home by sundown.”

“Which is why I got in trouble but she didn’t,” Finn says.

“Is that the day that Timothy always talks about? The day when they finally found you, you were sitting by the gate?” Belle asks.

“Yeah, well… anyway, that’s how we met.” Finn comments and continues eating.

“Someone doesn’t like being made to sound like a child,” Delilah whispers to me and I nod, giggling.

----- ----- -----

July 25, 2013 1:30 pm

“Isn’t it a little weird?” He asks as Mrs. Bachchan walks out of the store.

“Isn’t what a little weird?” I ask putting my hands in my pockets.

“That she would leave you with a stranger?”

“No,” I say walking to the door. “The town always looks out for us and everyone says I can handle myself. Plus, you're a kid too.”

I turn around and see the boy standing there.

“Well, are we going to get you back or not?” I ask, impatiently.

“We are.” the boy says, running over.

We exit and start walking down the street. I don’t even know if we’re going the right way as I don’t know where he is supposed to be. I look over and he is walking with his head down.

“Would you feel better if we introduced ourselves?” I ask and the boy looks up at me surprised. He doesn’t say anything so I put out my hand and say, “My name is Liz Gent.”

“Finn Campbell.” He says, shaking my hand.

“Well, Finn where did you need to go?”

“The Boys’ Academy.”

I nod and continue walking in the direction we were going in.

“Liz, do you want to go in there?” Finn suddenly asks.

I turn around and see the coffee shop he’s pointing at. Now it’s my turn to stare at the ground.

“I don’t have any money,” I say turning away.

“I can buy,” Finn says, quickly.

“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to. And we have to get you back.” I say, flustered.

“I don’t have to be back immediately. I asked so it’s only right that I’m able to pay for both of us. So why not?”

I am a little thirsty from helping Mrs. Bachchan.

“All right.”

Finn smiles and opens the door.

----- ----- -----

After dinner, the next day was planned. Everyone went home. Belle invited me to watch a movie with Delilah and her. But Delilah said she had to work. Belle fell asleep halfway through so I went to bed.

#author #lovestory #teenlovestory #academy #fiction #teenfiction #orphan #socialite #teen #coming of age #slice of life

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