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blacklister214 · 5 months

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Honesty and Codology: Chapter 2 (Shenanigans)

This is the second chapter of my Scarnash fanfiction. This one is set just prior to 3x03 as Patrick is journeying to the Hotel St. Marc. As ever, sorry for any typos! Enjoy!

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Dear Lord, he hated the countryside. Traveling in a drafty carriage during the winter months was bad enough, without having to contend with the ruts in the dirt roads.

As if on cue the carriage jolted again, causing Patrick’s head to smack hard into the side of the conveyance. Damnation. He rubbed the sore point and tried to focus on the prize that waited for him at the end of this God-forsaken trip.

“There are better ways, you know.”

Slowly Patrick’s gaze slid to the left, half hoping and half dreading about what he might see there. His prayers and fears were answered in the form of a lean bearded man, far more plainly dressed than Patrick. Even if Michael had survived long enough to enjoy the profits of their business, Patrick suspected he would have continued to dress simply. He’d never had much of a taste for showmanship. Their complementary skills had been what had made them such a pair.

“To travel the French Countryside? I’m afraid not.” A glib reply, but he had none better. Months had passed since his odd experience in the hospital. The hallucination had faded to the back of his mind. He’d been shot, and tired, and taking a drug containing opium. It had been easy to dismiss as unimportant. To see Michael again though was something else entirely.

He touched the small lump hidden by his hair. Precisely how hard had he hit his head? Perhaps he should visit a doctor when he returned to London.

“Better ways to get a girl’s attention then by pulling on her braid.”

Patrick ceased probing his injury. Whatever the reason for Michael's presence, he might as well take advantage. How many people were lucky enough to chat with a belated loved one? Patrick was nothing if not an opportunist, and this was a unique opportunity.

“I haven’t the slightest notion of what you mean.”

Michael's derisive snort told Patrick what he thought of that bald-faced lie.

“You have cases. Many cases. So many in fact that you couldn’t spare a single one of your men to help you.”

Patrick waved his hand dismissively. He’d been a one-man band after Michael passed, and he’d handled himself just fine. Managing thirty men hadn’t made him so soft that he couldn’t survive on his own.

“He’s a non-violent fugitive. I'll be fine.”

Michael rolled his eyes to the heavens, as if praying for patience.

“The point I was trying to make was that you don’t NEED to do this.”

Patrick furrowed his brows.

“Do what? Capture a criminal twelve years on the run? Why shouldn’t I?” His successful apprehension of Charles Percival would bring Nash & Sons acclaim on multiple continents. It would launch his Paris branch in spectacular fashion. In a few times he might even expand to the United States.

“Whatever the benefit to Nash & Sons, it would be relatively minor, compared to the benefit to Miss Scarlet’s business.” Patrick deflated a bit. That fact did slightly sting his conscience.

“True.” He had no reason to feel guilty. They were competing agencies. He had no moral obligation to help her.

“Then why are you so determined to steal her victory out from under her?”

When Michael put it that way, it made him sound like a cad. The fact was, he hadn’t seen Eliza in months. Their last encounter had been friendly enough, especially considering she had been the reason he’d been shot. He’d been gracious about the whole thing. He even let her keep the fee after she’d offered to return it. Was it too much to ask in return that she’d drop by? They had an agreement after all.

“Steal is such an ugly word. I went to her office to propose we track down the conman together.”

He’d been perfectly willing to share his information and in turn he’d hoped she could help him find some new leads. That was, in a way, precisely what transpired.

“You broke in!”

Patrick held up hand to fend off further objections.

“She didn’t answer when I knocked. I was concerned. Was it my fault the whole case was pinned up to her wall for anyone to see?” This wasn’t a complete lie. For Eliza not to be in her office at 9 am was unusual for her. Their business was a dangerous one, and as far he knew, Eliza hadn’t yet acquired a weapon for her personal protection. Well, outside poison, with which he knew she was quite handy.

“Anyone committing criminal trespass, you mean.”

Patrick shrugged in what he hoped to be a careless manner.

“She should learn to be more circumspect when it comes to her protecting her leads.” What Eliza needed was some hidden safes. They were quite handy when it came to storing sensitive information. Patrick himself had a multitude both in his office and in his residence.

“Planning on telling her that when you see her at the hotel?” Patrick grimaced. Ordinarily he was quite happy to share his knowledge and experience with Eliza, but in this case it would be counterproductive.

“No.” Eliza would react poorly if he revealed how he’d come to be at the hotel. Best if kept that nugget of advice to himself.

“I thought you wanted to be more “fair and honest”, when it came to Miss Scarlet.”

Patrick frowned, not liking his words being used against him.

“Ideally yes, but this is a necessary step.” Rules had to have exceptions. He fully intended to be fair and honest with Eliza, once she joined Nash & Sons. However, she never would come to work for him unless he could prove he had something to offer.

“Toward what?”

“Toward earning her respect.” It wasn’t that he terribly minded losing to Eliza. She was an absolutely brilliant detective. It would be like a painter being upset they weren’t quite as good as Winslow Homer. What he minded was ALWAYS losing to Eliza. If he couldn’t beat her, not even once, then he didn’t deserve having her as his employee.

“I don’t see how taking advantage of her hard work will help you achieve that goal.”

Patrick's stomach churned uncomfortably, but he ignored it. A few lies of omission were nothing in the grand scheme of things. He’d done far worse without losing a moment’s rest over it.

“There is no reason for her to know about that part.”

The ends did justify the means in this case. On her own it would take Eliza years to build the requisite reputation for a thriving business. Working for him would ensure she got the prestige and pay she so richly deserved now. It was a mutually beneficial outcome.

Michael wiped his hands over his eyes, seeming less than impressed by Patrick’s response.

“Patrick, you lie so much, I think it might be a medical condition.”

Patrick stiffened at the old reproof. It wasn’t as though he’d made no progress on the case before he’d…stumbled upon Eliza’s notes.

“It’s not all a lie. I found the house on my own. I found the IDs on my own.” Well, with the help of his men, but it still counted. He wasn’t a fraud, at least not a complete one. He also had information Eliza did not. He’d scoured her evidence wall and there was neither the name “Sebastian Baron” nor his likeness.

“Just so I have this straight: Your plan is to apprehend the fugitive, then gloat to Miss Scarlett about your success? You feel this will raise you in her esteem?”

Michael’s tone was rather dubious, but Patrick was undeterred.

“I’m not sure ‘gloat’ is the word I would use, but essentially yes. Once she realizes I beat her to the prize, she will be forced to acknowledge my investigative skills.” He only too clearly remembered the sneer in her voice when she spoke of his firm’s reputation. Ordinarily he didn’t care if people turned their noses up at his methods, but with Eliza it was different. He wanted her to think well of him.

“Yes, theft is quite the step up.”

Patrick banged fist against the seat cushion. He’d forgotten that Michael was as insistent as a pounding hammer if he thought that Patrick was making a poor choice.

“For the last time I’m not stealing from her! I fully intend to share credit and payment in exchange for her assistance transporting the man back to London.”

He’d made his plans there in Eliza’s office, once he realized she had already left for France. Alone, neither of them could safely transport the conman to London. Between the two and the private boat he’d hired, however, they could manage it. He wondered if she’d brought any of her poisons with her. Did she intend to drug Percival and then shove him into a large trunk?

“And if she refuses? How do you plan on transporting the prisoner on your own?” Patrick blinked, thoughts diverted from wondering if Eliza had remembered to add air holes.

“She won’t refuse.” Eliza was a survivor, like him. She may not like sharing credit, but she surely understood the opportunity this bounty represented. The trick would be to present the offer in a way that didn’t smack of condescension. Better still, if she believed it was her idea.

“Patrick, I urge you to reconsider this course of action. You’ve already had the girl thrown in jail and attempted to poach her case. It did not end well for you.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He’d invent a team of his men searching the countryside. They were to meet him at the hotel, but then they’d hit a snag. They’d send a message by telegram. Their carriage broke and they will be unable to assist him. If he received this note in Eliza’s presence, she might suggest a collaboration without him having to say a word. Yes, that would work splendidly.

“What is your ultimate goal with Miss Scarlett?” Patrick focused once again on his brother. Was he back dropping hints about Patrick’s having a more than professional interest in Eliza?

“I want her to come work for me.” It was even more true today, than it had been the day they’d met. Until that day “The Lady Detective” had been a file. A case. An asset to be acquired and put to good use. She was more than that now. A person who interested him. A person he liked. Despite the genial persona that he put on like a suit, there weren’t too many of those in the world.

“Anything else?” Michael’s eyes bore into Patrick’s as though waiting for him to blink. He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind it terribly, if we became friends.” He had employees aplenty, but none that he would choose to socialize with. The truth was that most people bored him. Eliza never did.

“That’s very generous of you.” Patrick did not miss the sarcasm in Michael's response and wasn’t sure he appreciated it. He pointed an accusing finger at his brother.

“I know what you're thinking. You’re thinking I’m not good enough for her. You’re wrong.” Or so Patrick told himself. With enough repetition, he was bound to believe it, eventually.

Michael leaned forward in his seat, his hand hovering above Patrick’s knee, before withdrawing it. He sighed heavily.

“Patrick, the only person who has ever thought you're not good enough is you.”

That comment pierced through the wall of ego that Patrick had erected to protect his heart. What stung was how very incorrect Michael was. Anyone who’d ever known the both Nash brothers had found Patrick wanting. The Irish Constabulary, their school master, their neighbors. Even their parents, though they loved both of them, knew Michael was the good son, and Patrick the bad. Jealousy might have eaten Patrick alive, if he hadn’t been so damn proud of Michael. If Michael hadn’t been so loving a brother. Besides, it hadn't been Michael’s fault. Patrick was frequently found inferior by those who didn’t even know he’d had a brother. Case and point Eliza.

“Eliza has said, to my face, that I'm a liar and a criminal.” Having someone he admired so much consider him lesser was intolerable. He was determined to change her mind, by whatever means necessary.

“You have a strange way of proving her wrong.” Perhaps there was some irony in his trying to swindle his way out of her original perception of him, but he didn’t care. He was who he was. His methods were his methods.

“I told you, she won’t find out about my…shenanigans. I need her to witness me win, just once. Then she might actually see me as someone worth working with.”

“Don’t you mean ‘working for’?” Patrick tilted his head to the side. Michael was right. He’d said “working with.” Strangely that prospect seemed almost more appealing than the idea of having her under his command. It was more personal. He’d get to watch her work up close. Still, that was impossible, at least on a regular basis. He was the boss. He jumped from case to case whenever he felt his expertise was needed, or for the grand reveal at the end, but he didn’t have partners.

“Yes, of course that’s what I mean.” He felt strangely let down at the prospect. It wasn’t all bad news though. When she came to work for Nash & Sons, he would see her far more frequently than he did now. Long hours working meant shared meals, friendly banter, and getting to know each other better.

“I understand why you think you have to do this, Patrick. I do. But I think there’s one thing you haven’t considered. You want Miss Scarlet to trust you. That is the biggest obstacle standing between you and your objectives.”

Patrick nodded slowly, unable to find a fault in Michael’s logic. He was unsure where his brother was going with this line of thought.

“Agreed.”

“Trust is difficult to earn, but it is nearly impossible to repair. If your plan works, and then later she finds out about your deception, you’ll be far lower in her esteem than you are right now, possibly irretrievably so.”

A sudden sense of foreboding filled Patrick. Michael was right, he was making a risky gamble. Eliza had armor similar to his own. If he breached it, even a little, and then she discovered he’d bamboozled her, she’d be beyond furious.

When they’d last spoken, her eyes had lacked the contempt and wariness they’d held the day they’d met. Incrediment progress was still progress.The trouble was there was no other path forward that he could see, gradual or otherwise. Waiting patiently had never gotten him anywhere before, and he doubted that would change now. He’d have to risk it.

“She won’t find out.” He’d been careful not to disturb anything in Eliza’s office. The only way he’d be caught was if he confessed. He knew how to keep a secret.

Michael regarded Patrick, his lips pressed into a thin line as though to prevent further reproaches from escaping. He settled for shaking his head sadly.

“Good luck Patrick. You’ll need it.”

In the blink of an eye Michael vanished as if he’d never been, leaving Patrick alone once more in the rocking carriage.

Most unsettling, this hallucination business, but perhaps more so was the message this visit seemed to bring. A part of him clearly thought he was about to make a mistake.

He reached into his coat and retrieved the two sketches he’d hidden there. The first was of “Sebastion Baron” which he glanced at before moving to his trouser pocket. The second was of Eliza Scarlet. He’d commissioned it when he’d first put her under investigation. He had several photographs as well, including one from her most recent arrest, but the drawing was his favorite. It captured the directness and intelligence of her stare, and well as the defiant tilt of her chin.

Patrick had brought the picture with him to show to the bellhops. They were everyone in hotels, and generally quite susceptible to bribery. He would use them to track Eliza’s arrival and movements until he was ready to greet her personally.

He could do this. He was Patrick Nash. In less than a decade he had turned a struggling two-man PI firm into the most successful agency in London. His exploits had been written about in no less than three countries. He was about to open a second office in Paris and had plans for a third in the United States all before he turned 40. Winning the approval of one woman, albeit an extraordinary one, was well within his capabilities. It had to be.

#scarnash #miss scarlet and the duke #fanfiction #eliza scarlet #eliza x patrick #patrick nash #michael nash

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xtruss · 4 months

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History of St. Patrick’s Day

St. Patrick’s Day Is Celebrated Annually on March 17, the Anniversary of His Death in the Fifth Century. St. Patrick’s Day 2024 will Take Place on Sunday, March 17. The Irish Have Observed this Day as a Religious Holiday for Over 1,000 Years. On St. Patrick’s Day, Which Falls During the Christian Season of Lent, Irish Families Would Traditionally Attend Church ⛪️ in the Morning and Celebrate 🎊 🎉 in the Afternoon. Lente Prohibitions Against the Consumption of Meat 🍖 🥩 were Waived and People Would Dance 💃, Drink 🥤🍹🍺 and Feast on the Traditional Meal 🍽️ 🥘 of Irish Bacon 🥓 and Cabbage 🥬.

— By History.Com Editors | March 4, 2024

Photograph: Tim Boyle/Getty Images

Who Was St. Patrick?

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Saint Patrick, who lived during the fifth century, is the patron saint of Ireland and its national apostle. Born in Roman Britain, he was kidnapped and brought to Ireland as a slave at 16. He later escaped, but returned to Ireland and was credited with bringing Christianity to its people.

In the centuries following Patrick’s death (believed to have been on March 17, 461), the mythology surrounding his life became ever more ingrained in the Irish culture: Perhaps the most well-known legend of St. Patrick is that he explained the Holy Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) using the three leaves of a native Irish clover, the shamrock.

More than 100 St. Patrick's Day parades are held across the United States; New York City and Boston are home to the largest celebrations.

When Was the First St. Patrick’s Day Celebrated?

Since around the ninth or 10th century, people in Ireland have been observing the Roman Catholic feast day of St. Patrick on March 17. The first St. Patrick’s Day parade took place not in Ireland but in America. Records show that a St. Patrick’s Day parade was held on March 17, 1601 in a Spanish colony in what is now St. Augustine, Florida. The parade, and a St. Patrick’s Day celebration a year earlier were organized by the Spanish Colony's Irish vicar Ricardo Artur.

More than a century later, homesick Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched in New York City on March 17, 1772 to honor the Irish patron saint. Enthusiasm for the St. Patrick's Day parades in New York City, Boston and other early American cities only grew from there.

Growth of St. Patrick's Day Celebrations

Over the next 35 years, Irish patriotism among American immigrants flourished, prompting the rise of so-called “Irish Aid” societies like the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick and the Hibernian Society. Each group would hold annual parades featuring bagpipes (which actually first became popular in the Scottish and British armies) and drums.

In 1848, several New York Irish Aid societies decided to unite their parades to form one official New York City St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Today, that parade is the world‘s oldest civilian parade and the largest in the United States, with over 150,000 participants. Each year, nearly 3 million people line the 1.5-mile parade route to watch the procession, which takes more than five hours. Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia and Savannah also celebrate the day with parades involving between 10,000 and 20,000 participants each. In 2020, the New York City parade was one of the first major city events to be canceled as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic; it was again canceled in 2021. The parade in New York and others around the country returned in 2022.

The Irish in America

Despised for their alien religious beliefs and unfamiliar accents by the American Protestant majority, the immigrants had trouble finding even menial jobs. When Irish Americans in the country’s cities took to the streets on St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate their heritage, newspapers portrayed them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.

In 1948, President Harry S. Truman attended New York City‘s St. Patrick’s Day parade, a proud moment for the many Irish Americans whose ancestors had to fight stereotypes and racial prejudice to find acceptance in the New World.

The Chicago River Dyed Green

As Irish immigrants spread out over the United States, other cities developed their own traditions. One of these is Chicago’s annual dyeing of the Chicago River green. The practice started in 1962, when city pollution-control workers used dyes to trace illegal sewage discharges and realized that the green dye might provide a unique way to celebrate the holiday. That year, they released 100 pounds of green vegetable dye into the river–enough to keep it green for a week. Today, in order to minimize environmental damage, only 40 pounds of dye are used, and the river turns green for only several hours.

Although Chicago historians claim their city’s idea for a river of green was original, some natives of Savannah, Georgia (whose St. Patrick’s Day parade, the oldest in the nation, dates back to 1813) believe the idea originated in their town. They point out that, in 1961, a hotel restaurant manager named Tom Woolley convinced city officials to dye Savannah’s river green. The experiment didn’t exactly work as planned, and the water only took on a slight greenish hue. Savannah never attempted to dye its river again, but Woolley maintains (though others refute the claim) that he personally suggested the idea to Chicago’s Mayor Richard J. Daley.

St. Patrick's Day Celebrations Around the World

Today, people of all backgrounds celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, especially throughout the United States, Canada and Australia. Although North America is home to the largest productions, St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated around the world in locations far from Ireland, including Japan, Singapore and Russia. Popular St. Patrick’s Day recipes include Irish soda bread, corned beef and cabbage and champ. In the United States, people often wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.

In Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day has traditionally been a spiritual and religious occasion. In fact, up until the 1970s, Irish laws mandated that pubs be closed on March 17. Beginning in 1995, however, the Irish government began a national campaign to use interest in St. Patrick’s Day to drive tourism and showcase Ireland and Irish culture to the rest of the world.

What Do Leprechauns Have to Do With St. Patrick's Day?

One icon of the Irish holiday is the Leprechaun. The original Irish name for these figures of folklore is “Lobaircin,” meaning “Small-bodied Fellow.” Belief in leprechauns probably stems from Celtic belief in fairies, tiny men and women who could use their magica

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prettymvgic · 3 months

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my muses ; this is temporary until i figure out how to make things mobile friendly !

FEMALES : poppy : age unknown, pixie, currently captive by a vampire - madelaine petsch. kiana murphy : 22, college student, waitress - samantha logan. kimberly vaughn : 24, 1990's - young!julia roberts. olivia harrington: 22, college student - grace van dien. robyn bailey : 29, model & influencer - laura harrier. sidney prescott : 17-22, scream 1-3 - neve campbell. samantha palmer : 18-23, hs student/college student - katherine langford. marianne parker : 55, ranger wife - diane lane. katherine foster : 42, conwoman - anne hathaway. andrea "annie" bennett : 41, inn owner & keeper, starting over - bethany joy lenz. mercedes hart: 27, influencer & industry plant, upcoming musical artist - ryan destiny. bristol harper : 35, online jewelry store owner, mother to two - hilary duff. evangelina constance : 48, owner of a cult - carla gugino. allison barnes : 38, former nurse now surviving the apocalypse - lauren cohen. lacey thomas : 18-20, college student - nicole wallace. seline castillo : 33, owner of flattop bar & grill, more info upon request - vanessa hudgens. cassandra foxx : better known in her world as ALASKA, 30, sugar baby/escort, more info upon request - vanessa hudgens. marzia vadala : 34, italian, jewelry store owner - phoebe tonkin. gianna ortiz : 34, spanish, receptionist for a corportation - ana de armas. mariana ruiz : 19-22, spanish, hs or college student - alexa demie. holland st. clair : 25, model trying to get her debut, trans-female - hunter schafer. angeline swanson : 23, pornstar - sabrina carpenter. first last : 40, prosecutor - kerry washington.

MALES : marshall "the judge" owens : 49, apocalyptic cult member - andrew lincoln. jude mitchell : 34, lives in an apartment in nyc, struggling artist - andrew garfield. david bascom : 26, 1950's, closeted homosexual - harry styles. casey theriot : 27, nomad. - tom holland. pak dae-hyun : 23, idol struggling with fame - junkook. patrick galloway : 29, blackballed actor starting over - nicholas galitzine. choi minho, 25, establishing actor, mostly indie films waiting for his break - kim jiwoong ( aki. ) hak su-jin : 31, book store / cafe manager in seoul - woo do-hwan. kai kahinu : 19, younger brother to zane, new zealand native, maori - matthew sato. wihan chen : 24, indie musician - first kanaphan puitrakul. ( tashi. ) felix maynard : 30, owner of tart & thyme restaurant, chef - will poulter. caskey dallas : 18-23, outcast, more info upon request - cole sprouse. robin sallow : 28, manager of off beat records, more info upon request - thomas doherty. jesse dylan : 18-30 ( 1985 - 1997 ), teen/convict, more info upon request - dacre montgomery. dean maddox : 22, college student, more info upon request - hero fiennes tiffin. simon parker : 29, lead singer & guitar player of killin' time, more info upon request - joe keery. maverick reed : 26, fisherman's son - rudy pankow. hwan van : 26, mechanic - cha eun-woo choi daehyun : 20, idol, au!fae - felix lee. trevor elliot : 24, college, indie musician, au!fame - felix mallard. kim hanuel : 26, ceo- yeo jin-goo. andrew baker : 19, homeless. - brandon flynn. casper cromwell : forever 20, ghostboy haunting a house. - louis patridge.

THEYS : zane kahinu, 22, older sibling to kai, new zealand native, maori - zoe terakes.

#prettymvgic #my muses #* & ooc : cici rambles

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holidays-events · 4 months

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St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated annually on March 17, the anniversary of his death in the fifth century. The Irish have observed this day as a religious holiday for over 1,000 years. On St. Patrick’s Day, which falls during the Christian season of Lent, Irish families would traditionally attend church in the morning and celebrate in the afternoon. Lenten prohibitions against the consumption of meat were waived and people would dance, drink and feast–on the traditional meal of Irish bacon and cabbage.

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

St. Patrick’s occurs on March 17th, in observance of the death of St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland. What began as a religious feast day in the 17th century has evolved into a variety of festivals across the globe celebrating Irish culture with parades, special foods, music, dancing, and a whole lot of green.

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

ST. PATRICK’s Death & THE FIRST ST. PATRICK’S DAY PARADE

Saint Patrick, who lived during the fifth century, is the patron saint and national apostle of Ireland. Born in Roman Britain, he was kidnapped and brought to Ireland as a slave at the age of 16. He later escaped, but returned to Ireland and was credited with bringing Christianity to its people. In the centuries following Patrick’s death (believed to have been on March 17, 461), the mythology surrounding his life became ever more ingrained in the Irish culture: Perhaps the most well known legend is that he explained the Holy Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Spirit) using the three leaves of a native Irish clover, the shamrock.

More than 100 St. Patrick's Day parades are held across the United States; New York City and Boston are home to the largest celebrations.

Since around the ninth or 10th century, people in Ireland have been observing the Roman Catholic feast day of St. Patrick on March 17. Interestingly, however, the first parade held to honor St. Patrick’s Day took place not in Ireland but in the United States. On March 17, 1762, Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched through New York City. Along with their music, the parade helped the soldiers reconnect with their Irish roots, as well as with fellow Irishmen serving in the English army.

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

GROWTH OF ST. PATRICK’S DAY CELEBRATIONS

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

THE IRISH IN AMERICA

Up until the mid-19th century, most Irish immigrants in America were members of the Protestant middle class. When the Great Potato Famine hit Ireland in 1845, close to 1 million poor and uneducated Irish Catholics began pouring into America to escape starvation. Despised for their alien religious beliefs and unfamiliar accents by the American Protestant majority, the immigrants had trouble finding even menial jobs. When Irish Americans in the country’s cities took to the streets on St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate their heritage, newspapers portrayed them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.

The American Irish soon began to realize, however, that their large and growing numbers endowed them with a political power that had yet to be exploited. They started to organize, and their voting block, known as the “green machine,” became an important swing vote for political hopefuls. Suddenly, annual St. Patrick’s Day parades became a show of strength for Irish Americans, as well as a must-attend event for a slew of political candidates. In 1948, President Harry S. Truman attended New York City ‘s St. Patrick’s Day parade, a proud moment for the many Irish Americans whose ancestors had to fight stereotypes and racial prejudice to find acceptance in the New World.

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

THE CHICAGO RIVER Dyed Green ON ST. PATRICK’S DAY

As Irish immigrants spread out over the United States, other cities developed their own traditions. One of these is Chicago’s annual dyeing of the Chicago River green. The practice started in 1962, when city pollution-control workers used dyes to trace illegal sewage discharges and realized that the green dye might provide a unique way to celebrate the holiday. That year, they released 100 pounds of green vegetable dye into the river–enough to keep it green for a week! Today, in order to minimize environmental damage, only 40 pounds of dye are used, and the river turns green for only several hours.

☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

ST. PATRICK’S Day Celebrations AROUND THE WORLD

In modern-day Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day was traditionally been a religious occasion. In fact, up until the 1970s, Irish laws mandated that pubs be closed on March 17. Beginning in 1995, however, the Irish government began a national campaign to use interest in St. Patrick’s Day to drive tourism and showcase Ireland and Irish culture to the rest of the world. Today, approximately 1 million people annually take part in Ireland ‘s St. Patrick’s Festival in Dublin, a multi-day celebration featuring parades, concerts, outdoor theater productions and fireworks shows.

#St. Patrick’s Day #☘️ 🍺 🍀 🇮🇪 ☘️

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polhbayarea · 2 years

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There is a small natural crack in the handle. A shillelagh (pronounced shuh-LAY-lee) is a Gaelic war club made of oak or blackthorn saplings from Ireland. A shorter, lighter model that we simply named the Blackthorn. There are a few losses throughout the blackthorn shaft. Cold Steels Irish Blackthorn Walking Stick has been a firm fan favourite since its inception. As stated above, the handle bark is all but worn off. The shaft of the cane measures just under 36" and about 1/2" thick. My guess is the stick was made sometime in the early 1900s but it might be earlier. His walking canes grabbed me immediately. The shillelagh is a traditional walking stick of Ireland, associated with folklore and given as a symbol of. The antique Shillelagh cane comes out of a Twin Cities collector's estate containing many unusual folk art items. Sitting Bird Walking Stick Inspired by Irish Walking Stick Designs Wooden Handcrafted Canes and Walking Sticks Foldable Walking Cane 37 inch Gift for Grandpa Son Father Unique Item. He obviously took many walks down a misty road because the blackthorn bark is almost completely worn off on the handle. He thought so highly of it that he wrapped a sweet silver design near the handle. When you look down the can the thorns seem to be perfectly aligned. The grip and angle of the stick just feels right. The old Irish gent (my assumption) who found this blackthorn out in the woods must've been excited when he did. Genuine Irish Blackthorn Walking Stick hand made in Ireland short 32 inch shillelagh. Thorns are everywhere on the shaft of this Irish walking stick, and topped with a thimble ferrule. SHILLELAGH SVG, shillelagh png, shillelagh clipart, Irish cane svg. Watch Practically Anywhere.Here we have an antique Irish Blackthorn Shillelagh walking cane with an ornate sterling silver band. This is a fun-filled and eye opening study of stick that transcends style and integrates numerous traditions into a modern fighting platform. From there we move to shorter stick, including consideration for flashlights and low light training, pocket sticks, pen, kubotan and give special consideration to saps and blackjacks, highlighting the unique and often overlooked versatility of their dual cutting lines and their application and relation to empty handed tactics. Taking footage from our May the Fourth Be With You class, we touch on close quarter Japanese katana tactics and apply them to stick to improve spatial awareness and counter clinching and encroachment options. Beginning first with footage from our 2019 St.Patrick's Day class, we explore the traditional tactics of the Irish Bata (shillelagh) and learn how it applies to canes, walking sticks and longer umbrellas. This hand-crafted Irish Shillelagh walking cane is made from the tough, local blackthorn shrub and is finished with a weather friendly copper tip.

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mccalllib · 5 years

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In honor of St. Patrick's Day here are the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick parading in 1975. Mobile Press Register Collection, The Doy Leale McCall Rare Book and Manuscript Library, University of South Alabama.

#St. Patrick's Day #parade #friendly sons of st patrick #wear green #Mobile al #photography #archives #mccall library #university of south alabama

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years

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Less than Holy

I finally went and did it. After more than two years I went and wrote a fanfiction. This is basically a Fix-It - Everyone lives/nobody dies, not even Pike the dog or Erin’s baby. There are also no vampi- I mean angels and Monsignor Pruitt is actually in a hospital on the mainland and not father Paul Hill at all.

Less than Holy - 7.6K

Of all the people you would expect to fall for, the priest was the absolute last one of them.

You were a promising young writer, already having published a few books, the last one being a bestseller in the US. And while your name could be seen in many bookshops around English speaking countries and some foreign ones, your face was a mystery to the public. Which suited you, really. Your favorite genre to write was supernatural horror. Ever since you were a little girl, there was just something thrilling about darkness and what may lurk within. You grew up passionately reading up on Ed and Lorraine Warren's supernatural cases, fell asleep to the classic stories by Mary Shelley and Sheridan Le Fanu, and watched the newest flicks in cinemas with bated breath and a content feeling.

That's how you ended up on Crockett Island. Originally, you were only staying there in order to write your latest book; it was a story about a small, lonely fishing town, just like this one. Strange, horrifying monsters from deep waters would start targeting poor unsuspecting people from the island, and pull them down from their boats and dinghies and into the water below. The only people who could stop it were a couple of teens. You were really trying to appeal to a younger audience too with this book. In order to better capture the atmosphere and characters in your story, you decided to find a place like the one in your book where you could stay while working on it - and there it was.

Crockett Island.

Tiny. Quiet. Only several dozen people lived there and everyone was special in their own way. At first, you were renting a small house. The people who used to live there had moved to the mainland some time prior; as did many others after the faithful spill some years ago. That's how you actually found out about Crockett. An ad in a local newspaper on the mainland later, and this really nice couple was offering you their house on Crockett for a very reasonable rent.

The first few months were strange. Some citizens of Crockett observed you with distrust and apprehension, others were way more curious and friendly. Annie Flynn was among the latter group. Not two days after your arrival were you sitting in the Flynn family home, sharing dinner with their family of three. Four, said Annie. Her oldest son was currently off island, she said. It would take you some more time to find out that he's currently serving a sentence for manslaughter while DUI. You weren't one to judge. God knows you too participated in some wild parties and made a lot of bad decisions. Not ones quite so serious, true, but that didn't matter to you. You've grown quite close to the Flynn family over time. Also to the Scarboroughs, the Gunnings and the new sheriff and his son.

Sheriff Hassan, just like you, was a newcomer to the island, and despite having come before you did, he seemed to have it even harder because of his religious beliefs. It took you no time at all to figure out that the folk on Crockett Island were quite religious and many of them attended the Sunday mass in the church of St. Patrick. Having not grown up in a religious household, everything you knew about religions was from what you've studied yourself, and while you didn't necessarily affiliate yourself with any of them, you did believe in some kind of higher power.

Annie Flynn once invited you to tag along for the Sunday mass and you had agreed. The parish priest, Monsignor John Pruitt, was an older gentleman. His years were visibly catching up to him, and it was rather visible even to the untrained eye. While he was obviously absolutely devoted to his faith and had great knowledge of the holy book, his mind seemed to be wandering elsewhere from time to time. Even so, you enjoyed listening to his sermon, and it was obvious that he was well beloved by his flock. Unfortunately, this is where you finally came face to face with one not so lovely citizen of Crockett Island.

Miss Beverly Keane. Just the look she gave you as she noticed you among the crowd in front of the church. "So, you must be the outsider, then," she began, a thin, tense smile on her lips, but not within her eyes, "Annie Flynn's told me about you, of course. However, pardon me, if I'm mistaken, but you've been here for a few weeks now haven't you? This is the first time I see you here." You didn't like her expression one bit. Smug and self-righteous, as if she caught you in a lie. You suddenly felt like you've done something bad, and she was about to mock you for it and threaten to tell your parents. A stupid thought, really, but she did make you feel this way. "I'm not exactly a catholic. I'm not exactly anything either," you admitted honestly. You had no reason to lie. "But I'm open minded and I did read the Bible. I wanted to hear the sermon and also figured that this church," you motioned with your left hand, "is kind of the centre point for the island, isn't it. Since I'll be staying for a while, I thought I could perhaps meet the folk around here." The look on her face told you she wanted to retort with something, but she only took on the previous tense smile and said the important thing is that you're here now.

And then Erin came.

Following old Mrs. Greene's (whom you didn't know very well) passing, her daughter Erin, who's been living off the island for years now, came to take care of her mother's funeral and ultimately decided to stay. You actually met her on the ferry as you were coming back from a trip on the mainland. You looked at her and she looked at you and you finally recognised you didn't recognise each other at all. And you started talking.

Since then, you stopped counting your days on the island. Your book was long since finished and published, yet you stayed. The family whose house you've been renting contacted you about possibly buying in from them, for a fair price. And you said yes. Your family offered to have the rest of your possessions delivered to Crockett. And you said yes. Erin asked you to come with her to every Sunday mass. And you said yes. For some reason, this small, sparsely populated town has started to feel like home. Things weren't perfect, but they were fine. Life was slow and quiet. The islanders warmed up to you, little by little, until you were one of their own. Their neighbour. And you found you could no longer imagine waking up and not smelling the crisp salty sea air. And life was fine.

---

"Sunday's tomorrow," said Erin off-handedly, folding some laundry on her dining table. You murmured in agreement, mostly just paying attention to the words you wrote on your laptop, and the mug of tea in your hand. It's become so normal. You and Erin would be at your or her place, talking, playing games, watching films, or just doing your own activities in each other's presence. "Monsignor Pruitt will be back," offered Erin again. You raised your eyes from the screen: "He made it back safe, then?" That made Erin pause. "Actually," she breathed in, "I don't know. Nobody's seen him yet, really. And, I mean, Bev's been putting welcome messages on the church side, and she gave him instructions and what not...Yeah, he'll be back."

You weren't quite so sure. The old man seemed rather confused when you first came. Months later, his health only worsened. You were in doubt that the trip to holy lands was the right call. While still not outright religious, you have grown fond of the monsignor, just as you have grown fond of everyone else, and you were rather worried about him the entire duration of his expedition.

The next day, you sat with Erin in your usual pew at Saint Patrick's. You saw her as she smiled at a boy whom you haven't seen before, sitting in a pew with Annie and Ed Flynn, but before you could ask her about him, the mass had begun. The churchgoers rose and opened their hymnals. You sang with them. Then, there was a strange moment. It seemed to you that some of the people's singing hitched, before returning to normal, while others stopped singing all together. You turned your head in curiosity and found yourself momentarily mute as well. Walking in a golden chasuble behind Warren Flynn and a boy named Ooker wasn't the old Monsignor Pruitt. Instead there was a total stranger. Tall and lean, with thick, wavy jet black hair, thick eyebrows, large dark eyes and, what you thought were, pretty lips. He too sang and his voice, rich and soulful, mesmerised you.

The stranger bowed down before the altar and took his stand behind it, facing his flock. You sat down. He introduced himself as Father Paul Hill and explained that Monsignor John Pruitt has fallen ill on his trip and won't be returning for the time being. He begins his sermon. You had quite enjoyed going to mass before, despite your near-atheism, and you liked the hymns and you liked hearing Monsignor Pruitt talk. But when Paul started talking, it felt like a fire had suddenly settled within your core. No, not a fire, a light. A gentle light emanating a pleasant warmth, definitely not a scorching, destructive fire. Monsignor Pruitt was devoted, and so was Father Paul, but Paul's young energy, and his passion for the word of god made Sunday mass seem like a performance, like an unreachable piece of art. You sat there, drinking in his every word and found yourself wanting to believe them. Wanting to believe him. Once everyone started getting up and lining up for communion, you sat behind, like you always did. Only this time, you weren't alone. The boy you saw earlier still sat in his pew as well. When everyone received their wafer and a sip of wine, they slowly started to stream out of the church. You were still so flabbergasted and amazed by Father Paul's sermon, you were actually one of the last ones to leave. From the church doors you saw Erin wink at you before she walked slowly away with the boy from earlier.

Before you could make your way home too however, a figure stepped in front of you. "You must be (F/N) (L/N). Monsignor Pruitt mentioned you do not take communion," said Father Paul warmly. You had to look up at him a bit, as he really was a tall man. There was a friendly smile on his face and his eyes were kind and inviting. So very unlike Bev Keane's upon your first interaction with her. You gazed into the priest's dark orbs and felt like you've known him your entire life, and like he knew you too. You felt instantly at ease, instantly trusting. "You see, I'm not a catholic. Not really. I'm not even baptised. It wouldn't be right." Father Paul smiles some more and nods in understanding. "Well, never too late to become one," you chuckle, "so I can believe you'll be honest with me and tell me what you, as a 'non-catholic' thought of my sermon?" The way he looks at you, keeping eye contact, with an air of confidence, but with no smugness or conceit, it makes you nearly instantly fond of him. You think for a moment, whether you should praise him for his skill, or play it cool and nonchalant. As always, you decided that honesty is key. "I was amazed," you said seriously, reciprocating his eye contact, "to be honest, I think many people genuinely believe in God thanks to their pastor. And you, um," you felt yourself blushing a bit and instinctively cast your eyes down, "I think you're very convincing." His smile faltered for the tiniest of moments and a strange look appeared in his eyes, before he grinned at you once more, and this time it was positively radiant, like a while of sunshine on a rainy day. "Convinced you, then?" he asks, his voice teasing, nearly mischievous. You couldn't keep yourself from smiling too, slightly coyly: "Oh, I don't know. I'll see next Sunday." You bid your farewell to Father Paul and went home. You'd deny it to anyone, but there was a bit of a pep in your step.

---

The Crock Pot Luck. Despite the town's small population, the spring festival was really something else.

It was Ash Wednesday and Erin made you get your blessing and a sooty cross from Father Paul. You stood before him, closer than before and with your neck craned up more. Standing so close, you admired just how handsome he is, all soft lines and smouldering eyes. The corners of his lips twitched when he saw you. "Remember, (F/N), you are dust, and to dust you shall return" he spoke softly as he dipped his thumb into a bowl in his other hand which contained the ashes. He then brought his right hand up and very gently drew a cross on your forehead: "Bless you, my child."

So now you were sitting with Erin at a bench, listening to the live music, chatting amicably and people-watching. Since Erin was pregnant, she was nursing a lemonade with a paper straw and you treated yourself to a glass of wine you traded for your drink ticket. It was sunny and very mild for the beginning of spring, and you already took your jacket off and were only sitting in a light jumper. Erin was looking to the side of you. You gazed in the same direction and saw Father Paul and Riley Flynn talking on a bench near the edge of the festival. Erin's told you all about Riley after the first mass with Father Paul and actually introduced you to him. He was a nice guy, obviously guilt-ridden with what he's done and a bit unwell. However, it seemed that spending time in Erin's company is doing him good. "You should talk to him," you offered to Erin. She lifted her eyebrows questioningly. "You were, like, childhood sweethearts, weren't you. I mean, I can't tell you what to do, but I'm just saying it's obvious he still fancies you." She snorted and shook her head at you. After a moment she sighed and got up: "Well, since neither of us is drinking, I think I'm gonna treat him to a coffee then." You just winked at her and remained sitting. A short while later, the brown haired girl had a cup of coffee in each hand and was on her way to Riley and Father Paul.

You meanwhile returned to people watching. You took in the kids playing bean bag toss nearby and the good Doctor Gunning talking quietly to a lovely woman you hadn't seen before. Some people were dancing in front of the podium. "Is this seat free?" sounded behind you. You didn't even need to turn around, having recognised the priest's voice immediately. Instead you just smiled into your empty glass: "But of course, father, be my guest." And so he did. You grinned at him and noticed he brought two glasses of wine with him. Upon your questioning look, he offered: "I thought it an appropriate apology, seeing as I have pulled you out of your thoughts." He slid one of the glasses your way. As your own wine had long since disappeared, you gracefully accepted. The next few minutes you spent in friendly, comfortable silence, looking around, enjoying the day.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Joe Collie. He was, put mildly, not exactly in favour of the townspeople. Erin's told you about the hunting accident that put poor Leeza Scarborough in a wheelchair most likely for the rest of her life. You personally only talked to Joe a few times. He was nearly always already drunk, or just woke up after a night of drinking. While irresponsible and a slave to his addiction, the man genuinely didn't seem to a have malicious or cruel bone in his body. He went everywhere with his pupper, Pike. Pike was a sweet dog, very large, but amazingly cuddly and friendly, you slipped some treats his way every once in a while. Now it seemed though that somebody else was intent on feeding the mutt. Beverly Keane laid down a hot dog in front of him and walked away rather swiftly. You grew anxious. If there was a person on this island who hated this dog, it was Bev Keane and while not happy about the thought, you had serious doubts that the hot dog was some sort of peace offering. Without a word you rose and half walked, half ran to Pike, snatching the food away before he could as much as lick it. Pike whined unhappily and barked at you, which made Joe Collie turn around to look. "Hey, hey! What the fuck gives?" he growled at you, undecided between defensive and aggressive. You looked at him, the hot dog in your hand just out of Pike's reach with Pike himself whining and looking at you pleadingly. "You should be more careful. Don't let your dog eat something he shouldn't," with that you turned around, tossed the hot dog into a rubbish bin and went back to your seat.

"What was that supposed to mean?" asked Father Paul once you sat down again. You took a sip of your wine and looked around anxiously. "It's just that-" you scratched your neck, "look, I could be very very wrong and I'm not accusing anyone of anything, but," deep breath, "I saw Bev give Pike a hot dog. And she hates Pike, she tried to get Sheriff Hassan to put him down, just for barking at her. And Erin saw her in school yesterday, in the supply cabinet, fiddling with an entire canistre of poison. I just, I'd rather be safe than sorry." You could feel your cheeks heating up in embarrassment and noticed several people staring at you. There were Erin and Riley, their faces questioning and curious, Joe Collie (who has thankfully brought Pike close to him since then) looked confused and apprehensive, and last but not least; Bev Keane, who looked sour and right now probably wishing you ate that hot dog instead. Father Paul cleared his throat to get your attention: "Well, I'm sure it was nothing...But nevertheless, it's very Christian of you to look out for your neighbours like this." You gave him a small smile which he mirrored with his own, before he began speaking again: "Anyway, about Christianity-" you quietly groaned and rolled your eyes, but kept on smiling and listening.

You and Father Paul had talked late into the evening. It had started as a friendly discussion about religion and Christianity, slowly progressed to getting to know each other and stories of your lives before coming to Crockett Island, before finally becoming a pleasant banter about everything and nothing. The band has long since abandoned the stage, people had packed up the tents and most of those few who remained were currently sitting around a bonfire, talking, singing, or just relaxing. Darkness has fallen and enveloped you and Father Paul like a comforting blanket. You could barely see his face, the only light sources being the bonfire some 60 feet away and a lone street light even farther. A nice feeling of fatigue has started to come over you and you barely stifled a yawn. Father Paul noticed and even in the dim light you could see the white of his teeth flash in a grin. "I can't see my watches, but I'm going to guess it's late," he said with an amused tone. You fished out your phone out of the pocket of your jacket, which you put back on when the temperature dropped with the oncoming night, and glanced at the screen. You immediately regretted it, as you had kept the brightness on 100% and felt like your retina was about to burn to ashes. "It's not even that late, to be honest," you said, trying to cover up another yawn fighting its way through you, "just after half past nine. But I didn't get much sleep yesterday, so I'm a bit tired." You put your phone back into your pocket. Father Hill stood up and reached out a hand to you. You looked at him questioningly. "I'll walk you home," he clarified. You've been living on Crocket Island for quite some time, walked the entire place (including the cat filled Uppards) many times and you were pretty sure you could find your way home blindfolded. Not to mention it's perfectly safe for a woman to walk home alone at night here.

And yet.

And yet you took the Father's offered hand and let him pull you to your feet. He then repositioned your hand to his right arm and started walking. "My, my, father, who knew priests were such gentlemen?" you teased him softly but let him walk you anyway. Truth be told, it felt nice to be in the centre of attention of such a handsome man. 'The handsome man is a priest' spoke a guilty voice in your head, but you managed to quiet it down. You weren't doing anything bad, therefore you had no reason to feel guilty. A friendly priest was simply escorting you home to make sure you're safe from the dangers of... um, stray cats, you supposed. "I'd simply hate for you to fall asleep somewhere on your way because I kept you so long." Or that, that works too, you thought to yourself and chuckled and he followed suit.

When you reached your front door, you let go of his arm to find your keys. You learnt that many people on the island don't lock their homes, even if they're asleep or not present, and while the safety of the island was one of the reasons you stayed, you still didn't feel comfortable just leaving your door unlocked. Finally you found your keys and opened the door. "Would you," you began, turning back around to face Paul, "would you like something, like a cup of tea, or a cocoa?" Father Paul smiled and you could see him better now since you were standing closer to a street lamp. "Are you not tired anymore?" he teased. "Oh, I am, a bit, but you're obviously not," you countered in the same tone, "so you can have a cuppa and go home afterwards and I'll just pass out on the couch." Father Paul laughed earnestly at that and it was one of the most beautiful sounds you've ever heard. One of the prettiest sights too. "You're very kind, and I'll surely take you up on that offer sometime, but tonight I'll leave you to get your beauty sleep," he said with that same kind and honest smile you were sure he probably got patented and turned to leave. Before he did though, he couldn't quite stop himself from one last retort: "I'll see you in mass on Sunday. Let's see about that convincing." Wink. He just winked at you. You couldn't help but giggle and roll your eyes: "Good night, father," you said cheekily as you retreated into your house and shut the door.

As you set about your evening routine, you couldn't stop thinking about him. True, your mind was on other things too, like Erin and Riley's rediscovered affection, poor Leeza in her wheelchair, and the (in your eyes) very real danger of Bev Keane almost killing Joe Collie's dog. But everytime your mind came back to him. You thought about his eyes, how they looked at every stage of the sunset and how the light in them seemed to shine even after the sun submerged itself below the horizon completely. And you thought about his voice, how it always slightly changed with the matter discussed, from serious and intense, to light and amused. And right before you drifted off to sleep you allowed yourself to think of the priest's pretty, kissable lips. Just for that tiny little moment.

---

You probably just became religious.

All you could do was gawk like a demented owl as Leeza Scarborough took a step after step towards Father Paul to get her communion. Your expression wasn't that different from other people in the church. Many had their mouths open in which would in any other situation be a hilarious way. Some people were tearing up. Some were praying hard. Leeza's parents, Wade and Dolly were ugly sobbing and covering their mouths. Leeza then turned around to face everyone. You've never seen anyone's face containing so many emotions at once. Shock and disbelief soon turned to a look of ecstasy, so wild and raw and unhinged, just looking at her you wanted to scream and laugh and cry in manic happiness. For the first time in your life, you folded your hands together, bent down slightly and started praying. You thanked God, thanked him for letting Leeza walk again, thanked him for showing the young girl his mercy and humbly asked that he keep her healthy. After your quiet 'Amen' you felt another hand enveloping yours. It was Erin. She took you hand in hers and held it tight, looked at you with tears in her eyes and without a word the two of you embraced hard. She then wiped her other hand over her face to clean off the few tears that escaped. The mass ended soon afterwards. The Scarboroughs thanked Father Paul profusely, before excusing themselves in order to visit Dr Gunning about their daughter's miraculous healing. Erin and Riley left together once more and many others walked away in groups, talking loudly and praying among themselves. Just like after the first mass with Father Paul, you were bewildered and stayed behind.

"If you don't believe in God after this, I'm not sure what else you want," sounded an acerbic voice from somewhere to the side. Turning your head, you saw Bev Keane. You hadn't spoken to her at all after Crock Pot Luck and when she tried to approach you, you hurriedly made yourself look busy or caught in a conversation with someone else. It wasn't strange for you to chat up Sheriff Hassan amicably for quite a while, but this one particular while was so long, even he noticed. After Bev got tired of waiting and left, you awkwardly explained your predicament and he immediately nodded his head in understanding. Right now, though, there was really nobody to save you from this woman, and you couldn't exactly manifest a hammer and nails out of thin air to tell her you were busy, what, reinforcing the church walls?

So you accepted your fate, stood up from the pew and went to face her straight on, feeling like a knight about to fight a dragon. She observed you coldly, like usual, but when you looked into her eyes, you realised something. She knew. She knew you saw her giving Pike the hot dog. And in that moment, you also knew that you were right to step in. "Oh, but I never said I didn't believe in God," you said softly, trying to appear as calm and polite as you could, "I just said I'm not Catholic, that I don't have a religion." That seemed to take the wind out of her sails, but she recovered quickly: "Well then, maybe you'll reconsider. You're not really local, so you wouldn't know, but religion is a big part of this community. You see, you come here every Sunday, accept blessings and get to experience God's miracles right before your eyes and still you won't join us,won't commit yourself? Won't give anything back to the community?" Now was your turn to shut up and stare at her, disbelief fetched on your face. "What are you saying?" you asked quietly. Bev smiled at you, a mean smile: "I'm only saying, that if you really do plan on, well, staying here, on this island, the very least you could do is try to fit in and become a part of this community, not just leech on it."

You could feel tears starting to form in your eyes. You knew she was a cruel woman, that she was trying to purposely hurt you, but a small voice inside your head started asking the little nasty questions anyway. 'Am I really leeching on these people?', 'Should I just go and become a catholic? Will I be driven out if I won't?', 'Am I not welcomed here anymore? Should I stop going here?' You tried to will yourself, you tried to be strong, to gather the courage to tell her off, but a single tear had already rolled over the edge and landed on your cheek, slowly running down all the way to your chin and then falling down onto the wooden floor of Saint Patrick's it fell.

"That's enough," said a different voice, one that made you quickly wipe the tear track off your cheek with the sleeve of your jumper and made Bev Keane freeze like a statue. A gentle hand landed on your right shoulder and a comforting warmth settled on your left side as Father Paul appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to your rescue. "Beverly, this is the house of God," he said, and while he was as soft-spoken as he always is, there was a stern and cold undertone in his rich voice, "The doors are always open just as the gates are always open, to anyone and everyone who comes with peace and humility. One's religion is one's own choice and I am more than happy to interpret from the Bible to all, be they Catholic or not." Bev just stared at him, her expression that of a child who knew they were caught doing something bad, but weren't feeling guilty about it. "I didn't mean anything by it," she said in the most sickeningly sweet voice and smiled, "I was only imploring our friend to consider her decisions. Father, (F/N) (L/N)." And with that she'd spun on her heel and left.

Father Paul's arm was still wrapped gently around your shoulders. You stood, your look transfixed to the ground where your tear fell and you felt terribly tiny. Just fifteen minutes ago, you felt over the moon with happiness and gratefulness for little Leeza and now you just wanted to go home, bury yourself under pillows and blankets and never leave the house again. "Come on," said Father Paul, the coldness in his voice gone and replaced with comfort, "let's get you some tea." He led you out the back of the church, still with his arm around you, and you let him. Before you knew it, you were at the rectory and he opened the door. His home was humble, there was a small sofa on the left of the door sat in front of an old telly. On the right was a desk and several chairs. Behind them stood a tall bookshelf filled with books. On the far left side was a kitchen with the basic necessities, a stove with an oven, a sink, and an old-timey refrigerator. To the back of the room were doors leading to Father Paul's bedroom. You presumed the bathroom was somewhere in the back.

Father Paul sat you down onto the tiny sofa and set about making you a cup of tea. You sat quietly for a while, just staring into space. “Am I really just leeching off these people?” you couldn’t stop yourself from saying out loud. The priest ceased his movement just as he was about to put the kettle on. After a second or two, he finally fired the stove up and put the kettle down. “No,” he said and came slowly into your view. Father Paul, young, fit, and already beloved and respected by his congregation, got to his knee in front of you and grasped your hands, “No, you’re not. You came to an island which most people leave and decided to stay. You care about these people, you try to help them as best as you can and you are actively trying to be one of them. And they see it. They realise it. And even if you never become religious, if you never come to get your holy communion, you’ll always have your place here. On this island, with these people, in this church. So don’t let what Bev says get to you, okay?” New tears were threatening to spill as you listened to Father Paul. You felt a soft finger underneath your chin and you looked up into the pastor’s soft, gentle eyes. And when you did, he gave you the kindest smile yet. And even as you did let the tears fall freely, you smiled right back at him.

—

It became something of a habit. At least twice a week you and Father Paul would meet outside of church, either at your home or the rectory, for a cup of tea and a chat. Ever since the little incident with Bev, you found that you could talk more freely with him. About everything, really. You talked some more about religion and Catholicism and he explained to you how one who wasn't born into a catholic family and baptised even becomes a catholic. Seeing as you had no knowledge about actually entering the church, your brain spun from all the information rather quickly. That some people can spend whole years as catechumens, before they're actually ready to be baptised and that the rite of election usually starts on the first Sunday of lent. The actual initiation to catholic church then takes place on Easter vigil. It was a lot to take in, but Father Paul remained forever patient, and always willing to explain.

You talked about many other things too. You learned some time ago that he had taken it upon himself to lead a local AA group, so that Riley didn't need to waste the entire day away just to go to and from the mainland. Paul came around one evening looking very happy and proud. He told you about Joe Collie, whom Leeza Scarborough forgave the bizarre 'hunting' accident and who in turn decided to give up drinking. You enthusiastically listened to him talk about homilies he was preparing and the awaited Easter vigil. He even shared some not so public stories, like how he found Warren Flynn secretly snogging Leeza behind the church after one of the masses, or how he heard Erin pray for the health of her baby and had a hard time keeping from chuckling as he overheard her whisper 'Oh, and please let it be a girl, amen' before she ran out of the church. You in turn told him about a new book you were working on, or about your attempts at drawing and painting. You once invited him out for a walk through the small forest behind the church and he happily accepted. And that became a habit too.

However, with every day, every cup of tea, every walk and every Sunday mass, it became more and more difficult for you to be in Paul's almost saintly presence and stop yourself from thinking positively sinful thoughts. More and more you find yourself looking at his beautiful lips, thinking how velvety soft they must be and how sweet they must taste. When he puts his large gentle hand on the small of your back, you find yourself wishing he'd take your face in his hands, or run his elegant fingers through your hair. When he wraps an arm around your shoulders amicably, all you see in your mind's eye are his long, strong arms enveloping you in their heat and safety until you know nothing else. And when he speaks, you imagine lying with him, your head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and his voice, as he talks to you softly. Not to mention the even more wickedly sinful impure thoughts. All in all, you found yourself desperately, maddly and absolutely in love with your friend, who just so happens to be a catholic priest.

As Easter vigil approached, it became even harder, as Paul seemed to always find a reason to touch you. Brushing his fingers along yours as he was handing you your tea, or laying his hand on yours after you had made him laugh. When on a walk, he'd put his hand on your back more often than not and once, when he discovered a lovely place that overlooked the entire island, he actually led you there by hand, linking your fingers together. You decided you couldn't live like this anymore. To know you love someone and feel them so close to you, only to have them taken away again as reality kicks in feels like a heartbreak every time. To love someone as a friend and needing to have constant self control over yourself, else you let your instincts take over and risk driving the person away is exhausting. And honestly, you weren't even sure what was worse. When Paul once told you 'I'm so glad you're here with me' with that smile of his and the ever so kind and gentle look in his eyes, you wanted to tell him. You wanted to kiss him, to fly into his arms and never leave them and hating yourself for the very thought. And as much as he was fond of you, you knew that he would never leave his flock, wouldn't turn his back to his god for an earthly temptation, and therefore you would never actually know what it was like to kiss him.

Some people took notice of your rotten mood whenever you came down from the high you got when in his presence. Annie tried to cheer you up by her cooking, for which you were eternally grateful, but it didn't help. Sheriff Hassan tried to lift your spirits by telling your far fetched and utterly ridiculous stories from his time as a policeman. You did laugh at all of them, but it didn't help. You could spend hours and hours playing with Pike, but it would never be enough. Erin was the only one who actually addressed the issue openly, pleading with you to tell her what is actually wrong. And, for some bizarre reason, you actually did. You told her about your infatuation with Father Paul and how much he means to you not only as a priest and a friend, but also as a man. Erin listened. She didn't judge you and she didn't mock you. She didn't call you a sinner and she didn't even chastise you. After what felt like hours of you spilling all of your frustration with your predicament, she finally spoke: "You should tell him." "What?" you sputtered, bewildered. "You heard me," she said, "you should tell him. If anything, you'll get it out of your system. Maybe it'll get better." You sat down heavily on her couch and put your head in your hands. You sighed and muttered into your palms. "What was that?" said Erin, genuinely not having understood you. You looked up at her, miserably: "What if he hates me?" You honestly felt like crying, but strangely dull at the same time. "He could never hate you. You're probably his most favourite person on this island, if all the little forest dates are anything to go by," Erin said, amused. You however felt there was nothing humorous about your situation and only covered your face again. "He won't hate you. Just tell him. Maybe you'll even be surprised." Those were words you'd desperately wanted to believe, but found it difficult to. "He's a priest, Erin. After Leeza, nearly the entire island attends his mass. I even saw Joe hanging around at the last one… There's no way… To be honest I-" you stopped for a moment, "I think it might be better if I left."

Neither of you said anything for the longest time. You were softly weeping into your hands while Erin stared at the back of your head in disbelief. "You… You would actually leave? You'd actually leave this all behind?" she was saying as if it was physically impossible to imagine such a thing, "you would leave me and the little one? You would just pack up and leave your home, your neighbours, even after they finally accepted you as one of their own? I'm sorry (Y/N), but that's bullshit!" You winced at the shrill of her voice. "That's bullshit and you know it. Come on," her voice went down again as she noticed your shoulders shake. Gently she rubbed circles into your back before taking a hold of your wrists with her free hand and pulling them away from your face. "Do you mean that?" she then asked, her voice quiet and soft now, "would you actually leave me here all on my own, the only sane woman?" Through teary eyes you looked at her and truthfully admitted: "I would never leave you behind." Erin pulled you close, put your head on her shoulder and made small shushing noises as you gradually calmed down. "I'll tell him," you promised then, "after the Easter vigil."

—

The Easter vigil in Saint Patrick's was a beautiful thing to experience. The entire island, including you, walked to the church using candles to light your way while singing hymns. You felt so entirely light as you walked next to the Scarboroughs and the Flynns. You sang too, and you let your heart replace your brain momentarily, just so you could enjoy the celebration. You let the amazing blessed things fall on your shoulders at once. The Flynn family and their reconciliation, the Scarboroughs and their miracle, Erin and her little one, Joe Collie and his ultimate sign to be a better man. All at once you felt the goodness. And it nearly brought a tear to your eye. Good things are still happening and there are good people to experience them. But this all faded as you laid your eyes on Father Paul. He read from the old books up until the crucifiction of Christ, his death and his revival. And while you deeply enjoyed hearing him talk, you suddenly felt like there was a stone blocking your airway. And you felt like it would suffocate you surely, until-

"So how's that for convincing?" asked Father Paul. All people present were slowly leaving the church. Erin looked at you once, gave you a nod, and then left with Riley. "Listen, um," you looked up at him, and your desperation was probably very visible in your eyes, for his entire focus shifted to you, "I need to talk to you. Privately."

Father Paul just nodded and took your hand once more. He didn't let go until you were in the rectory, sat on his bed for some reason. Only then did he ask what's on your mind. It was so quick you hadn't even been able to build your defenses,or make any sort of back up plan, etc. You just decided to speak.

"I can't become a catholic," you blurted out, feeling a bit sick to your stomach. "Oh," said Father Paul immediately, "why not?" "Because I'm sinning right now, father…" "Why is that?" said Father Paul, his cool facade melting ever so slowly. "Because I'm wanting, father. Because I'm lusting. I'm lusting after a man of the cloth and I feel like I love him. I'm a sinner, because I wish to feel his warmth close to me and I wish to be on his mind always. I want him to kiss me senseless and make me his. Forgive me father, for I have sinned and I am sinning as we speak." You caught your breath finally and looked into Father Paul's eyes. They were nearly unreadable to you, but you saw something within them anyway. A hunger. And when you looked a little closer, you saw there was something you could only call love too.

Father Paul Hill slowly wrapped his arms around you and pressed his soft lips upon yours. And for a little while you felt like you were lost. Lost in the divine sensation of sweet soft lips melting against your own. Your fingers tangled into his hair and he grabbed you as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. You moaned softly as he pulled you into his lap. Being so close to him, your entire brain shut down and you only felt the sensations. The sensation of him kissing up and down your neck, of his arms linking around you so tightly, of teeth nibbling on each inch of exposed skin. You were so lost in pleasure and adoration you almost missed the one sentence you wished to hear, but never thought you actually would. "I love you," sighed Father Paul inbetween kisses. You gasped, but recovered very quickly and pulled him tighter into you. Gently, you grasped at his raven locks and made him look at your face; in your eyes. "I love you too," you replied and pulled him close once more. So forbidden and yet so right, you had no idea what would happen next. One thing you did know though; as long as you and Father Paul laid upon his bed, your lips red and swollen from kissing and your hearts light and filled with love - Life is going to be just fine.

I hope you liked it. I’ll be a happy little sucker if you tell me whatcha think or check this story out on AO3 thank xx

#midnight mass #fanfiction #father paul hill #father paul #father paul x reader #father paul/reader #i love you hamish linklater #erin greene #riley flynn #fluff #no smut #sfw #everyone lives au #nobody dies #fix-it #no vampires au #midnight mass fanfiction

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stairnaheireann · 2 years

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#OTD in 1892 – Death of Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore.

Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore served as a musician and stretcher-bearer in the 24th Massachusetts Infantry during the American Civil War. His incredible post-army musical career includes penning “When Johnny Comes Marching Home”, the tune he took from an old Irish antiwar folk song, “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye”, that was published under the name Louis Lambert. He performed some of the biggest musical…

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#24th Massachusetts Volunteers #American Civil War #Ballygar #Calvary Cemetery #Charles Stewart Parnell #Clan na nGael #Co. Galway #Friendly Sons of St Patrick #Gilmore&039;s Concert Garden #Madison Square Garden #Michael Davitt #New York #Patrick S. Gilmore #Patrick Sarsfield Gilmore #Queens #Songwriters Hall of Fame #The Great Hunger #Union

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menubot · 7 months

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Friendly Sons Of St. Patrick (1864) http://menus.nypl.org/menus/24178

#menubot #What's On The Menu?#NYPL #1864 #Friendly Sons Of St. Patrick #Perganson

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eugesounds · 2 years

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My Road Manager

I'm in the teaching studio this morning for one more day of lessons before a well deserved Spring Break...if I do say so myself. I've been reflecting on a busy, long, and ultimately emotional weekend. The Captain and Camille gang was back at the friendly confines of the Barley House on the eve of St. Patrick's Day in Dallas. It was a chilly and crazy (as usual) Friday night there, and it was great to see a slew of familiar faces digging the bands brand of smooth 70's grooves.

C&C really does have a "family" vibe and it's easy to see that we all enjoy each other as we perform. I've said it before but I'll say it again, there are many moments when I am simply just listening and smiling on stage, happy to be just another fan with an amazing seat.

Hearing Michelle Sanguinetti rip into Rhiannon, or Camille Cortinas egging me on during Logical Song just never gets old. Throw in the mad scientist Mike Finkel on keyboards who somehow manages to duplicate every piano, organ, synth, flute, Vocoder etc. sound ever created between 1970 and 1980, and Josh Hammond nailing the bass lines in lock step with Matt Trimble's killer drumming, well...what's not to smile about?

Then there's the lead raconteur John Lefler, who sort of nudges the crew forward each night from the helm. And when they collectively harmonize, it's truly a beautiful thing. If you haven't seen the band, do yourself a favor and catch a show in the next month or two before we take a little sabbatical this summer. You won't regret it! Follow us on Facebook for more info and dates.

Part 2 of my busy weekend came Saturday night with the Bastards of Soul album release party and memorial concert for our man Chadwick Murray. There were a slew of great articles posted this week that cover Chad's rocket-like trajectory as a front man, the impending birth of his son, and ultimately, his battle with a rare autoimmune disease. Here are a few links in case you missed them:

Texas Monthly - Chris Vognar

D Magazine - Zac Cain

You can also listen to Bastards Danny Balis recount a bit of the story and spin a few cuts from the new album "Corners" by clicking HERE.

It was a beautiful, fun, and emotional show at the Kessler Theater where we've had so many great evenings before. The first album release party was held there, and the band backed up Black Pumas at the Kessler in front of a large and welcoming home-town crowd. And during the height of the pandemic we recorded with Skip Martin (of Dazz Band and Kool and the Gang fame) there for an EarthX festival that was held online.

But Saturday was all about the memory of Chadwick Murray and Master of Ceremonies Max Hartman started off the show with some funny and special stories about his longtime friend. There were terrific performances by Paul and the Tall Trees and Michael Lee as well as a wonderful slide show of photos before Bastards took the stage. I have to admit it was difficult to see tears on some of the faces in the audience as I was playing, but the overall vibe of goodwill and love won out in the end. I maintained until the debut of the new video after our set and finally succumbed to emotions once I was backstage.

It was beautiful to see Chad's wife Hannah and to finally meet new baby Lennox as well. There's no doubt he will be so proud of his dad and the legacy he left, no only as a musician, but more importantly as a person. It was a great event and with all the moving parts involved, it seemed to go incredibly smoothly.

And through it all, by my side for the entire ride, was my trusty side-kick, my better half, my "road manager", Lady Sax. She kept me grounded, made sure we arrived safely to each venue, and never complained about the schlepping and sitting-around she did all weekend. We were talking about being a "roadie" (a term that she definitely does NOT admire) and I came up with the Road Manager alternative which she thinks is a lot better and admits is more apropos. I can and have done it without her, but it is way cooler and much more fun to have her there whenever possible. I am a lucky boy.

I have one more bit of teaching to do and then it's time for some down time filled with a little golf, some good cooking, and afternoons of sun on my face. Cheers to Spring!

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shanastoryteller · 4 years

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Happy St Patrick's Day! More Riddle as DADA teacher plz?

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

Harry only makes the mistake of bringing Professor Riddle up once.

He’d known his family hadn’t told him about certain things while raising him in the muggle world. They’d seemed to think he couldn’t miss what he didn’t know about, but now he’s in the middle of Hogwarts with barely more understanding of the world he’s in than a muggleborn, and he’s not exactly thrilled about it.

It’s not that they hadn’t thought Riddle was important to mention more than in passing.

He casually mentions in a letter that Nagini will steal pastries from the kitchens for him if he promises not to tell Professor Riddle, and regardless of their edibility after being transported by a massive snake, he thinks that she looks really cute slithering into the common room with strudels balanced on her nose.

Sirius is furious.

He writes back telling Harry to stay away from Riddle, that he’s not to be trusted, and to make better friends. His mother writes him a separate letter saying that perhaps he should maintain his distance and not bring him up again.

He’s confused, and a little hurt, but doesn’t bring it up again. It’s not till weeks later that he understands.

He’s meeting Professor Riddle for more parseltongue lessons - ones he hasn’t told his family about for obvious reasons - but finds that Riddle isn’t there alone. There’s a tall man with long dark hair and eerily familiar features there, with a friendly smile as he leans against Riddle’s desk.

“Mr. Potter,” Riddle greets warmly. “Meet my son. Regulus, this is Harry Potter.”

They both freeze for a moment, then shake hands, and Riddle has to be aware of the awkwardness, that they both know who each other is, but he’s ignoring it.

Harry has heard stories of Regulus. Sirius’s younger brother that couldn’t stand his parents, just like Sirius, and ran away, just like Sirius.

But unlike Sirius, he’d had a head of house who cared for him, who refused to see a young boy with an abusive family turned out on the streets, and so offered him a home and a family. Sirius had offered a place for his brother in the Potter home, but he’d refused.

It’s only occurring to Harry now who that head of house was.

Tom and Myrtle Riddle had adopted Regulus Black when he was thirteen years old, and none of the Blacks, for various reasons, had ever forgiven them for it.

#harry potter #prompt answers #prompts are closed #jelliclesong #asks

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 46: Martin

Having Melanie definitely helps, in ways Martin hasn’t been expecting.

In the first place, having someone new in the Archives who needs to learn the ropes—never mind that they’re still basically making it up as they go in a lot of ways—gives him a new project to focus on, and one that he doesn’t have to stress about hiding from Elias. He suspects Melanie catches on a lot quicker than she lets on, and really there’s not that much to pick up on, but she plays it a bit stupid and asks a lot of questions. On Thursday, when Elias is distracted by his weekly meeting with the library staff (which goes on longer now that Diana is gone, especially since he doesn’t seem to be telling them oh, yeah, she’s been dead for at least a year and got replaced by a monster and I let it happen to torture the Archivist), she points out that if he thinks they’re spending time trying to get her up to speed, he’ll leave them alone a bit longer. Martin isn’t sure about that, but he lets it go.

Besides that, while he doesn’t want to admit it aloud, Martin likes having someone around who’s more on his level. Melanie might have a degree, but it’s what a lot of the people up in the Library would have disparagingly called a “fluff” degree, one where she didn’t have to do the same level of intense research or the same types of papers. It means that, like Martin, she doesn’t have the same precision and academic style that Sasha and Tim do to their research and notes. At the same time, she’s been running her own thing for so long that, unlike Martin (or at least unlike Martin when he started), she isn’t afraid of operating on a hunch and a load of guesswork.

She fits in well. She’s got a bit of a bite to her, but her sense of humor is close to Martin’s, and they have similar enough tastes that they can have decent discussions but differing enough tastes that they can have spirited but ultimately friendly debates. They’ve also discovered an ability to riff off of one another. Melanie even installed a little widget on her computer that keeps track of how long she and Martin can toss jokes back and forth with a straight face before one of the others begs them to stop or laughs so hard they can’t breathe. So far their record is forty-seven minutes, but it’s only been a few days.

It’s enough to keep him distracted while he’s at work, at least. Same with Tim, or so he says. And when they’re actually focusing on the research and filing and recording of statements, it’s hard to focus on anything else. The problem is that they really can’t let themselves get too deep into it and risk falling deeper into the Eye’s thrall, so they have to pace themselves. Martin’s pretty sure it’s harder for him than it is for Tim, at least at first, but when he sees Tim’s hands shaking as he tries to resist picking up a statement, he reevaluates that a bit.

Weirdly, it’s harder to resist without Sasha there—she takes Jon Prime’s suggestion and skips out for the rest of the week—which tells Martin she’s absorbing a lot of the Beholder’s power. He ends up enlisting Melanie to make sure he and Tim don’t take work home on Friday. She practically frog-marches them down the block, then hugs them both and tells them to take care before peeling off to do whatever it is she’s planning to do for the weekend.

The weekend is the hardest part. Martin and Tim try to distract themselves, and each other, but so much of what they do reminds them that Jon isn’t there and they haven’t heard from him, except occasional texts. In sheer desperation, they collect Charlie—who misses Jon almost as much as they do—and take him to the London Zoo on Saturday. It takes a little bit for all of them to relax, but soon they’re enjoying themselves, laughing and eagerly talking about the animals and exploring the exhibits. Martin’s phone isn’t going to have enough space for all the pictures he’s taking, but he decides it’s worth it.

“You have a lovely family,” a zoo worker tells Martin with a grin as he’s snapping a photo of Tim lifting Charlie up so he can high-five a monkey through the glass of the enclosure, and Martin thanks him for the compliment without thinking twice about it. It’s not until they’re halfway home, Charlie worn out from excitement and exertion and sound asleep against Tim’s shoulder, that it catches up to him and he realizes that people they encounter out in public lump them together as a family—that people weren’t seeing him and Tim as babysitters or even uncles, but as a couple and Charlie’s fathers.

What surprises him is that he doesn’t start panicking over it. He just thinks well, that’s a thing and moves on.

Sunday they take Charlie to the St. Patrick’s Day parade; none of them have any interest in it, it’s just something to do to keep their minds occupied. Tim gets into a chat with a woman whose son is a little bit older than Charlie and seems thoughtful afterward, but won’t say anything. He’s a lot clingier that night, though, not that Martin minds.

Sasha’s back on Monday, seeming none the worse for the wear, and they settle into the usual business of things. Tim and Sasha do their usual weekly lunch; when they get back, Melanie offers to buy Martin lunch and they end up talking about the weekend. It turns out she was at the parade herself, with Georgie, and they have a decent laugh about not having run into each other. She’s curious about Charlie, though, and Martin ends up showing her the pictures he took over the weekend.

“So when are you going to adopt this kid?” Melanie asks as they head back to the Institute. It’s the first day of spring, but you wouldn’t know it from the grey and gloomy weather. It’s also started raining—shocker—and they’re huddled into their jackets with the hoods pulled up because both of them are too stubborn to carry umbrellas unless it’s pouring buckets. “I mean, you said he’s an orphan, and his grandmother doesn’t seem to care much about him. And it’s obvious he adores you all. Could do worse than having the three of you as dads.”

Martin nearly misses his step, but manages to recover. “It’s not really something we’ve talked about. But…hypothetically, if we were going to try and convince Mrs. Calloway to let us take him off her hands, we’d probably want to wait until after we’re sure it’s safe, you know? He’s a little kid. He doesn’t need to be mixed up in…all of this.”

“Fair. Meanwhile, you can just keep spoiling the hell out of him and rescuing him when you can.”

“That’s the plan.” Martin holds the Archives door open for her.

Elias is unusually present all afternoon, which puts all of them on edge. It’s not until they’re home and making dinner that Tim says quietly to Martin, “I think something’s wrong with Jon.”

Fear lances through Martin’s chest. “What makes you think that?”

Tim shrugs and hands him the lettuce. “We haven’t really heard from him since he left, except in texts. Sasha says he got in touch with her over the weekend and asked her to look into something for him—apparently Gertrude got arrested while she was in America—and she said he sounded kind of off. And now Elias is lurking about? I don’t doubt for a minute that something’s gone wrong and Elias is trying to either make things worse or find out if we know.”

“Surprised he didn’t say anything,” Martin mutters. He bites his lower lip hard enough that he feels it split and forces himself to stop. “U-unless, unless he was trying to see whether or not we could See across the ocean or whatever.”

“I’d like to think we would. Know if he was in danger, I mean. But…God. We didn’t know he’d been kidnapped or threatened or any of it. Anything could be happening and we’re not there to help.” Tim’s voice breaks on the last words.

“He’ll be okay,” Martin says, less because he actually believes it and more because he needs to believe it. “He promised.”

“Yeah.” Tim leans into Martin for a minute, then goes back to cooking.

Somehow they make it through dinner, and a couple games of backgammon after, but Martin can tell they’re both still tense and he’s already resigning himself to a restless night for both of them as they start to settle in. Melanie’s going to give them hell in the morning, he can feel it…

As the thought passes through his mind, his phone rings. A phone call this late at night is never good news, and Martin’s anxiety goes into overdrive. Something’s happened to Jon, or to Charlie, or to Sasha or Melanie…or else it’s the home calling about his mum.

He grabs for the phone and answers without looking at the display. “Hello?”

“Martin?”

Just his name, but the soft draw of the first syllable is as familiar to Martin as his own heartbeat, and he sits up straighter. “Jon? Jon, are—h-hang on.” He makes eye contact with Tim, whose head jerked up as Martin said Jon’s name, and fumbles with the phone for a minute before activating the speaker button and holding it out in front of him. “Can you still hear me?”

“Yes, I hear you just fine.” Jon’s voice is a little tinny but perfectly clear.

Tim gives a near-silent sigh and sinks down onto the side of the bed next to Martin. “Jon, thank God. We were starting to worry about you.”

“Tim?” Jon’s sigh is far more audible. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to—i-it’s been a rough week. How—is everything all right with you?”

“We’re fine. No problems.” Martin puts the arm not occupied with his phone around Tim’s shoulders, and Tim slides an arm around his waist. “Are you—how’s the—did you find anything?”

“I—I don’t know. The address Gertrude gave Zhang Xiaoling to forward anything to didn’t really pan out; it’s a short-term rental place, there must have been a dozen people through there since she and Gerard Keay stayed. The owner said he heard calliope music from West Pullman park a few nights when they were staying here, but nothing more than that.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I’m in Pittsburgh now. The records you found—that’s where Gerard Keay died, so I just…wanted to check up on that. The hospital—I could only find one nurse who remembered him being admitted. His cancer was pretty far advanced…he’d had a seizure, and they did their best, but he had another one and they couldn’t save him. The nurse was the one who told me Gertrude had been arrested—did Sasha tell you about that?”

“She did,” Tim says. “She also said you sounded…off.��

Jon’s silent for a moment. “I—was. I wasn’t feeling well. It took me far too long to realize, but—th-there was a statement I read while I was at Pu Songling, I thought I’d be okay, but a-apparently things have…progressed faster than I expected. I was—hungry, I suppose. I hadn’t thought to bring a statement. I was dizzy and weak and close to passing out, and—I opened the front pocket of my bag and found a statement in there. Was that—was it one of you?”

“Martin thought of it,” Tim says. “Right before you left, while you were showering, he asked if you’d brought a statement with you.”

“Tim’s the one who put it in your bag, though,” Martin adds.

“I should have thought of it. I should have—I really didn’t expect to be gone this long.” Jon sighs heavily. “Thank you both. Seriously. I—I might have been in actual danger if you hadn’t. But I’m okay now. I promise. I read the statement and…well, I’ve been asleep most of the day, honestly. I think I needed it.”

“Jesus,” Martin mutters. He has to close his eyes for a moment, and he feels Tim press closer to him. “The—did you, um, did you find out anything else about Gertrude?”

“Oh. Yes. She was arrested for trespassing—they found her in the morgue stood over Gerard Keay’s body, reading from a large, strangely-shaped book. Apparently his body was…mutilated, though they didn’t know if she did it, and she managed to talk them out of pressing charges somehow. The officer I spoke to doesn’t remember how. I—I may not have been able to draw as much power, being as drained as I was, but it’s also possible, even probable, that he really doesn’t remember.”

Martin looks at Tim, whose eyes reflect the worry Martin’s feeling himself. “So now what?”

Jon is silent again, but before Martin can repeat the question, he says, quietly but firmly, “I think it’s just another dead end, and I’ve decided it’s the last one. I’ve booked a ticket on a Greyhound to Washington, DC tomorrow. I’m going to stop in at the Usher Foundation, just in case they have anything that might be helpful, and then I’m coming home.”

Martin relaxes, and he feels a lot of the tension bleed out of Tim as well. “So you should be back…”

“Well, the bus doesn’t get into Washington until…hold on.” There’s the sound of fumbling and clicking. “I’d be there around five o’clock in the evening, so I likely won’t be able to even stop by the Usher Foundation until Wednesday morning. My intention is to be there as soon as they open. I don’t anticipate them having anything useful, honestly, so…if I’m fortunate, I’ll be home by Wednesday night. Worst-case scenario, early Thursday morning.”

“Call us when you know,” Tim says. “We’ll pick you up.”

“If it’s too early in the morning—”

“We’ll know enough in advance that we can set alarms. Come on, Jon, we’re not making you take the Underground home—or worse, a taxi. You’ve been away long enough. We’ll come and get you.”

“Okay. Okay,” Jon says softly. He clears his throat and adds, “How are you doing? How are—is Elias leaving you all alone?”

“For the most part. He was hovering today,” Martin answers. “We think he’s been watching you a bit, and…maybe just leaving us be to see what happens. He, um—we’ve got a new Archival Assistant.”

“We do? Who? Oh, God, did he transfer someone in?”

“Nope.” Tim pops the P hard. “He intercepted Melanie when she came by on Tuesday to read the Ivy Meadows file. Suggested she might want the job.”

“And she accepted?” Jon sounds horrified. “We warned her!”

“I know, but she’s good at this,” Martin tells him. “The researching and all. And…well, at least she knew what she was getting into. I don’t think it’s a bad thing, Jon.”

Jon sighs. “I trust your judgment. Other than that…outside of work. Are you two okay? You’re not…overloading yourselves or—or overworking or anything, right?”

“No. We’re taking it easy,” Tim promises. “Checking each other. Sasha did a bit much, got a bit close, but she took a long weekend and she’s fine. And Melanie stopped us from bringing anything home over the weekend. We actually spent it with Charlie. Took him to the zoo, the parade, that sort of thing.”

“The p—right, right, it’s St. Patrick’s Day weekend. How was it?”

They take turns telling Jon about the weekend. Martin’s already transferred the photos off his phone and onto his laptop to save space, but he promises to show Jon when he gets home. Jon laughs in all the right places.

“It sounds like you had fun,” he says, and there’s a definite wistful note to his voice. “It sounds like Charlie did, too.”

“He did,” Martin says. “He kept saying how much he wished you were there, though. He misses you. A lot.”

“I miss him, too.” Jon sighs. “And I miss both of you. Badly. I-it’s not…this hasn’t been an easy trip. Not just the, the usual issues of travel. Airport food and customs and layovers. Mechanical issues and weather delays and people who don’t seem to have grasped the concept of deodorant. Hotels and taxis and…all of that is bad enough. Open-ended travel is bad. But…then there’s the issue of just being me. Of being the Archivist.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s a lot harder to resist using these abilities when I’m alone. When I don’t have you two there to—counterbalance me, I suppose. It’s like I’m constantly balancing on a tightrope, and I know I have to keep walking the line, I know it’s what I’m supposed to do, but…”

“But?” Tim prompts when Jon trails off and doesn’t continue.

“The rope is only a few inches off the ground,” Jon says in a low voice. “Or that’s what it looks like. When I, when I look to one side or the other…it doesn’t look like I have so far to fall. I could so easily step off and be on the ground, and it wouldn’t hurt at all. I don’t have to balance so carefully. There’s a voice just over my shoulder, whispering for me to step off, to save my feet, that there’s more to life than this narrow back and forth…”

A chill runs up Martin’s spine. He recognizes the description, actually. What they’re doing, the way they’re all trying to avoid overusing their abilities…it does feel a bit like walking a high wire. Martin keeps telling himself not to look down, to take it slow, to put one foot in front of the other, because he knows if he loses his concentration for even a second, he’ll fall. In his mind, there’s a platform at either end of the wire, and Tim stands at one end and Jon stands at the other, so no matter which way he turns, one of them is there, reaching for him, waiting for him when he’s done. He’s safe as long as he focuses on them.

Somehow, he doesn’t think that metaphor will help Jon.

“Are you sure, though?” he asks. “A-about…the rope not being so high.”

“No,” Jon whispers. “If I look at my feet…if I look straight down, I know how deep the chasm goes, so deep I can’t see the bottom. It’s just—it’s so tempting, Martin. I d-don’t want to put the burden of my humanity on the two of you. I need to be able to do it on my own. But it’s hard. It’s so much harder when I’m alone. And the worst of it is that there’s a part of me, a tiny voice, telling me that it’s just me, that I’m alone, that no one will ever know if I give in to temptation, just for a moment. Just to try.”

Tim huffs. “That tiny voice sounds an awful lot like Elias to me, boss.”

“I know. A-and I know I’d…I don’t want to let you down.”

Martin can’t really explain what those words mean to him, but from the way Tim leans into him, he feels the same way. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and tries to sound practical. “We’ll talk about it when you’re home. But it’s okay, Jon. I promise it’s okay. You’re—you’re stronger than Elias wants you to be.”

“It’s so much easier to believe these things when you say them.” Jon laughs softly, but there’s a genuine lightness to it—like some of the dark dread has lifted from his mind. “It’s—God, what time is it? Five o’clock? You’re not still at work, are you?”

“Time difference,” Tim reminds him. “It’s ten here.”

“For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me? You both need sleep,” Jon scolds. “You have work in the morning.”

“Fine, but only if you promise to go get food,” Martin retorts. “Actual food. You’ve been asleep all day, you probably need it. Get some food and take it easy.”

“All right. All right. I think there’s a restaurant attached to the hotel.” Jon takes a deep breath. “I’ll call you when I’m on the bus.”

“You do that,” Tim says.

“Please be careful, Jon,” Martin says softly. “We can’t lose you.”

“I promise,” Jon says, his voice solemn. “Get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you both.”

He ends the call before Martin can respond, or actually process what Jon’s just said. The stunned look on Tim’s face indicates he feels the same. For just a second, Martin lets himself hope…but no, that can’t be. And even if it is, it’s a conversation all three of them need to have, not just him and Tim. They can’t make decisions like that without getting Jon’s input.

“Come on,” he says instead, reaching for the charging cable to plug his phone in. “Jon’s right, we need sleep.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, sounding a bit dazed. “Sounds good.”

They crawl under the blankets and turn off the light. Tim rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, and Martin runs a hand through Tim’s hair without conscious thought. For a long time, there’s no sound but their breathing. Martin assumes Tim has fallen asleep, but as relieved as he is to have heard from Jon, his mind is buzzing too hard to actually let him rest.

Suddenly, Tim murmurs, “She’d seen us before.”

“Who?” Martin is instantly on the alert, wondering who he needs to be worried about, who might be set to hurt them.

“The woman at the parade. She’d seen us before, when we took Charlie to the fireworks. She was asking where Jon was.” Tim’s head shifts restlessly. “She thought Jon was Charlie’s bio-dad and…”

Martin nods slowly. “One of the zookeepers complimented me on my ‘lovely family.’ I—I think a lot of people just…assume we are one.”

“I’m not upset by that.” Tim’s voice is drowsy. It’s like this is the last thing he had to get out to keep him from sleeping.

“No,” Martin agrees. There’s another lump in his throat and he has to swallow around it before finishing. “Me, neither.”

And maybe that is what’s blocking him from sleeping, because the next thing he knows the alarm is going off and sunlight is poking through the gap in the curtains and Tim is still warm and safe in his arms, and they’re one day closer to having Jon home.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartim

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